Heaven's Door Page 11

  ‘Georgia phoned to confirm that Ms Goody has approved your trip to Lochshore. However, Ms Goody asks that in future you request approval in advance.’ Jenny had added, ‘Sorry – I didn’t know we needed to do that.’

  “You’re not the only one,” said Tom, loudly enough for everyone to hear. They all turned to him. “Sorry,” he said, lightly, returning their questioning looks. “Just talking to myself. First stage of madness, so they tell me.”

  Mags got up to join him again in the seat opposite.

  “Anything wrong? You can tell me, I’m a doctor.”

  He smiled at her.

  “Yes, doc, I’ve got these shooting pains,” he whispered, rubbing his groin, the noise of the engines preserving the privacy of their conversation.

  Mags smiled, opening her eyes wide, then becoming serious again.

  “Really,” she asked, “is there anything wrong? I just get the feeling this is all going too well.”

  “No, honestly. Just somebody chucking their weight about and getting ideas…”

  “Above his station?” she prompted.

  “Her station, actually,” he said.

  “Who? Not the perfect Grace Goody, surely?”

  “Er, no, not her,” he said.

  “Of course, it couldn’t be,” said Mags. “I mean, her station is as high as a human being can go. There isn’t anything above it, is there?”

  “Anyway, about these shooting pains,” said Tom, dropping his voice again.

  “Shall I ask Cheryl if she’s got a first aid certificate?” Mags whispered back. “Actually, she looks like she might be a trained masseuse.”

  “I wish,” he said.

  They both laughed.

  “Listen,” said Tom. “Are you sure you’ll be okay for the next couple of days?”

  “Of course. You don’t really think I’m likely to get accosted in broad daylight on the mean streets of Oban, do you?”

  Tom smiled.

  “No, but I don’t like leaving you on your own.”

  “I won’t be on my own; I’ll have the afore-mentioned lovely Cheryl for company. But you’re right,” she added, frowning and seeming to reconsider. “Much better if I had Matty with me all the time.”

  “Then it would be Matty I’d worry about being accosted,” he said.

  They smiled at each other.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve got my dark glasses and any number of credit cards. I’ll easily blend in with the tourist set. Come to think of it, I’ll be part of the tourist set, anyway. And then,” she leaned forward, tapping his knee, “just you and me and flickering candles and Talisker whisky and a peat fire, with, most probably, a soft sheepskin rug in front of it …”

  “Is there no electricity in this place? I hope there’s at least a generator for the tele, otherwise Chuck and Simon will be watching us all night.”

  She stopped tapping and smacked him hard on the leg just as Josh joined them from the cockpit.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are approximately forty-five minutes from touch-down and will be crossing the Scottish border in ten minutes. I suggest you celebrate this event in an appropriate way by helping yourselves from the selection of single malts in the drinks cabinet. I’d love to join you, but … I’m driving.”

  Matty and Cheryl did the honours, administering refreshments all round and discovering that a half bottle of The Macallan contained exactly six measures, providing each recipient was prepared to go the few extra millilitres.

  Tom returned the papers to the document case.

  They touched down at Glasgow International Airport exactly on time and taxied to the waiting Bell 430 executive helicopter. Transfer between the two aircraft took only a few minutes, and then they lifted off for the sixty-mile journey to the Heliport at North Connel; estimated flight time twenty-five minutes.

  The manufacturers of the helicopter boasted in their brochure of ‘an interior rivalling any business jet’ and it was difficult to argue with that as they settled into their luxurious leather seats and Mags kicked off her shoes to wriggle her toes in the deep-pile carpet. The six cabin seats were in three pairs, the middle pair back-facing, forming a group of four. Tom and Mags occupied the two forward seats. When they had cleared the airport, one of the pilots left the cockpit to serve refreshments, Tom and Mags this time taking coffee and the rest of the entourage following their example with silent disappointment.

  They hardly spoke during this second stage of their journey, due at least in part to the increased buffeting by the wind as they ventured further north into the unsettled weather, which had persisted since PTV1’s maiden voyage the previous week.

  Mags closed her eyes and, in spite of the turbulence, seemed to doze off, though when Tom gently took her hand he felt a telltale squeeze. He thought back to her earlier remark about it all going too well, and he did have an uneasy feeling about something, though he couldn’t identify what it was. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, still holding his wife’s hand.

  They landed at North Connel, a few miles from Oban, at exactly four o’clock. Two vehicles, both Range Rovers but of very different vintage, were awaiting them on the tarmac. As they alighted they were approached by two men. A tall, impeccably dressed young man in his late twenties wearing an expensive suit stepped forward and extended his hand to Tom.

  “Welcome to North Connel, Home Secretary.” He nodded to the rest of the group by way of extending the greeting. “I’m James Stewart, representing Mr Gordon Sutherland, the Westminster Member of Parliament for Argyle and Bute. Mr Sutherland will be your host during your stay, Home Secretary. He apologises for not meeting you personally, but everything’s had to be rushed through at very short notice,” he added, without a trace of irony.

  The second man, shorter by a good few inches than James and older by about twenty-five years, was similarly dressed but looked decidedly uncomfortable in formal attire. His bronzed, smiling face and rugged features also contrasted sharply with the younger man’s pale complexion and formal manner. He stepped forward.

  “Hi, I’m John Bramham, manager of the Eriska Hotel, and I really can’t tell you what a privilege it is to be receiving you and your companions as guests.” He addressed Mags, and then turned to Tom. “Only sorry you won’t be joining us, Home Secretary.”

  “I only wish I could, John,” Tom said, shaking his hand.

  “Well, we’re open all year, Home Secretary,” he said, with a smile. “Maybe next time.”

  “Definitely next time,” Tom replied. He kissed Mags. “Now be good and don’t give this gentleman any trouble,” he said. “And don’t let that Cheryl lead you astray.”

  They laughed as James ushered Tom, Matty and Chuck into the shining brand-new vehicle and set off on the thirty minute drive to Lochshore.

  “Can I sit in the front?” asked Mags, like an excited child, as the rest of the party prepared to board the second vehicle for the five-mile trip in the opposite direction to the Isle of Eriska.

  “Only if you promise to sit still,” said John, with twinkling eyes, “and you let me take this tie off.”

  *

  “Anything you want to add, Tom? I guess there must be something.”

  Gordon Sutherland, Calum Nicholson and Tom had just shared a delicious dinner, served in the small meeting room they would be using the next day. Its wood-panelling and floor-to-ceiling book shelves, along with the long sideboard, antique oak table and dining chairs, gave the impression of a room in an old Scottish castle.

  Over coffee and malt, Gordon was running through the proposed agenda. His host was a stocky, round faced man of around Tom’s age. He had the typical fair complexion and red hair of his native Scotland and was dressed in a tweed jacket with muted tartan tie as if to deliberately reinforce the image.

  “No, I think you’ve hit all the right spots; looking forward to the tour of the facility and the transfer vessel.”

  Gordon seemed slightly surprised, pausing after Tom had answered as if in
viting him to reconsider.

  Tom shrugged. “No, that all looks fine,” he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Week 2; Wednesday, 1 April…

  Tom looked again at the bedside clock. It was 2.15 am. His constant checking was not making the time go any faster. Since turning in just after midnight feeling relaxed and contented, and ready for sleep, his earlier feeling of apprehension had suddenly returned, and this time he was able to identify its source.

  It was Jack and Katey’s party. Nothing specific; just a vague feeling of unease, but enough to repel the sleep he was expecting to overtake him as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  He got out of bed, putting on a lightweight fleece over his tee shirt, and went through into the small kitchenette which was part of his suite of rooms to make himself a coffee; totally the wrong thing to do, he told himself, for someone trying to get to sleep. He settled himself at the small table in the sitting room and set up his laptop to check his emails.

  He knew from experience that he only received about ten percent of the number sent him; the rest were filtered through Jenny, who diverted them to his group of Under-Secretaries. He opened each of the twenty-two that had reached him; mostly they were for information or just ‘yes-or-no’ answers. In addition, there was one from Jenny herself; one he didn’t understand.

  He yawned and stretched and checked the time. It was 4.00 am, and his shot of caffeine was wearing off again. He shut down the laptop and went back to bed, soon falling into a shallow sleep.

  *

  “Right, so we all know what we’re doing?”

  The detective inspector addressed the six members of his major incident team who were gathered round the desk in his office. They all nodded.

  “Okay, good, but just let’s be clear on a few points of protocol,” He counted on his fingers. “One, we are there to watch and learn, not to act. Two, we need these guys on our side, so let’s not get into any sort of turf war or demarcation issues. Three, following on from that, any difference of opinion, they decide – okay? Bradley, I’m looking at you.”

  The others laughed and the young man in the leather jacket shrugged his shoulders, wide-eyed with innocence.

  “And four, you meet back with them before you report to me.”

  The others looked at each other. “Why’s that, guv? We’re not being transferred are we?”

  The DI smiled. “I should be so lucky. Let’s not forget who and what we’re dealing with here. It’s a question of loyalty. I’m not sure how I’d be feeling if I was one of those guys. They just want to know what’s going to happen. And anyway, more to the point, we don’t have a choice. Okay?”

  They all nodded.

  He checked his watch. “Seven fifteen. Time for breakfast.” He went over to the window and looked outside. “When does the bacon butty wagon get here?”

  “Not until eight, sir.”

  “Okay, Plan B. Canteen.”

  *

  “Excuse me, Mr Chairman – Gordon – but, as we all know – at least, perhaps, all except the Home Secretary – there is one other item for the agenda, and I feel it would be appropriate to start with that.”

  Eleanor Morrison was an attractive woman in her early forties, with neatly-cut auburn hair and large hazel eyes, which for most of the time were intense and challenging. Everyone looked first at her and then at everyone else, with eyes darting from face-to-face as if trying to read people’s reaction.

  They were in the room where they had dined the previous evening and Gordon had established himself as the chair for the meeting, sitting at one end of the table directly opposite where he had shown Tom to his seat.

  “Well?” Tom said.

  Gordon gave Eleanor a withering look then turned to Tom.

  “I’m afraid we have some bad news. Something which we assumed you must have been made aware of, but, well, it seems you possibly haven’t and we’ve been waiting to get more information before we …”

  “For God’s sake, Gordon, what is it?” Tom’s voice was louder than he had intended.

  “We’ve had our first fatalities on Alpha.”

  Tom felt his neck and scalp go instantly cold, the same sensation he had when waking, frightened, from a very bad, very real dream, or being surprised by a sudden shock in a tense movie. The anxious faces around the table were all turned to him.

  “When?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Monday, early morning. Two of them. It seems …”

  “Monday?” Tom almost shouted. “Early morning? What do you call early?” He looked at his watch. “Before nine-fifteen, would you say?”

  “Confirmed about that time …”

  “Confirmed about …! So earlier than that? That’s two whole days, for God’s sake. Haven’t you told anyone?”

  “Yes, of course. The MDJ; Monday afternoon.”

  “And why would Ms Goody need to know before me?”

  “Well, I suppose we assumed she’d …”

  Allan Macready, the Secretary of State for Scotland, leaned forward in his chair. He was a large, thick-set man in his early fifties, still with a mop of black hair and a slightly greying beard. “Home Secretary,” he boomed. “If our decision not to discuss the incident with you before this meeting is contrary to what you would have preferred, I ask you to at least accept that we acted, collectively, with the best of intentions. Gordon has explained that the MDJ was informed just a few hours after it was brought to his attention and we were keen to have a full picture before we released further information, be it to you or Ms Goody first. Or both at the same time,” he added, with a trace of sarcasm.

  “As you were in meetings or in transit the whole of yesterday, it seemed logical to wait until now for a full discussion. And if I can be so bold as to suggest, it may be more appropriate that you look elsewhere for evidence of tardiness in the communication. I am sure you will recognise the impracticability of our being charged with informing all interested parties of every development on Lochshore and Alpha. Perhaps we need to discuss at this meeting – under any other business, let’s say – just how many people we need to contact, and in which order.”

  There was silence around the table when he finished and all eyes were on Tom. He was remembering Jenny’s email; ‘Anything I need to do about the Alpha thing?’

  “Of course I accept that you acted with the best of intentions, Allan. How could I think otherwise of the people I know around this table? I would, however, for the foreseeable future at least, like to be made aware of all issues – all issues – relating to Alpha just as soon as they occur. And I ask that you accept that my reaction today was born out of shock at the event rather than criticism of the messengers, even if it sounded that way.”

  The whole company relaxed, most with audible sighs of relief.

  “Accepted,” said Allan. “And the bad weather has meant that Alpha has been virtually inaccessible for the past two days, so there’s no chance at all that the media will have been able to get out there.”

  “The media?” Tom looked round the table, checking if he was the only one who didn’t understand the point Allan was making. “What has the media got to do with it? What the hell is there to see out there?”

  Allan looked across at Gordon who continued.

  “It’s bad, I’m afraid, Tom. We’re not sure why, whether it was a fight and they were trying to get away, or they just flipped or there was a concerted attempt …”

  “For goodness’ sake, Gordon, you can tell me. I’ve been in the army like you, remember. There’s nothing much …”

  “The two of them are impaled on the razor wire at the top of the superstructure.”

  “Jesus!” said Tom.

  “We couldn’t understand what was happening on Sunday night, just before midnight,” said Stephen Beresford. The Head of the Scottish Prison Service was tall, with broad, muscular shoulders and chest, a ruggedly handsome face and close-cropped brown hair. “We were monitoring them on the IDTS �
� Individual Data Tracking System,” he added in response to Tom’s quizzical look. “These two had moved upwards and away from the main group. Obviously climbing from the recreation deck up the outside of the south side accommodation block. Must have been bloody good climbers to do that.”

  “Or bloody desperate,” put in Eleanor.

  “Possibly, I guess,” said Stephen.

  “Almost certainly,” she insisted, “given what happened next.”

  “We tracked them to the top of the block and assumed they would just come back down. Then we noticed a few of the others starting to climb up after them. Whether they were chasing them or trying to save them, we’ll never know.”

  “Well, one of the two was the nephew of a High Court judge,” said Eleanor, “so we can hazard a guess.”

  Tom looked round the table at the heads nodding in agreement.

  “And then?” he prompted.

  “They just kept going higher. On the screen it looked like they were flying. The digital lattice of the platform only goes as high as the top of the superstructure. The security fence is on top of that. So we realised they must be on the wire.”

  He stopped speaking again and swallowed, as if painfully reliving that moment.

  “It’s deadly stuff; razor sharp – well it would be, wouldn’t it? – with lethal barbs …” His voice tailed off.

  Gordon took over again.

  “As Stephen said, that happened about midnight. By around ten in the morning the IDTS indicated that they were both dead. They hadn’t moved since about fifteen minutes after they went on to the wire.”

  Tom was silent for fully half a minute.

  “Ten hours,” he said. “Would we expect someone to die that quickly in those circumstances?”

  “The thing is, Tom,” Allan again, “we don’t know the exact circumstances. The weather was atrocious; around zero, but with the wind – force eight – and rain, perhaps sleet … Even so, we thought it was a bit quick, as well.”