Heaven's Door Page 9

  “As Bob Cratchit famously said, ‘I’ll give you…’” she held out her glass towards Mags, “‘the founder of the feast.”’

  “The founder of the feast,” echoed Tom and Jack.

  Mags smiled.

  “If my recollection of The Christmas Carol is correct,” she said, “then the founder of the feast should be your father. He paid for it.”

  “Not so,” put in Jack. “Your recollection is incorrect, Mother. Father, as I see it, in the context of this impromptu dramatisation of the well-loved Dickens classic, is Bob Cratchit himself. The founder of the feast, then – his employer, Ebenezer Scrooge, in the story – must be the prime minister.”

  “If you don’t mind,” said Tom, “I think I’d rather drink to Ebenezer Scrooge.”

  They all laughed, and he raised his glass again.

  “All together, then,” he said. “One, two, three …”

  And – all together – they shouted. “Ebenezer Scrooge!”

  Tom replenished their glasses and they sat in silence for a while.

  “So, Mum,” said Katey, “when are we going to hear what all this is about?”

  “What’s all what about?” said Mags.

  “Well,” said Katey, “why are we here, suddenly, all together, acting in this very civilised way? There’s got to be something, hasn’t there? This is the first time since my seventeenth birthday that the four of us have been in the same room together, behaving ourselves. What’s that, eight months?”

  “And that’s exactly the reason, Katey,” said Mags. “It’s because it’s been so long. I thought it was about time we showed that we could behave ourselves when we’re together. That’s all. Don’t you like it when we don’t fight? Would you rather we argue all the time?”

  “Hey, I don’t make the rules,” said Katey, raising her hands in her mock gesture of surrender. “You and Dad set the rules and the standards, especially when it comes to arguing and fighting. So what’s happened?” She turned to Tom, her mouth smiling, eyes challenging. “Home Secretary, will you take the question?”

  “No, I’ll take the question,” said Mags, determined to keep Katey and Tom apart for as long as possible. “Your father and I have discussed our differences and have reached an understanding. We have concluded that our views,” she added, carefully selecting her words in an increasingly official tone, “albeit still at variance on some fundamental issues, are not mutually exclusive and are capable of parallel existence. Going forward, we feel that, notwithstanding the aforementioned differences, a level of reciprocal tolerance will enable us to work together for the benefit of the family unit.”

  “Hear, hear!” cried Tom, spontaneously; with genuine appreciation. Jack added a brief round of applause.

  “Wow!” said Katey. “That must have been some discussion to bring about Mum’s complete surrender so quickly. So how are you going to do it, Dad? You know, keep your side of the bargain?”

  Tom said nothing, returning the questioner’s look with a blank stare. After a brief, silent stand-off, Katey went on.

  “I mean, how are you going to dismantle the NJR so soon after the government has wasted all that money in implementing it?”

  Again, no response.

  “Because, in spite of Mum’s wonderful speech just now, I know for a fact,” Katey continued, volume increasing, “that that would be the only way you and Mum could get anywhere near a truce. Otherwise, all the bitterness and fighting over the past three years or so would have been pointless. A waste of time. And totally irresponsible, in the context of good parenting.”

  Still Tom did not say anything.

  “Well?” she said, getting angry now. “Do I have to submit all this in writing?”

  “No,” Tom spoke at last. “I’m just waiting for a question worthy of an answer.”

  There were loud ‘here-we-go-again’ sighs from both Mags and Jack.

  “I see, same game,” said Katey. “Don’t have an answer so it must have been a shit question!”

  There was silence for a moment. Then Tom laughed out loud, looking affectionately at Katey and shaking his head.

  “God, Princess,” he said, “you are bloody good when you get going. I just wish I could have you on my side occasionally.”

  He looked at Mags and then Jack.

  “Don’t you think she’s good?”

  They were both beaming. Katey shrugged in resignation and rose from the chair.

  “Okay, if I am to be scoffed at and ridiculed for trying to find out why my parents have suddenly and inexplicably decided not to kill each other, then I think I’ll leave you and …”

  “Oh, come on, Katey,” said Mags, “please don’t spoil it. It means a lot to me to have the three people I love most with me right now.”

  “Yes, short-one,” put in Jack. “They’ll start picking on me if you disappear.”

  Katey hesitated, looking at Mags. “That’s a cheap trick, Mum, saying that, trying to make me feel bad.” She hesitated, just a moment, and then sat down again. “However, it worked,” she added, glancing across at Tom. “Anyway, I guess that would be no way for royalty to behave.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Tom got up, picked the wine bottle from the ice bucket and examined its contents.

  “Nearly finished,” he said. “Shall I open another? Katey? Jack?”

  “Yes, sure,” said Jack, looking at his sister who half nodded, half shrugged.

  “And what about the chef?” asked Mags.

  “You’re on the Talisker with me,” he said.

  “I suppose resistance is pointless.”

  There were smiles all round. Tom dispensed the wine and whisky and resumed his seat.

  “And now, back to Katey’s question…”

  “Haven’t we got past that?” asked Jack.

  “No, certainly not,” said Tom, now seriously. “What your mum said before – and said so eloquently – was absolutely right, but if that doesn’t meet Katey’s data requirements, then I think she deserves a fuller explanation. I’d like to think that the fact we’re all here tonight means that we care about each other both as individuals and collectively as a family. In which case we need to be open and honest and trust each other’s good intentions.”

  He looked across at Mags who smiled .

  “Okay, Princess, ask away.”

  *

  “Thanks for a great evening, you two,” said Katey as she rose to go to bed around midnight. “I’ve really enjoyed it, and I didn’t think I would to be honest. It’s great to see you both like this, loving instead of fighting. I actually thought the ‘what’s all this about?’ might have been you announcing a separation. How wrong can you be?”

  There was a catch to her voice as she spoke and a hint of wetness in her eyes as she kissed first Mags and then Tom, wrapping her arms around him and holding on for a long time.

  “Come on, short-one,” said Jack. “I’ll read you a story if you like just to make it a perfect ending.”

  He kissed Mags and hugged his father, and then they both left the room.

  Tom and Mags smiled at each other and held hands in silence for a while across the table.

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Tom. “I need to go to Lochshore very soon. If I can arrange it for, say, the middle of next week, we could perhaps stay up there somewhere and have Friday to Sunday together, possibly part of Thursday as well. What do you think?”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Mags said. “You don’t want me at Lochshore, though, do you?”

  Tom thought for a moment. “No,” he said, “but if we can arrange a separate itinerary for you and a travelling companion for a couple of days, we could still travel up together.”

  “Great. I wonder what Hugh Jackman’s doing next week.”

  “He’s busy; I’ve checked.”

  “Oh, well, what the hell. I’ll do it anyway.”

  *

  Week 1; Saturday, 28 March…

  Tom was up early, going down
to breakfast at 6.30 to give himself plenty of time before his weekend driver picked him up to take him to the constituency office in Marlburgh for his Saturday surgery. He took his toast, coffee and juice into what they called ‘the morning room’, a huge conservatory overlooking another large pond and a range of bird-feeders in the side garden. At seven o’clock he looked up in surprise to see Katey in the doorway, coffee cup in hand. She was wearing a short pink robe and a pair of flip-flop slippers. Her hair was un-brushed and wild.

  “Okay to join you?” she said, in a hoarse voice and with her eyes struggling for focus.

  “Of course.” Tom moved round the table and pulled out a chair for his daughter. She sat down heavily, not quite fully awake.

  “Are you working today?” she asked, the words competing with a wide yawn.

  “Leaving in half-an-hour,” said Tom. “Want to come and play boss and secretary?” he added.

  “I’d love to, but I’m meeting Jay at eleven. Got to report back on last night. He figured you might be going to bar me from seeing him.”

  “You’re kidding me, aren’t you? Why would he think that?”

  “He thinks you don’t approve of him. Actually, I think you don’t approve of him as well.”

  “That’s not so, Princess, honestly. He’s a nice guy and I like him. That’s the truth. But don’t forget, I’m your dad and it’s my job to be unreasonably protective and to resist anyone wanting to whisk away my little girl. And anyway, you’re only seventeen and he’s the only boyfriend you’ve had. You can’t …”

  “Mum tells me that she met you when she was seventeen and never ever wanted to be with anyone else. In fact, you may be interested to know she told me that only a couple of months ago, years after you two fell out and before you made it up again. She’s never wavered in all that time. So what’s wrong now with being in love at seventeen?”

  “But that was totally different …” Tom began.

  “Why was it so different? Because you were white and rich?”

  Tom was silent for a few moments before replying.

  “I’m sorry you feel like that, Katey. In your report to Jason, tell him I’m happy that my daughter is in such good hands. I know he looks after you really well.”

  Katey looked at him with sudden tenderness and tears came to her eyes. “Thanks, Dad,” her voice trembling. “You can’t know how much that means to me.”

  She rose from the chair and put her arms round him, holding him for a long time. He could feel the warmth and wetness of her tears on his neck and struggled to keep his own emotions in check. They broke from the embrace and her wet face smiled at him with an expression he had not seen for too many years. Then she turned to leave with a whispered, “See you later. Love you.”

  *

  “Come in!”

  The DI was already pacing round the office when the sergeant entered. The man was around ten years younger than his boss, medium height, stocky and with close-cropped fair hair.

  “Something you might actually want to hear for a change, sir.”

  “Bring it on. God knows I need it.”

  “We can’t find any link at all to the death of the Johnson kid. Different gangs, different locations. No reason to believe there’s any connection.”

  “Except for the obvious one.”

  “Well, yes,” said the sergeant, “but that could be coincidence.”

  “As you know …”

  “You don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “That’s right.” He paused. “But in the absence of anything else bringing succour to my life at the moment, I’ll waive my beliefs for now and accept this morsel of solace.”

  “Very poetic, sir, if I may say so.”

  Both men smiled and were silent for a while.

  “Will we go to strike on this, do you think?” the sergeant asked.

  “Certainly. Have to.”

  “In which case, I’d like to apply for a transfer to traffic; at least on a temporary basis.”

  “No vacancies. I’ve already asked.”

  They smiled again.

  “Don’t worry,” said the DI. “I think the big guy’s going to use one of his Farts for the main event.”

  “Excellent decision,” said the DS. “I always had a feeling they’d come in handy.”

  The senior man raised his eyebrows.

  “In spite of everything you’ve said to me about them?”

  “Well, I can waive my beliefs as well, can’t I?”

  They laughed this time.

  *

  “Bit of a detour this morning, Joe.”

  Tom’s Saturday driver opened the rear door of the BMW.

  “Okay, sir. Anywhere exciting?”

  “Well, not so now, but it’s where all the excitement started. I’ll join you up front, if that’s okay.”

  “Okay with me, sir.”

  Tom put his briefcase in the back and slipped into the front passenger seat. They set off for the office in Marlburgh with the back-up vehicle, as always, following fifty yards behind. As they neared their destination, Tom directed Joe down a road off to the right.

  “Short diversion,” he said. “Every so often I like to remind myself of where it all kicked off.”

  They turned again at Cullen Hall shopping mall onto the main road through the estate.

  “When they created this constituency five years ago,” said Tom, “they stuck together some of the best and worst neighbourhoods imaginable. Some of the highest priced properties outside the City itself, along with one of the worst FSIAs in Greater London.”

  “Cullen Field Estate?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Weren’t you Princes and Marlburgh’s first Member of Parliament, sir,” Joe asked.

  “That’s right.” He pointed to a road off to the left. “Just down there is the Wild Boar, where John Deverall went to find the Brady brothers. Just turn in here and then first right.”

  The manoeuvre brought them onto a minor road which left the estate and soon reached a dismal area consisting of old factories and warehouses.

  “Right, stop here, Joe, across the end of this street.” He pointed down the cul-de–sac towards the iron gates across the end. “That’s where they cornered him and that’s where he killed them.”

  He sat in silence for a full minute looking down the street, then turned to his driver.

  “Right, Joe. Let’s get to work.”

  Tom’s constituency residence was the top floor of a large three-storey Edwardian detached house on Westbourne Avenue, a quiet leafy street overlooking a small park on the opposite side of which was Parkside Police Station. The constituency office was at the other end of the same road.

  Jenny Britani, Tom’s PA, was seated in the reception area, laying out numbered cards to hand out to the constituents to establish the order for the meetings. Jenny was a small, attractive, twenty-something Somali, with an irresistible smile, large laughing eyes, and dark brown hair in natural tight curls. She was wearing a short yellow dress and black leggings – her Saturday gear – as she called it – in contrast to the smart two-piece trouser suits she wore through the week.

  Tom checked his watch; it was 8.35 am.

  “Jenny, shouldn’t you be crashed out and hung over somewhere? It’s Saturday morning, for goodness’ sake.”

  “And good morning to you, Home Secretary,” she replied. “There’s really nowhere I’d rather be. I thought you knew that.”

  He laughed.

  “Well, it’s very much appreciated, but I’ll say what I say every week; you really don’t need to be here this early. However, it’s nice to see a happy, smiling face at this ridiculous time on a weekend.”

  “Not just any happy, smiling face, I hope,” said Jenny, frowning.

  “Your happy, smiling face, I mean, of course.”

  “Well that’s alright then,” she said.

  Jenny brewed tea and toasted a couple of bagels, and they shared their usual Saturday morning second breakfast
together.

  “By the way,” said Tom, “I’ve decided to run away from home.”

  Jenny was wide-eyed.

  “Nothing exciting,” Tom went on, “Just a state visit to Lochshore and then a few days’ holiday in Scotland. Hopefully, Tuesday to Sunday next week. And before that, if possible, a visit to St Bart’s. I’ll just need you to apply your brilliance for me over the next couple of days to arrange it all.”

  “Well, as I’ve said before, Home Secretary,” said Jenny, eyes now twinkling. “Brilliance I can do any time; it’s just for miracles that I need a bit of notice.”

  They both laughed, Tom almost choking on his bagel.

  *

  His last constituent meeting finished at 3.30 pm and they went over the proposed arrangements for Tom’s trip again.

  “I’ve left a message with Georgia to call me early Monday to arrange for you to see Mr Deverall. I assume you’ll touch base with the PM to sort it with him. I’ll circulate the usual list this afternoon so they’ll pick it up Monday morning latest.”

  “Thanks, Jenny. Now don’t you stay too long; take a couple of hours off at least.”

  He waved her goodbye as Joe pulled up outside.

  *

  All flat and nearly-flat surfaces in the family lounge – sofas, chairs, floor, and two large coffee tables – were covered in OS Explorer maps for the west of Scotland from Glasgow north to Cape Wrath, including the Inner and Outer Hebrides. Mags was kneeling on the floor, sitting back on her heels, adding another possible venue to an already extensive hand-written list attached to a clip-board.

  “Wow,” said Tom. “I was thinking more of a visit rather than an invasion.”

  She smiled up at him and he dropped down beside her, putting an arm round her shoulder and kissing her on the lips. Their mouths opened, tongues pressing together. Tom eased her onto her back and rolled on top of her, crumpling one of the maps. Mags pushed him off.

  “Not here, not now,” she said, in a loud whisper. “Katey’s back, and anyway, you’re creasing my Trossachs.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” said Tom. “I’m so sorry; I had no idea …”