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Troubador Publishing Ltd - Michael Knaggs

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239 pages

English

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The public demand for radical change in law and order in the wake of a catalytic event on a tough East London estate featured in Catalyst, the first book in the 'Hotel St Kilda' Trilogy. Now with the second installment, Heaven's Door, we rejoin the story as the new government, who swept to power off the back of the public's appetite for reform, start to assert their control. The new measures for addressing street crime include lifetime banishment for worst offenders, a popular development which receives widespread support, and which Tom Brown, the Home Secretary, decides to extend to cover other serious crimes. Although he meets strong opposition to this change, he steadfastly pushes it through. Then, at the zenith of his political achievement, and just when he seems reconciled with his family, his decision backfires. His private and political lives collide dramatically and Tom is faced with a devastating choice which, either way, will lead to personal tragedy. Meanwhile, Detective Inspector Jo Cottrell and a former colleague, David Gerrard, begin looking into the circumstances that led to this situation and uncover unexpected liaisons which raise a number of questions

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Political

Politics

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	28 novembre 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781784627164
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0150€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

HEAVEN’S DOOR

Copyright © 2014 Michael Knaggs
Reprinted May 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Matador Unit E2 Airfield Business Park Harrison Road Market Harborough Leicestershire LE16 7UL Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299 Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277 Email: books@troubador.co.uk Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
ISBN 978 1784627 164
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
For Carol
‘Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall Sometimes there is a way that seems to be right but in the end it is the way to death.’
Proverbs 16
‘A week is a long time in politics.’
(Attr. Harold Wilson)
Three months is a lifetime.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Hotel St Kilda-Lost Souls
Chapter One
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Reviews of Catalyst
CHAPTER ONE
Week 1; Monday, 23 March…
The detective inspector replaced the desk phone on its cradle and looked across at his sergeant.
“Come in, number three.”
“Sir?”
“That’s the third one …” he checked his watch “… in twenty-two hours who’s agreed to come and talk to us. Almost as if they were conferring, don’t you think, given their intransigence over the last five weeks?”
“Do we pick him up or is he going to claim fifty quid for a taxi?”
The DI snorted a laugh. “I think we play it softly-softly for the moment. I offered to bring him in – he said he’d make his own way later today.”
“And the other two?”
“Should be here late morning unless they change their mind again. They told me they were coming yesterday afternoon.”
“Should we chase them up, do you think?”
“Not sure. We don’t want to seem to be pushing too hard, but the worry is they could easily choose to disappear again. I mean, there’s nothing in it for them really, is there?”
“Revenge, I suppose?” offered the sergeant.
“That’s true, but revenge usually takes a different form in these cases, doesn’t it? I still don’t understand why three unconnected people – well, seven, I suppose you’d have to say – would chose to do it this way. Anyway, let’s just leave them for now and see what happens over the next couple of days.”
The two men were sitting across the desk from each other in the DI’s office, which was small and modern. The beech-finish desk was L-shaped, incorporating a PC work station on the short leg of the ‘L’. Down one side of the room was a line of matching cabinets and on the wall on the opposite side was a large screen with a back-projection facility for the computer and which doubled as a dry-wipe board.
The senior man clicked a few keys on his keyboard and the screen came to life. He got up from his tilt-and-swivel and stretched, then stepped over to the collage of images and words on the screen. He was of average height and build, and untidily dressed in a grey suit which had seen better days. His thinning grey hair made him look older than his forty-two years.
“So, what have we got so far?”
*
Two days later
Week 1; Wednesday, 25 March…
“Welcome aboard, as they say.”
The large man in the dark blue uniform smiled and extended his hand to each of the two visitors as they walked up the ramp at the rear of the vessel.
“Thank you, Captain …”
“Oh, I’m not the captain. Calum Nicholson at your service, Chief Prison Officer at Lochshore. Captain McLeod is on the bridge doing his final checks. I’ll take you to see him later.”
The man who had spoken to Calum was tall, in his mid-forties and distinguished-looking, with a mane of steel grey hair. He was well-dressed in a short reefer coat worn over an expensive lounge suit, shirt and tie, and shining black brogues. The other man was much smaller, around average height and in his mid sixties. He wore a thick waterproof coat over a round-necked fisherman’s jumper and, with his grey beard and woolly hat, looked much less out of place preparing to enter the bowels of a ship than his companion.
“Lawrence Harding,” the tall man introduced himself, “Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Prisons, and this is Mike Needham, chief designer of Alpha. We are here only to observe and absorb – nothing else. And we’re very grateful to you for finding time to show us round.”
Calum checked his watch. “You’re very welcome, but I’m afraid we don’t have long. We start embarking at seven, so that gives us just thirty-five minutes. Please ask any questions as we go round.”
He turned and they followed him onto the vessel, stopping just inside.
“The ship is a specially-modified passenger ferry,” said Calum, “previously used to take people to some of the most beautiful places imaginable. Back then it was called Spirit of St Columba and where we’re standing now was the vehicle deck. Now it’s known as PTV1 – short for prisoner transfer vessel one.”
In front of them were two walkways. Calum took them along the one on the port side.
“What we have are one hundred and fifty separate, two-metre-square cabins, each with three solid metal walls and one outward-facing wall with steel bars and a sliding door. The cabins are linked together in four lines – two lines of forty back-to-back down the centre of the ship and a line of thirty-five on both this and starboard sides. As you can see, each line sits separately on rail tracks so they can be moved on and off the vessel like a giant flexible cage on a fairground ride. This and the other gangway run the length of the deck between the outer and central line of cabins on either side.”
“Amazing,” said Mike Needham, looking round like a little boy in a toy shop. “I can’t wait to see the link-up to the lifting platform, especially how it’s done in heavy seas or high winds.”
“Well, speaking personally,” said Calum, smiling, “I hope you don’t get to see that on this trip – the heavy seas and high winds, I mean.”
Lawrence Harding was peering into one of the cabins. Calum continued.
“Each cabin has a bench along one side, a small swing-out table, like those on passenger airlines, and a TV monitor.” Calum was pointing out the furnishings. “And behind the plastic curtain across the corner there’s a chemical toilet and small wash-hand basin. A bit basic and spartan, but it’s just for a single one-way trip of twenty or so hours.”
“And the television,” said Lawrence. “What’s that for?”
“Not for Sky Movies, I’m afraid. We’ll be showing them a training film during the second half of the trip. A thirty-minute programme on a continuous loop, covering aspects of life on Alpha. Not sure myself whether it’s a good idea. More likely to scare them than educate them, I reckon.”
“But they’ve had their training already, haven’t they?”
“That’s right, but the thinking is that it’s all a bit unreal at that stage.”
“A bit unreal.” Lawrence raised his eyebrows.
“Well, whatever. At least it’s something for them to look at if they want to.”
“And meals?”
“Once we’ve got them installed they’ll get trays with coffee, a cereal bar and sandwiches. We slide them under the doors of the cabins.”
“But they’ll get other meals?”
“Three today and breakfast tomorrow morning. Although I can’t imagine many of them having much of an appetite, can you? Let’s go up here.”
He led them up some metal stairs and along to the monitoring centre on the deck above, where they would be able to observe proceedings on the array of CCTV screens. Calum took them over to a map on the wall.
“Here’s where we are now.” He pointed to the map. “After we leave Loch Fendort we go round Kerrera into the Firth of Lorne and head north-west through the Sound of Mull. From there we’ll cross the Hebridean Sea and skirt the southern tip of the Bishop’s Isles, before heading north-west again into the open Atlantic for a further sixty miles. That will take us twenty miles south-west of here.” He pointed to the island group which represented the farthest outpost of the British Isles. “The entire trip is planned to take around twenty-two hours, so we should be there around seven tomorrow morning.”
“Will I need any seasick pills?” asked Mike.
“You’ll have to ask the captain,” Calum smiled. “I’ve been too scared to ask him myself.”
*
The first fifty yards of the walk passed calmly enough. After all, the young man was in a familiar building where he’d been moved around frequently during the past three weeks. He knew this was different, of course, but it was only when they reached the outer double doors that this awareness surfaced in the form of violent panic.
The doors were open and fastened back. The metal walkway stretched ahead in a straight line. Along and round the quayside the lights shone brightly in the early morning gloom and were reflected in the still waters of the harbour. The ferry, two hundred yards away and looking huge against the flotilla of smaller boats