STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense

by DEREK THOMPSON

  Christine Gerrard’s door yawned open. He swivelled round and the neon glare stretched across the carpet. “I had a feeling you’d still be here.”

  He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together tightly. “Just making the most of the quiet.” He hated lies, his own most of all. But if he’d said, ‘Still taking in the good news,’ it would have meant a round of questions and answers. And he didn’t have the stomach today.

  She leant against the doorframe, stroking the carpet with her shoe. Every second swing, her leg escaped from the pleats of her skirt, which only served to remind him of everything Bob Peterson had cost him. Christine tilted her head to one side, as if to read his thoughts. “Listen. We’re okay, aren’t we, about Bob Peterson? I had no say in it.”

  “Sure, why not?” He yielded the words with some difficulty. She nodded and retreated into her office, closing the door. He slammed the laptop lid shut; maybe he’d ring Karl some time about that drink.

  Chapter 3

  Thomas glanced at his watch as he got out of the car; just made it. Caliban’s — in garish green lettering — reflected in his windscreen. Inside, Miranda was draped against the bar; she looked edible. “I like a man who comes on time.” Her laughter, even at his expense, thawed his edginess in an instant. She took pity on him. “Care to guess where we're going, then?” Sheryl, the manager, stopped fiddling with glasses and waited for his response.

  He never fared well in front of an audience. “Not fussed.”

  “My, how you sweep a girl off her feet. Last of the great romantics.” The women cackled like a hen party at a strip-show, and Miranda peeled herself away from the bar. “Come along then; you drive and I’ll navigate.”

  Twenty minutes later, they were at a restaurant in Shoreditch, surrounded by marketing execs and multimedia entrepreneurs. “What do you think, then?” Miranda whispered. “The chef here wants out and I’m looking to bring proper food to Caliban’s.”

  He nodded, took another slice of the tuna and followed it down with a mouthful of wine. “It’s good.”

  She pivoted forward and passed a folded piece of paper across, like a love note. “So, here’s my side of the bargain.”

  He cupped a hand over hers, palming note and hand.

  “And there was me thinking you were only after my body.” She leaned back, her cleavage tilting away, out of range. “Hey Thomas, remember that first meal we had together, in Leeds?” She squeezed his hand then retreated to her glass. “You were really trying to impress, that night; you ’ad the strongest curry on the menu and all that Yorkshire bitter. It was a classic — they told us to leave when you got too pissed, and then you stood up and said every true Yorkshireman could hold his drink. But you still chucked up on the way home!”

  It was a familiar script. He knew his lines as well as his cues. “You wore your purple skirt and those bangles we bought at that wholesale place. And tons of pink eyeshadow. Everyone stared when you spoke because you sounded like a Londoner off the telly.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, what about when you started making up Cockney rhyming slang then puked over your denim jacket?”

  He grinned, recalling their apples and blurrgh. “Wonder what happened to that jacket? They’re back in fashion now.”

  “You gave it to me, after I made you dry-clean it. I’ve still got it somewhere . . .” she sighed, and he downed some wine to avoid looking at her. “Anyway, open your present.”

  He unfolded the paper and read it slowly. Bollocks. His knife clattered to the plate and the missing synapse fired up in his brain. It was that distinctive wedding band; and now he knew exactly where he’d seen it before. Even so, he read the paper again, in the vain hope that he was mistaken. Fat chance.

  “Problem?”

  “Yeah, you could say that,” he bit at a nail. The mystery four-by-four was registered to a Robert Peterson in Southampton. “Miranda, you remember me talking about Christine Gerrard . . .”

  Her face soured. “Wonder Woman, you mean.”

  He yielded a weary smile; Miranda remembered everything. Wonder Woman, because, when it came to Christine and Bob Peterson, he’d always wondered.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  That was unexpected — a touch of genuine concern. “Dunno. May be nothing. But the vehicle you got checked for me belongs to that bloke Christine used to work for.” Now was his chance to say more or say nothing; he settled for nothing.

  She studied him for a good half minute. “Look Thomas, I can’t pretend I’m her biggest fan, after all you told me, but you know you can always speak to Mum and Dad if she’s in serious bother.”

  He loved the way she liked him to know that he was still considered family, even though the two of them were no longer together. “Well, let’s leave it for now.” He took another sip of wine, imagining that snidey bastard Peterson tangling with Miranda’s family. What a clash of cultures that would be: Oxbridge player versus the East End’s finest.

  “Hey,” she lifted her glass and the colour of the wine reflected in her eyes, "let’s go dancing!"

  “Can’t; I have to work later.”

  “Civil servants don’t work nights.”

  “This one does.”

  “Oh, go on, Thomas; it’s been ages since we went anywhere.”

  He didn’t mention that it was hardly surprising, since she’d been seeing some second-rate footballer for the last couple of months.

  She made puppy eyes at him and wriggled in her seat.

  “Alright,” he relented. “As long as I’m in bed by one-thirty.”

  “If I didn’t know you better, Mr Bladen, I’d swear that was a come-on.”

  One of these days, Miranda, these games of ours are going to hurt someone.

  Chapter 4

  Beep beep beep. He forced his eyes open, took a second to focus then flailed in the direction of the alarm. He rolled over slowly and surveyed the empty side of the bed. Ah, Miranda. He stretched under the duvet and adjusted the bulge in his boxers. How was it, he wondered, that two people could have such a complicated . . . he searched for the word. Relationship?

  In the kitchen, he picked up her coffee cup from the night before and studied the lipstick print. She might have stayed, if he’d asked, he told himself as he placed it carefully in the sink. Only he hadn’t asked.

  By eight-thirty he was in the office, looking and feeling as if he’d pulled an all-nighter. He slumped at his desk and typed up the notes, closing his eyes now and again to recall the details. It still didn’t make sense. He opened another document, copied out a few separate sentences and saved the file for Karl — the lazy bastard. He was in the middle of a tricky combo, yawning and trying to rub some life back into his face, when the main door opened.

  Ann Crossley nodded curtly and took up her seat on the other side of the room, without a word. How cheery. But then, what more could he expect from another Foreign Office wannabe?

  An email pinged in from Karl, entitled: ‘Help!’ It read: Hung over, please cover for me. Should be in by 9.30, but if not, ring me. Thanks. It was sent at 2 am. Even Karl’s emails were late.

  * * *

  ‘Doctors,’ Christine Gerrard had once told Thomas, back when they’d shared a bed as well as office space, ‘doctors assert that coffee on an empty stomach is bad for both the digestion and the liver.’

  They don’t know shit, thought Thomas, as he waited impatiently while the vending machine spat out a chemical cappuccino, the perfect concoction to kick-start his working day. A chocolate bar helped, too; it saved on sugar in the coffee for a start.

  Right. Time to do some thinking. He took the spoils back to his desk and unlocked his drawer to get a writing pad. He drew three overlapping circles — like a maths problem — and labelled them Docks, Christine and Bob. Then he stared at the page for a few minutes before adding in squiggles and notes.

  So what did he know? First off, it would be a cruel twist of fate if Bob Peterson had just happened to put in an appearance at the docks
that day. Unless . . . unless he was sussing everyone out, ahead of his appointment? Now there was a thought. Maybe Christine knew, and they both wanted to crosscheck the reports with Bob’s own observations? He bit into the Twix.

  It was a reasonable assumption, but full of holes. It had been a routine assignment — they weren't even front of house — so why would Peterson bother? He boxed in Bob’s name and started shading, inking him out of existence.

  Maybe Bob Peterson's snooping around Harwich was some kind of payback for the fateful day Thomas had made his surprise visit to Christine’s executive development weekend. Who mentors someone in a country hotel, for Christ’s sake? His breath caught in his throat at the memory and he laid the pen down, spreading his fingers wide. It had all been a misunderstanding, surely? So why had he wanted to lay Peterson out — and still wanted to now?

  Crossley was mumbling on the phone. She met his eyes and bent her head. “We’re back today, sir; same positions. My team are on their way there now.” She paused and covered the phone. “Where’s Karl?” she hissed.

  “He had some personal business to sort out.” That was weak. He fired an email off to Karl: Get your report done and get your arse in here; we’re going back over to the docks.

  And where was the lovely Ms Gerrard? No sign of her. Nine-fifteen and all’s definitely not well. Ping. Karl had responded:

  Ha ha. Report’s already done and attached. Please print without changes then meet me onsite; and pick up some painkillers on the way. You’re a pal!

  Thomas opened the attachment, reviewed, edited and corrected Karl’s speed typing then added the extra sentences. After printing both reports, he sealed them in an envelope and slid it under Christine’s door.

  * * *

  Karl’s sallow face lit up as Thomas rattled the plastic container. “Thanks Tommo, you’re a life saver. I got you the usual — sausage and egg on white, no ketchup. ” They exchanged gifts solemnly, like a battlefield Christmas. “Listen Tommy, sorry for taking the piss about Christine. Honest to god, if I’d known that Bob Peterson was coming in to run the show . . .”

  Thomas accepted the half-apology with a shrug; it was his own fault really, for confiding in best buddy Karl that one time. He devoured the sandwich and tried to put all thoughts of yesterday behind him.

  “Anyway,” Karl’s voice lifted a little, “I met this wee lass in the pub last night and for a while I thought I was in love . . .”

  Thomas set up his camera slowly, making Karl wait for the cue to conclude his shaggy pub story. “Go on then, how long for?”

  “About three pints.”

  Introducing . . . Karl the stand-up. Thomas could almost hear the boom cha in his head.

  After the previous day’s drama, it felt good to get back into routine. Vehicles came and went without incident; order was restored. Customs were more visible today, making it easier to get decent shots. By lunchtime, the Customs team they were following had unearthed four rampant alcoholics, three pornographers and a couple of illegal immigrants — a good morning’s work by anyone’s standards.

  Karl nipped out for a comfort break, leaving Thomas alone with the soothing sound of the gulls. He made the most of the time, reviewing the day’s mosaic, happily without Bob Peterson.

  The mobile rang, the same default ringtone as the day he’d bought it.

  “Hey you; it’s me, Miranda. Well, say something then.”

  “Hello?”

  “Very droll. Look, you will be at Mum and Dad’s on Sunday? You did promise and they haven’t seen you in weeks . . .”

  “If I promised then I’ll be there.”

  “Great. You can collect me from Caliban’s at one-thirty.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  “Careful or I’ll hold you to that, and then where would we be?”

  Thomas grinned to himself. “In trouble.”

  “See you, babe.” Miranda hung up.

  He was still staring into the past when Karl returned with fresh rations.

  * * *

  By late afternoon, Karl had recovered sufficiently to regale Thomas with another instalment of Army Adventures. This time it was peacekeeping in Kosovo. Early on, Thomas had learned two things about Karl. Firstly, that he enjoyed talking about his time in the Forces — a lot — and secondly, that he didn’t like his monologues interrupted.

  Karl spoke with gruff fondness about his regimental comrades, but his anecdotes tended to lack specifics such as places and names. Thomas had pieced together that Karl left the Army suddenly, and his transfer into the SSU had been down to some string-pulling. Strangely, Karl’s trips down memory lane never ventured anywhere near the point, two years ago, when he’d actually joined the Surveillance Support Unit.

  There wasn’t much for their Customs team to do between ferries, so that left plenty of downtime for conversation. Thomas knew just which buttons to push, and soon Karl was waxing lyrical about Black Mountain and an Irish adolescence spent avoiding The Troubles and chasing anything in a skirt.

  Thomas met him halfway, offering up childhood summers in the Dales and on the Yorkshire Moors. “So why did you come down to London then, if Yorkshire was so idyllic?”

  This, Thomas knew, was Karl’s way of saying, ‘So what were you running away from?’ He didn't miss a beat. “Nothing to keep me there. And I’d met this London lass.”

  Karl cheered. “Hooray! Thomas Bladen isn’t a virgin after all.”

  He flipped Karl the finger and continued. “My uncle ran a local newspaper in Leeds, and they needed a cub photographer and general dogsbody. I wasn’t getting on at home and I’d been taking pictures since I was a boy . . .”

  “Sounds like a match made in low-wage heaven. So, what about the girl?” Karl edged forward a little in his chair.

  “This girl, right, she wanted to be a model. And my uncle, well, he always had an eye on the next chance; so he sets himself up as an agent. Nothing suspect, mind.”

  He paused; did he really want to go into all this now? But Karl was waiting, like a toddler gazing at an open packet of biscuits. “Okay, she was about my age and didn’t know her way around, so my uncle suggested I look after her. Then we got together, left for London, and moved in with her folks . . . the end!”

  “That’s not much of a story!”

  No. It wasn’t. Not when you missed out that it had been Thomas’s idea to look out for Miranda, and with good reason. Or the part where his uncle’s friend wanted her to do topless poses and wasn’t keen on taking no for an answer. Or the finale where Thomas lamped him, broke the guy’s nose and got the sack.

  Karl pushed for more. “So you got to London, delivered the princess to the grateful king and queen, and all lived happily ever after?”

  “Yeah, for a few years anyway.”

  “Come on, Tommy; and then what?”

  “And then all good things came to an abrupt and frosty end.”

  “Sure, that’s a sad story. Methinks you left all the best bits out.” Karl laughed deeply, and Thomas found himself joining in, even though he didn’t get the joke. “Still, at least you’ve got your old pal Karl to tell your troubles to.”

  “We must be grateful for small Murphys.”

  Karl took a bow. “Listen Tommy, if you’re at a loose end over the weekend, you’re welcome to come by and share a few cans.”

  “Not this weekend — I’ve got a wedding shoot booked.”

  “Really?” Karl’s brows almost knitted together.

  “Uh-huh.” Better to lie than admit he was having Sunday dinner with his ex-girlfriend’s family.

  Ann Crossley’s voice broke through on the radio. “Team two to team three. We’ve been asked for a Friday round-off with our Customs colleagues, as soon as this next ferry is unloaded. Refreshments will be provided!”

  Karl sat to attention, nodding furiously. “You up for it, Tommy Boy?”

  He shrugged.

  “Okey dokey, Ms Crossley,” Karl responded, giving Thomas a thumbs
-up. “We’ll join you as soon as we’ve packed our toys away.” Another ferry horn blared out. “So, it’s drinks at the captain’s table, eh? And maybe we can find out about yesterday’s gun-crime statistic.”

  “Karl, can you do me a favour and not ask? I think it’s best if we leave it.”

  “That’s all very well, but my report sang our praises and scored us a few points against the rest of Ms Crossley’s groovy gang.”

  “No it didn’t — I changed it.”

  Karl raised his chin. “Now why would you do a thing like that?”

  Thomas sighed and scratched at his neck. “You know how Crossley is. After all, we were the ones to pick out that suspect car — not that it’s proven,” he backtracked. “So it’s less complicated if we leave it out and stay ‘on message.’” He made finger speech marks, the way Crossley did when she was running a brief.

  “Well, well, you’ve got it all figured out. Right oh, mum’s the word.”

  Yeah, thought Thomas, but for how long? “Look, tell you what, why don’t I give you a ring on Saturday and sort out a get together?”

  Karl nodded and glanced out the window. “Here they come, last of the high-rollers!” He yawned and tracked the first vehicles off the ramp. “Now, that’s an expensive-looking van. What do you think Tommo — see that great big silver thing with the logo and details on the side? It’s a classic double bluff; it's so in your face it couldn’t be bent — what do you reckon?”

  Thomas stopped taking photos of the Customs team and panned right. He almost dropped the camera when ‘WRIGHTS — the Wright Way to Do Business’ glared into view. Oh Jesus: Miranda’s brothers' van.

  “How about we buzz the team on the ground to give them a tug? A tenner says the van has been back through here in the last three weeks.

  Thomas rested his camera in his lap and squeezed his hands together to stop them trembling. “I wouldn’t bother.” True, in a dishonest sort of way.

  “But come on — the Amsterdam ferry!”

  “Nah, we could be wasting everyone’s time. No one wants to be stuck here, filling out unnecessary paperwork on a Friday. Let's leave it to Customs — it’s their call.”