“Sure, sure!” Peterson beamed as if he’d just successfully hidden a pair of Christine’s knickers in his back pocket. “I’ve checked through your record, Thomas, and it’s exemplary. I’m sure we can work together — I’d hate to have to lose you from the team.”
Thomas made no attempt to hide his shock. He looked straight at Christine, who seemed similarly surprised. “I’ll wait to hear from you, then.”
“Absolutely,” Peterson opened the door, as if he was making a point. “Don’t go too far; I want the whole team in at 9.30.”
Thomas returned to his desk with a face like thunder. Christ, he’d really made a mess of that; nearly played his hand too soon. He went over to Karl. “Fancy a walk? I need some air.”
“Be right with you Tommo, just closing down. Don’t forget to lock your laptop.”
Something else he hadn’t done properly.
* * *
Karl ushered him to a café five minutes away. They both ordered a full breakfast. “I take it that your tête à tête wasn’t all you hoped for?”
“I made a complete dick of myself,” he shook his head slowly. “I accused him of sleeping with Christine before we’d officially split.”
“Don’t be expecting a good appraisal then!”
Two preposterously large mugs of tea arrived. Karl waited until the waitress had turned her back then made pretend swimming strokes over his tea.
Thomas just sighed; he’d lost his sense of humour.
“You know, Tommo, I loved and lost this girl, once. We were both stationed in Germany and we got together quickly. It was all brilliant and then I had to go back to Blighty on some urgent family business.”
Thomas stopped drinking tea and paid closer attention.
“Anyway, she bumps into this officer on base, while I’m gone — turned out that she’d had a bit of a thing with him, over in Cyprus.” Karl rotated his finger to show the passing of time. “So I get back to barracks and there’s another fish in my kettle, so to speak.”
Thomas had already decided that Karl made these phrases up. “How long were you away, Karl?”
“Long enough, evidently. I wasn’t very mature about it all. And unfortunately for me he was a nastier fighter,” Karl lifted his sweatshirt to reveal a series of white scars.
Thomas gasped.
“Listen now, I was no angel either. We wrecked the bar, apparently. I was certainly pretty wrecked at the time!” He winked then calmly took a sip of tea before he continued. “Anyway, not to be outdone, I tried a different tack and sent some photos of them together to his wife. Did I mention he had a wife?”
Thomas remembered that Bob Peterson was married, too. “And?”
“His wife divorced him. And later on, so I heard, the ‘Officer and Bastard’ married my lovely Jennifer.” Once he’d stopped talking, the waitress returned; Karl’s face lit up like a beacon. “Beatrice, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Your husband is a very lucky man!” He was rewarded with a demure smile and the all-day breakfast — so named because it could take a slow eater all day to finish it.
Further conversation was parked as they made their way through a meal fit for a king — a king who enjoyed mushrooms, eggs, tomatoes, sausages, bacon, toast and beans.
Thomas clapped his hands appreciatively. “That hit the spot.”
“You can always rely on your uncle Karl to make things better! Come on now or we’ll miss the party.”
* * *
The team filed into Christine’s office, all clutching pen and paper. Karl had brought along his Homer Simpson pad and novelty snake pen.
Bob Peterson introduced himself and shook everyone’s hand warmly. It was the usual ‘we’re in this together’ speech, with a potted history of where he’d been working before and the assurance that he wasn’t going to bring in change for change’s sake — which always meant the exact opposite.
Christine chipped in here and there, as if they were a double-act already, and managed to not look in Thomas’s direction. At one point Peterson made a joke about Sir Peter Carroll and asked Thomas not to repeat it the next time he saw the ‘old man upstairs,’ a blunt reference to Thomas having been interviewed by Sir Peter himself. Thomas swallowed his pride and smiled on cue.
Later, Ann Crossley asked about an accelerated development programme and Peterson agreed to look into it. Thomas managed not to mention that Christine herself had done something similar. So far, so good.
Karl wondered aloud what had made Peterson come to their branch of the SSU. Peterson laughed it off without committing himself. Thomas had been listening through a haze of indifference, but now he saw an opening. “So Bob,” he adopted a matey tone, “how was the move up from Southampton?”
“A nightmare — still a work in progress!” Peterson grinned. “Most of our things are still in storage — I was working in Southampton right up to Saturday night. We’re still waiting to exchange on the house so I guess I’ll be commuting, unless one of you has a spare floor?”
Laughter all round. Thomas laughed too, at Peterson’s audacity — the lying bastard. Gotcha! Christine’s face was a study in marble. Then an alarm bell went off in his head. What if she and Peterson were engaged in their own little re-enactment society?
Later, Thomas sat at his desk, deep in thought. He had what he wanted — Peterson’s denial, even though the photo proved he’d been at Harwich — but he didn’t know what to do with it. ‘Bang to rights’ as Sam or Terry would put it. He smiled at himself. How ingrained the London-isms had become after years of living there. Even his accent was more East End than Yorkshire, these days. On those rare occasions when he contacted his own family, the first thing they usually said was that he gone ‘all southern.’
Karl had stayed on for a few minutes — probably a prelude to his assessment. Thomas watched as he walked out of Christine’s office, holding up the Simpson’s pad as a face. Karl, his only ally — someone he still didn’t know if he could trust.
“How did it go, then?”
Karl took a deep breath. “Fantastic, Tommo. They’re thinking of putting me up for the George Cross.”
“You’re a funny man, Karl McNeill.”
“That’s just what Bob Peterson said — now are you sure you weren’t listening at the door?”
Thomas held up a hand, Honest Injun style. His mobile bleeped; a text from Miranda: Thanks for a lovely weekend. M. x. He blushed and switched off the phone, remembering to pick up a sweeping kit from Stores, for Caliban’s and the family home.
Chapter 9
Karl drove out to the docks with Thomas riding shotgun. He didn’t say much to Karl; he was too busy thinking.
Peterson didn’t need to lie; he could have mentioned being at Harwich, now that he’d met the team. He could have explained it as an informal assessment before taking charge. But no; something smelt fishy and Peterson was a week-old prawn.
By the time they arrived at their hidey-hole, overlooking the action, Monday weather had really kicked in — a drab, half-hearted downpour that set the mood. They sat, munching on sandwiches and peering through binoculars like schoolboy birdwatchers. Matter of fact, Thomas could identify the different gulls — Herring, Common and both types of Black Headed Gulls; not that he thought Karl would be interested.
Karl soon declared he was bored of scoping for women and went back to Private Eye. Thomas took to staring out at the sky, or what was left of it, as rain sprayed the windows in rhythmic bursts. It was, to quote Karl: “Shiter than a field of slurry.” Clearly, the man had the soul of a great poet.
After a further hour of struggling together with the cryptic crossword and generally wasting taxpayers’ money, the walkie-talkie spluttered into life. “Control to all units; we’re calling it a day. Come down and get some close-ups.”
* * *
The Customs teams went about their work, with little regard for the Floaters — a moniker the SSU had never managed to shake. The filming was supposed to be impromptu sequences, but as eve
ry good photographer knew, off-the-cuff material needed a lot of preparation. A dry lens, no reflections or glare, no inadvertent staring into the camera; it took time to stage that level of spontaneity.
Karl did the bare minimum and homed in on the youngest and prettiest Customs Officer. He swaggered about, displaying the subtlety of a Great Dane with a hard-on. Thomas drifted along behind him to witness the charm offensive at close quarters.
“Ah me, I do so love a girl in uniform!”
The woman turned, saw Karl’s beaming face and lifted her shoulders. “You must be the Floater everyone’s been warning me about.” Before Karl could answer, she flashed a smile. “So how do you want me?”
Karl did his thing, manufacturing life-like shots under cover from the rain. Thomas was regulated to bag man, moving equipment while the maestro was in full flow.
“By the way, whatever happened to the shooting victim?”
Thomas jerked to attention behind Karl; very slick, right in the middle of a sequence — classic misdirection.
“Funny you should ask.” Little Miss Flirtatious turned and made a Marilyn Monroe pout for the camera. “The way I heard it, he was whisked off to a private hospital somewhere.”
Karl moved from behind the camera and looked directly at Thomas, just for an instant — a regular Holmes and Watson moment. “Hey,” Karl knelt down near her to change his data card, “I wonder where all the booze in his van went?”
Karl’s supermodel looked over to Ann Crossley. “She supervised it.”
“Well then,” Karl chortled, “We’ll be alright for the Christmas Party! Okay sweetheart, I’m all done here — I just need to get the steam off my lens.”
She gave him a little wave and went off to join the others, glancing back a couple of times on her way.
“You know, the camera really loves her.”
“Looked like it wasn’t the only one.” Thomas folded his arms.
“Come on now, Tommy. I was working my subject, like any good photographer.”
Thomas squatted beside him while Karl put his trusty Nikon to bed. Thomas eyed it suspiciously. He preferred a Canon; but they’d had that debate many times over.
“You look pensive, Tommo — what’s eating you?”
“I don’t do let’s pretend very well, Karl. And you heard what she said . . .”
“Just keep to your boundaries and let me do my job.”
Thomas stalled him, arm outstretched. “But what exactly is your job?”
Karl walked around him. “Don’t go there, Tommo; don’t go there.”
* * *
17.45 on the dot, as requested. Christine’s door was already open. Thomas knocked politely on the frame; start as you mean to go on.
“Thomas!” Peterson cried delightedly, as if they were at a class reunion. “Come in, have a seat.”
On the desk was a fan-spread of reports, all bearing Thomas’s name.
“I understand you and Karl McNeill were on duty when the firearms incident took place at Harwich?” Before Thomas could reply, Peterson added, “But there’s nothing in your report.”
It was a pawn-to-king-four gambit — obvious, but effective. Thomas responded in kind. “I keep my reports factual and we were concentrating on the Customs Officers.” Facts. A light went on in his head. If he had any snaps of the red car heading up the exit lane, he’d probably have the registration number too.
“And these?” Peterson pawed at one of the mosaic shots. “What are these about?”
Thomas shrugged it off. “Just background detail. I like to set up early and get a feel for the location.”
Peterson stalled for a second and Thomas caught it. “Christine tells me that you have real potential.”
She shifted forward in her chair. “Bob and I have discussed this, and we think you’re ready for development. It means additional training in Staffordshire and it could open doors for you in the future.”
Thomas wore his best fake smile. Christine continued, “We’ll need a decision by the end of the week — there’s an opening next Monday.”
Peterson was staring intently at the mosaic photograph from the day of the shooting. Thomas kept his eyes firmly on Christine, which was no great hardship, and leaned back a little to keep Peterson in his peripheral vision. No doubt about it though, she was looking really good today.
“One thing I would like to ask you,” Peterson slapped the photograph down. Thomas jolted awake. “What’s your opinion of Karl McNeill?”
“He’s very good at what he does; seems to read people well,” Thomas played it safe and stayed vague.
“But what about personally? I gather you two socialise from time to time.”
Thomas concocted a cross between a laugh and a cough, each as fake as the other. “Well, we have the odd drink, now and again — I met him last weekend, as it happens. I get the impression there’s more to Karl than meets the eye. But I s’pose we all have our little secrets.”
Christine became a study in scarlet and Peterson dropped his pen, which rolled off the desk; they both froze. Bingo, right on the money.
Thomas decided to push his luck. “If you don’t mind, I need to be away soon; I have a date I cannot break.” Yeah, looking for bugging devices in Dagenham, followed by a takeaway curry for six.
“Oh.” Christine looked surprised. Not disappointed, he noted; just surprised.
“That’s fine.” Peterson extended a wet-fish handshake. “Thanks for your time and your candour. Let Christine know about the training.”
* * *
Miranda always said that men couldn’t multitask, but Thomas found that London traffic always afforded him time to think. So a burst water main at Burdett Road was practically a gift. By the time he’d ploughed through to take a left at Bow Common Lane, he’d found one thought that he just couldn’t shake. And it wasn’t a good one.
Peterson would have scheduled an arrival time at Harwich that day and known precisely where he’d parked; probably the vehicles around him too. He was a pro after all. Then Thomas had given him — bloody given him, mind — a mosaic showing the whole panorama without Peterson’s four-by-four in it. As good as saying: ‘I know you were there and I’m keeping it to myself at the moment.’ Stupid, really stupid.
And now, suddenly, he was trainee executive material when earlier in the day he’d been facing the heave-ho from the team. Peterson had him snookered; not accepting the training meant showing his hand and accepting would put him at arm’s length.
Desperate times and all that; he swung the car into the first available space and fetched out his mobile. “Hey, Karl. Listen, any chance of a chat at the club, some time soon? Wednesday? Nice one; see you tomorrow.”
The Wrights left him to go about his work. All except Sam, who followed him around like a lost sheep: nothing new there. When Thomas had first brought Miranda back to London, Sam had only been about thirteen. Talk about hero worship. Thomas had rescued Miranda from the clutches of doom. Or more precisely, from the paws of Butch Steddings — modelling agent and all-round scumbag. Even now, Thomas and Miranda still used the word Butch as code for something dodgy.
By 21.30 Thomas had his feet up and John Wright was handing him a beer. All clear, no trace of Karl’s handiwork on the premises. And sadly, no sign of Miranda either. If she were playing hard to get she’d put in a cup-winning performance tonight. No reason to expect her at Caliban’s on Tuesday night either, for his next debugging booking. The only bit of good news that night was that no one had mentioned the business potential of Thomas’s new career.
By the time he got back to the flat in Walthamstow, it was close to midnight. The answering machine light was flashing insistently. He put the electronics case down in the hall, set the two door locks and hit the magic button.
“Hello Thomas, it’s your mother. Just ringing to see how you are and when we can expect a visit. Your sister and the kids send their love and so do me and your dad.” No names just titles — nice.
Th
e next message was Miranda. “Hi, sorry I won’t be there tonight or at the club. Sheryl knows the score.”
He dithered for a second then stabbed the delete button. “Of course she does,” he seethed in the dark, “you tell her everything.”
Chapter 10
Karl held the heavy metal door open as Thomas stepped through. It felt as if that door was shielding him from the outside world. Once the formalities were dispensed with, Karl led him to a bay and went off to procure the equipment.
He leaned against the wall and gazed out at the targets, seduced by the stillness. A perfect backdrop to the maelstrom of his own thoughts.
Karl soon returned with two Browning 9mm pistols. “You won’t find any answers staring down there!”
So there were answers to be had? He opened the case and, under Karl’s supervision, primed the weapon and took the stand. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the roar in his ears carry him. The barrel wavered. Sweat massed at his brow and his armpits felt sticky, as if the growing web of deceit and half-truths was oozing out of him.
He sighed, took aim and squeezed the trigger. Somehow he’d expected the first shot to settle him, but it had the opposite effect. The barrel shuddered — no chance. He flipped the safety catch and put the gun down.
Karl stepped up beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all about being able to close in, to focus on one thing. No distractions or prevarications. Because if it came to it, that’s what the other guy would do.” Karl nudged him aside and drained the magazine without breaking a sweat. “Now, try again.”
Thomas lined the target up. His stomach contorted and he fought against it, making himself breathe steadily to counter the nausea. It all came back to him then, the first time he’d held a gun.
* * *
1984. Maybe not the dystopia Orwell had predicted, but in Yorkshire, a police state nonetheless. Night after night, woken up by the sirens; the procession of policemen, like the invading Roman army they were learning about at school. At first it was exciting; they played at Blake’s 7, from off the telly, space rebels against an evil, galactic federation. Or else they tried to get close to the horses.
STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense Page 6
