STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense

by DEREK THOMPSON

  “I thought the suspension was a bit worn out.”

  “Give over!” Ajit gave him a shove and continued tracking the buzzards. “You know I’d help you, Thomas, as much as I can of course,” his voice warbled with concern.

  Thomas smiled for about a second. Even now Ajit believed in the letter of the law; he admired that in a way. “Thanks Aj; I’ll let you know if I need you.”

  They stood side by side for a long time, gazing out across the rich moorland; neither one spoke. Then Thomas sighed and the spell was broken. He wanted to tell Ajit that it was good to be back, despite everything, but there was no need.

  “Right then, me little Cockney Sparra, let’s get you back to the bosom of your family.”

  “And you back to Geena’s.”

  “I’ll bet that sort of wit goes down a storm in London.”

  “I have to ration the tickets to keep the crowds down.”

  Ajit contorted himself into the driver’s seat. “Don’t give up your day job.”

  No chance of that now, not when it’s getting so interesting.

  * * *

  Ajit declined the offer to come in and say hello to the folks, but he asked after Pat and wished her well. Back in the mists of time, he had gone out with her for a short while. After Thomas had left for Leeds, of course.

  “Is that you, Thomas?” his mother cooed. She knew perfectly well it was; she’d been standing at the curtains when the car pulled up. “Door’s on the latch. Come in, kettle’s already on.”

  He grinned; one day, scientists would research the psychic ability of mothers to know when to make tea. “Is he up yet?”

  “Well . . . your father’s not feeling too great. He’s asked if you’d like to go over Fylingdale this afternoon . . .” she waited, hands apart in nervous tension, clapping them together triumphantly at the answer she’d hoped for.

  Afternoon. Wow; must be a hell of a hangover this time.

  “He doesn’t mean it, Thomas, you know that. You’re his only son when all’s said and done and he just wishes you were back here; we all do. Oh, I know too much has happened for you to want that — you’ve got your own life now — I’m not stupid. But it doesn’t stop us wishing.”

  Thomas slid an arm around her waist. “You’re a very wise woman.”

  She looked him up and down. “Wise enough to know not to bring a bottle of whisky into the house. He can’t ’andle his drink — never could, lets all the demons out. I think you did it on purpose,” she gave him a mock slap on the arm. “Come on, sit yourself down — I’ll make your favourite breakfast. I’ve got in smoked bacon and eggs.”

  His father didn’t surface until after one, announced by a groan; he couldn’t tell if it was the door or his dad. James nodded carefully, acknowledging them both in one sorry movement. On the table was a steaming mug of tea and a paracetamol. He lowered himself to the chair as if it was a hot bath and took his medication. “I’ll be right as rain in a bit.” He looked as if he’d slept in the rain.

  Thomas put the newspaper down and enjoyed the spectacle of his dad trying to tackle some toast. It might have been his imagination, but his mother seemed to have made it extra crunchy.

  * * *

  Eventually, they made it out to Fylingdale; Thomas ended up doing the driving, as his father didn’t feel up to it. He pulled in by the side of the road so that the wind buffeted the windows and gently rocked the car. When he was a kid, Thomas had been told that this was the Weatherman helping him to sleep.

  Despite the wind, Thomas left his jacket open, enjoying it against his skin. He closed his eyes, lost to the elements and swallowed by the moors. And his first thought — the only one that came to mind — was wishing Miranda could feel this now, beside him.

  His father tapped his arm. “Remember that old bunker we found on’t moor? They’ve opened it up to the public — I’ll show you.”

  ‘We found.’ Close enough; Thomas and Ajit had uncovered the hatch in a thicket, running around like crazed puppies. His father had shouted, ‘give it a rest or go play somewhere else.’ And so they had. Ah, hangover weekends, such a staple of childhood memories.

  At first they thought they’d discovered a secret tunnel into Fylingdales airbase — Fylingdales, USA, as some locals called it. He remembered Ajit and him writing a letter to the base commander about doing a school project on it. Then a nice man from the USAF came to Photography Club with a wings patch for each of them and a donation to the school. It turned out that the bunker didn’t go anywhere; it was an isolated installation built as a test.

  Seventeen years or so later, the sealed door had been exchanged for a lockable one and the Cold War relic was now a freebie tourist attraction. They managed a five-minute tour, grabbed a leaflet and set off across the moorland. Thomas didn’t say much afterwards, but he noticed his dad wincing with the exertion of the walk. He stopped and waited, made like he had cramp.

  “Yer taken any good photographs lately, Thomas?”

  He smiled, knowing that good automatically excluded talk of London skylines. “Aye. I went to Wales for shots of the red kite. I’ll send you prints if you like.”

  “Yeah, do that. Wales in’t so far from London, is it?”

  A subtle way of reminding him that Pickering was about the same distance. He conceded defeat by changing the subject. “We’ll need to make tracks soon or dinner’ll be burnt to a crisp.”

  They both laughed. As if Thomas’s mother would ever let that happen. Growing up, Thomas often wondered what she’d seen in his father, although he’d been a muscular man in his younger days, when he worked the pit. At times like this though, when his dad laughed, then he understood.

  He slowly shook his head. Fathers and sons; they made the hundred years war look like a skirmish. On the way to the car they passed a family making their way up the slope, the boy screaming with laughter as his dad raced on with the boy squarely on his shoulders. Thomas had to look away.

  Chapter 13

  The family had given him a good send-off, Sunday night. A light tea and then a round of happy — i.e. highly edited — memories; photo albums all present and correct. Pat brought the kids; Gordon even put in an appearance later on, to take the children home. Dad was off the drink for the night; he only usually drank on Fridays and Saturdays. Maybe that was why Thomas had always hated Fridays.

  Ajit came over first thing Monday morning, like the cavalry. Destination: Leeds. Geena waited in the car and Ajit stood at the gate, as if he were guarding Thomas’s only means of escape.

  His dad raised a hand in greeting from the front door. “By heck, Ajit, you’ll be needing a bigger police car soon.”

  Thomas eased past his folks and called his goodbyes. His father had a love-hate relationship with Ajit. Loved the man, but hated what he’d become — another rant for another Friday night.

  “Have a safe journey, son, and don’t forget about sending those photographs.”

  Son — blimey, one for the diary.

  Geena moved to the back seat, but not before she had swarmed over Thomas. “Come ’ere, you big lump.”

  He glanced at Ajit. Compared to him, he wasn’t even a lumpette.

  “So,” Geena piped up as soon as the car pulled away. “‘Ave you told him, then?” Ajit said nothing. “Three months gone!” she cried, “You’re gonna be an uncle, Thomas!” She ran a hand where the bulge would appear.

  Thomas didn’t ask why he was only finding out now; secrecy seemed to be catching. “Crikey, what did your dad say, Ajit? Has he fixed a date for you, then?”

  Ajit flexed his lips and launched into a parody of Mr Singh senior. “Ajit, now see here, I’m an ’onourable man with an ’onourable son . . .”

  Thomas stared hard at his friend. “You ’aven’t told him yet either, have you, you great pudding?”

  “Men — you’re bloody useless,” Geena laughed even as she said it. “Leave it to the women — I’ve already told your mam.”

  “What?” Ajit instinctively
turned round to her.

  “Eyes on the road, you big lump,” Geena pushed out her hand.

  Thomas had a flash of inspiration. “A month or two from now, you’ll both be great lumps!”

  Geena leaned in, between the front seats. “Yeah and it wouldn’t hurt you to do a bit o’ settling down.”

  Ajit looked daggers at her. She made a ‘What have I said?’ face and fell silent. Thomas reached for the radio to drown out his thoughts.

  * * *

  At Leeds station, he separated out a rucksack and stowed the rest of his stuff in a locker. He’d completed a walk past on the Friday so he knew where the office was — a typically drab MoD building. The security process was less sophisticated than Whitehall, but no less formal. After an ID check and sign-in, he was shown to a side room. Away from family and friends, old ideas returned to haunt him. Like how he’d got the gig for a Yorkshire pick-up at all. Perhaps this was Peterson’s revenge? If so then Sir Peter Carroll was in on the gag. Anyway, he was here now.

  Just about the time he’d started counting ceiling tiles, a woman entered the room — mid-thirties, not big on words. Her epaulettes identified her rank as a captain — good to know he’d learned something from Karl. He found himself unconsciously closing his legs and straightening his posture. She might have been in Leeds, but her accent was pure South East England, as if the two of them were on an exchange programme. “This way if you please, Mr Bladen.”

  He followed her down three flights of concrete steps. His breath hung in the air; the basement was big on atmosphere, but small on heating. And the blast-proof doorframe only served to remind him of the Fylingdale bunker. The Captain produced a swipe card and approached the keypad. He instinctively turned away until he heard the last of the bleeps.

  She levered the door mechanism and swung it, beckoning him in without speaking. Inside the room were two safes, a table bench like something out of a school science lab and a couple of chairs. It all looked like a full-sized logic problem. While he took a seat, the good captain produced two keys, which she held up one at a time, as if she was performing a trick. He almost clapped. She inserted a key into the safe on the left, in precise movements. The mechanism gave way with a clunk then she pulled back the reinforced door and started unloading the contents.

  It was money, a lot of money. Holy shit. The packets of currency piled up on the table.

  “That's fifty-three thousand pounds.”

  No it wasn't. He pressed his palms together, as if to stem the sweat. Jesus. He focused on the mound of sealed packets. That indefinable itch was kicking in. “Can you count them, please?”

  She did as he asked, counting the fifty-seven packages out, just as he had the first time. Next thing he did was glance around the room for CCTV. What the hell was going on? She seemed genuinely perplexed, but that cut no ice with him.

  “Check again.”

  “The requisition order states that fifty-three thousand pounds are to be couriered and that all contents are to be cleared from the safe.” She waved the paperwork in the air — it could have been in Greek for all he cared. On the shelf behind her was a single DSB — document security bag. He stood back and watched while she bagged the goods like an upper-class bank-robber. Then he noticed the split in the bag. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the adrenaline racing in his veins.

  “I can’t take it like that. Don’t bother sealing it — I’ll need a new DSB.”

  Her head flicked up. “It’s the only one we’ve got here. I’d have to go all the way upstairs. You have your rucksack in any case.”

  She pronounced it rook-sack, as if it were an exotic object. And she clearly wasn’t used to being given orders by civilians. Tough. He didn’t waste words. “I’m not taking that package in that DSB. So either you get a new bag or you can stick it back in the safe.”

  “But you’ll miss your train.”

  He did a double take. Miss my train? Two years he’d been fetching and carrying for the SSU. No one at the collection point was supposed to know the courier’s travel arrangements. It shouldn’t have been possible.

  She broke eye contact. “Very well,” she blushed scarlet, “Wait here.”

  “I’ll wait outside, thanks. And best lock the door with what’s in here.”

  She wavered then thought better of it, ushering him out quickly. Once the door was reset, she rushed upstairs two steps at a time. He pressed himself against the wall, felt the cold surface hard against his skin. He touched Karl’s envelope through his jacket and wondered if this was all some kind of sick joke. Maybe that was it; someone would be out soon to admit to the wind-up.

  A minute or so on and he started to wonder if they’d abandoned him down there. Think Thomas, think. He could always leave — just walk away and call it in as a no-show. But that frisson of fear was also exciting; it was like the feeling he’d had that first time at the gun club. As if there was a bigger picture. And knowing that, he had questions that needed answers. Like since when did the SSU act as bagmen for currency? And if they’d always been, since when did they start sealing confidential packages in front of the courier?

  The Captain clattered back down the stairs — she looked as pale as he felt. She handed him the DSB then remembered that she had to unlock the door again. His going off message like that must have thrown her completely — not part of the plan, whatever the plan was. His paperwork was duly signed and countersigned then she bundled him out of the building. What had really burned the stew was his insistence on keeping the ripped DSB as evidence. If looks could kill, she would have been a soldier. Then again . . .

  Outside, in the street, he pulled the rucksack in tight over his shoulder and sprinted for the first taxi he saw. He directed the cab to the Art Gallery and stood at the roadside until he was sure it had gone. A large coffee helped to stave off the shock. He threaded through the crowds and took his place in the taxi queue.

  * * *

  At the station, he retrieved his bag and had another coffee. All in all, he’d done well. Neither DSB was sealed — a simple sleight of hand distraction before both bags went into his rucksack — or was that rook-sack? He laughed into his coffee. A profitable retirement as a stage magician; Karl could be his assistant. Karl, in a non-speaking role — now that would be magic.

  The London train was late, leaving him too much time for introspection; the coffee wearing off didn’t help his mood either. Ajit and Geena — shit, they were starting to behave like adults. Okay, Ajit had always been responsible. But, a baby! And Pat looked all set to become a one-parent family in the not too distant future. Mum and Dad were the same of course, like that was supposed to be a comfort. And to top it all, he had just played Secret Squirrel and walked off with fifty-seven grand — with four of that unaccounted for. Watson, we have a problem.

  The tannoy finally delivered an indifferent apology and announced that the train was in. He quickstepped up to first class and tried not to look smug as the poor bastards in standard walked further down the platform. He found his reserved seat and quickly abandoned it for another, which had no seat behind him. A few rows away a student — by the looks of him — settled in and upped the volume on his earpieces. Thomas counted to twelve and stared out the window, eager to be free of Leeds; he didn’t relax until they were on the move.

  A few minutes out of the station, as if answering a scratchy mating call, the train manager appeared and made a beeline for Grunge Boy, checked his ticket and pointed him towards cattle class. Thomas couldn’t help but smile; nice try kid.

  As Grunge Boy approached, he mouthed something that looked like wanker. Thomas gently angled out the tip of his boot. Grunge Boy was too busy flipping Thomas the finger and went down like a sack of shit.

  He grinned; the bloke looked a lot grungier, face down. Then he noticed how straight the back of his hair was and a wave of panic swept over him. For a moment, he considered checking him for ID, but he calmed himself and laughed it off. “Are you alright, mate?” He figu
red Grunge Boy must be okay if he was well enough to keep swearing.

  Thomas smelled her perfume before he saw the woman — something a little more upmarket than he was used to. She asked without words if the seat opposite was taken. He did the polite thing, shook his head and scanned the rest of the carriage for options. Sod it, he was settled now and the journey was less than three hours — he could grin and bear it. It was an attractive perfume after all, on an attractive woman.

  “Ooh look — matching rucksacks!” she lifted hers up from the floor to show him. He patted his own rucksack on the seat beside him and tried to quell the warning bells in his head. Any fishier and he’d be in Whitby harbour.

  He had to admit it; first class really was first class. True, it was more of a finger bowl than a mug’s worth, but the coffee was good and strong — and free. He glanced up at the woman opposite, now deep into her copy of Feng Shui Gardening. Hardly reading matter for spies. He sighed, remembering the game that he and Miranda used to play in Leeds — the name game. Pick any stranger and give them a name based on an arbitrary feature or characteristic, usually the first thing you notice. The advanced version involved picking occupations and back-stories.

  Chelsea Girl — as in the flower show — looked over from her magazine and made a half-smile. Maybe this was how spies went on the pull. Maybe he was thinking about everything a tad too much. He hid himself in The Return of Sherlock Holmes and left her to it. He loved the way that everything in the stories had a purpose — no excess fat. If only real life were that reasonable.

  When the remainder of Moriarty’s gang were safely under lock and key, Thomas put the book down to rest his eyes. He couldn’t shake the high strangeness of the morning. Had he done the right thing in taking charge, back in Leeds? Perhaps it really was some sort of test? More likely Sir Peter Carroll got his kicks from moving pieces around a board, playing Churchill in his war room.

  Thomas had always felt, deep down, that the old man had a soft spot for him, what with being a civilian and everything. Once, back in State House, Sir Peter had waited patiently while Thomas had spent fifteen minutes setting up a skyline shot at sunset. Not a word spoken until the magic moment was captured. Come to think of it, he’d given Sir Peter a print of that.