STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense

by DEREK THOMPSON

  Nicholas was still in the living room, getting his bearings. He moved towards what should have been Thomas’s bedroom and cocked his head, listening for breathing. The door was only pulled to, which gave him an extra second and a greater advantage. He grinned in the dark; his first field assignment was going like clockwork. Surprise, domination and victory — he heard the words in his head like a school motto. He flexed his shoulders to psych himself up even more, lifted the gun and rushed the door.

  “Right!” he felt by the wall for the light switch. “Give me all your money — now!” The bed was empty; sheets neatly tucked in at the corners. “Shit!” he gasped aloud.

  Before he could get out another word, a 9mm Browning pistol pressed tightly against his temple. “Don’t even fucking think about it,” Karl McNeill snarled into his ear.

  Nicholas dropped his pistol as if it were molten lead. Karl slammed a knuckle ring into his face, smashing him to the floor. Then he knelt on his arms, ripping off the balaclava. Nicholas was barely conscious, which left little reason for the punches that followed. But Karl delivered them anyway.

  “Karl, that’s enough,” a woman’s hand pressed into his shoulder.

  He eased himself up and turned to the man beside her. “Get him out of here and I want this damage cleared up pronto — call a team in.” And even though he knew now that Thomas wasn’t at the flat, he padded the rooms searching for him until Teresa ordered the stand-down. His hand smarted where the ring had cut into his own knuckle and the pulses of pain danced with the adrenaline tremor that ran through his body like a fever. “Where are you, Tommy Boy?”

  Chapter 15

  John Wright was already sorting out breakfast at six thirty in the morning, whistling a Beatles tune like John Lennon could never have imagined. Thomas walked into the kitchen and raised a nanosecond grin at the idea of John and Karl forming their own covers group — touring prisons to punish the inmates.

  “Morning Thomas, what can I get you?”

  It was a longstanding morning ritual. Diane liked a lie-in until seven-ish so John took her in the customary tea and toast. Thomas used to have a similar arrangement with Miranda, only his service was a little more personal. No Miranda today though — she’d left around eleven the previous night. Thomas conjured up the memory of her at the front door, like a child recalling their favourite Christmas.

  “Tea and some toast would be great, thanks John.”

  “Are you sure about going into work today?”

  He shrugged. What else could he do? The best thing would be to ring Christine, explain that he’d be late on-site and head over to Whitehall again to get it over with. He nodded at the thought — must ring Karl as well. That magic envelope had been burning a hole in his brain since he woke up; at least one mystery would be settled today.

  Sam bounded into the kitchen while Thomas was still crunching toast. “No Miranda?” The youngest of the Wrights was as matter-of-fact about the whole Thomas-Miranda thing as the rest of the family. Ten years of will-they-won’t-they had worn their expectations down to a smooth, frictionless finish.

  “Nah, she went home last night.” Thomas crunched his toast.

  “Oh,” Sam sounded disappointed for him. That made two of them.

  * * *

  When Sam dropped Thomas off at Barking station before eight, Thomas had the semblance of a plan. He’d make his calls and squat at Whitehall. Sir Peter would turn up eventually and, if he didn’t, Thomas would wait it out. Maybe it wasn’t very professional, but then nor was leaving someone holding a stack of money.

  On the way down to the platform, he checked the mobile. Pat had sent a text thanking him for coming up — a technological first for her. And there was one voicemail alert. The call had come through in the small hours. Maybe Sir Peter was apologising? Unlikely, as he didn’t have his personal number; at least, Thomas hadn’t given it to him.

  Standing on the stairway he jammed the phone against his ear, oblivious to the lava flow of people around him.

  “Thomas, this is Karl — where the hell are you? Is everything all right? Ring me — it doesn’t matter what time. Ring me immediately.”

  Thomas didn’t waste any time.

  “Tommo, thank God! Are you okay? Can you talk? Are you alone?” It was like a podcast of Question Time.

  “I’m fine. I can talk for a sec — I’m about to get on a train. ”

  “Great, how long will it take you to get to St James’s Park?”

  “Fifty minutes, tops.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you there. We’ve had a bit of a situation. And I’m afraid I’ve had to change your locks.”

  Karl rang off; Thomas stumbled down the steps in a daze. Change the locks? Why would someone need to get into his desk? The penny had dropped by the time he got down to the platform.

  * * *

  Karl was waiting by the ticket barriers, moving rhythmically from foot to foot. Thomas raised a hand and Karl dashed forward. “Am I glad to see you!”

  “What’s been going on, Karl?” Thomas stood, ignoring buffeting and abuse as people tried to move past or through him.

  “Not here; let’s walk,” Karl escorted him out to the park. “We’ll take a stroll to Marlborough Gate. They do great coffee and I’m buying.”

  He watched as Karl checked around them while they walked. It made a change for someone else to be twitchy. “All clues gratefully received.”

  “Oh right, I was forgetting. Tell you what, why don’t you open that envelope I gave you.”

  Thomas passed the envelope over for Karl to examine. No reason, other than to see if Karl would check it, which he did. Karl handed it back and looked suitably pleased. Inside was a single page with four sentences, in Karl’s own fair scrawl, which read:

  1. FIRST THEY’LL TRY TO BRIBE YOU.

  2. THEN THEY’LL LEAVE YOU WITH THE MONEY.

  3. THEN THEY’LL ROB YOU.

  4. NOW YOU’VE LOST THEIR MONEY, THEY OWN YOU.

  Thomas read the note three times; he could see Karl scrutinising him out of the corner of his eye.

  “So, Tommo,” Karl sounded nervous; “Marks out of ten as a clairvoyant?”

  He swallowed hard and folded the paper back into the envelope. “Spot on — for the first two.”

  Karl nodded and went off for the coffees. Thomas slumped on a bench and gazed out at the park, the sports bag containing the rucksack crushed between his legs. How the bloody hell could Karl have known what would happen? Two explanations came to mind. Either he was involved in this whole mind-game or he’d experienced something similar.

  Karl returned, passing him a steaming cup. “It’s Javanese, apparently. And lookie here,” he rattled a paper bag, “muffins.”

  Thomas reached into the bag and squinted at Karl. “Can we cut to the chase? Am I in or not?”

  Karl picked at a muffin and sent a piece arcing over to a waiting pigeon. “Rules first, Tommo. I will tell you as much as I can, but there has to be . . .”

  Thomas didn’t feel like accepting anyone else’s rules today. “It happened to you as well, didn’t it?” Okay, it was a bluff, but a reasonably deduced one.

  “Uh-huh.” Karl swigged back his coffee. “I was offered two grand, by way of an unaccountable surplus. You?”

  “Four.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s inflation for you!”

  “And what did you do, Karl?”

  “I took it — too right I did!”

  Thomas choked on his coffee.

  “Calm yourself, Tommo. I took it as evidence. All safely under lock and key somewhere. I wasn’t smart enough to stay away for the night like you evidently were.” Karl peered at him like he was a science exhibit. “No, but I rang ahead and had some old army pals let themselves in with a spare key. So when two thugs turned up to rob me of the readies, I had my own welcoming committee. Next day I turned up to the rendezvous with the cash, minus my £2k cut of course.”

  “And what happened to the two guys who came a-ca
lling?”

  Karl sipped at his coffee more slowly and stared into the distance. “You’re better off not knowing.”

  Thomas felt dizzy, as if the park was closing in on him. He took a mouthful of sweet, doughy muffin and squeezed it down. “What happens now?”

  “Well,” Karl reached into his pocket then held a closed hand over Thomas’s, “firstly, these are yours.” He dropped three keys into Thomas’s waiting palm. “Remember items two and three on my list? You had your own visitors last night and they weren’t bringing you chocolates and flowers. Don’t worry, the new door’s top quality and nothing’s been taken so there’s no real harm done.”

  Are you taking the piss? “Except someone knows where I live.”

  Karl sighed. “Time to grow up, Tommy Boy. You wanted in — it goes with the territory. You can’t expect to wander around in the dark without stepping in some shit.”

  “Thanks for that,” he whistled into his coffee. “I’d better complete my delivery — I’ll see you over at Harwich. We’ll talk about this again.”

  “Indeed we will.”

  He binned the coffee carton and got up to go. The bag seemed heavier now, and so did life.

  Karl called after him. “Cheer up, Tommo, you’re in good company.” His voice dropped a tone. “And listen, we don’t discuss this on the job; we can’t be sure it’s safe there.”

  Thomas nodded and trudged off towards Whitehall, jingling his new door keys on their leprechaun key ring. His brain was in meltdown so he started small, one step at a time. First, he’d see what Sir Peter had to say about the money. Then he’d consider telling Karl about the tax disc on the red car. And then he’d reveal Bob Peterson’s appearance at Harwich on the day of the shooting. It had all the makings of another fun-packed day.

  He crossed back over the lake and followed the path to the gate. A police officer crossing the park stopped in her tracks and watched him as he moved about with his large sports bag. Mindful of the small matter of fifty-seven thousand pounds on his shoulder, he approached her, flashed his ID card and spun a line about looking for Main Building and being lost.

  Outside the park, he noticed a sign for the Cabinet War Rooms and Churchill Museum. Ironic to think of Sir Peter Carroll’s office, close by, with that painting behind his desk. Maybe he’d moved there for the souvenirs.

  * * *

  The same security staff faced Thomas as he entered the building; on a whim he saluted and they returned the compliment. They were more attentive now. All branches of the armed forces, potentially, supplied personnel for the SSU. But, like one of Karl’s secret squirrel rules, people rarely volunteered where they’d come from. It used to drive him mad, but today, facing Whitehall’s answer to the Spanish Inquisition, it suited him fine.

  Soon he was in a lift with a different silent wonder as escort. His eyes drifted towards the escort’s holstered weapon. The guard followed his gaze and tapped the holster confidently. Thomas decided to chance his luck.

  “Browning — thirteen rounds,” he paused for half a second; “Plus one in the chamber.”

  The guard smiled and relaxed. The soldier stood at ease. And all thanks to a quick round of Name That Gun.

  “You were here yesterday, Mr Bladen?”

  “Call me Thomas. Yeah, Sir Peter got called to a meeting; he asked me to come back today. I got some right stick about it at the office — I don’t suppose anyone could tell me what his meeting was about so I can cover my arse?”

  Soldier Boy smiled and shook his head. Thomas had thought it unlikely the guard would hand over a guest list, but it was worth a try. “If it helps any, Thomas, I know that Sir Peter left Main Building around eight pm. I escorted his chauffeur upstairs to collect some papers.”

  Thomas faked a smile to avoid sneering.

  The escort knocked at the door and ushered Thomas inside. Sir Peter was up and out of his chair before Thomas had reached halfway across the plush carpet. “Thomas, my dear boy,” Sir Peter grabbed his hand and shook it keenly. “I must apologise for yesterday. Simply unavoidable. Come take a seat.”

  Thomas sat down and waited. If in doubt, play it straight.

  “So, how was your trip?”

  “Fine, sir. Everything went to plan.”

  Sir Peter seemed to rise up from his chair a little. Thomas pressed his tongue against his lower teeth, rendering his face expressionless. He reached down to his bag and opened the zip, squeezing the handle to stop himself from shaking.

  Sir Peter was very still, like a bloated cobra.

  “Actually, there was one problem . . .” he kept his head bent forward. Nice and steady, Thomas, don’t blow this. He lifted out the torn DSB from his rucksack in one fluid movement and thudded it down on the desk.

  Sir Peter’s mouth lowered about a foot. Thomas fancied that even Churchill behind him looked perturbed. “The DSB they provided me with was torn. I made them count the money out in front of me.” That part at least was true.

  Sir Peter stared at the sealed, torn DSB — the solid blocks of currency poking out like expensive building blocks in a substandard toy bag.

  Thomas lifted his face level. “I’d prefer you check the contents, sir, if you don’t mind.” Chew on that, Winston.

  Sir Peter broke the seal on the DSB and methodically stacked the currency on his desk. He counted the pile out loud, ending on ‘fifty-seven.’ “Yes, most impressive — I’d like you to accept a token of my appreciation.”

  The top two slabs were separated and slid halfway across the mahogany. Thomas had already considered the possibility of a second buy-off and decided what to do about it. “I really couldn’t, sir — I was just doing my job.”

  Sir Peter sighed through his nose, as if he were deflating. Still a cobra, but not quite so bloated “Surely there must be a camera that you’ve had your eye on?” The old man wore an encouraging smile, like a disguise; his hand rested on the £2000, poised to push it forward.

  Thomas didn’t need a rethink; two grand could buy a whole lot of camera, it was true. But the two grand would also be buying him. And anyway, it would be suspicious to accept £2000 now when he’d turned down £4000 back in Leeds.

  “I wouldn’t feel right, sir. Besides,” pause for big smile and grand finish, “there’s no need.”

  Sir Peter returned the £2k to the pile and patted it affectionately. “Well done, Thomas, you’ve passed. It’s a little test I have for when people show particular promise. I always knew my confidence in you wasn’t misplaced.”

  He glanced over to the window, but there was no sign of a curly tail.

  Chapter 16

  He left Whitehall with a mixture of feelings. For all his bravado, he was really no further forward. There was too much going on. It was like playing several games of chess simultaneously — and losing them all.

  Christine Gerrard had surprised him when he’d telephoned in, offering to drive him over to Harwich as soon as he was free. She’d gone on site for jobs in the past, but the timing was suspect to say the least.

  Her Mercedes looked conspicuous by the underground station. He reached for the car door and breathed in a heady mixture of French perfume and the sound of Grieg. She smiled at him, but kept her sunglasses on.

  He caught his perplexed look reflected in her face: Grieg. He wasn’t big on classical music; it just wasn’t something that floated his boat. But he’d always had a soft spot for Grieg; well, maybe not soft exactly. Grieg had been the musical accompaniment to a backwoods romp with Christine in this very car. He brushed the leather seat for an instant, lost in the memory of flesh against hide.

  She drove off before his seatbelt was on and he waited for his underwear to settle before he spoke. “Thanks for the lift.” Hardly repartee of the decade. Funny thing about Christine; it took him time to thaw around her. Partly the whole ‘my boss is my ex’ thing and partly because they both knew he’d been an absolute dickhead when they’d split up. It was as if she held a silent moral victory over him.

/>   Eventually Christine removed her glasses; she looked tired.

  “Everything alright, Chrissie?”

  She shrugged. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  He steered the conversation to safer waters, encouraging talk about her parents, their fancy horses and their fancy house. Then he listened as she recited the genealogy of their prize nags, with bloodlines going back a hundred years. It was the only topic where Christine ever really seemed to come alive, and by Harwich he felt he knew every horse personally.

  A text from Miranda came through as they neared the port; she’d got him the new details for the red car’s owner, based on the tax disc. He shut the mobile off afterwards.

  “Secret admirer?” Christine looked piqued.

  He mustered a hangdog expression. “No, more’s the pity. Unless Karl counts?” He pressed his hand into the upholstery.

  “I had it professionally cleaned,” she shot him down in flames.

  Yeah, but for whose benefit?

  She parked the Merc at Harwich and they sat for a while, windows down, saying nothing. Christine seemed on the brink of speaking a couple of times, but somehow never crossed the line. He watched the gulls at play and wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t been so attentive that first day. He knew the answer already — everything would still have happened, just without him knowing.

  “Did you turn down the training because of me, Thomas?”

  What? “No,” he yawned and stretched in the seat. “It’s just not my style.”

  She crinkled her nose. “Surely you don’t want to do this your whole life?”

  He felt the smile rise across his face. “It’ll do for now. Time I was getting back to work.” He led and she followed, which almost made him nostalgic. The stairwell harboured old packing material and a fire extinguisher that had seen better days. Good for Christine to see where they’d ended up. They climbed the stairs and he found himself whistling Grieg. As they rounded the last corner she gave him a quick jab in the back and he stopped.