“Good morning,” Miranda opted for friendliness first. Eyeball — and that eye certainly shone today — nodded blearily; she looked as if she had spent the entire night on the chair. That was a worry. Miranda ambled over, smiling like she was back on a Bermuda fashion shoot, and made a mental note to check if the windows were locked.
“Would you like some breakfast?” Eyeball said it like she meant it.
“That’d be great,” Miranda retraced her way to the kitchen.
Eyeball tagged along like the less attractive one on a double date. Miranda filled the kettle and tried the thing that usually worked on men — Thomas being a rare exception: keep them focused on one topic then switch channel suddenly to get a straight answer.
“If I’m staying tonight I’ll need more clothes . . .” she stopped there, hoping Eyeball would suggest that she pop home to fill up a suitcase or an overnight bag. No dice.
Instead, Eyeball asked for her sizes and promised fresh clothes, later that morning. They sat together at the breakfast bar, drinking tea and eating toast, like the new girls at boarding school. Eyeball must have been bottom of the pile, she reasoned. Because, let’s face it, you don’t get the top brass strapping their arse to a chair for the night.
A till receipt was still on the work surface — Miranda clocked yesterday’s date before Eyeball tidied it away. Okay then, back to Project Best Friend. “Look, I feel really bad about your eye, er . . .”
Eyeball glanced at the open door and replied, “It’s Alice.”
Alice Eyeball, it was then. “Alice, I don’t suppose there’s a gym around here? I could do with working off last night’s curry.”
A bloody takeaway — hardly James Bond. Useful though, Miranda recalled, as Alice rinsed the cups. The round-trip for the pick-up was about forty-five minutes so they couldn’t be that far from civilisation. The trouble with country lanes was that they all looked the same. With all the excitement the previous day, after leaving the M25 the rest was a bit of a blur. Unless they’d dropped something in her curry.
She told Alice that she ran a pub, which seemed to rattle her a bit. Probably because it meant another closely supervised phone call. She smiled again, remembering the one from last night. Ringing home was a tricky one. A calculated risk as Mum could have blown it, but she was brilliant.
‘Okay Miranda, thanks for phoning. Did you want Butch taken care of while you’re away, or is Thomas looking after him?’ Even the way she had told Miranda: ‘Take care and I’ll see you soon.’ It still sent a shiver of delight up and down her spine. Mum was on the case.
* * *
Thomas looked out across Harwich and tried to concentrate. Just him and the gulls, not so different from the day Bob Peterson appeared. What if he’d been less attentive that day? What if the shooting and Peterson had been all someone else’s problem — Karl’s, for instance? What if . . . and then a flashbulb went off in his brain, illuminating what was already there.
The door opened downstairs, shortly followed by the strains of ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.’ Karl huffed and puffed up the stairs, depositing his cases on a table with his usual lack of care. “Grab hold of these sandwiches while I do a sweep of the premises.”
Thomas watched as Karl went to work, checking for other people’s devices: surveillance on the surveillers. Karl worked quickly and methodically around Thomas, as he stood in the centre of the room, sandwiches in hand. Finally, Karl pronounced, “Clear!” with a dramatic flourish.
The morning soon filled up, with tracking shots of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise at work in a busy British port. Thomas even fitted in a couple of brooding skylines. But whenever he stole a glance at his companion, Karl was looking right at him.
“It’s alright, I’m not about to crumble into pieces.” Not in front of you, anyway.
“I know that, Tommo. No news, I take it?”
“Shouldn’t that be my line?”
Karl shrugged with just his face. “Investigations are continuing. And just so you know, as soon as we get what we want from Petrov, we’re shipping the family far away.”
Like that was supposed to make him feel any better? Before Thomas could respond, the walkie-talkie crackled.
Karl made a face approximating ‘intrigued’ and nodded to whatever was being said. “Thanks Ann, out.”
Thomas furrowed his brow and Karl was immediately on the defensive. “What? Can’t I extend a little professional courtesy to my esteemed colleague?”
Thomas shook his head in mock disgust. Clearly, somewhere along the line, they’d had words and put their childish spat to rest.
“Anyways, she was letting us know that Christine will be on-site shortly.” Karl sat bolt upright, like he’d been stung in the arse. “Hey, shift; get your lens on the staff compound. Let’s see if she so much as twitches at your car.”
Brilliant. He and Karl took up position, two cats after the same canary. Christine Gerrard’s Mercedes glided up to the compound gate. She flashed her ID at the attendant — who looked like he couldn’t give a shit — and veered left where there were still spaces. Thomas’s heart was racing; unless she was planning to vault the fence she’d have to walk back past his car. If she even coughed beside his replacement window he’d have his first genuine lead.
Come on, come on; out you get. Any second now . . . nearing the front of the car . . . He held his breath and pushed hard against the viewfinder, swallowing Christine’s face. She had a faraway look about her, as if she’d rather be somewhere else. Closer . . . and . . . nothing. The moment passed. She crossed the bonnet and walked beyond Karl’s shit-heap of a car without blinking an eyelid.
“What do you think?” Karl was still tracking her.
“I don’t think she faked that.”
“Well,” Karl looked up with a wry grin on his face; “You’d know more about that than me. Okay, she’s eliminated herself from our inquiries — for now.”
Thomas smiled back, a small crumb for Karl’s ingenuity. He liked the sound of ‘our inquiries’; it made him feel less alone.
Christine headed straight for their block. Karl made a half-hearted attempt to tidy away the remnants of breakfast and his newspaper, but as soon as he heard the door downstairs he busied himself with his camera.
She clip-clopped up the steps, clearing her throat by the doorway. Thomas turned, catching Karl out the corner of his eye following suit.
“Gentlemen, we’re downscaling our presence here — by two.”
Thomas looked over at Karl. Was downscaling even a real word?
Christine crossed the threshold. “Karl, why don’t you take a break — I’d like a private word with Thomas.”
Karl nodded gladly, as if he’d had the same idea himself. “I’ll go over to see Ann Crossley — call me there when you’re done,” he rattled a walkie-talkie.
* * *
Christine waited until they were alone. “After our last conversation, I thought we’d better have the next one face-to-face.”
Uh-oh. Suddenly she reminded him of her mother doing the ‘And what are your intentions towards our daughter?’ routine.
“I don’t know why you’re so fixated with Bob, and not that it’s any of your business, but yes, we are seeing each other on a casual basis.”
Seeing to each other, more like. But he wasn’t going to rise to the bait this time. Instead, he separated his Bermuda key ring methodically, detached the cover and applied it to his laptop’s USB port. Christine stood beside him while the software whirled and opened the folder.
“Bob Peterson was here on the day of the shooting,” he clicked on a series of folders and opened the one named Uncle Bob. As if to emphasise the obvious, he’d superimposed a black frame over Peterson’s four-by-four.
Christine stared at the screen for maybe a minute. Thomas handed her the gift of silence. She looked shaken. And if he were honest, he was savouring every second.
“Has Bob seen this?”
Thomas opened up the file m
arked Uncle Bob V2.0. “No, I filed this version with my report. But he probably realises I saw him there,” he paused, hoping that if he gave her enough space, she’d say something about Miranda or his car; a forlorn hope.
“Where is this going, Thomas? I mean, what’s brought this on?”
He stood up; they were almost toe-to-toe. “I have a friend who’s in trouble.” He stopped and looked into her eyes. “I think it’s connected with Bob.”
Her demeanour changed; she came over all Florence Nightingale and pressed his hand tenderly. “Bob’s okay, really.”
“Come on, Christine, he lied about being at the docks — in front of all of us.”
“Well . . .” she seemed to struggle for logic, “he stayed with me that week.”
“Yeah, but you’re not in the pictures. And the only day Bob turns up on site — unannounced — happens to be the same day someone is shot.”
“You’re surely not suggesting Bob was behind that?”
He pushed his hand up a little and felt hers firm against it. “No, Bob wasn’t behind it. I think I know who’s involved. But I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Christine stalled; it was as if a cloud of doubt had settled on her face. He imagined her asking herself the same question he had: was Bob the witness or the lookout?
“What kind of trouble — it’s not Karl is it?”
“No, it’s not Karl. But I can’t say any more — I don’t know who I can trust.”
“Hey,” Christine squeezed his fingers, “you know you can trust me!” She seemed to gaze at him in a way that she hadn’t done for a long time. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”
Bollocks. “Chrissie, can you just leave it please?” He felt tears welling up and withdrew to the window, coughing to stop his voice from cracking.
She took the hint. “Alright, I’d better be going, Thomas. If you want to talk, you know where to find me. I promise I won’t say anything to Bob.”
He kept his back towards her, staying that way until he heard the door close. As soon as he composed himself, he rang Sheryl. “Hi,” he kept the tone sombre; “no, nothing yet, but I’m a little closer to figuring out what’s going on. I’ll call you this evening. And Sheryl, thanks — you know.”
Karl sauntered back within minutes of the call. Anyone would think he’d been watching Thomas through binoculars. “So, we’re leaving Harwich soon,” Karl was trying his best to be subtle. “What did Christine drop by for?”
Thomas parked himself on a stool. “I called her at home.”
Karl’s face was blanker than usual.
“I was pissed off with you and myself, after our discussion in the hotel bar. So I took it out on Christine. I rang up and slated Bob Peterson, reminded her that he was married. Less than bright; I think he was in the flat at the time.”
“You don’t think Peterson is anything to do with . . .”
“Miranda? No, and I’m pretty sure Christine’s clean. She came here to smooth the waters. And if I really thought Bob was responsible, I wouldn’t be standing here now.”
Karl stated the obvious. “Not Christine or Uncle Bob — the list grows shorter.”
“Maybe Petrov will have some suggestions when we speak to him.”
Karl feigned disinterest, but his body language screamed ‘fuck off.’
* * *
At four o’clock on the dot, Karl was packing his equipment away, having got Ann Crossley to cover for them. “Here’s how we play this,” Karl sounded masterful. “First we drive back to your gaff because that’s where you’re supposed to be. Then you transfer to my car and we go talk to Petrov.”
Thomas brightened a little. He was in the game, though God knows what they expected him to get from Petrov. Still, anything was better than sitting in that flat alone.
He parked down by Lloyd Park, on the opposite side of the road, to avoid scraping bird shit off the roof later on. He moved his stuff into Karl’s car — quicker than taking it into the flat.
Karl welcomed him into the dry passenger seat, inviting him to check out the glove compartment. No guns this time but there was a choice of albums. Thomas opted for something reflective — ACDC’s ‘Let There Be Rock,’ which Karl seemed to appreciate.
Karl swung out to the North Circular, picking up the A10 north.
“What do you want me to say to Petrov?” Cut to the chase; always the best way of dealing with Karl. Even if it meant shouting over ‘Whole Lotta Rosie’ as it fried the speakers.
“There’s no subterfuge here,” Karl notched the volume down. “We need to know everything about Yorgi; where the red car was before Harwich, past haunts, anything.”
Thomas nodded and twisted the volume back up. What he really wanted to know was whether Yorgi was capable of kidnapping Miranda. That question made him shudder.
Chapter 30
Thomas zoned out for the rest of the journey; Karl left him to it. Somewhere, between drifting off and Karl nudging him awake, he remembered Sir Peter Carroll’s very first pep talk about loyalty and confidentiality.
“We’re here,” Karl sounded apologetic.
Thomas soon saw why. It was one of the ugliest buildings he’d ever laid eyes on. The sign at the front — next to ‘cars parked illegally will be clamped’ — read ‘Conference Facilities.’ It all looked like a very bad joke.
“It’s a converted telephone exchange.”
“Shame they never converted the outside — it looks like a prison.”
Karl nodded. “Or a fortress.”
“And Petrov’s family have been living here?”
Karl waved a scolding finger. “Uh-uh. More than you need to know.”
Thomas tried not to stare at the CCTV cameras. They reminded him too much of being at Caliban’s.
Teresa met them at the front steps. Thomas took it as read that she already knew all about Miranda; he wasn’t about to confide in her in any case. They threaded past a series of doors to one with a sign that read ‘occupied.’ She gestured to Thomas to go in first.
Petrov leapt up from his chair, with a look of rapture. Alexandra was there at his side and Lukas was in the corner, playing with some toys on a rug. It looked like a Social Services training film. “Tomas! It is so good to see you!”
They shook hands enthusiastically; Alexandra kissed him on the cheek. All hail the conquering hero. Teresa and the quiet one on her side of the desk seemed to relax.
“You are well, yes?”
There was a question. He swallowed and let out a breath. Then replied, “Yes, I am well,” with all the enthusiasm he could conjure.
They all sat down and the silent wonder — Thomas labelled him the Handler — took orders for drinks and left the room. Teresa started recording, assuring Petrov and Alexandra that they were assisting of their own free will and were not obliged to answer. Nonetheless, it was clear where this was going; they may as well have had a tick list.
How did Yorgi contact them? Why did he contact them? What were they doing in Europe? Where did they meet him? Where was he likely to be now? Teresa’s formidable line of questioning didn’t take long to put Petrov on edge. Several times he shot glances at Thomas, a searching look as if to say, ‘Why are you allowing this?’
By the time they reached a comfort break — Teresa did a neat line in irony — Thomas had just about reached the end of his tether. Petrov was in danger of clamming up and that didn’t suit his needs at all.
The tape was switched off; he had nothing to lose. He put his mug down and leaned across the table. “How dangerous is Yorgi?”
Teresa made a mad scramble for the ‘on’ button and glared at him. Tough shit.
“Very dangerous. Tomas, I tell you the truth; Yorgi fears nothing.” Petrov sat back a little, as if to consider his own words. “Well, except snakes. One time I saw him scream at the sight of a snake on the farm and when I laughed, he nearly broke my arm.”
Thomas wasn’t sure how you could nearly break an arm, but then he recalled that he’d
nearly been shot. Karl nudged him to carry on.
“Have you ever met anyone with Yorgi? Or maybe you spoke to them on the phone?” He almost said ‘at the house’ then he remembered that they didn’t have a house any more
Petrov nodded. “On the phone; maybe twice. An older man — British, not foreign.”
“What kind of British?” Karl pitched in. “Like me?” He sounded like he was trying to prove his own innocence.
Alexandra searched the ceiling for recall. “He was English, well-spoken; and he called from a mobile.”
Thomas smiled at her. Less use than nothing, but it was a step in the right direction. “Why would Yorgi still want you — want to see you, I mean? You told me before, that you sometimes didn’t hear from him for months.”
Petrov and Alexandra shared a none-too-subtle glance and neither responded.
Thomas took a sip of tea, felt the warm liquid swirl around his mouth yet still leave it parched. He knew he would have to be quick and concise before they bundled him out of the room. He felt a cold numbness at the base of his skull, spreading down his body. There was only one question he was interested in now.
He turned his head away slightly, certain that if Karl saw his face clearly he’d spot something was amiss. He cleared his throat and took in a great gulp of air. “I think Yorgi may be holding a hostage, someone important to me . . .”
Alexandra covered her face. Petrov gaped at him, and Thomas remembered showing them Miranda’s photo at the house.
“No!” Alexandra called aloud and little Lukas stopped to look up at her.
Karl leaned his arm across Thomas’s chest, as if that would somehow stop him speaking. Petrov and Alexandra launched into an argument, in a language Thomas didn’t understand. Now Alexandra was crying, shrieking at Petrov who kept waving his arms to shush her. Thomas flitted from Petrov to Alexandra, waiting for them to revert to English. When they did, he wished they hadn’t.
STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense Page 22
