She checked her no-run make-up and pressed her palms against the glass. Maybe this was one of those two-way mirrors like the police were supposed to use. Like Elvis. She put a finger on her sweatband, traced it down the side of her face and diagonally across her top. If there was a perv watching, he was very quiet about it. Then she sniffed at her shoulder and wrinkled her nose. Funny really, the way her own sweat reminded her of Thomas, the scent of their bodies after their favourite exercise routine.
Time to hit the showers. She wiped the bicycle seat then grabbed the door handle. Alice was standing in front of her like an apparition.
“Jesus!” Miranda flinched.
Alice jumped back about a foot. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” she blushed. “Somebody’s on their way here to see you.”
“How long have I got?”
“She’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”
It would have to be a quick shower then.
* * *
After making herself presentable, she sat down on the bed and picked up her notepad. The one they gave her to write down anything important she remembered. The one she was certain they checked whenever she left the room.
How many former couples still bother to recall where they met and what they know about their ex’s job? Play twenty questions at least twice a day and it soon comes back to you. This was the sanitised version, of course. No Bladen family back-story — nothing about the blazing row with Thomas’s parents when they first met her or their jaw-dropping opening line: ‘Are you pregnant?’ No, this was the family-friendly set. Met in Leeds, moved back to London, Civil Service, break-up, SSU: neat and tidy as a stashed roll of £50s.
Alice was at the bedroom door again, so she picked up the notepad and brought it out with her. Alice led the way to the interview room. “In here please,” she said, standing back a couple of feet. She didn’t stick around either.
Sod it, Miranda thought; I’m not knocking. The catch turned quietly and the first thing she saw was a dark-haired woman looking out the window, talking on a mobile. Her lips formed the words ‘fucking ’ell.’ Her mouth ran dry. The world of strange had just acquired a new territory. She reached back and pushed the door until it clicked.
The woman at the window looked round and abruptly finished her call. Miranda couldn’t be certain, but the last words sounded like, ‘Thanks Bob.’
“Hello, you must be Miranda!” All smiles. Miranda played Simple Simon and mirrored her. “I’m . . .”
Yes, Miranda beamed; I know who you are.
“. . . Christine. I work with Thomas. I’ve come for a little chat.”
Miranda sat on the sofa and wondered how long she could keep a straight face. She’d only seen Christine twice before — and one of those was at a distance. But you never forget your ex’s new girlfriend — you don’t need a notepad for that. The first time was when Thomas had arranged back-to-back pub meets. And even though she’d teased him about staying in the bar, in the end she’d scarpered out the side door, just in time to peer in through the window.
Seeing Christine brought it all back — how jealous she’d been at the way Thomas had got on with his life while she was in Bermuda; had got on Christine, that was. Horses, that had been it; she smiled at the recollection. Christine was into horses. She’d pranced into that pub like an Arabian, all high-headed and flighty, trotting round the bar as if she owned it. Not a way to win friends in Whitechapel. And Miranda herself? Well, a thoroughbred of course. Yeah, ancient history now, but all the same she had to catch her breath when Christine leaned forward to speak.
“I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you, Miranda.”
Miranda opened her notebook, as if she was rehearsing a play. Christine flattened her hand over the page. “Thomas hasn’t been himself at work lately — you’ve probably noticed that, too?”
Miranda tilted her head back and nearly laughed. “We’re not a couple.”
“I’m sorry, I thought . . .” Christine seemed to give the sentence up as a bad idea.
Miranda turned the spotlight round. “Have you talked to Thomas?”
Christine did the ‘eyes to one corner’ thing. Sheryl at Caliban’s reckoned it meant whatever came out next was either a memory or a lie.
Miranda got in there first. “I know you and Thomas were involved.”
Christine nodded. “I thought as much; the way you reacted just now . . .”
“Then let’s cut the crap,” Miranda chucked the notepad in her direction. “That’s as much as I know. Now, have you spoken to him; is he okay?”
Christine surveyed the pages and without looking up, whispered, “He saw one of my colleagues today.” She put a finger to her lips and glanced at the door.
Miranda watched as she carefully tiptoed over. A second’s pause then she wrenched the door open; no one was behind it. “Good,” Christine turned and smiled; “now we can talk a little more freely.”
It was stupid and clever at the same time, but Miranda knew this was the first person she’d seen who definitely knew Thomas. And maybe cared about him too, in her high-handed, flighty way. “Would that be Karl or Bob Peterson?”
Christine blanched; Miranda fought hard not to gloat. That ought to burst the balloon. “So now we understand each other, why don’t you stop fucking me around and tell me why they’re keeping me here?”
“He said you were confrontational,” Christine managed a sliver of a smile.
“Look, let’s get on with this — we both want the same thing, for Thomas to be safe.”
“Thomas?” Christine went a funny shade again.
* * *
Christine ordered coffee and Posh Bloke acted as a waiter. When he’d gone, she scanned through Miranda’s notepad again and went down a different line of inquiry. How did Thomas get on with his family? That one drew a wry smile, from both of them. Next it was: how often did Miranda see Thomas? That was a weird one. And then the topper: why was Miranda driving his car that day?
Miranda gulped at her coffee wearily. “What’re you actually after?”
“Alright,” Christine closed the pad and passed it back to her gently. “What if I were to say to you that Thomas is suspected of corruption or espionage?”
“Bollocks,” Miranda erupted, “I don’t believe it.”
“Good — neither do I.” That sounded like a confession.
“So why am I stuck here, then?”
Christine rolled her shoulders back, as if she was trying to shrug off a great weight. “It appears that Thomas helped someone steal a package.”
“The ones he delivers for work?”
“Hmm.” Christine stopped short of confirmation. “Only this one was being carried by someone else.”
“Can’t help you there,” Miranda pulled down the shutters. “But I do know he was worried about you — because of this Peterson bloke. He’s the bent one, by the sound of things.”
“Listen to me very carefully,” Christine brought a hand under her mug. “It would not be in your interests to repeat that to anyone.”
Miranda tilted her head to one side and stuck out her jaw. “You don’t scare me; you’re just a posh bitch in a suit. What are you supposed to be — the heavy?”
“No,” Christine looked down at the floor, “not me,” her voice wavered.
For a moment, Miranda felt something for her other than contempt — only for a moment though. “I think we’ve both said enough, don’t you?”
Christine conceded the point. “Yes, why don’t we draw a line there; we can always speak again later. I brought some DVDs over.”
“Great,” Miranda bubbled with mock enthusiasm. “Let’s go watch a film together,” she searched her brain for something apt; Thomas would have been brilliant at this. Got it. “How about On Her Majesty’s Secret Service?”
Judging by her face, Christine was not impressed. “Look, Miranda, we’re on the same side — let me prove it to you. I was given a message today, relayed from Thomas
.” She paused and lowered her voice. “It’s bad news I’m afraid; your dog’s very ill.”
“My what?” Miranda flinched back against the cushion.
“Thomas said that Butch would have to be put down.” The room went deathly still. Christine moved back to the window.
Putting Butch down? How? Was Thomas mounting some sort of rescue — did he know where she was being held? Shit. They were all armed here; they made no secret about that. Even Alice Eyeball was packing a piece.
“I’m very sorry about your dog; was he old?”
Miranda closed her eyes and tried to focus. “Er . . . yeah. I . . . I need to lie down for a while.”
Chapter 37
The shrill ringtone on Thomas’s mobile sliced into his brain like a steak knife. He woke, all arms and legs, sending his notes across the floor. He stabbed at the green button, working his lips to try and dispel the gummy, stale taste in his mouth. “Hello?”
“It’s Teresa; open your door.”
He checked the curtain; she was alone. In her hand was a small holdall.
“What kept you?”
“Sorry,” his head felt muzzy, “I was asleep.”
“Have you been drinking?” she pushed straight past him like she owned the place.
“Only a couple. Listen, Christine Gerrard has done a disappearing act.” He’d expected some kind of reaction. But no, Teresa was too good for that.
She opened the holdall and carefully removed the Document Security Bag. “Over to you, then,” she put it down and folded her gloved hands together.
“I won’t be long. Try not to search the place.” Not even a glimmer; not a flicker of warmth. Karl must really suffer on cold nights.
His initial trepidation faded the moment he closed the darkroom door and latched it. No surprises there. Whatever crap the world was throwing at him, all he needed was a camera or a darkroom and he was transformed. Christ, even his dad became a better person when cameras were introduced into the equation.
He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and broke the seal on the yellow DSB. Under the red light it looked a murky orange brown. The box inside was untagged, just as Teresa had promised. He slid the lid off and immediately turned the pages upside down. Stupid as it sounded — even to himself — he wanted to be able to say he hadn’t read any of it. Not deliberately, anyway.
That was easy for the first four pages — two in French and two in German. After that he focused on the top left and top right letters, now inverted, to get the focus. He checked after every photograph that the camera’s infrared dot was still off in case it marked the paper. He kept his movements controlled and precise; his teacher from school Camera Club would have been proud.
Once he’d reset the box and sealed it in the new DSB — the one from Leeds — he felt the sweat nestling between his shoulder blades. The photos were fine, but he was a wreck. He unlatched the door and went out, still wearing the surgical gloves. “It’s done.”
“You’ve been in there for thirty minutes — what took you so long?”
Jesus; talk about ungrateful. “You wanted this done right, didn’t you? I’ll set up the printer for you.”
She followed him to the laptop. “I’ll need your camera data-card as well.”
Of course you will. God forbid you should start trusting me now. He connected everything up, set it to print and walked off to the kitchen. “Call me when you’re done. Do you want any tea?”
“No thanks; I had some while I was waiting.”
He took his tea and loitered near the doorway until she called him back. All done and dusted, pages printed and enveloped; data-card removed. As if it had never happened.
“Thank you, Thomas.” She looked relieved, already putting her coat on. “Remember what we agreed. At least two days.”
Well, agreed was putting it a bit strongly. He walked her to the door. “So what do I do, then? Ring up Whitehall in a couple of days’ time and tell them Special Delivery?”
“You’ll need to figure that out for yourself. Whatever it takes, we need those two days. Ideally we’d have preferred more time, but under the circumstances, we’re willing to compromise.”
He felt like punching her face in — that, or crying. She opened the front door and pulled her holdall close. He pondered its cargo, and tried to forget that the pages included names, addresses, account-like number strings and some sort of contract.
“And this is where I return to the shadows; goodnight, Mr Bladen, and good luck.” She’d only taken a few steps outside when a car started up, flicked on the headlights and pulled up parallel to her. In the blink of an eye, she was gone.
* * *
He bolted the door and stood in the centre of the living room. After all the tension, the silence in the flat seemed forced and unnatural. He waited for a moment, until his breathing had subsided. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a second data-card, twin to the one he’d handed over to Teresa. Clever boy.
At that point he didn’t really care what was on it; it was collateral. He had recognised one upside word though, in French: état — state, in English. United States of Europe, maybe? He checked the clock — time to make that call.
“John, hiya mate. I got your message. Tonight? Sure. I’ve got a couple of things to do before . . . right . . . I understand. I’ll be in a cab in ten minutes.” A minicab to Dagenham then; no expense spared.
Camera, secret data-card, gun and ammo, clothes, DSB, toothbrush and shaver, laptop and Sherlock Holmes book — everything for the modern spy about town. Thanks to traffic, it took almost an hour to get to Dagenham so he opted for the station. £45 all told, but the cabbie did throw in a series of free lectures on the way.
About the class divide, the racial divide, about what a pain in the arse lazy good-for-nothing sons were and how all the bloody immigrants coming over here were ruining everything. And all to a musical backdrop of what he now knew to be Bengali Asian Fusion. And every second or third sentence from the driver rounded off with ‘Do you get me?’ which he quickly learned didn’t require an answer, as it made no bloody difference.
* * *
It was a surprise that Diane was the pick-up. The only time Thomas saw her at the wheel was when they were going out for the evening and John had decided to make a serious assault on his own liver.
She didn’t have much to say, which was fair enough. He was probably the last person she wanted to see so he didn’t push it. She seemed to thaw a little by the time they reached the house, but it was hard to tell; at least she was prepared to look him in the face now.
Sam and Terry’s car spaces were empty; it looked like dinner for three, unless Sheryl — the other member of his fan club — was putting in an appearance. As they went inside, Diane told him, “Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.” Which played in his head as: you have fifteen minutes to give us some good news.
He cut straight to the chase and dug out the sealed DSB, reminded them how he’d acquired it and why it would secure Miranda’s safe release. It all sounded foolproof until he noticed the gun, amongst his things in the bag. If Diane had seen it, she didn’t react; it might have been business as usual for her, given the nature of their business.
After the DSB, he handed over the data-card. “It’s an unauthorised copy of whatever’s in the pouch.”
John held the little case carefully at its edges. “We’ll keep it safe for you.”
Over dinner, Diane pressed him on how the transfer would be made; an answer he still didn’t have. John Wright had ideas of his own. “Take the boys with you, as back-up.”
Diane slammed her cutlery down.
Thomas read her face and winced. “It’s fine, John, honestly.”
“No.” John looked first at him then at Diane. “You misunderstand. I insist.”
In all the years Thomas had known him, John had never done menacing, until now. Not even when Thomas had turned up on their doorstep as a stranger, with Miranda on his arm. Forthright and un
equivocal, maybe, but never this.
“The boys will be waiting at the scrapyard, first thing tomorrow.”
Thomas had to force down the rest of his meal; hungry as he was, he couldn’t dislodge a bitter aftertaste. He skipped the post-dinner drink and followed them to the comfy chairs, for more questions.
He offered up Bob Peterson’s promise of getting a message to Miranda. Then Diane had to spend ten minutes talking John out of making a personal visit to Uncle Bob. Which reminded him . . . “Can I use your internet?”
John and Diane pulled up chairs behind him; he didn’t comment. First, he picked up an anonymous server, then he took a slip of paper out of his wallet and set it on the keyboard; no point being coy now. He touch-typed a URL and went through the appropriate security, clicking on ‘telephony,’ and upped the volume. “This is a recording of all Bob Peterson’s calls from Christine’s office, today.”
There were seven calls in all. The kick-off, provoking a chorus of obscenity from everyone, was Bob Peterson ringing Sir Peter Carroll’s office to warn him that Thomas had requested a protective vest. The reply was dismissive; Thomas was being cautious, nothing more. He was just an amateur.
For some reason Thomas couldn’t fathom, that still cut deep. Two calls later and it was Christine ringing in on Peterson’s mobile. The sound wasn’t brilliant, but Miranda was mentioned, with Peterson relaying the message about Miranda’s dog Butch.
“Huh?” John said. Diane reached forward without a word, pressing Thomas’s shoulder: the boy done good.
Thomas went through the calls sequentially. Peterson kept trying to extricate himself. “I’ve got a wife and child!” he pleaded, the signal swooping and dipping as the mobile moved about.
“Well then,” the line on the recording suddenly cleared; “You’d better think about them very carefully.”
Poor sod. The caller was male, well-spoken, mid-twenties. The sound quality dipped again, as if a moment’s grace had passed. Then the voices went metallic and Thomas started to lose the thread. But one word pierced the cacophony: Yorgi.
He felt sick to his stomach; it as good as proved that he’d been on the right track since Petrov. He blinked back a tear and stayed schtum because he couldn’t deal with their fear as well as his own. Because if it was Yorgi, then Miranda was in more danger than they could imagine.
STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense Page 27
