Now what? He opted for distraction. “I’ll leave the log-in details here, for tomorrow,” and listened to the sound of his heart pounding against his chest. What would Karl do? He stared at the screen, catching sight of John’s inbox, scrunched up onscreen and half-filled with porn and spam. Karl would improvise, that’s what he’d do.
“Could you give me a few minutes please?”
John and Diane took the hint, left him to it and moved over to the sofa.
* * *
He worked quickly, without an audience.
Step 1: Set up a webmail account with a slew of random numbers and letters.
Step 2: Get the six-digit Ordinance Survey reference for the Wapping scrapyard.
Step 3: And here was the bit so clever that Thomas grinned as he was doing it — translate key words into something that would pique Karl’s curiosity.
Irish Gaelic was a bit too obvious so what about . . . Kosovan Albanian. A quick internet search and he plumped for two words, cutting straight to the point: betejë and shpëtim — battle and rescue. He figured Karl would have picked up at least one of those words out there during his army days; he was counting on it.
In the body of the email from his seemingly random email address, he put in a message: ‘Are you looking for gud time, big love? Order now.’ Then he added ‘0800’ followed by the OS reference. He kept the title as informative as he dared: ‘Sexi Kosovo Girls betejë and shpëtim . . . spurm.’ An easy to find reference to tomorrow, a few more keystrokes and away the email went, hopefully winging its way to Karl’s spam email folder, where only Karl would see it. Job done.
John or Diane had put the telly on; though neither of them seemed to be watching.
“I’ll get her back.” Now seemed a good time to make outlandish promises. It was one he’d made himself. He had a Plan B. If the worst happened — and he’d confronted that nightmare frequently since Miranda had been abducted — he would track down and kill everyone responsible. No question; no messing; no macho bollocks — no exceptions. He gasped for air and swam to the surface of his thoughts. “I’ll need more ammunition.”
Diane actually smiled at him.
Jesus. He felt like he’d just shared dinner with the Grissom Gang. “I just want to say that I really appreciate you letting me deal with this.”
John crossed his legs. “For now,” he looked away at the clock. “Right,” he decided aloud, “you better turn in for the night; early start tomorrow. You’re in Miranda’s room.”
Thomas dragged himself out of the chair, said his goodnights and took his bag off with him. The door still had Miranda’s nameplate on it. He almost knocked; he felt like an intruder.
Closing her door behind him, he stared at the bed, bag still in hand as if he wasn’t sure whether he would be staying. Now and again, they’d shared that bed — in their crazy on-again, off-again merry-go-round. He approached the duvet and ran a hand along one edge reverently.
Either Miranda had stayed there recently or Diane had left a trace of her favourite perfume to really twist the knife. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, imagining her in front of him.
He checked the en suite — for no reason other than to be away from the bed. The figure in the mirror looked haggard and drawn; he barely recognised himself. He closed his eyes again and tried to feel Miranda close behind him, the soft pressure and heat of her breasts against his back; her laughter at his ‘oh so serious’ face and the sparkle in her eyes under the starry ceiling spotlights.
He wanted to pray, the whole shebang. To kneel down right now on the bath mat, asking for intercession and atonement for his sins. But the thing that stopped him cold wasn’t a lack of faith — patchy as that could be. No, he still didn’t know what he’d done wrong in the first place, not where Miranda was concerned.
He brushed his teeth, did the necessary and confronted the bed. He chose Miranda’s side of the duvet. And okay, he wasn’t proud of it or anything, but the bedside cabinet was just too tempting. And it wasn’t like he was going to search through the whole room or anything. But he was restless and it was still early . . .
The top drawer was a mass of little yellow post-its, built up over time. He flicked through, tracing Miranda’s neat, round handwriting with his fingertips. Underneath that little memory sculpture, he found some old lunch menus from Caliban’s and even one from its former incarnation. Was chicken and chips ever really that cheap? This was stupid, he told himself, and carried on anyway. Just the top drawer, he promised himself, digging deeper past the tampons and some paperback called Perfumed Garden. Below all that was a ‘confidential counselling’ leaflet with a date and time scribbled on it. He blushed and lifted it out, along with a couple of postcards — both from Bermuda, from Miranda. One, to Mum and Dad, read: Everything will be alright. Miranda x. The other, to the whole family, said: Looking forward to coming home again. I love you. Miranda x. He put everything back in order and shut the drawer.
Chapter 38
Miranda, Christine and Alice sat on the sofa together. In any other setting, this could have been a mid-week girls’ night in — complete with chick flick, pizza and red wine. Posh Bloke, now identified as Nicholas, had been a right misery about the choice of film; he’d claimed his share of the deep-pan and left them to it. Jack had stopped for a while then announced he was going to patrol the perimeter. Silently, Miranda presumed, like he did everything else.
It was an okay film — they’d let Miranda choose it. When Jack had fetched it back with the food, it was missing a label, a receipt and a bag. Maybe they’d shoplifted it to order. Still, she’d resolved to make the best of it.
Everyone laughed or held their breath at the right places; they just didn’t speak to each other, except to move the goodies around. Just at the point in the film where the sassy-yet-caring girl-next-door realised that her best friend was a better match than the scuzzball of a boyfriend, a small green light in the wall flickered into life.
Christine jumped up, barked a code word to Alice and shouted for Nicholas and Jack. It didn’t take Brain of Britain to work out that all was not well. “Jack — comms room, now!”
Miranda sat and watched the mayhem play out. She wondered if Christine had spoken like that to Thomas; maybe she still did during office hours. Then the penny dropped: they had a comms room — probably hidden cameras outside. What if Thomas was out there?
She stood up — on the pretence of stretching — and hugged herself like an orphan, in the centre of the room. Alice had her gun drawn and looked very, very scared. “You’d better go to your room.”
The door sprang wide open, almost as wide as the look on Alice’s face.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stand down,” In a single sentence, Christine turned Alice into a child.
Miranda looked at Christine through narrowed eyes; what was really going on here? Christine twitched and broke eye contact. Nicholas strode into the room like a lion. He did everything but spray the place, and by the look on his face, he was thinking about it.
“May I have your attention everyone; my colleague will be staying with us for a couple of days.”
The stranger waited at the doorway until he had everyone’s attention. “Ah, my dear,” he crossed the floor to Miranda and extended a well-manicured hand. “Such a pleasure. You may call me Yorgi.”
She accepted graciously — no sense getting off on the wrong foot. Nice watch, if you were into retro.
“And you,” Yorgi clicked his fingers at Nicholas, “you will join us in the interview. The rest of you are not required.” Then he laughed; the kind of laugh that makes you check where your children are.
Miranda found herself complying, meekly following them to the interview room. No one else had moved. Earlier, she’d thought that she and Christine had made some kind of connection. Well, maybe that was just a mind game to soften her up for the big one.
* * *
Yorgi didn’t take prisoners. Initially he was all charm and sophistication but, Je
ez, the cruelty in that man’s eyes. He looked at her with the cold gaze of a predator; a woman gets to know the type, if she’s unlucky.
At first Miranda figured she’d ride out the storm and basically wear them out. But this guy was good; he asked the same question ten different ways. No drinks, no comfort breaks and no one to help her. Nicholas seemed to relish every minute, watching the master at work. And even though she knew she had nothing more to tell them, after an hour in their company, she wished she had.
“You must think!” Yorgi banged the desk again. Nicholas jumped too. Yeah, for all that alpha male act, he was as frightened of this bloke as the rest of them.
“Did Thomas mention a package — a delicate matter of security?”
She shook her head again then remembered his insistence on verbal responses. He made Nicholas write everything down, questions and answers. “I need the loo,” she was shocked by how small her voice was. She waited while Yorgi considered her request, didn’t leave the chair until he pointed to the door.
“Four minutes. No more.”
Nicholas marched her to the toilet; he looked smug, repeating the time span as if he’d thought it up himself.
She remained on the toilet seat afterwards, watching as her legs twitched. The tears came without warning; she pulled at the loo roll and dabbed her eyes furiously. Not now, not when that fucking savage was trying to break her down. She pinched at her arm — an old trick to displace her weakness in front of her brothers. God, she wished they were here now. She checked her watch — it was going to be a long night.
Chapter 39
Thomas jolted to attention as John rapped on the door and called out ‘six o’clock.’ He yawned and rubbed his eyes; he’d been awake for ages. He recalled being a boy, woken up on Saturdays for his paper round. Looking back, it always seemed to be raining — or snowing — everyone else still warm in bed. His dad would make him a mug of hot, sweet tea to see him on his way. ‘Mustn’t let ’em down, Thomas, mustn’t let ’em down.’ Those words seemed to have followed him around his whole life.
He showered, using Miranda’s gel, even though he’d brought his own along. Then he dressed and sorted through the bag for the fifth time. Shit — no protective vest; he’d left it at the flat. Well, he weighed the pistol in his hand; if push came to shove he’d just have to get the shots in first.
Diane was milling about in the kitchen; she looked like she hadn’t slept a great deal either. She kissed him on the cheek, same as she did all her children, and he felt his stomach twitch. Breakfast was a welcome escape from the possibility of conversation, and Diane had done him and John proud. She sat down with them, nibbling at the world’s smallest piece of toast.
John ran through the itinerary. “This early, I reckon an hour will be plenty.”
Thomas kept his thoughts to himself. An hour? Just to go ten miles up the A13. What was John planning to do, make him walk there?
Diane saw them to the door. The way that she and John held each other took Thomas’s breath away; he thought that kind of certainty only existed on television. It brought him up short — didn’t he and Miranda used to have that kind of relationship? He turned away, but not before he heard John promise Diane that it would all be okay.
“Bring them all back safe, Thomas,” she sounded like she was sending him off to war — and maybe she was.
* * *
John didn’t say much until they were on the A13, joining the other poor bastards travelling into work.
“I put extra clips in your bag while you were in the bog.”
Thomas smiled. He would have made a joke about firepower if his guts weren’t churning. He wondered about the gun again — about where it had come from, and its history. His stomach flipped another somersault; better off not knowing.
“Can I ask you something, Thomas?” John didn’t wait for permission. “Where’d you learn to use a gun? At the house, you seemed to know what you were doing.”
“Indoor firing range.”
John looked disappointed. Thomas thought about showing off his flesh wound, as credentials; bloodied in battle, as Karl would say. Yes . . . Karl. Would he have read the email by now? Would he even be able to act on it if he had? Great — something else to stress about.
“Listen . . .” John kept his eyes on the road. “What are you going to do when all this is over? I can’t see you keeping your job if you pull a gun on ’em!”
Yeah, that’s right, John; lap it up.
The lights hit red; John turned to face him. “Only, me and Diane were talking last night. And, if you needed a job, we could take you on, part-time, like — with the family. ’Cos sometimes people come to me with the sort of problems that someone like you can handle.”
Wow. Thomas locked eyes with John for a second or two. He felt the heat rise up his face and choke him. After all the shit he’d brought on Miranda and the family, they were still willing to chuck him a lifeline.
“No, er, need to commit yourself right now, Thomas.”
The lights turned green and his guts did more gymnastics. Back in Pickering, Ajit’s dad used to take them out on the moors. Often, on the way back, he’d wish that the car would break down, just to delay getting home. Or he’d count down every ten trees or street lights, surrendering territory in batches of ten. He was doing it now; he didn’t realise it at first, but he was still wishing for something he couldn’t have.
* * *
“We’re here,” John kept the car running. “I’ll check that website for any more phone conversations from that Peterson bloke and ring you if anything turns up.”
The breezeblock walls of the scrapyard were covered in graffiti, making it look like a techno-fortress. Thomas figured Sam and Terry weren’t fussed; he remembered Sam’s fondness for the spray can in his teens. What goes around, and all that.
Above the wall was a layer of corrugated steel. Some of that had been colonised by Street Artists Anonymous too. The E1 posse might be feerlezz, but he didn’t rate their chances if they ever went over the fence into the yard.
The door set within the main gate was open and waiting. He banged on the panelling and announced himself.
“Hey Thomas, how’s it going?” Sam could always be relied upon for a warm welcome. Terry though, looked like he was sizing him up. Sam elbowed him sharply.
“Alright, Terry?”
Terry sniffed aloud, like a Rottweiler gauging the scent of a rival. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
Up to this? He took a few steps forward, into their domain. No question, because when it all came down to it, he’d have to be. He dropped his bag by the door. “I am, if you two back me all the way.”
Good answer. And true, as it goes. John Wright was a shrewd man. Now there were three chances of getting Miranda out, and if it all went pear-shaped he had people he could trust implicitly.
He closed the door behind him and drew the bolt across the gate. Terry led the way, through the scrapyard, deep among the junk-filled skips and piled up cars. In one derelict cul-de-sac, a series of crude targets had already been set up, ready for practice.
It took less than half a clip to realise that drawing from a shoulder holster was too slow. It was Terry who nailed it — too clumsy, too telegraphed; the way Thomas moved one arm across and the other instinctively backwards to give better access to the weapon. Plus, he’d hopefully be wearing a vest and that might slow him further.
He reverted to the basics and once he’d cleared a row of targets, both brothers seemed to lose their scepticism. Okay, they weren’t slapping him on the back or anything, but they listened now when he gave instructions for repositioning new targets. He shot from standing, kneeling, lying down; a crash course in ‘aim and fire’ — not ‘think then aim then think and fire.’ Think too much, on this occasion, and it could be the last thing he did. He yawned; fatigue and the constant spectre of fear were taking their toll.
Sam came to the rescue. “Don’t worry, Thomas, I’ll make us all a brew
.”
Yeah, nothing like a nice cuppa after a hard day’s shooting. They sat on planks raised up by milk crates, staring down at the makeshift targets — two shop dummies and beer bottles on poles.
“When are you ringing the geezer to make the switch?” Sam sounded so much like a cinema gangster that it was painful.
Thomas turned it over in his brain. Teresa wanted two days’ grace so was that the day after today? And how was he supposed to stall everyone? He scuffed at the ground with his boot. “I’ll contact him later today.” Sam and Terry nodded in unison and the three of them sought refuge in their mugs of tea.
* * *
All Thomas heard was a click, far behind him. It was the only warning before a shot rang out, shattering one of the beer bottles. The boys dived for cover; Thomas threw himself on the ground and scrabbled for the handgun, which he’d zipped up in the bag. He was still fiddling with the handle — jammed, naturally — when he heard the boots crunch against the ground towards him.
“See here, Tommo, is this a private party or can anyone join?”
Thomas saw Sam and Terry standing on the periphery, gripping metal bars: futile but admirable.
“Karl McNeill, at your service,” he took a bow and holstered his weapon, which looked like one of his beloved Brownings.
Sam and Terry gave each other a strange look, dropped their weapons and approached him.
“Terry and Sam, I presume? Is there anything left in the pot; I’m gasping!” Karl released a rucksack from his back and cricked his neck in several directions. He was dressed head to foot in black.
“What are you supposed to be?” Thomas thought it best to get in early.
“That’s a fine welcome for a man who’s driven half the night to be here. Seriously, how are you, Tommy?”
STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense Page 28
