CAUSE & EFFECT

by THOMPSON, DEREK

  “Yep. Show’s over, maestro. Were you working late again last night?”

  “Right enough — until the wee, small hours.”

  He nodded. Karl’s other job was keeping him busy then. The one he knew never to ask about unless invited.

  “Relax, Tommo. Just eavesdropping and observation — no individuals were harmed in the making of that film.”

  He cupped his hands over his ears and feigned horror. Yet having already ridden on Karl’s counter-intelligence merry-go-round, he was interested. Who wouldn’t want to know someone else’s secrets? After all, what else was surveillance? Only . . . Karl’s world was not without consequences, and he had the scar on his arm to prove it.

  He escaped his thoughts and handed over the camera. Karl flicked through the shots, grading them in a series of grunts.

  “Nicely done. Okay, who’s next on our list of fraudsters?”

  “Potential fraudsters . . .”

  Karl grinned and returned the camera. “Ah, Tommo. You’re like a dog with a Socialist bone. That’ll be your Yorkshire roots. Of course, back home in Belfast we didn’t do politics.” He winked.

  Thomas stowed the camera in its case and started up the car, backing it out of the parking bay with infinite care. “Grab the list and tell me where we’re going.”

  His phone trilled into life. Karl stared at it for a second then thought better about answering it. Thomas cut the ignition and carefully applied the handbrake. John Wright, father of the fair Miranda, didn’t waste words.

  “Sorry to ring you so early, Thomas. I need to see you. Come to the house after work and bring Karl if he’s free. It’s connected with Jack Langton.”

  That was a shocker. Last he’d heard, Jack Langton was in prison — and Thomas had helped to put him there. He confirmed a time and cut the call. Now came the tricky part.

  “Listen, Karl, how do you fancy a takeaway after work tonight — in Dagenham? You can drive.”

  * * *

  Thomas’s hand was on the handle before Karl stopped the car. He got out and glanced at the upstairs window, looking for signs of movement. Karl followed him to the front door and they stood together, not making eye contact.

  Diane Wright, matriarch of the family, greeted them with a smile. He noticed it stopped halfway up her face — always a giveaway.

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Terry and Sam’ll be here soon with food. It’s a curry night.”

  He ignored whatever John called out from the living room and made a beeline for the kitchen. Miranda was propped against the breakfast bar like window dressing.

  “Alright babe?” She picked up on his mood straight away and shifted a little, arching her back so that her chest rose.

  It was all he could do to stop himself from undressing her. He took refuge in his curiosity.

  “Has John said anything? All he told me on the phone was that it’s to do with Jack Langton and I should fetch Karl along.”

  She shrugged and kissed him, exploring his mouth and grinning against his face as he absorbed the sensation. “You always were a soft bastard. Well . . .” she slid her thigh against his, “some of the time.”

  “Ahem.” Diane cleared her throat. “When you’ve finished getting reacquainted, we’re in the living room. Sam’s just pulled up.”

  “I know how he feels!” he whispered to Miranda, eliciting a peal of laughter.

  By the looks of things Karl had made himself at home. Deep in conversation with John, he paused to meet Thomas’s gaze, offering nothing. Sam’s key turned in the door, breaking the tension, and soon the delicious aroma of food and spices permeated the air.

  “I took a bend a bit too fast and I think one of the curries has leaked.”

  Diane organised the chaos, directing Sam and Terry to the main table where plates and cutlery were waiting. John and Karl hadn’t moved; they sat together like tribal elders.

  When everything was dished out the family gathered around the table. Karl took a seat between John and Diane, which put Thomas’s back up. As he and Miranda sat down opposite, he wondered if they were choosing sides.

  John tore at a naan bread, dipped the shred in curry and took a bite, waving the remainder in the air. “So, I’ve got this favour to ask.” He sniffed. “Thing is, Jack Langton wants some help and I can’t really refuse.”

  Thomas coughed as he bit into a cardamom seed. “Aren’t you forgetting it was only a few months back Jack tried to fit Karl up in Belfast?”

  He looked at Karl, who raised a hand. “Hear the man out, Tommo.”

  John coated more bread in curry sauce. “Jack’s got a sort of niece down Bethnal Green way and her boy was attacked. He’s only a nipper and Jack thinks the kid was targeted because of the family connection.”

  He hated stating the obvious. “Jack’s doing eighteen months for intent to supply . . .”

  Everyone around the table fell silent while he connected the dots. Jack needed someone on the outside to look into it. Thomas had suddenly lost his appetite; the thought of doing anything for Jack’s benefit turned his stomach.

  Miranda moved closer. “What would they need to do, Dad?”

  He almost smiled; she knew how to play a difficult hand. Never mind all that East End girl bollocks she traded on at her bar, Caliban’s; she was as sharp as a blade. It was bloody obvious where all this was going.

  Diane smiled again, as if to really sell it. “The police are already involved, but there isn’t any obvious link to Jack and he wants to keep it that way. He asked John to find someone on the level, to talk to one or two people and report back to him.”

  He pushed his plate away. “You want us to sort some mess of Jack Langton’s?” He shot a glance at Karl by way of an apology.

  Karl shrugged. “Sometimes these things have to be done.”

  Thomas blinked a couple of times, puzzled. John laid out the bare bones of it while Thomas went back to his food, studying Karl all the while. How did Karl square all this? Jack Langton was a scumbag who believed Karl was languishing in a Belfast prison where Langton had set him up for smuggling, handling explosives and having God knows what on his hard drive.

  “So, what do you think?” John’s voice brought Thomas back to the table.

  “Just this once,” Miranda insisted. “And you’d be helping Mum and Dad out.”

  There’d been no need to up the ante. “How’s this gonna work? Is someone giving us a list of names to check out?”

  “Yeah . . . about that.” John Wright actually blushed. “Thing is, Jack will want to see who he’s dealing with. Face to face like. He’s got a prison visit due soon and I thought we could go up there together. I need confirmation tonight so I can get the visiting order sorted out.”

  It was a done deal. John left the table and returned with beers from the kitchen, which he passed around to the men. Thomas stuck to juice. John popped a can and left it untouched on the table.

  Thomas found John’s gaze unsettling. He remembered the time he and the Wrights’ runaway teenage daughter had turned up on their doorstep all the way from Leeds. A speech was coming.

  “I know you’re not happy about this. But when you got into that bother with the Serbian geezer . . .”

  “Yorgi was Albanian,” Karl cut in.

  “Whatever he was,” John bristled, his eyes still on Thomas, “he was a problem. I gave you a gun, remember?”

  He was hardly likely to forget — he still had nightmares about it.

  “That gun was Jack Langton’s. I told him Miranda was in danger and he gave it to me — no charge, no questions asked. I owe him for that and now he’s calling in the debt.”

  Thomas glanced around the table. “Let’s get it over with then.”

  Sam and Terry cleared the table for a traditional family game of cards, but Thomas sat it out. He could sense that his luck wasn’t in. Karl decided to call it a night so he walked him to the door.

  “You gonna be alright, Tommo?” Karl patted his shoulder.


  “Never mind me, what about you?”

  “I’ll be fine. John cleared up a couple of things when you were taking a piss. I’m on hand to keep the wheels turning and to watch your back.”

  Thomas checked behind himself and mimed removing a dagger from between his shoulders.

  “Sure, you’re a funny bastard, Mr Bladen. I’ll see you by Mile End Tube in the morning. Don’t let Miranda keep you up too late.” He waited for Thomas to flip him the finger before he turned away.

  Chapter 3

  Thomas loved to watch Miranda in the dim light of the early hours. She always seemed to sleep so easily. Maybe she had a clear conscience — lucky girl. Once upon a time, he mused, he had had his life carefully orchestrated, with Miranda and her family in one corner and the Surveillance Support Unit diagonally opposite. Now it was all overlapping circles and tonight, with Jack Langton in the mix, he couldn’t even see the lines clearly.

  She shifted under the covers and slowly opened her eyes. “I can feel you staring at me. I’m surprised you’ve got any energy left for surveillance.”

  He blushed, remembering that he hadn’t wanted sex until she’d persuaded him. Chalk that one up to Jack Langton’s malign shadow.

  “Do I need to draw you a map?” She teased back the covers.

  No second invitation required. As he leaned across he spotted the old engagement ring on her bedside table and closed his eyes for a moment to skewer the memory. Then his hand touched her flesh and he decided to let his brain take a break while his instincts ran the show.

  * * *

  It all seemed like a distant memory at eight fifteen, while he froze his tits off as the rain spat down on the commuters. Come on, Karl, where the bloody hell are you? He left Mile End for Burdett Road, scanning every passing car, and dived into the nearest newsagents to grab a tabloid. He stood under the awning and flicked through the pages. It seemed like the entire paper had been given over to Sidney Morsley, on trial for abducting and murdering a seven-year-old girl. He managed about half a page on ‘Monster Morsley’ before he binned the paper and started walking up the street.

  A text came in from Ajit, his childhood friend from Yorkshire: Geena getting bigger by the day. Still bricking it. Ring soon. Aj. He put his phone away; more lives spinning around him.

  He heard the car horn first. Karl’s Ford Escort drew alongside and the window descended. “Sorry, Tommo; I got waylaid. Get in, it’s tipping down.”

  “Thanks, I hadn’t noticed.”

  Karl closed the window, sealing them back in their bubble. He yawned like a walrus. “Apologies, amigo. I got back late again and overslept.”

  Thomas reached for the schedule, still in the glove compartment from the previous day. “We’re cutting it fine if we want to set up outside the laundry.”

  “Nah, we’ll make it. This car’s never let me down yet.”

  He held on tight. To be fair to the man, Karl knew his way around the backstreets, even if he didn’t know his way around a gearbox. There was no talking while Karl was in mission mode, so he watched the world flash by and tried to figure out what was bugging him so much.

  Finally, with a flourish of gear changes, the car whinnied to a stop. Karl folded his arms triumphantly. “Piece of piss. Now, who are we stalking first?”

  He read from the list. “Ms Paulette Villers, suspected of earning undeclared income . . .” He flicked the page and held up a photo for Karl’s scrutiny.

  “She’s a wrong’un — look at that hair.”

  It was ten more minutes, half a packet of mints and Karl trying — and failing — to do drum solos to Led Zeppelin before there was any action.

  “Heads up, Tommo — here she comes now.”

  Paulette Villers bustled along the street, her coat pulled in tight. His lens did not lie, picking out a bruise across one side of her face, raw as a piece of meat. He felt his shoulders tighten as the woman passed and disappeared through a side entrance. He got the shots, including the scratch marks on her neck above the collar.

  Karl lowered his own camera. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not your place to go sticking your oar in.”

  “No, not my place . . .”

  “Come on, Tommo, we’re not social workers. If she shows up here the rest of this week, we’ve got her bang to rights and then we’re done with her.”

  “One phone call, Karl — that’s all I’m asking. You have contacts — a copper who happens to be around. Someone to ask if she’s all right. Then it’s her choice.”

  Karl sighed. “Just this once. You’ll owe me, mind.”

  “Deal.” He smiled. Owing Karl would mean only one thing: more surveillance work — off the books. He’d missed it since he and Miranda had been spending more time together. Karl’s morally ambiguous world of counter-intelligence proved the point that knowledge was power, especially when it was hidden.

  * * *

  It was a late lunch — a sandwich and a coffee in the car, as they staked out the sandwich bar where they’d bought them. Karl was economical with his words and Thomas realised there was one subject they hadn’t broached. Jack Langton; the elephant in the back seat.

  At one thirty they wrote off the lunchtime cash-in-hander as a no-show; and it seemed like the ideal time to ask about private work. Karl reminded him of the rules. He saw them in his mind, clear as black and white.

  1. Karl would only tell him what he needed him to know, which wasn’t a great deal.

  2. Payment would be in cash like the previous times.

  3. Karl would decide what to share with their SSU boss, Christine Gerrard.

  “So we might still be doing official work, just not on the books?” He nibbled at a crust, waiting for Karl to elaborate on who was covered by ‘official.’

  “Nice try.” Karl crammed his sandwich wrapping into a cardboard cup.

  “One more thing . . .” He collected up as much litter as the bag would hold. “I don’t want Miranda to know I’m freelancing again.”

  “Fair dos.” Karl turned the ignition. “I’ve got a request of my own. Anything you find out about Jack Langton — run it by me first, okay?”

  Chapter 4

  The days fell in line like the names on their assignment sheets as they made their way through the different locations. Guilt or innocence? He kept his thoughts to himself, unlike Karl, and let his camera make the judgement.

  Even though Karl had insisted he was happy to cover on his own during the prison visit, it didn’t sit easily with Thomas. The whole set-up had crossed a line for him. He kept his distance from the Wrights — Miranda included — in the run-up to the appointed day.

  Karl provided two evenings of low-level surveillance work, to pass the time he said — a basic ‘point and shoot’ affair. Thomas was glad of it. He could have done background checks if he’d wanted — a call to the restaurant and then run a couple of number plates past Miranda’s police contact. But he had enough to think about.

  He swapped texts with John Wright the night before their trip to Wormwood Scrubs prison, arranging to meet him outside. None of this was John’s fault; objectively, he could see that. No, the more he thought about it — and he had thought about it, a lot — Jack Langton was pulling the strings and everyone was dancing. Even Karl.

  He travelled in early to check out the local area. As well as a prison Wormwood Scrubs was also the name of 200 acres of nearby common land. He’d read up about it online, amused to discover it had once been London’s duelling ground. Maybe it was a sign of things to come. The other thing he’d noted was that the prison was originally built by convicts, which tallied with his opinion that people were often the creators of their own misfortune.

  The Scrubs Park didn’t compare with the Yorkshire moors, but the undulating warble of a skylark high above him was a welcome reminder. He faced the distant line of trees that pushed back against the skyline, holding the city at bay, closed his eyes and took a breath, steeping himself in the sounds of nature. It was all go
ing to be fine. He was just doing a favour for a friend, visiting some bloke in prison. End of story.

  He opened his eyes and changed direction and the prison building marred the view. A German Shepherd dog came bounding towards him and stopped about ten feet away, ears alert, staring intently. He stared back, wishing he’d brought a camera along — maybe the Canon with the USM lens. Then again, he couldn’t see that going down too well at the prison gates.

  The dog wagged its tail slowly and he tried to remember whether that was a good thing. Ajit would probably know. All those years in the North Yorkshire Police must have taught him something. Maybe he’d ask when he next got round to phoning him.

  A high-pitched whistle caught the dog’s attention and it abandoned him to his thoughts. He wondered if Jack Langton had any inkling of how it was he’d ended up behind bars. All it had taken was a little evidence gathering and one phone call. Like Karl had said, ‘In life as in comedy — timing is everything.’

  * * *

  John Wright was already waiting on the street outside the main gates. He looked like he was there under duress. “Morning, Thomas. I hope you’ve got your paperwork with you.” A nervous smile undercut the humour.

  Thomas patted his pocket then shook hands, and listened as John prattled on about the weather and the trains. Other people started arriving so they followed them around the barrier, through the arch, and into the imposing Victorian stronghold. He stepped in behind John and showed the staff his passport and a phone bill as proof of identity. It was only when someone noticed his Surveillance Support Unit ID around his neck that they decided to ‘randomly’ search him.

  You could tell a lot about the people queuing to visit a prison: the anxious mothers, the cagey partners, and especially the children. They were the easiest to read and fell into two groups: the ones with fear in their eyes, who didn’t really know what was going on, and that other category. Judging by their faces those poor bastards had seen it all before and took it in their stride; this was normal for them.