CAUSE & EFFECT

by THOMPSON, DEREK

Successive doors were unlocked and then locked behind them, drawing them deeper into the belly of the prison. John hadn’t made eye contact since his search, and when Thomas tapped him on the shoulder he looked haunted. Well, well — another item to file in the Bladen archives. He knew about John’s ambiguous relationship with the Tax Office, but his behaviour today suggested there was a side to John he knew nothing about. On balance, he preferred it that way.

  The corridor led into a locked room with glass walls, like a long holding cell. A prison officer stared blankly, scanning the line for anything untoward. Thomas gazed back and their eyes met briefly, trading indifference.

  They were ushered forward just as the kids started getting restless, through the barred doorway towards Jack Langton. The visiting area was cavernous and neglected, tainted by the tang of bleach and boot polish. As he followed John, who clearly knew the drill, his eyes were drawn to flaking paintwork and clumps of dead flies that blotted out patches of the neon strip lights.

  They waited opposite an empty chair for a couple of minutes, without explanation — no one else seemed bothered so he didn’t ask. Then at some unspoken signal a door was unlocked and the prisoners flowed in under the watchful eyes of the prison staff.

  Jack Langton would have been easy to identify even if he hadn’t seen him before. He looked as though he took full advantage of the prison gym and swaggered a little as he made his way to the table, cocky bastard. All around them chairs were scraping back for happy families and lovers’ reunions. Jack looked like he was about to open a business meeting.

  Thomas offered to shake hands, but Jack tilted back and folded his arms.

  “Best not — I can do without a strip search today.” He laughed and Thomas couldn’t figure out whether he was kidding or not. “Appreciate you both coming . . .”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Thomas.”

  A chill raced down his spine. I fucking hope not. He put on his best poker face and sat there, listening to Jack and John getting pally, concentrating. He paid close attention because every few sentences a clue floated by amid the shorthand of familiarity — people they’d known from years back.

  “Thing is, John, she’s a good kid and she knows not to touch it. But sometimes people get curious. Maybe Thomas here could sort it for me?”

  Thomas took a breath and leaned in. “Sort what?”

  “Ah, some stuff at Janey’s.” Jack rubbed at his nose with a thumb. “It might need taking to my house for Ray — he’ll know what to do with it.”

  Thomas felt around his collar. The room had suddenly become a couple of degrees warmer. “You understand I’m clean, Mr Langton? I can’t be involved in anything . . .” he left the sentence there.

  Jack raised a soothing palm. “Course not. And call me Jack. Just some things of mine she’s holding for safekeeping. Paperwork and stuff.”

  “Is that alright with you, Thomas?” John’s voice wavered a little.

  “Yeah, as long as we’re all clear.” The bullshit alarm in his head was clanging.

  “Right then.” Jack Langton thudded his arms on the table. “Let’s talk about Jacob. There are some people I want you to talk to.”

  And John was playing secretary, counting on his fingers, bobbing his head as each name was mentioned. . . John Wright — the man Miranda had terrified him with, back in Leeds when they were first getting acquainted.

  “He’s not some sort of hard case, is he?” Thomas had asked, when he’d convinced her to return to London with him.

  “Nah, not like that. He’s the real deal though.”

  Well, he seemed pretty fake now.

  “Like I say, John. Write the details down when you get out. My brief, Elizabeth Locke, will be happy to help if he needs more information. You know Janey’s address — you always send Jacob something for his birthday.”

  As they stood up to leave, Jack thanked them for coming. Like they had a choice. “One more thing, John.” Jack made it sound like a throwaway comment, but Thomas knew better than that. “Tell Sheryl to get in touch.”

  Thomas turned away to shield his face. Sheryl — Miranda’s bar manager and Jack’s daughter that no one was supposed to know about. She’d given him the attack of conscience that led to Jack’s conviction.

  Away from the prison gates, John Wright was a humbled man. As soon as they were back on the street he brushed the dust off his coat sleeves.

  “Those bloody places give me the willies.”

  Thomas laughed and shook his head. “Fancy a coffee, John — or a pint?”

  “Yeah, a coffee sounds good.”

  It didn’t take long to find a proper café. Not that he had a problem with the corporate chains. As long as the coffee was good, he didn’t give a tinker’s where it came from. This place was a real Italian café. The blackboard menu looked authentically retro, although the prices had kept up with the times. He approached the chrome counter and let John find a table.

  Balancing two strong coffees and a couple of cheese rolls on a tray that wasn’t up to the job was no easy task. He wasn’t trying to impress John exactly — his own dad was a perfectly serviceable parent, only John was like the best bits without the crap. Right from that first day, when he’d brought Miranda back to them, John had treated him as one of the family. No ‘keep your hands off my daughter’ threats. Just a polite word about what he expected of him and nothing more was said.

  He finished reminiscing and settled the tray. “How do you think it went?”

  John sniffed his coffee and then grimaced. “Hard to say. I don’t like poking around in Jack’s business — the less I know, the better. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you drew a blank on what happened to Jacob.”

  Thomas squeezed his roll for a bite. “Isn’t it better that we get a result and then you’re all square with him?”

  “Yeah, until the next time,” John took a gulp of coffee and poured in more sugar. “Sorry for dragging you into all this.”

  “It’s okay, John; it’s done now. And Karl’s there to back me up.”

  John nodded, stirring his mug mechanically.

  “And besides, it’s not as if . . .” He felt his phone buzzing and picked up, turning away towards the window.

  Christine Gerrard, his boss, was on the warpath. “My office in one hour.” She sounded less than thrilled.

  “I’ve got to go, John.” He downed the rest of his coffee and grabbed the roll.

  “Let me give you Janey’s address and we can talk later about Jack’s solicitor.”

  * * *

  He left John in the café and hotfooted it to East Acton station, wondering why Christine sounded so pissed off. Once he made it on to a Central Line train, he looked at John’s piece of paper. One side had Janey’s address scrawled across it and the other, written in advance judging by John’s neater handwriting, was a short list of names: Janey, Greg, Andrea Harrison, Natalie Langton and Charlie Stokes — who’d earned two question marks. Although now he thought about it, Jack Langton hadn’t mentioned anyone called Charlie.

  He made the journey over to Liverpool Street ahead of schedule, not that he expected any prizes. On his way into the building, he brushed shoulders with two colleagues from the first floor. He’d seen the MI5 bods around. They waited until he’d passed and muttered, ‘floaters’ when they thought he was out of earshot. Nice.

  Karl was still out on the road, flying solo with the Benefits Investigation Team. The only person in the main office was Ann Crossley, now the official number two — a detail that kept Karl constantly amused. She managed an indifferent wave from behind her laptop.

  Christine’s office door at the far end of the room was open. He went over and played nicely by knocking first. She invited him in and gestured for him to close the door.

  “Care to tell me what you were doing at Wormwood Scrubs this morning?”

  He kept his paranoia in check and tried to reason it out. Mobile phone footprint? Nope — switched off until they were bac
k outside. He hadn’t used a car either. He completed his thinking aloud. “Those new ID cards we got a month ago.”

  She said nothing, but he read her like a book, always had done — between the covers once upon a time.

  “Thomas, I give you a certain latitude with your private life.”

  Judging by her face it was his turn to say something.

  “We all have our secrets.” He didn’t say ‘Bob Peterson’; he didn’t have to.

  She huffed. “Look, if it’s something that might reflect on the team — or the Unit — then I need to know about it.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  She peered over her reading glasses. “Is it connected with Miranda, or Karl?”

  He yielded what he hoped was an inscrutable smile.

  “Thomas,” she said wearily. “I can only protect you if I know what’s going on.”

  An interesting turn of phrase. Protect him from what?

  She took off her glasses and folded them carefully on the desk. “I’ve said what I need to and let’s leave it at that. Fancy a coffee outside?”

  “Sure.” Only right then he wasn’t sure at all.

  They strolled out under the watchful gaze of Ann Crossley. Sometimes he marvelled at how civilised they were together. Christine was an ex, even if it was ancient history. The last interest he’d shown had been purely professional, when he’d found out about her and the very married Bob Peterson. It still made him smile to think how Bob had been transferred from London, with Christine promoted in his place. A good day’s work. Last he heard ‘Uncle’ Bob was back in Southampton with his unsuspecting wife.

  Liverpool Street station was bustling; a swarm of people pouring from the escalators at street level. It would have been a great picture. Christine made a beeline for a carbon copy coffee house — matching decor at every turn and staff who all looked like they deserved something better.

  “My treat.” She reached across him in the queue to pick out pastries and a hint of French perfume grazed his memory.

  “Cappuccino, please,” he said to the pierced lovely behind the counter, who beamed at him when Christine turned her head.

  He carried the tray over to a table, which she brushed with an extra napkin. “So how are you? We haven’t caught up in ages.” She glanced down at her iPhone, resting on the table with her keys.

  “We never catch up? Why are we here?”

  She adjusted the tray to line up with the table edge. “I’ve been asked . . . that is . . . Sir Peter Carroll has requested I make you available as a courier. Ordinarily I’d assign anyone from the team . . .”

  Logic kicked in. “Only, you want something from him — or your people do?” He wondered why Christine’s friends in the Foreign Office might be taking an interest in the Director General of the SSU.

  She blushed and he warmed to that. The lady still had her scruples.

  “You’re free to say no, of course, after . . . everything.”

  He sipped his coffee and the foam tickled his lips. Everything. The reality had been a lot messier. Six months ago he’d been just another name on the surveillance team. Now he knew that Christine, Ann and Karl had additional allegiances and all were engaged in an intelligence tug-of-war that surfaced from time to time. And as for the great leader himself . . .

  He licked the sprinkles from the rim of the cup. “Tell him I’ll do it,” he promised, because he didn’t have a good enough reason not to. And this way she’d hopefully back off from his prison visits.

  “Thank you, Thomas; I appreciate it. Can you head straight over to Whitehall? He needs you there today.”

  “What about the Benefits Investigation Team and Karl?”

  “This takes priority. It’s an urgent collection and delivery. And let’s keep this between ourselves — just like your personal appointment today.”

  Chapter 5

  There was a time when he’d enjoyed attending Sir Peter Carroll at Whitehall. Those occasional summonses, from the Director General himself, used to make him feel valued.

  Things were different now. Ever since Karl and circumstance had opened his eyes, he viewed the interaction more as an audience, albeit complicated by Sir Peter now answering to Karl’s people, whoever they were. It didn’t pay to think too much about it.

  He jumped the Tube at Liverpool Street and threaded through the underground network to surface at Westminster. This time, as he approached Main Building, he felt something different: a sense of foreboding. Could he really trust the DG anymore? He smiled to himself — answers on a postcard.

  The guard at the front door eyed him up as he entered the foyer — nothing new there. A sign showed the building’s alert status as black, which matched his mood. The security desk received his ID card with thinly veiled contempt — this was another place where floaters weren’t welcomed with open arms. He’d never quite figured that one out. Was it because the SSU only came into being at the time of The Falklands War, twenty years or so ago, lacking the pedigree of the other departments? Or maybe it was the belief that the SSU was a dumping ground for anyone who couldn’t hack it anywhere else in the service.

  A quick phone call and a scan of his hand, and then it was the familiar stand-and-wait routine while an escort came to fetch him. Meantime, he counted the seconds. To think he used to be impressed with all this. The seat of power — what a joke! In the last few months Karl had educated him about a power struggle across Europe that had nothing to do with governments. A Shadow State whose tendrils reached into the military, multinationals and so-called democracies. Even though he didn’t subscribe to a ‘United States of Europe’ conspiracy, unlike the nutcase websites Karl had directed him to for fun, there was definitely something to it. Everything always came down to money and power.

  His escort arrived and she chaperoned him to the lift for the top floor. Sir Peter Carroll, always the man at the top.

  “I’ve not seen you before, Mr Bladen?”

  Her voice startled him and he smiled. She was from the northeast — a Geordie by the sounds of it.

  “I’m not a regular here. This is more of a command performance.”

  She let loose a three-second smile and visibly relaxed.

  “Congratulations, by the way.” He nodded to her engagement ring.

  “Well-spotted. Aye, only a couple of months to go now,” she confided. “Best day of a girl’s life, apparently.”

  “Your other half must be bricking it.”

  “I reckon he is!”

  Out of the lift it was back to business. He led the way, noting that the CIA liaison office had moved three rooms along since his last appearance. He stood aside to let her knock on Sir Peter’s door, already ajar.

  Sir Peter looked up from his desk, large as life and twice as ugly. “Ah, Thomas! Do come in; I’ve been expecting you.”

  He smiled to himself. Same old shit. He took the empty seat.

  “I’ve rung for coffee.”

  Thomas didn’t have much to say; the history between them filled the silence. “You sent for me?” It came out a bit chippier than he’d intended.

  Sir Peter flustered a little. “Yes, Thomas. I need someone I can rely on to obey instructions implicitly.” Subtext: know your place.

  He nodded, a reflex action, and let his attention drift to the familiar painting of Churchill on the wall behind the desk. If that piece of art could talk.

  “ . . . So, as I say, it is a small matter and I need it done today.”

  A brown envelope slid across the desk. “Collect the package from room 402 on your way out.”

  A knock on the door interrupted them. Thomas instinctively grabbed the envelope and folded it in his pocket. Engagement girl brought in a tray with two coffees then closed the door behind her without a word.

  “You’ll also be needing this.” Sir Peter snapped a key down on the desk. “Follow the instructions.”

  He could see that it had been newly cut; the edges gleamed under the office strip lights. He dragged it ac
ross the hardened skin on his thumb and gulped his coffee down.

  Sir Peter set his cup down. “Well, I won’t keep you. Ring me when the job is complete.”

  Once he was out in the corridor, he slit open the envelope and read the contents. On paper this looked like the easiest job in Christendom; he’d fallen for that one before. As he waited for the lift he played mental somersaults, pondering why the Old Man had insisted on him for such a routine job.

  The fourth floor was a hotchpotch of government offices. He found room 402 without difficulty and rapped on the door. A muffled voice called him in by name. More head games, more subterfuge and more bollocks. Room 402 was little bigger than a cupboard.

  “Sign here, please.”

  He gave his autograph and studied the man opposite, noting how the sweat dappled the redness of his bald head. The stranger adjusted his glasses and peered back.

  “You have your instructions?”

  He nodded curtly.

  Evidently satisfied with the paperwork and sphinx impression, the man went through a door behind him and promptly returned with a bulky parcel. Thomas was still putting his gloves on.

  He was surprised by the size and weight of it, feeling the hard plastic case through the packaging. The authentic looking stickers and travel stamps were a nice touch. The guy behind the desk didn’t get the joke.

  Having got what he came for, he headed straight out the building. If he was carrying currency again, they’d put in more effort than the ripped bag on the Leeds retrieval six months before. Maybe that was progress.

  He took a short walk to Victoria Station and wandered through the complex to find a weighing machine, where he carefully weighed the package. Next, he tracked down a hardware shop in nearby Ecclestone Street and bought a tape measure. He detailed the dimensions in his notebook and then visited the gents in the station. In a cubicle he took photos of the package from all angles.

  He also took a couple of close-ups of the key before sealing it in a small padded envelope, adding the PO box number and address from the label to his notebook. According to his instructions, the key had to be posted off after that day’s collection. All that was left was a short trip over to Charing Cross Station to deposit the goods at Left Luggage. By the time he called Sir Peter back, it was only three thirty.