CAUSE & EFFECT

by THOMPSON, DEREK

  “I’ll come down to meet you and then why don’t you consider your work finished for the day?”

  Thomas wasn’t fooled by the sudden attack of generosity, but he wasn’t going to argue either. Especially when he had inquiries to make on Jack Langton’s behalf.

  Sir Peter was waiting as he neared the building. It seemed strange to find the Old Man outside in daylight on London’s busy streets. He seemed diminished without his desk or his Daimler.

  Thomas slipped him the receipt in an awkward handshake. He was mindful that Karl’s people still had the Old Man under surveillance. Sir Peter muttered a few words of thanks and then scurried back inside.

  Karl picked up on the second ring. “Jaysus, Tommo, I was beginning to think they’d kept you in prison.”

  “Sorry, there were one or two complications. Not much point coming out to you now. I’m going to head over to . . .” He stalled, distracted by the little padded envelope. “ . . . Janey’s and see what I can find out. Do you wanna meet at Caliban’s?”

  “Miranda’s place?”

  “Unless you know another one. Hopefully I’ll have an update for you.”

  “Good, and you can tell me what Jack Langton said.”

  “Chapter and verse.”

  “I’d expect nothing less. Listen, why don’t you see if Jack Langton has any post at Janey’s flat? It might give us more insight into his world. Catch you later.”

  Chapter 6

  Janey’s maisonette on the housing estate wasn’t hard to find. The front garden was littered with the ghosts of toys past and fresh bouquets of flowers left by the door. He shuddered as he pushed the gate. Last he’d heard the little boy was still in hospital.

  He rang the doorbell and strained to catch what was on the radio. The sound cut and a silhouette gradually appeared against the frosted glass. He gave out his name as she closed on the handle and opened the door. He figured Janey must be in her early twenties, but the last few days had not been kind to her. She glanced at him and blinked a couple of times, as if to recollect why he was there. Then she bent down to scoop up the flowers and went inside, leaving the door open for him.

  “The solicitor said you’d be visiting.”

  That pissed him off, given that he hadn’t spoken to the solicitor yet — something else to discuss with John Wright. He trailed her into the kitchen, where she put the kettle on and went to fill a vase. As she turned back, she must have read the look on his face because she shook her head.

  “No, it’s okay — Jacob’s still in hospital. It’s just people’s way of showing respect. A week or two ago they couldn’t give a shit about me and now it’s ‘alright Janey’ and ‘hope your son’s okay.’ If I had a quid for every miserable bastard round here who’s complained about my kid or me, I’d be off to Majorca for a fortnight.” She laughed at her own joke.

  The tea was average. He declined a biscuit as there were only two left in the packet.

  “So, you know why I’m here. Jack wants to find out who did this to Jacob.”

  “You’re not one of his usual boys.” She smirked. “He’s always Mr Langton to them.”

  He blushed; he hadn’t even thought about it. “Like I said, I’m here to help.” He took out a notepad and told her he wanted to chat for a bit and make some notes as they went along. It was ten minutes before he got anything useful.

  “Jack’s little Jacob’s godfather. Funny, innit? The godfather! I don’t see Jack that often now — before he went inside, I mean. Maybe once a month. He picks up the odd bit of post and keeps a change of clothes here.”

  Thomas’s pen quivered. She cupped her mug with both hands and rocked slowly.

  “Look, Natalie’s a nice woman and all that, but I gather it ain’t all hearts and flowers at home so I don’t ask. Here, how’s all this gonna lead to the bastard who hurt my boy?”

  “I’m not sure.” He picked up his underwhelming tea. “You said Jack keeps clothes here?”

  “In a little suitcase, on top of the wardrobe in the spare room. I don’t go near it — Jack wouldn’t like it.”

  At his insistence she showed him the room, although she wouldn’t take the case down. He decided to call it a day and was heading out the front door when the toilet flushed.

  “Jack said you lived alone.”

  “Yeah, well, I do.” She squirmed. “Only Greg is Jacob’s dad and he’s been supporting me — well, both of us — through all this. You won’t tell Jack, will you?” Her eyes reached out to him. “Only since Greg left Jack said he’s not really . . . you know . . . supposed to stay over.”

  “I’m just here to look into the attack on Jacob. How is he by the way?”

  She sniffed and pulled the front door closed behind her. “He’s in Moorfields Eye Hospital. Jack arranged for private care there. They’re still not sure if there’ll be any lasting damage.”

  It was too much for her and she fell forward in a flood of tears. He caught and held her as she sobbed in spasms.

  “I know I haven’t been the best mum in the world to him, but I swear it’s gonna be different when I get him home.”

  “I’m sure you do your best,” he soothed her. “It can’t be easy being a single parent on the breadline.”

  She eased herself away, wiping her nose on her hand. “Specially when his dad is such a waste of space.”

  He paused at the end of the garden, one hand on the gate, aware that she seemed very keen to have him off the property. “I nearly forgot; does Jack have any post to be collected?”

  It was a knife-edge moment where it looked like she could jump either way. After a few seconds she slipped around the door and returned with a bunch of envelopes held together by a rubber band.

  She held them out to him and he passed back a fiver as he took them. “Buy something for Jacob.” She took the cash and slid back inside. Even from the gate he could hear the shouting match that followed.

  Chapter 7

  He expected Caliban’s to be empty before five thirty but the bar was heaving. It took a moment to realise that the talk was a mixture of English and German. Sheryl homed in on him straight away and cocked a slow, suggestive finger, reeling him in to the bar. The punters loved the show, laughing and offering encouragement — mainly by gestures. He was glad he’d stuck to French at school.

  “Take no notice, honey.” She fetched him an orange juice. “Sam and Terry have done a deal to get a few coachloads of tourists here.”

  He tried not to look at her Stars & Stripes t-shirt. “Is business that bad?”

  “Hey, I just work here — you’d have to ask Miranda. But no good business ever turns down good business.”

  He braced himself to mimic her Noo Yawk accent. “And you can take dat one to da bank.”

  “Damn right you can!” She flicked a finger skyward. “She’s all yours.”

  Two young guys were at the pool table upstairs. They looked him over then continued with their game while they muttered in German. He walked through and knocked on the reinforced office door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me.” He took a sip of juice and pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth to prolong the sharpness.

  “Are you gonna huff and puff if I don’t let you in?”

  “Only if you want me to.”

  The door unlocked, revealing a vision in designer jeans and a white blouse; her blonde hair was tied back and crowned with reading glasses.

  “It’s a good look — sort of sultry secretary.”

  “Wanna step inside and look over my figures?”

  He crossed the threshold and found a convenient spot for his glass, leaving his hands free. She met him halfway.

  “You do know,” she licked her top lip and made it glisten, “that this is now a soundproofed room?”

  Was this a genuine come-on or another tease? When he’d almost given up on the idea she reached for his neck and pulled him close.

  “No speaking,” she said, undoing his buttons with practise
d ease.

  * * *

  Once he’d readjusted his clothing, he finished his juice and stared at the edge of the desk that had just been so accommodating.

  “You know, that little boy lost face can sometimes be irresistible.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  “Sorry, it doesn’t work that way. Anyhow, I won’t ask how your day has been, because I’m guessing it just got a lot better!” She checked her blouse one final time and made a show of fixing her bra.

  He kissed her until he needed to breathe. Then he unlocked the door and left the office. The German pool players had gone. He suddenly realised that if the room were truly soundproof he wouldn’t have heard her inviting him in. Those lads would have something to talk about on the coach back to Germany.

  Karl arrived around five. Sheryl sent him straight up with a tray of drinks and crisps. Miranda joined them at the table.

  “Someone’s had a busy day.” Karl nodded in Thomas’s direction.

  He avoided Miranda’s gaze. “How was your day at the office?”

  “Grand.” Karl’s hand hovered over the crisps. “I was expecting you though.”

  “Christine needed me for something and then I got off early.” He flinched as Miranda’s foot rose up his calf under the table. “I went to see Janey to get some background.”

  “And?” Karl’s notebook was ready and waiting.

  “The kid’s in hospital. Janey’s got this on-off thing with her ex, Greg. Can’t see him harming his own kid unless it’s to get cosier with Janey, which would be pretty sick.”

  “I’ll check him out anyway,” Karl concluded. “Is that it?”

  “Not quite. Janey reckons all isn’t well in the Langton household. Jack keeps a case at her place — he told me it’s for paperwork but she said it’s a change of clothes.”

  He grabbed a swig of orange juice while Karl was thinking.

  “Was there any post at the flat?”

  He handed it over and his mobile went off.

  “Alright, Thomas?” John Wright sounded bad news edgy. “I’ve ’ad a message from Ray Daniels. He’s Jack’s . . .” he seemed to be fishing for the right word, “ . . . deputy — taking care of things till Jack gets out.”

  Thomas waited for the punchline.

  “He wants you to fetch that suitcase from Janey’s and take it round to Jack’s missus tonight.”

  Thomas greeted the royal decree with silence.

  “Are you still there? He says it’s just a one-off thing, and he’ll owe you.”

  “I’m gonna need a cupboard for all these IOUs.” He checked his watch and gestured for Karl to stand up. “You better give me Jack’s home address. Incidentally, I gather you spoke with Jack’s solicitor, Elizabeth Locke?”

  Karl twitched and then shook his head.

  He took the hint. “Do you wanna give me the details for the other people Jack mentioned? Save me ringing his brief tomorrow.”

  One look at Karl’s face told him Ms Locke wasn’t a stranger.

  * * *

  Thomas didn’t like surprises; they usually became problems. Karl stayed in the car, in case word got back to Jack Langton that a bloke with a Belfast accent was poking around. Last Jack knew, Karl had been arrested in Belfast; best he carried on thinking that.

  Janey answered the front door hesitantly. He made the decision for her, stepping back from the porch so she could go and get the case. She was gone a couple of minutes, returning with the type of old suitcase Thomas remembered from childhood.

  It was brown and scuffed with patches at the corners. The sight of it transported him back to holiday B&Bs in Whitby. His mum and dad arguing outside and his sister, Pat, pinching his leg to get his attention from whatever book he had his nose in.

  Janey passed the case across with some effort and he carried it to the car, his leather gloves creaking against the weight. Karl already knew the address from his previous run-in with Jack Langton. The way Thomas saw it, Karl never forgot anything; or forgave it, probably.

  “Whaddya reckon to the case, Tommy Boy?”

  “Too heavy for clothes and I can’t see that it’d be locked, or why would Mrs Langton want it home?”

  “We could always park up somewhere and check.”

  “If it’s all the same to you I’d rather not.”

  “It’s your call, Tommo.” Karl said it casually, but his body language suggested ‘wrong answer.’

  Chapter 8

  Karl pulled up a couple of streets away from Jack Langton’s house.

  “Don’t be any longer than you have to.”

  Thomas got out, grabbed the suitcase from the boot and started walking. The street whispered working class respectability, with trimmed hedges and satellite dishes.

  The gloves were making his hands sweat and his arm throbbed with the weight so he started switching every hundred steps. It gave him something else to think about. The house was called Xanadu. In a toss-up between Coleridge and Olivia Newton-John, he figured on the latter. Jack’s Range Rover sat outside, the windows clear and sparkling — unlike the last time he saw them after Karl had set about them with a hammer.

  He put the case down by the hardwood front door and hit the doorbell. Mrs Langton was at the handle before the chime had faded. He motioned to the case, by way of introduction.

  “Can you bring it through?”

  She didn’t look feeble, more the able-bodied and full of trouble kind. If the Lycra she had on was for an exercise class, she hadn’t managed to work up a sweat yet. He remembered there being two young children in the family though they weren’t in evidence.

  “The kitchen will be fine. Thank you, er . . . ?”

  “Thomas.” He was pretty certain she knew already.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  It was a relief to get the gloves off. “Nah, it’s fine. I won’t stop.”

  “Someone waiting for you?” She traced a finger along the kitchen top, as if she were doing am-dram.

  “Something like that.” He noticed she hadn’t shown the slightest interest in the suitcase. A large drink was already waiting on the counter, with a bottle of tonic to keep it company.

  She gave out a sad little sigh and reached across for her drink, stretching her credibility and everything else in the process. He moved out of reach and breathed in Chanel; not what he normally associated with Pilates.

  “Anyway, I’ll leave you to your evening. Can you let Jack know I’ve delivered the goods?” He noticed the way her eyes flickered at hubby’s name — something else to file for future reference.

  He was halfway up the road when he remembered his gloves. Idiot. Stupid of him to have taken them off there. He sprinted back and composed himself before he rang the doorbell. Mrs Langton was faster than ever.

  “Blimey, you timed that well . . .” Her face cycled through surprise, fear and indignation in a matter of seconds. “What do you want?”

  “Sorry — I forgot my gloves.”

  “Wait here.” She dashed inside and then practically thrust them at him.

  He thanked her and kept walking until he heard the door slam. He figured she might be watching him through the curtain, so he put on a show and rang Karl as he walked up the street.

  A BMW slowed as it drove past — one occupant. The car stopped in the middle of the street and a woman in Lycra and a fur coat lifted a heavy case into the boot before getting into the car.

  He clocked the number plate and read it aloud for Karl. “Could be nothing; could be something.”

  Karl ferried him to Caliban’s and they played detective on the way.

  “Why attack a child?” Karl asked for a third time.

  “Maybe it’s really Jack’s child?” He was running out of ideas.

  “With his niece? Isn’t that illegal — even over here!”

  “Okay then, it’s a warning for Jack. Next time it’s one of his own kids.”

  “For what?”

  “Dunno.” Thomas rub
bed at his temple. “What about Greg?”

  “Maybe he’s got another kiddie out there and this is some kind of vendetta? Hell hath no fury, and all that.”

  “What, blinding a kid? I can’t see it.” He stopped when he realised what he’d said. “Did you make that call like I asked?”

  “Paulette Villers? Uh-huh. Someone will look into it in due course.”

  * * *

  Miranda was behind the bar, chatting with a woman who thought a busy pub was a great place to bring a nipper for the evening. Miranda saw him and wandered over.

  “All sorted?”

  “Yeah.” He looked over at the mother and child as an excuse. “I nearly forgot; Ajit wants us to go up to Yorkshire before Geena has the baby.”

  “I know — she spoke to me a couple of days ago.”

  “You up for it?” He read her face: wild horses couldn’t drag her to Pickering again.

  * * *

  After the sudden frost at Caliban’s, he wasn’t surprised to end up alone at his flat. Miranda used to like Yorkshire. Then again, it hadn’t been kind to her lately. Especially the last time, when the police had turned up on his sister’s doorstep and carted Miranda off for questioning. Him too, although he’d long since forgiven Ajit for doing his constabulary duty — another shining example of his work and personal lives colliding.

  He prepared his special dish — kitchen surprise — anything quick and edible. He carried resurrected lasagne and steamed veg through to the living room with a glass of water. If he was going to live like a monk tonight, he had the meal to match. A flick through the TV channels sent him scurrying, mid-lasagne, to the DVD cupboard. He didn’t make it through the ads before the phone rang.

  The Wrights’ number. Must be Miranda saying goodnight from her folks’ place.

  “Well, hello there!” He opted for unusually cheery.

  “Thomas, that you?” The male caller sounded confused. “It’s John. Natalie Langton rang me — Jack’s wife.”

  He glanced at the bay window curtains to check they were drawn. “Not here; on my mobile.”