CAUSE & EFFECT

by THOMPSON, DEREK

  He wondered where the drop-off would be for the buggy. Going on past experience, Karl’s clandestines favoured supermarket car parks. He played the counting game, watching the seconds tick by until Karl broke the silence.

  “You can’t save Greg from his own stupidity, and to be frank with you I don’t hold with drugs. I’ve told you before, they’re one of the ways the European cartel funds its operations.” Karl looked pensive. “There’s something else we haven’t considered — the drugs might not be Jack’s at all.”

  “You know something, don’t you?” It was a moment before he realised his knuckles were whitening as he crushed them together.

  Karl had spotted it too. “Tell you what, how about we grab ourselves a drink and go do our thinking somewhere else? I know the perfect place.”

  Chapter 12

  The pub’s lights streamed across the pavement, highlighting the scarlet paintwork. Thomas recognised it from the time Karl had taken him there before. He rubbed at his scar self-consciously as Karl pushed the swing doors.

  The place hadn’t changed and nor was it ever likely to, unless some developer ripped its soul out. The saloon bar walls wore regimental shields like medals. He would have stayed awhile for a history lesson but Karl pointed him towards the bar and took out a mobile. Meantime, no one paid him any attention and that included the barman.

  He waited, browsing the labels on the optics and fighting the urge to wave a fiver in the air like a one-fingered salute. Eventually the barman made the supreme sacrifice, finishing his conversation and ambling over.

  “Two shandies and two bags of crisps please.”

  Karl ended his call as Thomas reached the table. “Sure, just give me a bell when you’re outside.”

  Thomas slid a glass towards him. “What did I miss?”

  “They’ll pick up the buggy and we should get the analysis pronto, as a favour.”

  He chalked it up as another debt. Item one on his mental checklist was Charlie Stokes. Typically, Karl was a step ahead of him.

  “The word is that Mr Stokes is one nasty piece of work.” Karl took a mouthful of shandy. “What? You were at the bar so long I had time for two calls.”

  Yeah, Thomas thought, and look which one you made first. He whipped out a ballpoint and paper; he always thought better visually.

  “Could Charlie be behind the attack on little Jacob?”

  “Maybe.” Karl pawed at the crisps. “Why though, unless he was after scaring Greg into lifting the drugs to settle his debt?”

  “Doubtful — Greg only found them recently.”

  “Aye, so he says.”

  “Then why stop at one bag and why now? Jack’s been inside for a while.”

  Karl shrugged. “Beats me. You ponder on that; I’m off for a piss.”

  Thomas lifted his head and casually scanned the room. No one else was drinking alone. He envied them their camaraderie. The swing door caught his attention — a silhouette against the glass, immobile and poised. The old fear slithered to the surface. Yorgi may have died on the moors but was there unfinished business with the people he’d worked for?

  A stranger entered the saloon and looked straight at him. He returned the favour, sizing him up. The bloke seemed indifferent, skirting the room to end up at the bar. Karl returned, phone in hand and stopped, halfway across the carpet. The stranger stalled too and Thomas tried to fathom what was happening. Karl seemed to change tempo, smiling at the stranger as he approached him.

  Their voices stayed low and Thomas watched, fascinated, as some part of Karl’s private world gate-crashed the evening. The stranger ordered a drink, which Karl insisted on paying for, and the two of them came over. Karl reached across to grab a nearby empty chair.

  “Thomas.” Karl laid a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “Ken’s a friend of mine — from the old days.”

  Ken didn’t seem to be in on the joke. He took a seat and dived into his beer. Karl tried again.

  “It’s been a while. I didn’t know you were living in London now.”

  Ken didn’t reply until he’d downed most of his pint and had to surface for air. “Been moving around, Karl — you know how it is. Spent a lot of time in the north, only things don’t always work out.” His eyes fixed on Thomas. “And how do you come to know Karl then?”

  He went for cryptic. “We work in the same office.”

  “Never had you figured for a desk job, Karl,” Ken took on a mocking tone. “The way I heard it, you left the forces under a bit of a cloud. Still, needs must I suppose and at least you’ve remembered the old days.” He gazed around the bar.

  If that was meant to be bait, Karl wasn’t biting.

  “Anyone fancy another drink — Tommo?”

  “Here,” Ken pulled out a crisp twenty. “This round’s on me — have what you like. Where are you from, Thomas? I cannae place the accent; it’s not all London.”

  Not many people noticed — or cared. Miranda reckoned it was only the odd inflection on a few words by now. He felt his chest swell a little. “Yorkshire, only I’ve been naturalised.”

  “Aye, well, don’t lose touch with your roots. That right, Karl?” Ken gave him a playful slap on the arm.

  As Thomas left the table, a mere errand boy for drinks, he heard Karl asking if Ken needed any money.

  “Do I, fuck!” was Ken’s defiant reply

  Returning to the table with Ken’s lager and crisps, he played the silence game to see what the tide brought in. Answer: very little. Karl was tight-lipped, while Ken had a haunted look about him, which Thomas hoped a few more beers would exorcise.

  Eventually Thomas gave up and went to the bar for a set of darts. He played against himself, last man standing. The walks back from the dartboard showed him that conversation had resumed in his absence, though not much of it. Karl looked rattled and Ken was getting progressively more out of control. Finally, he stood up, leaned over Karl and hissed, “Don’t forget, you owe me.” Then he staggered off to the gents, colliding with the back of someone’s chair and offering an incomprehensible apology in his wake.

  “Everything all right?” Thomas teased his thumb against a dart.

  “Champion.” Karl’s face didn’t agree. “Listen, Tommo, do you fancy working tonight?”

  “Sure.” He watched Karl’s face start to relax. “What time?”

  Karl checked his watch and deliberated. “About two a.m. You might wanna get a nap in, given it’s barely ten. Either that or some strong coffee.”

  “Do you and your mate need some space?”

  “Ken?” Karl laughed. “If I know him, he’ll be out the back door and away by now.” Karl’s mobile trilled. He glanced at the number before he answered. “I’ll come out now.” He brightened and nodded to Thomas. “Perfect timing. Could you give me a couple of minutes?”

  With Karl outside he made a beeline for the gents. Turning left from the exit instead of right, he found himself in a yard — crates stacked against the walls and heavy wooden gates at the far end. Ken must have been keen to disappear.

  Karl was already in the driving seat when he got round to the car. He spotted him pocketing a key as he got in.

  “Tommo, your friend from the old days — Ajit, was it? Do you trust him?

  “Yeah, of course,” he said without thinking. He wondered where this was leading.

  Karl started playing with the key again. “I mean really trust him, like you trust Miranda?”

  He felt his face burning. “No. I don’t trust anyone else like that — not even you.”

  “Good man.” Karl nodded slowly and started the car, dropping the key down by the handbrake. Thomas got a good look at it and the hairs on his neck stood up.

  Chapter 13

  Thomas flinched. Karl was slow to respond to his mobile alarm until a sharp nudge did the trick.

  “Right, time to switch. You’ll be in the driving seat for a change.” He got out and let Thomas lever himself across.

  Rain was already spattering the w
indscreen; the windows had misted up. It didn’t help that the inside of the car smelled like a kebab graveyard.

  “Where are we heading?”

  Karl read a text and sucked a tooth. “I’ll navigate as we go.” He fetched a battered street guide from under the seat.

  They were near the Thames; Thomas was sure about that, though not much else. He followed Karl’s monotone directions, arriving near a block of flats.

  “Okay, give me five minutes and then start the car. If anyone spooks you — especially if it’s the police — drive off and I’ll make my own way back. I’ll leave my phone here, locked. Worst case scenario, try flashing your badge.”

  Thomas smiled, recalling the one and only time an SSU ID had headed off a parking ticket. These days it’d be more likely to double the fine.

  Karl exited the car quietly and headed into the shadows. Now came the waiting. Thomas tripped his mobile to silent and read another text from Ajit: Don’t they have phones in London anymore?

  A pair of headlights swallowed the street by degrees. He slipped down in his seat, slowly and casually, waiting until the stream of light had passed. Sure enough it was a police car, the rear reflective chevrons shrinking into the distance. He was beginning to join the dots and he didn’t like the emerging picture. He trawled through his phone and brought up the image of the Ingersoll key from the gents at Victoria Station.

  Time ticked down so he turned the ignition, startled by how loud the engine sounded in the darkness. He flicked the wipers sporadically, clearing the view for trespassers.

  Karl cut it fine. He walked quickly, carrying a long case. Thomas craned the passenger door open as he approached and Karl hefted the case behind him with some difficulty.

  “Drive.” Karl stared ahead. “Take a left up here and then the second right.” He was back to map-reading again.

  Thomas’s brain was already slotting pieces together. The key, the size of the case and the last minute job offer all pointed in one direction. He needed to be sure though.

  “Why don’t we go back to my flat?”

  “Good idea, I’m bushed.” Karl was only half-listening.

  Once he’d crossed back over the Thames there was no further need for directions so he tried to fill the void. “How long did you and Ken serve together?”

  “Two years, give or take. Look, can we change the subject?”

  * * *

  Walthamstow was its pretty self, even in the early hours. Vagrants slumped together at Bell Corner, waiting for something to happen. Lloyd Park stood silent, the trees swaying gently in the wind and rain. He thought it could make an interesting composition, lit from one side and with a fog filter. But he wasn’t that type of photographer.

  “Listen, Thomas, I appreciate your help. I know we’ve gone a little off-piste.”

  He didn’t answer. All he could think about was getting the cargo inside.

  Karl laid the case down on the coffee table and finally took his gloves off. “A cup of sweet tea before bedtime would be nice.”

  Thomas played mother, leaving the kitchen door ajar. When he returned with two mugs of the brown stuff, Karl was dozing on the sofa. He gave him a shove.

  “Huh? Thanks pal. I must have dropped off. Shall we give the lock a try?”

  Thomas sat beside him for the big reveal.

  Karl flicked the catches and lifted the lid. For a moment they both stared silently at the weapon. Thomas sank back into the sofa.

  “Did you know . . ?”

  “You think I’d willingly bring this into your home? Say the word and I’ll take it away tonight.”

  “It’s late.” His eyes stayed anchored on the rifle. “It’s leaving here tomorrow anyway.”

  Karl announced he was off to the loo, leaving Thomas with a dilemma. He wanted to photograph the case and the gun, and get a look at Karl’s key again. Sure, he could ask him, but why show his hand so soon? He listened to the revolving wheels of circular thoughts and paranoia. Something else the counsellor had picked up on — his inability to trust people.

  Decision time. He went to a drawer and took out a pill from a plastic container. “Sorry, Karl,” he whispered, stirring it into Karl’s tea.

  By the time he brought out a spare duvet and blankets for the sofa sleepover, Karl was already groggy. Thomas stared at the keys and change piled up on the table; he figured he’d give Karl an hour to be on the safe side.

  At four-thirty he couldn’t stand it any longer. All roads led to the same nightmare conclusion. Sir Peter Carroll had set him up — the fucker — and Karl was the recovery man. He got up, listening hard for Karl’s heavy snoring.

  The streetlight cast a silvery glow in the front room. Nothing looked real, which about summed up the situation. He checked the empty mug first then took the Ingersoll key into the kitchen to photograph it. He went back for the case, amused at the sight of himself in surgical gloves. If Karl woke up right now this could look very suss indeed.

  Once the photo session was done, he stumbled back to bed and set both alarms. From what he remembered of those sleeping tablets Karl wouldn’t hear an earthquake.

  Morning caught up with Thomas around seven. He didn’t attempt to move Karl until there was hot, strong caffeine at the ready.

  “Come on — it’s half seven. Time you shifted your arse.”

  Karl rolled back the top of the duvet and wiped his eyes. “Is that coffee I smell? Fantastic. I’ve been thinking. I want to test fire the rifle.”

  As Thomas stared into his mug of roasted goodness an idea leapt out. If Karl was after ballistics then he didn’t know where the rifle came from. Time to enlighten him.

  Karl didn’t speak until the end. “Why didn’t you tell me, Tommo — that night after Caliban’s?”

  “It was only a job until today. I had no proof of anything. And besides, we’ve both had stranger requests.”

  Karl’s face was a study in disappointment. “Either we take the rifle to the shooting club, or . . .” He paused to let him fill in the blank.

  “We go somewhere more private — the scrap yard?” Miranda’s brothers’ scrap yard in Wapping.

  “Perfect, and it means I can still meet Ken at midday.”

  “You’re kidding me? Despite everything I’ve told you you’re giving it back to him?”

  “It’s a little late for a lecture on ethics.” Karl reached for his coffee. “And by the way, your rubber plant over there — or whatever the hell it is — might be a little sleepy for a while.”

  Thomas coughed quietly.

  “For future reference, when you’ve secretly stirred something in, leaving the liquid swirling is a bit of a clue. Shall we cut the crap now — I’m on your side, remember?”

  He really wanted to believe that. “So what’s going on? Jesus, Karl . . . a gun — the Old Man had me deliver a gun . . .” He couldn’t say the ‘m’ word.

  “Let’s start with what we know.” Karl smiled to sweeten the pill, but it still left a bitter taste.

  He printed off the two photographs of keys while Karl got his brain into gear and his trousers on. The photos were identical, same serial number and scratch marks.

  “It’s a special Ingersoll key – for municipal locks. Ken gave it to me in the pub when you were playing darts. Next question?”

  “Why not confront Sir Peter today?” Even as he said it he knew the answer. Karl would want to know everything so he could exert the maximum leverage with it.

  “I’ll make you a promise, Thomas. When we get to the bottom of it you decide what we do about it. I’m serious. Now, are you going to ring Terry or shall I?”

  Thomas picked up his phone. “What about ammunition?”

  “Leave it to me. This rifle is like an old friend.”

  Chapter 14

  Thomas tapped the steering wheel and stared at the locked scrap yard gates. Already past eight thirty and no other bastard had shown up. Karl, he could forgive — at least he had bullets to collect. He stifled a yawn. Jesus, wha
t a world he inhabited.

  Another text came in from Ajit: Are you avoiding me? And speaking of guilt and avoidance, he hadn’t contacted Miranda for a while either. Funny how spending time with Karl tended to push everyone else out of the frame.

  He was on the point of ringing Terry when a cobalt-blue Peugeot roared up. Terry gave him a thumbs-up, got out and unlocked the gates. He looked hung-over. Thomas drove in after him. Karl had been quite specific about the depth of target he wanted, so they made a scavenger hunt around the yard.

  By the time Karl put in an appearance, fifteen minutes later, they’d assembled an assortment of boards, posts and a couple of old car doors, ready for the build phase.

  Karl took charge, instructing them how to reinforce the planks with wooden pallets so that the target stayed upright. Once it was all set up, he paced away what seemed like a ridiculous distance and turned, shifting his head from side to side like an owl. Finally, he made a line in the dirt and returned to his car.

  “So what is it?” Thomas waited until Karl had set the case on the ground.

  “The weapon?” Karl flexed his gloved hands. “A Winchester .300.” He fitted the weapon together, screwed the silencer on and then strode away to his mark.

  Thomas cleared off to grab a brew with Terry.

  “Thanks again, Tel.”

  He shrugged. “You’d do the same for one of us.”

  True enough. Like the time he warned them off Harwich Port when he was working with Customs & Excise.

  Karl took three shots and then came over to join them, holding the spent casings aloft in a bag. “If I’d been more organised I would have brought along ballistic gelatine to go with the biscuits.”

  Thomas delivered his most unimpressed face. Karl in the know was just about bearable, but Karl showing off was a step too far — not that Terry showed any interest. Tea break over, the three of them returned to the target. The three bullets had punched holes right through the wood and both doors, into the final block, where Karl carefully prised them out.