CAUSE & EFFECT

by THOMPSON, DEREK

  “Possibly, but he won’t ignore the call.” Karl’s voice crackled and whinnied outside in the car park.

  “And you can’t be seen?”

  “I have done this before Tommo, once or twice.”

  “Yeah, but this is against one of our own.”

  Five minutes on, and with no sign of Bob Peterson, Thomas was getting restless. Maybe Peterson had figured it out and gone straight to his car; he could be surveying the damage and updating the police national computer database.

  He was about to make another call to Karl when Bob Peterson arrived at the helpdesk. He looked relaxed, even when the man behind the desk relayed the bad news. A woman appeared beside him, standing close, as if they were a couple. Maybe they were. Busy, busy Bob.

  And speaking of bobs, the blonde had her hair styled in a bob cut. As she turned to look behind her he realised he knew her. The hair was different now and she wasn’t in uniform, like the time he’d met her in Leeds. He felt as if someone had wrapped a thick blanket around his shoulders, closing him down. He circled the pillar to find a spot behind a plant tub, taking pictures on his phone. He didn’t hang about, fleeing to the nearest gents so he could check the pictures and contact Karl.

  The toilet resembled some kind of septic tank disaster. He closed the cover and rested a foot on top, as if to literally keep a lid on things. The picture wasn’t great, but it was her. The same woman he’d met in Leeds when he collected a Document Security Bag for Sir Peter Carroll, months back. He stared at the image and then sent it on to Karl. Shortly afterwards, he rang him, speaking in a shout-whisper.

  “What’s the score, Tommo?”

  It felt like two-nil — to the opposition.

  “Did you get the image I sent you?”

  “No, it sometimes takes a . . . hold on, it’s here now.”

  The line went quiet; all Thomas could hear was a pulse in his head and swirling static in the earpiece.

  “Right, got it. Listen, we have a problem.”

  “You’re telling me, Karl. I’ve seen her before . . .”

  The outer door of the gents swung in and Thomas immediately cut the call. He stayed perfectly still. He heard deliberate breathing, as if someone were trying to compose himself. Then the bleeps of a mobile phone pressed into action.

  “Hi Julia, it’s Bob. No, everything’s fine, darling. It’s just work . . . I know I said I’d be back before three . . . let’s not do this now . . . yes, I know. Look.” The word ricocheted off the wall. “We’ll talk later. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Okay?”

  He heard a rhythmic tapping like fingernails against the side of a sink.

  “Okay, love you; bye.”

  It sounded like Bob Peterson did a good line in irony. The thing Thomas noticed after that was nothing. No footsteps, no one washing their hands or taking a piss; not even — thank God — someone going into the neighbouring cubicle.

  There was just shallow breathing. What if Peterson suddenly appeared, looking over the top? Photograph him? Make a break for the door? Lamp him one? He thought about flushing and walking out — Peterson was hardly likely to keep him captive in a lav. Except . . . being seen there was tantamount to an admission of guilt.

  He breathed slowly through his nose, nice and easy, and started counting down in his head. One-eighty, one-seventy-nine . . . At one-forty-eight the main door squeaked open and footsteps retreated. He texted Karl — He’s coming out now — turned the phone off, and finished his countdown. He figured Uncle Bob would want to see to his car straightaway. As he eased through the crowds he thought back to the mystery blonde who had been with Peterson. Did he know her name?

  Outside, the distinctive aroma of Southampton Water blended perfectly with diesel and drizzle. The cruise ships and ferries might promise glamour and prestige — at a push — but that didn’t change the backdrop.

  His phone rang as soon as he put it back on.

  “Where the hell have you been, Tommo?”

  “Hiding in the toilets.”

  “Peterson’s made a couple of calls — I couldn’t see the numbers at this distance. It looks like he’s leaving his car here to be collected — the two of them are moving away. Hang on, I think he’s having a tiff with blondie.”

  Thomas swallowed. “I’m out now; where do you need me to be?”

  Karl seemed quieter than usual. Thomas followed his lead and stayed in position until a people carrier arrived and whisked the unhappy couple away.

  “Did that go well?” He honestly didn’t know.

  Karl was non-committal. “We got what we came for — we know who Bob Peterson’s contact is. Christine ought to be pleased.”

  They found a café on-site, now Bob Peterson had gone. Karl was well into his second coffee before he shared anything useful.

  “You remember my trip to Geneva? She was there too.”

  It seemed like a good time to mention he’d seen her in Leeds. He picked up a spoon for his coffee and it lingered, mid-air, as a thought congealed in his brain.

  “So the mystery blonde is one of your people?”

  Karl stared at him blankly — his keep out sign.

  “How should we play this?”

  Karl chewed his muffin thoughtfully. “You report back to Christine and then it’s her call. I’ll convey the same information to other quarters.”

  Thomas plunged the spoon. “Do I tell her about Leeds?”

  “’Sup to you, partner.”

  It was the most uneven partnership he’d ever heard of.

  “Bob will be really pissed off about his car — and he might have seen mine — so the police could be lying in wait. Perhaps we should head back to London by train. I can pick it up in the next day or so . . .”

  Secretly he was hoping Karl had access to false number plates.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered. I’m just waiting for a call back. How about another drink? Tea for me, ta.”

  Which explained why they were still hanging around the port. When he returned from the counter, Karl was on the phone. There was a time when he would have stood back and waited, but Karl did have legs. The call ended quickly.

  “Make yourself comfy — they could be another half an hour.”

  “They?”

  Karl put on his inscrutable grin.

  * * *

  Thomas watched as the final flap of tarpaulin was secured over his car sitting on the recovery vehicle. “I have to say, you’ve excelled yourself.”

  Karl took a bow. “They’ll drop us off in a lay-by, well past the city limits, and you can take us on from there.”

  “You really do think of everything!”

  “If only . . .”

  Chapter 26

  Christine took the news stoically and said not to bother coming into the office, which told him she was probably there. It seemed an opportune moment to mention his next prison visit and to her credit she didn’t ask for details, which saved another layer of subterfuge.

  And so ended another weekend. Or it would have done, had he not dragged himself back to Walthamstow and seen a blue Mini Cooper parked along the street. It was the best news he’d had for days.

  As he opened the door he caught a whiff of Kung Po chicken — luring him along the hallway to the front room.

  “Well, this is a surprise.”

  Miranda was perched on the arm of the settee.

  “Are we celebrating?”

  “More like turning over a new leaf.”

  He searched her face for a smile, found one and breathed a little easier. It lasted until she added, “and I thought we’d clear the air.”

  It only took one bite for Thomas to realise that this was no ordinary Kung Po.

  “You picked this up at your local Chinese in Bow.” He closed his mouth for a moment to savour the tender cashews mingled with the meat. “Luckily for you I was coming home.”

  She finished her mouthful. “No, luckily for you I first checked with Karl that you weren’t already booked for t
he evening.”

  He let it pass; it was hard to be churlish when the food was so good.

  “Ice cream and fritters afterwards?” He thought he’d push his luck.

  “Of course, once we’ve had a little talk.”

  It didn’t spoil the food any, but he wasn’t in a rush to finish. Miranda didn’t actually say a great deal; she left that to him. He had little to say that wouldn’t start a row. As far as he knew this was going to be a quiet night in, watching The Matrix again. He gave her twenty seconds of thoughtful silence and she took the hint.

  “If we’re going to move forward we need to be completely honest with one another.”

  When he really thought about it, there was only one solution.

  “You know what? Let’s not. Be open, I mean. We each have our secrets and I reckon it should stay that way.”

  “Thomas, I’m not asking about your bloody job—”

  “I know. And I’m not asking about the past. Done is done and raking over what’s gone is not gonna help either of us.”

  It all came out in a rush and Miranda suddenly reached over and kissed him while he still had the taste of chicken in his mouth. It wasn’t passion exactly, more a sense of connection. And there was still the prospect of two kinds of dessert.

  * * *

  Over breakfast he showed her Jack Langton’s list of suspects.

  “Do you know her?” He prodded at Andrea Harrison with a butter knife, blotching the paper.

  “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

  It was a long shot but he was disappointed. Advance intelligence was a tactical advantage — another of Karl’s pearls of wisdom. He’d have to settle for a Q&A session in the next day or so.

  “I wouldn’t have thought Jack was the gallery type.” She got up to clear the plates. “I’m going to take a shower. There’s room for two in there . . .”

  He glanced up at the clock. Surely fifteen minutes wouldn’t do any harm. Karl could always read a newspaper.

  * * *

  Thomas picked up the text on his way out the door. Karl’s message was succinct: Detour to the office — by request. He pictured the scene awaiting him; Christine, or Sir Peter, or even — but hopefully not — Bob Peterson himself.

  The drive in was the usual blend of frustration, stop-starts and death-wish cyclists. Remembering the road works at Tottenham Hale, he’d bitten the bullet and cut through Stratford instead to pick up the A11. Unfortunately, half of London decided to join him.

  As Newham begrudgingly gave way to Tower Hamlets he got a deeper sense of Old London Town. The garment wholesalers and discount warehouses rubbing shoulders with those mobile phone shops that managed to stay in business even though you could buy everything cheaper online — like they had. Mile End, Stepney Green, Whitechapel and Aldgate East . . . He marked off the Tube stations and drank in the words. Every one brought him back to Miranda; she was London to him. Mile End — turn left to get to Caliban’s; Whitechapel — opposite the London Hospital where Miranda’s Nan had spent her final days.

  Dragged along in the slipstream of traffic, he started thinking about rainy childhood Sundays in Yorkshire. Playing Monopoly as a family and laughing at Dad winning second prize in a beauty contest. And the terrible caravan holiday in Cleethorpes, where it poured down day after day and Dad hit the bottle.

  The van in front hit its brakes. He tensed up; he’d been drifting, driving on autopilot. A radio news bulletin warned of traffic jams in the city. No shit, Sherlock. He heard the sirens up ahead. Once the van had moved he could see lurid emergency lights — two police vehicles and an ambulance. A motorcyclist was down, poor bastard. There was a man standing perfectly still, staring into space — probably the driver. A police officer was already taking measurements.

  He wondered who was doing the photography. That would be a real job, instead of spying on benefit cheats. The rear view mirror smiled back at him. Karl’s words had taken up residence in his head.

  He watched the drama unfolding, like every other ghoul as they edged past. This was how life was — a series of accidents, lucky and unlucky. Meeting Miranda — top of the plus list. And Bermuda . . . Bollocks, why did he have to start thinking again? The lights shone a lucky shade of green and he swung round towards Liverpool Street without answering the question.

  The underground car park swallowed him, drawing him into the nether land of the Surveillance Support Unit. His brain locked into work mode. The office door smelled of polish, or maybe it was the carpet. Unnaturally clean, like an adman’s fantasy. He wondered how they went about vetting the cleaners. Maybe Karl’s people were missing a trick — cleaners were surely the ultimate in invisibility. Perhaps that’d be their next assignment.

  He had the space to himself so he caught up on his emails, including the one from Karl that duplicated his text. There were no surprises: refresher training dates, performance review dates for his e-calendar and a request for volunteers to provide feedback on new equipment: another day in the service of the Crown. He heard the lift outside shunt to a halt. Only one set of footsteps exited; the rhythm confident and unhurried. He didn’t bother turning round.

  “Hi, Thomas — you got my message. Come through.”

  Christine collected him en route, unlocking her door and plonking two bags on a spare chair. She didn’t fire up her laptop, waving him round to the seat opposite as she emptied her mobile from her coat.

  “I spoke with Karl last night, about the situation. Thank you for your email by the way. I think we’ll put the Southampton surveillance on hold for the time being.”

  If there was a subtext it eluded him. He’d bide his time; people always showed their hand if you waited long enough.

  “Karl says you’re assisting him on something. The prison?” She arched an eyebrow. “Just make sure I’m in the loop, okay?”

  That was rich; to keep her in the loop he’d have to know what was going on. In the absence of any better ideas, he tried a stab in the dark.

  “Is Bob Peterson a risk?” She could take that however she pleased.

  “At this stage, he’s a medium priority, but I’d planned for this contingency.”

  There it was — the management speak, so beloved of the movers and shakers. Maybe she picked it up from all the mentoring Peterson had given her, back when she and Thomas were trying to prove her mother wrong about the class struggle.

  “Something else on your mind, Thomas?”

  “I was wondering how it all works now — between the three of you.” He stalled, suddenly aware that she might think he meant Mr and Mrs Peterson, instead of Karl and Ann Crossley.

  The lift door clunked open in the distance and he heard welcome voices — Karl and Ann flying the flag once more for team spirit. They came right into Christine’s office, and then things got strange.

  “Please wait outside,” was not something he had ever expected to hear from Christine. From her mother, maybe, back in the day; but not from her.

  The door closed discreetly behind him. Well, two could play at secrets. John Wright picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Morning, John; any more word from Jack Langton’s solicitor?” He waited for John to start talking and then cut across him to catch him off guard.

  “Have you got any info on Andrea Harrison?”

  “We used to know her, years ago,” was hardly intelligence coup of the year. But the way John said those few words let Thomas know that something had gone awry, way back when.

  The meeting of the allies was over in fifteen minutes. Karl emerged first.

  “All set, Tommo?”

  “Well, unless Christine wants me back in there . . .”

  “Nah, she doesn’t. I’ll fill you in when we’re on the road.”

  Two chocolate bars from the vending machine and they were on their way. Karl had a quiet sense of purpose about him — no jokes and no cracks in the façade.

  The lift opened, ushering in the damp of the underground car park.

  “You do
realise I signed the Official Secrets Act?”

  “It’s not about trust; you know that by now. It protects you, Tommo.”

  Yeah, but from who, or what?

  He unlocked his car; Karl could ride shotgun today. They waited on the ramp as the metal grid raised, the links shrieking as they disappeared into the housing.

  “Needs oiling,” Karl said. “Maybe that’ll be our next job.”

  “You’d know before I did.”

  “Touché, Mr Bladen. Okay, where are we?” Karl pulled a clipboard from the passenger door. He answered himself. “Just off Old Ford Road.”

  Chapter 27

  “Next up is Dorothy Kinley; elderly and living with her niece, Monica.”

  It sounded like a far cry from the usual ‘shysters and innocents’ they’d been dealing with for the past few weeks. Karl read the case notes aloud and he clapped his hands in glee.

  “A proper challenge, Tommo — at last!”

  The ‘case’ as Karl kept referring to it, in Sherlock Holmes fashion, hinged on whether the niece was a full-time carer. On the face of it, a bugger to prove or disprove, but — once again — a tip-off had activated the Department of Works & Pensions radar.

  “It says here Dorothy was completely housebound for a long time, and now she pops out occasionally, mostly to pick up her pension.”

  “So, does she actually need the carer?” This one was making Thomas really uncomfortable.

  Pension day. They set up and waited for the procession to the elephants’ graveyard. Mrs Kinley left her maisonette on schedule, as if she’d read the file. Her ambling gait was hard to detect under her oversized coat; she reminded Thomas of one of the Sand People from Star Wars. She kept her head down — or else it was osteoporosis — clutching a handbag to her chest and concentrating on every step.

  He waited until he was past her line of sight and then took to his camera, capturing the rest of her journey.

  “This one’s a sod for details. What else can we do, other than time her?”

  Karl considered that for a moment. “Tell you what, how about you go and get me a couple of stamps? Would you mind? God knows we’ve got the time and I’ve got bills to pay this week.”