CAUSE & EFFECT

by THOMPSON, DEREK

  “Stay back! Stay back.” The tears were streaming down his face now.

  His father never spoke, but a guttural moan accompanied each step, that of a creature in torment.

  “No!” Thomas screamed as the hands reached towards him, closing his eyes as he pulled the trigger. The whole house trembled and one of the York Minster plates on the wall smashed to the floor. Then the walls broke apart and blinding light burst in . . .

  * * *

  He juddered awake. Miranda grumbled and turned over. Something was buzzing. He licked dry lips and scrabbled under the covers to retrieve his mobile — set to vibrate so he didn’t wake up in a panic. Nil points.

  “Tommo, it’s me. Get up.”

  “Huh?” He peered at the phone, squinting at the glare. “Karl, it’s not even six yet.”

  “Put News 24 on and call me back.”

  The dream was still percolating through his brain as he dragged on some clothes and stumbled to the TV in the front room. It didn’t take long to get the message. The ticker tape across the screen read: ‘Convicted paedophile murdered at home.’ Meanwhile, the presenter was adding details. The victim, who’d served time in prison, had been found at home after reports of a disturbance. There was no sign of forced entry to the council property. The police refused to comment on their investigation — what material might have been found at the ground floor flat, or the precise cause of death.

  Thomas’s blood ran cold. He’d seen enough; he muted the sound, pulled the door to, and rang Karl back.

  “How did he die?”

  “They’re not releasing details. Don’t make plans after work. I might need your help.”

  “Course.”

  “I’ve got a very bad feeling about this, Thomas.”

  * * *

  Morning. Proper morning. Sat next to Karl, having yawning competitions and watching the laundry for signs of Paulette Villers. The target repeated the script from their previous stakeout, only this time there were no new bruises. Or else, he reasoned, she’d done a better job of hiding them.

  “What is her partner’s name?” Thomas fired off the shots.

  Karl flicked through the paperwork. “Lemme see here . . . Rachel Perry — all legit. Are you gonna try another rendezvous with Paulette after she stood you up last time?”

  Thomas thought back to the twenty minutes he’d spent in the café, on show and conspicuous.

  “Might be worth a go. It could help us get some intel on Charlie Stokes, before I go and ask him for Jack’s drugs back.”

  “You’re really gonna do that?”

  “Yeah, after I get the okay from Jack. Besides, I want to try and get Greg off the hook. Got any better suggestions?”

  “If the SSU ever lays you off, you might wanna try Social Work.”

  In the finish they tried a different tactic altogether for Paulette Villers, driving past, out in the open. Maybe she’d react, run off . . . do something. Unfortunately there was no box on the evidence sheet for ‘stared blankly at me as I passed her.’

  “She’s either a very cool customer, or she’s scared witless.”

  “Thank you, Professor McNeill.”

  “Hey now, you’re close. I have studied psychology.”

  “Really?”

  Karl looked affronted. “What, you think everyone across the Irish Sea just reads Roddy Doyle and drinks pints of the black stuff? That’s when we’re not listening to Van Morrison, of course.”

  “No, I think you drink shandy.”

  “Okay, Mr Philistine, where to next?”

  * * *

  The day played out like a series of misadventures. Roland Dolan — presumably — was nowhere to be seen, which made Thomas wonder if Paulette Villers had warned him they were onto the plot. There was no logic to it other than the link with Charlie Stokes.

  Elsewhere, they failed to get anything conclusive on two supposedly single mothers, a sickness claimant that Karl insisted had ‘a very lively limp,’ and a man who may well have done small building jobs on the side, but who had spent his time in the lens today watching TV with his hand down his trousers.

  “Manual labourer.” Karl elbowed Thomas in the ribs. “Listen, fancy knocking off early to get a little shut-eye before we go out tonight?”

  “Fine by me. Will you tell Christine, or shall I?”

  “If you drop me back to the office, I’ll pop up and see her — you go on your way.”

  Thomas wasn’t going to pass up an invitation like that, although it bugged him that Karl was the de facto superior in their partnership. Then again, when had it ever been any different?

  The drive through East London before five p.m. was a treat. He’d forgotten what it felt like to crawl through Stratford in pre peak-time traffic without losing your rag. He wondered if you could be a London driver and a Buddhist. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he recalled Karl saying that he’d once gone out with a Buddhist. Now there was a match made in Nirvana — a pair of joss sticks and a pair of Brownings.

  He made it through Leyton, steadily gaining ground until Hoe Street funnelled him to Forest Road and then home. He slept easily, surfacing just before the seven pm alarm. A shower, a cheese sandwich, a strong coffee and he was ready to face . . . Well, that was the big question — to face what?

  He picked up Karl at Marylebone as planned. He didn’t bother asking him why there, or how come Karl had put a holdall in the boot.

  “All eventualities.” Karl faked a smile, closing the passenger door behind him.

  Thomas knew the score. Based on last time, if Ken were implicated he’d end up at the military pub. Maybe not tonight, but some evening over the next few days, so Karl — they — would be there to meet him. In a twisted way it was a welcome distraction from the Jack Langton situation.

  Parking was a nightmare but eventually they found somewhere and sat for a while, watching the illuminated door.

  “I, er, don’t know how this is going to pan out — you do realise that?”

  He nodded. That’s what life with Karl was like. “Only one way to find out.”

  By the second hour, he wondered if Karl had called it wrong. The Evening Standard boasted front-page photographs of a police forensics van and the ubiquitous crime scene tape roping off the back door. More details had emerged. The police had removed a computer and bags containing ‘relevant items.’

  He went back through it as the conversation withered and died. He’d craned his neck at the door so often he was starting to worry about repetitive strain injury. Thank God for the cryptic crossword.

  “Nearly ten-thirty. Let’s call it a night. Same time, same place tomorrow?” There was a tinge of desperation in Karl’s voice.

  He nodded, collecting the four empty glasses to deliver them back at the bar. The pub wouldn’t be getting rich on them tonight.

  “I’m heading off for a piss, Tommo. I’ll see you out the front.”

  From the swing door he took a last look at the walls. So much history; what must it feel like to carry the burden of all that heritage? Karl reckoned some of the regiments went back to the 1700s and beyond; another thing Karl had studied in his spare time.

  The air was cold outside; an autumnal breeze that carried a hint of the winter to come. He didn’t want to wait outside the door — too many memories of childhood and Dad. So he edged round the corner and leant against a wall where he could see the car.

  There was barely time to register the running footsteps and then wham; someone had him pinned against the brickwork with his arms by his side. Ken Treavey looked like he’d been to hell and back, and then stayed on the bus.

  “Where’s McNeill?”

  He stared into manic eyes and kept it brief.

  “He’s just coming out the pub.”

  Right answer. Ken Treavey released him, patting the air between them.

  “I just . . . I just need to see him. He’s got to help me. He owes me.”

  And the way he said it told Thomas all he needed to know.
Pissed and pugnacious — never a good combination.

  “Come back to the car — you two can talk there.”

  Ken Treavey deliberated for a moment and then followed him. He climbed in the back and Thomas passed him the newspaper. The headline seemed more lurid under the streetlight.

  Karl came up to the car, saw Ken and got in. “Drive, Tommo.”

  They took a scenic tour of London while Ken Treavey spilled his guts. It was either the weight of his conscience, or the whisky bottle Karl had produced from his coat pocket. Whatever it was, Ken let it all pour out of him. That first, fateful meeting in Central London with the man in the Daimler, the way they seemed to know his background and his life — it all added up to an eel trap. One way in and no way out.

  Ken did most of the talking, but Karl managed to coax a few extra details like the first note under his mat and the later ones through his letterbox. Ken ranted, and cried, and swore he never meant to get involved in the business of killing again. He told them how he nearly took a swing at the stranger in the 4x4, who collected the rifle only to exchange it for another weapon.

  In the absence of instructions Thomas made for the North Circular Road, heading clockwise. Midnight approached and Ken was still in confession.

  “I can’t go on, Karl. I can’t do it again. This last one was a bloodbath. I need to get clear.”

  He slumped back into the shadow, groaning, while Thomas drove on.

  “I’ll need to think on this, Ken.” Karl spoke so quietly that Thomas wasn’t sure Ken had heard him. “What you’re asking, well, it would need planning. You can’t just disappear — given what you’ve done, you’d be a liability for them.”

  Thomas gestured to the sign for Finchley, but Karl shook his head.

  “Nah. If this is going to work then everything has to carry on as normal — for now. I’ll tell you where to turn off so we can drop him home. This is just an evening out with a couple of pals. He’s in no fit state to do anything tonight anyway.”

  Hardly surprising, Thomas thought, since you’ve been anaesthetising him. It wasn’t long before they heard heavy snoring behind them.

  “I’ll talk with him properly when he’s sober — find out how it all works.”

  Thomas nodded and took a turn-off for Tottenham. Karl reached into the glove compartment for a street guide, reading it by torchlight. He navigated the car through the back roads to Stoke Newington, calling out left and right turns at places where Thomas couldn’t even read the street names. Maybe it was deliberate.

  The car finally juddered to a halt near a housing estate, not far from a kebab shop. Karl turned to the back seat. “He’s still sparko. I’ll have to get him back into his flat. I could use a hand.”

  The two of them roused Ken and dragged him out of the car. He seemed to revive once he was outside, insisting that he buy everyone a kebab. To Thomas’s surprise, Karl took him up on the offer and the three of them gravitated like moths towards the neon. Ken waved a twenty in the air. The poor sod at the till, who Ken repeatedly called Abdul, took their orders and went off to prepare the delicacy. Thomas managed to call out ‘no chillies’ just in time.

  Ken pocketed the change, took several bites of his fiery kebab in rapid succession and then launched into a unique rendition of Flower of Scotland. Thomas quickly realised that they were visible and memorable — in case anyone came round asking questions. If Sir Peter Carroll was involved, Daimler and all, anything was possible.

  As they steered Ken home, he entered the repetitive phase of drunkenness, telling Karl over and over that he knew his old oppo would see him right. Karl didn’t reply, which suggested he didn’t share Ken’s optimism.

  Ken’s shoes scuffed on the steps and, as he rolled up his sleeves Thomas caught a glimpse of a tattoo and wondered if Karl had one that matched — comrades in arms and all that. Making the most noise, Ken shushed his companions and then laughed at nothing. Thomas reckoned it would all end in tears.

  Finally, with some assistance, Ken got his front door key in the lock. As the door gave way and he staggered inside, Karl held a finger up for Thomas to wait there and went in after him. Flower of Scotland echoed again, followed by the sound of a kitchen skirmish. Thomas listened, aware of the night air against the back of his neck.

  “Enough!”

  That was Karl’s voice, clear as a bell, and then exit one agitated Irishman clutching a white plastic bag. “Let’s get out of here, Tommo.” He squeezed the top of the bag tighter. “Don’t ask unless you really want me to tell you.”

  He could see bloodied clothes inside, pressing against the plastic. No further questions.

  “I’ll drive you home if you direct me.”

  “Are you sure? It’s out of your way.” Karl still had the bag in a stranglehold.

  “Yeah, it’s fine.” He started up the car and waited to be given his orders.

  It wasn’t so much a plan that Karl put together on their journey over to Kilburn, more a collection of jigsaw pieces, incomplete, but telling. Two of them led directly to Sir Peter Carroll: Ken’s meeting and Thomas delivering a weapon, whose purpose was no longer in any doubt. Then there was the choice of Ken as some kind of — executioner? For all his bluster and Rule Britannia, Sir Peter had his connections, so why get someone like Ken to do his dirty work? Except that Ken had previously served in the armed forces with Karl.

  “What do you think, Thomas? Sir Peter Carroll is surely smarter than that.”

  He couldn’t fault Karl’s logic, although he did have one question.

  “Despite what you know, you’re still willing to help him?” His gaze went to the plastic bag.

  Karl sighed, long and hard. “For the time being. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “What, being a civilian?” Thomas managed a wry smile. “I understand loyalty, but there’s such a thing as morality.”

  Karl’s shoulders seemed to broaden. “Let me ask you this: was it moral when you tried to kill Yorgi out on the moors?”

  He crushed his hands to the steering wheel. “No question. He had it coming.”

  “Some would say the same about a child murderer and a convicted paedophile.”

  That was about all the conversation Thomas felt like having for a while. When the car stopped, Karl unbuckled his seatbelt and carefully manoeuvred out of the passenger seat with the bag. “I’ll just grab my other bag out of the boot. Listen, we need to see Ken again soon. Maybe tomorrow morning before work?”

  “Can’t — I’m back at the prison.”

  “What tangled webs we weave, eh Tommo? Right you are; we’ll rendezvous later and compare notes. Goodnight, and thanks again.”

  He drove home with the window open, the breeze cold against his face. It kept his senses sharp and stopped him from drifting. Something was bothering him; something Ken had said. There was only one person he knew, connected with Sir Peter Carroll, who drove a 4x4.

  Chapter 37

  Before heading for the prison Thomas visited the heathland again. It didn’t help much. Jack’s oppressive effect seemed to meet him at the gates and he found himself rehearsing what to say. Although he knew the drill better now, he didn’t think he’d ever feel comfortable doing this — especially solo. This time he showed his SSU ID at the reception desk before joining the queue. Christine would likely find out anyway.

  John Wright had made it clear that Jack knew all about the missing drugs now and was not a happy man. In the absence of John’s company he eavesdropped and observed the other visitors, mentally filling in the blanks.

  “You behave nicely when you see your dad, and remember what I told you — keep your mouth shut and I’ll take you to the zoo later.”

  He glanced at the woman’s outfit; a little too alluring for a prison, unless she was trying to show hubby, and the prison staff, what he was missing. Odds on, there’d be a bloke waiting for her at Regent’s Park.

  An older woman edged forward, eyes down, a loose fist clutched to her chest. He shift
ed position until he could make out the beads around her neck and figured she was holding on to a crucifix. Good luck there, luv, if she was hoping God would intervene.

  He worked his way through the people around him, putting two and two together. Assumptions dressed up as deductions — it helped to pass the time. John reckoned Jack Langton was becoming paranoid. First the attack on his niece’s boy, then losing half a kilo of coke, and now Andrea Harrison’s gallery had been done over. Idiot’s logic — look for a common denominator and then string everything together. Like Karl had said: correlation is not causality. Still, it suited him to have Jack Langton on the back foot. Hopefully it would make him more manageable.

  The visitors’ hall had the same sanitised despondency and dismal decor, only it felt a little brighter. It took him a moment to work out they’d replaced the duff neon strip light in one corner; it didn’t lighten the mood any.

  Although he had asked to see Jack Langton on his tod he knew he wouldn’t be the one calling the shots. He pawed at his pocket where he’d stashed his ID and pictured Christine watching him blip on a screen map.

  Maybe it was an optical illusion but Jack seemed to have a bigger table and slightly better chairs: king of the mountain. He felt Jack’s eyes on him from the second he entered the arena, weighing him up.

  “Thanks for seeing me like this.” Thomas extended a hand, shook and then took his seat.

  “Well,” Jack folded his arms and smirked to himself, “it’s not like I had somewhere else to be. So, what’s on your mind?”

  Thomas gave a cursory glance around. It wasn’t every day you asked someone for several grand to buy back their stolen illegal drugs.

  “Shoot.” Jack leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head.

  He gave it to him straight, both barrels. If Jack was perturbed about his merchandise going missing he didn’t show it.

  “I’ve talked with Natalie, erm, Mrs Langton. She’s gonna set up a meeting with Ray.”

  “Was it Janey?”

  Now it was Thomas’s turn to play poker.