* * *
London after hours was a city transformed. The gin houses of Hogarth’s time might have gone — crack houses now, more likely — but foxes weren’t the only predators lurking in the shadows. He had to think twice before leaving his Makarov pistol at home.
He was at the front door with his bag in hand before the last stroke of midnight, allowing himself ninety minutes to rendezvous with Miranda at Caliban’s before catching up with Karl for the big push. The only noise was a distant car’s sound system pissing off the neighbourhood. What would it be like, he wondered, to close the door on your life and simply disappear? He felt his lip curl into a half-smile; a new life with a few grand, courtesy of RT’s daubs.
The mobile sat in the car’s hands-free cradle; it didn’t have anything to say. He followed the road down to the park, edging the line of trees. Walthamstow High Street was almost deserted, apart from a couple of drunks in search of their lives. He made a beeline for Leyton and crossed the scar of the M11 link road. He remembered photographing the protestors as the bulldozers moved in on the shells of empty houses, and then trying to flog the pictures. In the end, a single picture made it into a left-wing magazine, although they forced him down on the price — power to the people.
Leyton became Stratford without a fanfare and then more late night traffic, in dribs and drabs, drivers shitting themselves at the sight of a police car parked up at the roadside. He instinctively tapped his coat pocket for his SSU ID. Force of habit. This time of night anything was possible.
First port of call was Caliban’s, where the lights shone out against the darkness. He rang from the car and Miranda said she’d be right down. Her travel bag looked heavy, but a few grand could do that, as he’d learned once doing a courier job for Sir Peter Carroll. It took a moment to realise someone was following behind her: John Wright.
Miranda got in the front.
She patted the bag on her lap. “Eight grand.”
He stared at her with an unspoken question about the ten grand total she’d originally texted him, and she stared right back. He gave up and turned round to John.
“Evening, Thomas.”
There was nothing to say on the drive over; everyone knew the score. Karl would meet them in his own car and then join them in theirs to wait for Ken to come out. Karl flashed his lights as they approached and got out to move a pair of road cones. He climbed into the back seat and shook John’s hand. The car clock read one-ten. Thomas watched Karl in his mirror, checking the clock against his watch — a big bastard of a watch. Maybe it was army issue.
“Even if he’s late, we’ll wait it out. Remember, as far as anyone there is concerned, it’s just another ordinary working day.”
Thomas smiled a little in the semi-darkness. Nothing was ordinary around Karl; he was the epicentre of the extraordinary. At one thirty-six and five seconds, not that Thomas was counting, Ken emerged carrying a holdall. He looked around, evidently clocked a car he was expecting, and signalled.
Karl got out and went over. Through the window it was clear that there was some kind of disagreement. Eventually Karl handed over a small box, which Ken thrust into his holdall.
Thomas warmed the engine up. As soon as Karl and Ken squeezed into the back seat Miranda passed over the envelope.
“Eight grand. Spend it wisely.”
Ken looked to Karl, who nodded his approval, before taking it.
“I’m in your debt, you two.”
Karl took command. “Okay, here’s how this works. Ken, John and I will go in my car. You two are off to Birmingham tomorrow. Ring in sick first thing, Tommo. Say a family situation has come up.”
Thomas watched as the back seat passengers filed out and transferred into Karl’s car.
“What’s the matter?” Miranda poked his arm. “Won’t they let you into their gang? Back to yours, then.”
He was fading by the time they reached Walthamstow. It had been a long day and his head was filled with questions. As Miranda opened the front door he clocked the envelope on the floor — two return tickets to York. Karl had kept his word.
Last thing before bed he checked that the cash cards were still in their hiding place among the DVDs, and that the list of contacts and mobile numbers had lain undisturbed beneath the cutlery tray. He was out like a light, lulled to sleep by a perfume that hadn’t changed in ten years.
Chapter 43
He left a vague message at Christine’s work number before seven am, promising to ring her later. After that he checked in with Karl to get the green light for Operation Bank Fraud. He didn’t ask about Ken. That was beyond his remit now and on reflection, maybe Karl had done him a favour.
Cards retrieved, list secured, bags already packed, they were out the door by eight, travelling the Tube with the rest of the cattle. Miranda had a steely calm about her that was both unnerving and alluring. There was no talking in the Underground crush, and even above ground at Euston she didn’t have a lot to say. He watched as a new mobile phone — probably from Karl — emerged from her pocket while she checked the departures board.
He left her to her calls; no doubt arranging the pick-ups at Birmingham. It was a little early for coffees, but he got them anyway, along with muffins. If she were standing in for Karl she might as well go the whole hog.
* * *
They grabbed a table on the train and were soon joined by a suit with designer glasses and a laptop full of spread sheets, and then a woman whose choice of book — judging by the cover — suggested she wasn’t keen on thinking. Mr Laptop sodded off at Milton Keynes so Thomas spread himself out a little.
Seated opposite Miranda, sipping their coffees in silence, he thought they looked like a couple at war, or strangers. And yet, he mused with a smile, they couldn’t have been more in sync — not clothed, anyway.
Once Chick lit Queen had taken the hint and moved somewhere else, he asked the question that had been eating away at him all morning.
“What happened to the other two grand?”
“You can’t expect people to pay for their own travel when they’re helping us.”
He knew that she meant him, but let it pass.
“But if there’s any left . . .” She second-guessed him. “I’ll treat you.”
If? Blimey, were they all travelling first class?
They reached Birmingham New Street and jumped ship. He’d forgotten how much he hated the station; the platforms looked as if a committee of muggers had designed them. They squeezed up the narrow stairs and surfaced onto the main concourse, sidestepping travellers clustered under a screen in search of their late-running train.
Miranda took her mobile out and walked on a few paces. She glanced over her shoulder and signalled for him to follow her.
“No offence, but leave some distance. These are people from Mum and Dad’s world.”
She went back to her phone and he trailed her out of the station. It wasn’t difficult to stay on the periphery; it was what he did on every other working day, which was why he couldn’t help noticing details.
The first contact was a black guy in his early fifties. Somehow that surprised him; he wasn’t proud of it but there it was. Judging by her body language, Miranda already knew him. Thomas enjoyed her sleight of hand as she deposited the card in the bloke’s coat pocket. The two of them walked up the street to a café, where Miranda gave him a hug before they parted company.
Thomas had followed on the opposite side of the street, so there was nowhere to go when the bloke walked past.
“Alright, mate?” The bloke winked at him.
Thomas clocked the London accent and crossed over to rejoin her.
“You could always show me today’s itinerary.”
“Where’s the fun in that? Besides, it’s better like this: ‘need to know’ and all that.” She was quoting from the Karl McNeill rulebook.
He let her make all the running, and she led him a merry dance through the Bullring to a café on Edgbaston Street, where he managed
to grab a coffee with her, albeit at separate tables. From there they looped round to the Odeon, dropped another card off and wandered back towards New Street Station. Five strangers came and went and he realised she didn’t want them to see one another either.
Miranda started fiddling with her mobile phone again.
“Problem?”
“Nothing I can’t handle . . .” Her face suggested otherwise.
“Anything I can do?”
She cast around a final time for the no-show.
“With one condition. You don’t check up on this afterwards — ever.”
“Deal.”
“Someone’s supposed to be flying into Birmingham International, but their flight’s been delayed.”
“So we’ll head over there?”
She started walking back into the station.
* * *
He did the decent thing at Domestic Arrivals and made himself scarce — but not invisible, and avoided the screens, even though it was killing him. Instead, he rang Karl to pass the time.
“Only me checking in. How’s work?”
“Same old bollocks. I plan to stalk the mystery Dolan again later. Roland or Donald: that is the question.”
“Sorry, forgot to tell you — it’s Roland.”
“Oh?”
“Prison talk.”
“Well, thank the Lord for incarceration. How are you finding playing second fiddle to the capable Ms Wright?”
“Yeah.” Thomas evaded the question. “Listen, this will work, won’t it?”
“Don’t see why not.” Karl’s voice trailed off, a sure sign he was focused on something else. “Right, must dash. The scales of justice won’t tip themselves.”
He considered buying Miranda an ‘I love Birmingham International’ key ring, clocked the price and thought better of it. There was an art to surveillance and it was a hard thing to switch off when there was so much of interest going on around him: bored children, anxious parents and the solo travellers who were always harder to interpret and more intriguing as a consequence.
Miranda and another woman crossed his line of vision. They looked comfortable together. The woman was suited and booted, her vivid auburn hair a striking contrast to Miranda’s blonde. They stopped abruptly at Miranda’s prompt and turned in his direction. He assumed it was an invitation.
“This is . . .” Miranda paused and blinked, “. . . my cousin, Philippa.”
Both women found this hilarious. He sighed, waiting for Philippa to say something.
“Well.” Miranda stirred, “I won’t keep you. Thanks again and have a safe trip.”
“You must come up some time and do bring . . ?”
“Thomas.” His lips barely moved.
She tilted her head slightly, still looking at him.
“Not bad at all, Miranda.”
He watched her leave and moved closer to Miranda, while his brain whirred on. Maybe a solicitor; Scottish, probably. She didn’t sound like Karl, anyway.
“Reet then . . .” Miranda was taking the piss out of Yorkshire. “’Ow d’you fancy a trip oop north?”
They caught a train back to New Street Station and then on to York. There was only one bank card left in the set and Miranda handed it to him. He’d picked York because it would be teeming with people. Leeds would have done, but York was also easier for travelling on to see Ajit, Geena and the sproglet.
* * *
The Connaught Hotel was a decent, middle-of-the-road establishment; not dissimilar to places he’d stayed at on assignments outside London — clean, welcoming and not too up itself. The bloke on reception didn’t blink an eye at their casual appearance — this was Tourist Town after all. He offered them a map of the city and some discount vouchers, which Miranda seized upon. The only thing that almost took the smile off his face was Thomas asking if he could pay in cash. A more up-market establishment might have insisted on a deposit by card, but the Connaught clearly had more trust, or fewer scruples. Thomas paid in advance and bunged the bloke a fiver for his trouble.
They went in under Miranda’s name — her first name, anyway — which made him feel like a trophy boyfriend. After the day’s excitement it was a fun game to play, and it helped take his mind off the final hand to be played that evening. Upstairs, the flowery wallpaper extended right along the corridor in a flourish of chintz. He couldn’t work out if it was intentionally retro or whether the place was long overdue for a makeover.
Miranda opened the room door, dropped her bags and flopped down on the bed.
“Pretty good timing.” She checked her wristwatch.
A Christmas present from him, three years back — nice touch.
“When do you want to eat?” He walked around her carefully, placing his bag down on the floor at his side of the bed. “Only I don’t want to wait until after . . .”
“Give me a few minutes to freshen up and then we can go.”
She raised her arms so he could pull her up. It felt like an invitation and he had to fight both gravity and desire.
* * *
Dinner was a pub special. He figured it would draw less attention to nip out from there to a nearby cashpoint than interrupting a meal in the hotel. The place was heaving and they blended in nicely, just one more couple on a leisure break. Miranda had added to the effect by bringing the hotel leaflets with her.
“Fancy doing the tourist trail tomorrow before we go to Pickering? What time did you tell Geena and Ajit to expect us?”
He sipped his half-pint of shandy quietly.
“You did ring Ajit?’
“Not exactly.”
“Great. So what happens if no one’s home tomorrow?”
He faked a smile. “We’ll catch a bus to Scarborough instead.”
“And they say romance is dead.”
He checked his watch — seven-twenty: around half an hour to go. The food arrived quickly and that was a bonus. You couldn’t really go wrong with fish and chips, and more to the point neither could a chef.
Miranda seemed to relax a little with food on the table.
“Where do you think Ken will go?”
He listened for the satisfying crunch of knife against batter and inhaled a waft of steamy vinegar. Bliss.
“Well, he’s Scottish; maybe he’ll find some quiet glen and lie low for a bit, and then disappear abroad with a new identity.”
Miranda lifted her glass of Malbec.
“Where would you go, if you were in his predicament?”
He gazed at his chips for a second or two. “Canada. Halifax or Winnipeg.”
“Bloody ’ell, I like how you’ve already thought about it. Talk about be prepared — you must have made a brilliant scout.”
“Never joined; Mam couldn’t afford the uniform.”
At ten to eight he was getting restless. There were two cashpoints likely to be camera-free, according to Karl. The man had more contacts than a discount optician.
He lifted his chair back and play-acted for an imaginary audience.
“Just popping out for a sec.”
“Okay.”
Outside, a group of students in rugby shirts jostled along the street and launched into a rendition of Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer, starting at forty-one; presumably where they’d left off.
He waited until they had moved on, and chose the cash machine on the right. It was two minutes to eight. Now came the moment of truth. He took the card out of his pocket, blank as Ken’s future, and made a show of looking for something in his jacket. At eight pm he inserted the card, tapped the number in carefully and waited. The main display appeared on cue; he selected £30 cash and held his breath, counting in his head as the machine went through its routine. Finally, it returned his card and spat out the money. There now, that wasn’t so bad. He planned to cut the card up later and spread the parts in three different locations.
His food was waiting for him with a plate on top, and he turned to the last of his chips.
“All sorted.”
“Then let’s go back to the hotel, rent a movie and celebrate.”
Chapter 44
Thomas woke in the early hours and tiptoed across to the window. York was still sleeping off the previous night and he watched as a police car wove through the maze of streets. His mind drifted through the previous day’s events and he wondered about Ken. How long would it take Sir Peter and his cronies to realise that something suspicious was going on with the bank account? It stood to reason that it was already being monitored. According to Karl, banks across Europe acted with impunity and did things that would make your hair curl.
He stayed behind the curtain and checked his mobiles — work and personal. Both were stony silent so he went back to bed. As he lay there, softly serenaded by Miranda wheezing in her sleep, he tried something his counsellor had once recommended.
‘When you’re overwhelmed by too much thinking, imagine each thought as a brightly coloured ball. Instead of trying to keep them all in the air at the same time, mentally throw them up and catch just one. Focus on that and let the others go.’
He smiled at himself, remembering the look of incredulity he’d given her when she’d offered him fantasy juggling. He closed his eyes now and up they went. The thought that landed in his lap was Jacob. He got up again, dressed and grabbed a handful of change.
Downstairs he took a seat at the public Internet computer, wiped the child-sized fingerprints from the keyboard and readied a small pile of coins. The pages crawled but eventually he was able to access his most recent email address. Thurston Leon, the private investigator he’d paid to snoop on Natalie Langton’s mum, had emailed a reply. Apart from some ultra-right wing tendencies, she was spotless. At least it was someone he could cross off the list.
When he returned to the bedroom Miranda was busy checking her mobile.
“Your phone rang while you were out. Don’t worry, I didn’t touch it.”
“Which one?”
“Search me!” She slipped her t-shirt off her shoulder.
Tempting, but some other time. Karl had sent a text: Tried ringing but you must be busy — the eagle has flown the nest. Thanks again — K.
CAUSE & EFFECT Page 21
