CAUSE & EFFECT

by THOMPSON, DEREK

  He took first turn in the shower and Miranda was still messing with her phone when he exited from the steam.

  “Updates on the cards,” she explained. “One failed, but I can’t tell you where or I’d have to kill you.”

  It would have been funny if it hadn’t conjured up the image of a white plastic bag filled with bloodied clothes. He changed the subject.

  “You’re sure you’re okay about seeing Ajit and Geena again?” He left the ‘b’ word out of the equation and watched her fateful sigh.

  “Yeah, I should be.”

  * * *

  His mobile phone gate-crashed breakfast. This time it was the work mobile who wanted to be his friend.

  “Thomas Bladen.” He spoke softly, easing back his chair to make an exit.

  “Ah, Thomas, it’s Sir Peter. Are you free to talk?”

  “Yes, sir; just give me a second.”

  He gagged the phone, gestured to the door and mouthed ‘duty calls’ to Miranda. She looked unimpressed. The clock near the front desk read eight fifteen — the Old Man must be on overtime; this was never going to be a social call.

  “How soon can you be at my office?”

  He glanced back to the glass doors, where he could just about see Miranda.

  “I have some things to tie up — would eleven-thirty be okay?”

  “Very good — and come alone.”

  He turned off the phone and made the condemned man’s walk back to the restaurant.

  “Everything all right?” Miranda seemed extra bright and breezy.

  He sat down and took a gulp of orange juice before he answered.

  “Do you believe in déjà vu?”

  * * *

  Miranda was better about it than he had a right to expect. He figured she was probably relieved too. They were packed and out of the hotel in fifteen minutes without a cross word spoken. Or almost any other kind.

  York station was awash with end of season holidaymakers and students with more luggage than sense. He ducked past an idiot carrying a surfboard, found a corner away from the noise and rang Karl.

  “Missing me already?”

  “We have a problem . . .”

  Karl was the voice of reason. “It was only a matter of time, although they’re pretty quick off the mark. Then again, it may not be connected with yesterday.”

  “Yeah, he probably wants to promote me.”

  “Actually, it might be something I did.”

  Thomas started sweating. “Text me on M’s phone.”

  “Will do.”

  A series of messages arrived as the train sailed through Doncaster. It seemed Karl had been creative by using the genuine bank card in Southampton, as close to Bob Peterson’s home as possible. It felt good to know Karl was fighting his corner.

  Thomas decanted the essentials into his rucksack, including Karl’s photos that he’d taken along for safekeeping. If Karl was right, he had a feeling he’d be needing them soon.

  Miranda’s generosity continued when they reached London. She took his bag and left him the rucksack. “You can come over tonight and collect it — ring me.”

  He waved her off, reflecting that life always seemed complicated in London — on a bigger canvas. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

  * * *

  This time there was no waiting at the front desk of Main Building. ID, hand scan and welcome to the citadel. His escort was the Geordie lass from before.

  “Mr Bladen — I never expected to see you back so soon.”

  She remembered; how sweet.

  “Me neither.”

  Sir Peter’s door was closed. He rapped staccato and went in. The Old Man smiled, but he’d done that in the past so it cut no ice with him. Thomas waited; he was good at that — better than most.

  “ I expect you’re wondering why I asked to see you so urgently?”

  He decided to box clever. “I assumed you need something else couriered. I’ve got an overnight bag.” He lifted the rucksack for effect and noted the lack of coffee on offer. More waiting.

  “Thomas, I’d like your assistance with a problem. I want you to support Bob Peterson and meet with him today in Southampton. I’m pleased at your initiative.”

  That read one of two ways. Thomas pressed his tongue against his lower teeth so hard it made his jaw ache.

  “I’ll book a pool car from Liverpool Street then and take my instructions from Bob when I get there.”

  “No need.” Sir Peter clapped his hands together once, as if he’d just thought of something. “My driver, Phillip, will take you. He’s expecting you. The sooner you’re down in Southampton the sooner you can get started.”

  Chapter 45

  Thomas got to the Daimler before the chauffeur had time to get out.

  “I’ll sit in the front if it’s all the same to you?”

  Phillip started the engine.

  “Would you like the radio on, Mr . . . ?”

  “Thomas.” He cringed. “Just Thomas.”

  Phillip was a classical music man. Rachmaninov formed the backdrop to their departure from London, the sombre tones and sweeping piano lending the south of the city more grandeur than it deserved.

  There were questions on Thomas’s mind, mostly about loyalties; but to ask them would reveal his own. He settled for, “have you worked for Sir Peter long?”

  Phillip smiled, the way people do when they’re remembering something. “You could say that — I served with him in the Royal Navy. You?”

  “Two years or so in the SSU. You could say he recruited me.”

  Phillip lowered his window. “You can relax. I’m just the driver.”

  Spending time with Karl had taught Thomas that nobody was just anything. Conversation didn’t resume properly until the signs for Southampton.

  “We met before, Thomas.” Phillip followed the sat-nav, spiralling in towards Bob Peterson’s building. “About six months ago.”

  The penny dropped. It was that fateful day Thomas went to see Sir Peter to deliver his ultimatum. Reflecting on it now he couldn’t help wondering how much had changed.

  “I’ll give you my number. Call me when you’re ready to be picked up, or if you decide to stop overnight.”

  Phillip passed over a laminated card, bearing the crest of the Surveillance Support Unit. Thomas tapped a corner against his palm.

  “Perhaps you know my friend, Karl McNeill?”

  “Perhaps I do.” That was it; nothing more. “We’re here now.”

  Thomas took a moment outside the building, running through his options. Playing it straight would be easiest — show Peterson the photos and find out what he knew. If they could just get over hating one another’s guts.

  He buzzed up and some underling promised to come down and collect him. Thomas turned from the camera — force of habit — and wondered if there was another, less obvious one hidden in the brickwork. This was the SSU after all.

  * * *

  The office was bigger than Liverpool Street’s, with twenty-six desks — he counted them. Bob Peterson was cordial, that was the word, meeting him in the open plan office. A light handshake, a dismal offer of machine coffee and then Thomas was whisked away along the corridor, coffee in hand.

  Peterson’s domain had an air of headmaster’s office about it. A map of the British Isles covered part of one wall, the thick green line encompassing a chunk of the southeast. Thomas figured the team was a regional hub and everything inside the line was Bob’s. He always was the territorial kind. Another map covered Southampton in detail. Peterson caught him looking at it and gestured to a round table where a notepad was already waiting.

  Thomas took a seat and thudded his rucksack on the chair next to him, ready to produce the photographs of Ken’s flat. Peterson sat opposite and the two of them clutched their coffees, ready to draw.

  “I’ll start, shall I?” Peterson flipped open his notepad. “I don’t like you and the feeling’s mutual. But whatever our differences — personal and professiona
l — Sir Peter Carroll has requested that we coordinate our efforts.”

  “I still don’t know what the job is.”

  “Don’t you?” Peterson took a large gulp of coffee, which Thomas hoped was still piping hot, and wrote down a name on the page: Ken Treavey. “Our task is to locate him. Anything you want to say about that?”

  Several things actually. He thought about protesting his ignorance, or querying why this was an SSU job. But all that was bullshit. Besides, he had a better plan — find out if Peterson had any photos, goad him into ending the meeting, and get the hell out of there. He took the photos from his rucksack and laid them on the table, face up.

  If Peterson was surprised he did an excellent job of not showing it. Much as expected, he got up and retrieved some photos of his own from a desk drawer. “Now we’re on a level playing field.” He passed them across.

  There were three photos; probably the best of the bunch, Thomas surmised. Him, close to Main Building carrying the package and two in Victoria Station. He could see Peterson studying Karl’s handiwork.

  Thomas drained his coffee. “This is a set-up. We were the couriers and now it’s our problem to locate . . . what was his name?”

  Peterson laughed. “You must take me for a fool, Thomas. But like I’ve already told you, I’m three steps ahead of you.”

  “And your wife too?”

  “Watch yourself, Thomas. Christine’s not here to protect you now.”

  He took a breath and tried to let the red mist clear. “The day I need protecting from you . . .” He couldn’t think of a punchline, other than punching him. Tempting, but unproductive. “Let’s cut to the chase.” He placed Peterson’s photos carefully into his rucksack. “I have no idea where Ken Treavey is, and maybe it’s better for both of us that way.”

  Peterson folded his arms. “I’m listening.”

  “Why you and me, Bob?” He took delight in using the name. Now he’d asked the question aloud, the ideas came thick and fast. “Sir Peter knows you’ll follow orders to the letter, and he knows I don’t trust him an inch. This is a fool’s errand.”

  “Then what’s the point?” Peterson eased back a little and picked up a pen.

  “Maybe there is no point, other than that Sir Peter’s seen to be doing something while we’re at one another’s throats.”

  “Can you make some inquiries?” Peterson’s voice sounded plaintive.

  Thomas pitied him; it must be a bitter pill to swallow that he was the solution to Peterson’s problems. He nodded and stood up to leave.

  “Give my best to Karl. I gather he knew Treavey once upon a time.” Peterson couldn’t resist a parting shot.

  “I’ll be in touch. Give my best to Christine — if you see her before I do.”

  Peterson flinched in his chair. For one sweet moment Thomas thought Peterson was coming up to meet his fist. Sadly, it wasn’t to be. He was on the phone to Phillip before he got to the end of the corridor.

  Chapter 46

  After Phillip dropped him off at Liverpool Street the first thing Thomas did was access his mobile messages. Miranda had checked in twice to make sure he was okay and her dad had managed ‘call me’ sometime on the drive back. He rang him first.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Southampton.”

  “Are you still down there? I need you in London — Natalie’s been in touch.”

  It was beginning to get chilly. He let John do the talking.

  “Natalie wants you to meet with Charlie Stokes to discuss the goods. And she said Ray Daniels will act as a sort of go-between.”

  “When?” He looked over at a taxi.

  “Tonight?” John didn’t sound convinced.

  “Let me speak to Karl first and I’ll ring you back.”

  He took a chance and walked round to the car park, using his ID card to release the side gate. Karl’s car was there, taking up space, and the bonnet was still cooling off. Christine’s car sat nearby, as cold as his opinion of her now he’d seen Bob Peterson.

  It wasn’t a huge surprise to find Karl, Ann and Christine deep in conversation as he approached the office door, but it still smarted. Now he knew how the young, skinny Ajit had felt at junior rugby practice — always the last to be picked.

  The meeting broke up abruptly as he entered the room, or maybe it just seemed that way. Christine was last to acknowledge him, which made him wonder if Peterson had been on the phone. He decided to call her bluff.

  “Can I have a word?”

  “Of course.” She led the way to her office.

  He gestured for Karl to wait for him.

  “How is everything?” She sounded concerned.

  “You tell me. Sir Peter rang me this morning. He sent me to see Bob Peterson about finding a missing person.”

  “Really?” Her brow dipped. “I thought you were on compassionate leave?”

  “Yeah, so did I.” He blinked a couple of times, making space for her to say something. When he realised silence was the only answer on offer he knew it was time to leave. “You know what? It’s been a really long day and I could do without the subterfuge this time. Don’t you trust me yet?”

  Her lips parted and she looked away. “It’s not that. I want to keep you safe.”

  “I can look after myself.” He wrenched the door open.

  “Not against these people. Karl agrees with me.”

  * * *

  Karl took him to The Swan and somehow managed to find them a table.

  “I’ll get these, Tommo. Shandy and crisps?”

  “Ah, you remembered!”

  Even though Karl played it cool when Thomas mentioned meeting up with Charlie Stokes, he could see he was guarded.

  “Come on; out with it.”

  Karl hunched in over a pile of crisps. “Our man Charlie is a cut above Jack Langton. Keep your wits about you. Anything you notice might be useful.”

  “Then you think I should go tonight?”

  Karl hadn’t moved. “It could . . . erm . . . be really useful if you met him — and the sooner the better.”

  Thomas sat back and laced his fingers together, waiting. It occurred to him that John Wright was waiting too, but that was his problem. “Well?”

  “Charlie acquiring some of Jack’s drugs will cause ripples. The franchises are not supposed to compete and that instability is a golden opportunity for us. Our problem has always been getting close to Charlie to gain any intelligence. He’s shrewd.”

  “So are we. I’ve still got the bug you gave me, at home. I can ring John on the way.”

  Karl didn’t need a lot of convincing.

  * * *

  Thomas changed his clothes while Karl got the coffee on.

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  He opened his hand to show Karl the device. Subject closed.

  “I’ll be on standby. I can come in heavy if need be.” Karl sounded spooked.

  “It’ll be fine. Ray will be with me . . .” He smirked. Good old Ray — Mark Antony to Jack Langton’s Caesar.

  “Don’t underestimate Charlie Stokes.” Karl moistened his lips, despite the coffee, “His profile isn’t pretty. He’s psychopath material.”

  “Thanks for that. I’d better get going before I change my mind.”

  For all his concern, Karl didn’t try to stop him.

  * * *

  He arrived at Xanadu shortly after eight pm. Ray came to the door, in a rush, and corralled him into his BMW.

  “Mr Stokes doesn’t like to be kept waiting. You keep your mouth shut unless he speaks to you, and it’s always Mr Stokes — got it?”

  “Understood.”

  Ray Daniels was agitated, no question about it. And he didn’t look the small talk type. But everyone had their soft spots.

  “Nice car.”

  “Yeah, benefit of the job.” Ray upped the speed. “Jack Langton says presentation is everything. Incidentally, you did a good thing, looking after Andrea during the break-in.” He reache
d into his suit jacket and pulled out pristine banknotes. “Three ’undred quid there — ought to buy you a new coat.”

  Thomas grabbed the money, pretending to marvel at it.

  “Thanks . . . Ray.”

  Ray perked up a bit.

  “We’ll be there soon. Just follow my lead and do like I told you. Remember, fifteen K and that’s it.”

  The car left civilisation behind, bumping over a dead-end to bounce across wasteland. Up ahead, Thomas noted at least three buildings — remnants of some sort of factory. It hadn’t escaped his attention that Ray seemed to know his way around without the help of sat-nav, but he did like the man asked and kept his mouth shut.

  The car pulled under cover, losing the comfort of moonlight. A train rumbled past in the distance, wheels screeching against the rails. Ray got out and stretched. Thomas joined him and they stood there while Ray had a smoke.

  Thomas wondered if he was armed — whether that was the way these people behaved. He figured Ray was about five feet ten; shorter than him anyway, but broader. Another gym fanatic. What was it with the East End boys and their pecs?

  “Let’s get on with it.” Ray flicked his cigarette and Thomas watched the orange glow as it arced into the shadows. “You coming, or what?”

  The main building was a ruined shell and it led out to two more substantial structures. Thomas kept his hands together, like a prisoner, and counted his steps. It helped to have something to focus on. Right turn, flash of moon, left turn, into the building and then a change of footing, broken glass and cobwebs. And that smell? Grease, or engine oil; something industrial.

  “Is that you, Ray?”

  The voice reached them before the doorway. Charlie Stokes appeared to be alone. It looked like a supervisor’s office, frozen in time from the 1970s; a semi-nude stared down from the wall to remind everyone it had once been April. Thomas tried not to stare back.

  “Wait here.” Ray elbowed him in the ribs, making him flinch, and walked over to chat in private.

  After a couple of minutes, Ray called out. “Come through, Thomas.”

  Ray was seated at a large metal table. Charlie was pouring three slivers of scotch.