Karl didn’t acknowledge him straight away, he was busy staring at a blank screen with a phone in one hand.
“Hi. I’m waiting for IT.”
Thomas sniffed the air and caught the metallic tang in his nostrils. He thought about switching on his monitor and decided to listen to Karl instead. Reading between the lines, there’d been some sort of computer meltdown. Thomas had a hunch that the bad luck fairy might have a Celtic accent.
Karl appeared to concentrate as he repeated a few key phrases and pretended to write something down. Thomas knew a good performance when he saw one. He had done that in the past as well, pacing replies for authenticity.
“Yes, something electrical. Okay, I’ll try that. No, I’ll speak with Detective Sergeant Edwards when she gets back. I understand. Luckily I saved some of the information. No, I agree, it should have been uploaded to the HOLMES2 system . . . I’m still waiting for my access. No . . . yep . . . Surveillance Support Unit. Uh huh. That’s why we were organising all the data first.” He waited a long time after that and then calmly replaced the receiver.
“Problem?”
Karl tilted his head side to side. “That depends on how you look at it. We’ll need to recreate some lost data — wait a sec,” he countered Thomas’s accusation of prat. “Luckily I saved everything to a memory stick.”
Thomas soon conceded the genius of Karl’s plan. The data would have to be input retrospectively, making it much easier to slip in a surveillance photograph of Theo Pritchard, as well as some location shots where the body was found and any other breadcrumbs Karl wanted to scatter.
“We’ll need to use your computer, Tommo. Mine’s a tad frazzled. And remember to create a Nominal Record for Arlo Moretti. I don’t give a shit what DI Ferguson says, Moretti’s name came up in the investigation . . . somewhere,” he shielded his eyes and pretended to scour the room. “It would be a dereliction of duty if I started filtering information.”
“Perish the thought.” Thomas booted up his own machine, which had miraculously escaped the Karl McNeill electrical virus.
* * *
DS Edwards was all smiles when Thomas and Karl saw her next. The discovery of a body and its identification, thanks to a timely and anonymous text from Karl even had DI Ferguson in a good mood, apparently. Drinks all round, he’d promised Edwards, which even extended to her temps.
Thomas set the agenda. “We’ll stay for the one drink and then piss off.”
Karl nodded, saving the file and then closing the computer down with a flourish. “Done.”
Edwards and Ferguson were already down at the front desk. A gaggle of unknowns loitered with them. This would be the wider team, who’d gone out of their way to have nothing to do with the visitors. Thomas had become used to it by now. Floaters, temps, cheap labour — he’d heard them all. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, as his mum used to say. He smiled at their feeble banter. Yeah, and idiots.
The Dickens Tavern already heaved with drinkers, and most of them had suspiciously short hair. Thomas had never been to a coppers’ pub. Unlike the military pub that Karl liked to frequent, with its proud collection of regimental insignia, this place was wall-to-wall anonymity. Ferguson’s party gravitated to the bar, jostling with another team on the way.
“My shout for the first round.” Ferguson held a folded fifty in the air like he was wielding Excalibur.
Edwards was the real star of the show, handling praise and questions from her colleagues with a deftness that impressed Thomas. She made a point of raising her G&T in their direction, which felt like high praise indeed.
“Are you and Heick on speaking terms now?’ Thomas leaned in to try and counter the din.
“You know me, Tommy Boy. Whatever gets the job done.”
Thomas noted the hollow tone and chose not to pick him up on it. “Can you do me a favour?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Find out more about Moretti. I need to know whether to install sprinklers at home.” He laughed silently, as if trying to convince himself.
Karl shook his head. “No need. I can promise you that Moretti will have been warned off any more interest in you, Miranda or her family.”
As answers went, it only generated more questions. They stayed the obligatory twenty minutes, nudged their way to the bar and then said their goodbyes. Edwards oozed gratitude. It was painful to watch.
“Ta-ra, lads. I’ll see you boys tomorrow.”
Cue a round of catcalls and an insinuation of a three-way from the rest of the gang. Thomas had half a mind to get their number plates and ring them in to traffic. He couldn’t help wondering, as they left the Dickens behind them, if this was the best of times or the worst of times.
Karl insisted he would have driven Thomas home, only he had other matters to attend to. Thomas knew not to push the point and settled for a drop-off along Euston Road. Karl didn’t ask either.
Chapter 27
Thomas found a phone shop still open, not far from Euston Station. The girl at the counter, fresh out of charm school, gave him her full attention after thirty more seconds of chewing gum. Judging by her bored expression as she moved to the cheap end of the counter, she’d sized him up as a technophobe. It was almost worth the hit on his credit card to see the look on her face when he asked for a Sharp mobile because of its 1.1 megapixel resolution camera. After all, this was 2004. And besides, Karl’s expenses budget could take the pain.
His first text was to Karl: New phone no. Thomas. Kosovo Girls Brigade. Karl would recognise the sign-off as proof of identity, from the early days of their off-the-books partnership. Karl was the elephant of counter-intelligence.
He used the journey to Walthamstow, once a train bothered to turn up, to program in his clutch of numbers. Miranda and her family took the four top spots, followed by Karl, Ajit and Geena, and then two for the family in Yorkshire. Finally, out of sheer bloody-mindedness, he added in Christine Gerard’s number — good bosses were hard to find. A shame he didn’t have Heick’s number now and vice versa, but Karl could fix that and probably would. He started thinking about how many times he’d changed his phone number in the past three years and gave up at five.
A brisk walk through Walthamstow cleared his head. Life’s tapestry wove and unravelled around him — lovers rowing in the middle of the street, boys who confused their cars with mobile discos, and those people who really interested him, the ones whose faces held secrets. He crossed the street and looked over to see a woman in the burger bar window, pensive as she waited and watched behind the glass. He itched to take a picture of her with his new phone but she’d have reacted to him and shattered the moment. Karl was right, surveillance became a way of life.
Crossing Forest Road, and with no sign of a forest for miles, he took Winns Terrace to skirt the edge of Lloyd Park. A front door opened ahead of him and he counted the seconds until a large black Labrador came bounding to the gate with its owner in tow. Thomas nodded to the pair, missing the half-hearted pleasantries by several feet. Like the song said, there was no place like home.
His nose twitched as he went indoors, recalling the smoke and the charred skirting board. He switched the lights on and went from room to room, checking the plug sockets again. He reached the kitchen last and unlocked the back door. A tin of paint sat outside, sporting a stick-on bow. Nice one, Karl.
No point ringing his oppo now if he was out on manoeuvres. He dropped his keys in the wooden dish so he knew where to find them and tapped the answering machine — one message.
“Hello, Thomas. It’s Sir Peter. If you get this message before ten o’clock, please call me. Here’s my number . . .”
Even though it felt like the old man had invaded his private space, he was intrigued — and amused too at the notion of someone so insecure that they needed to refer to their own title. He wrote the number down carefully and then added it to his phone. Flicking back through the pad, as he’d hoped, he picked up Heick’s number — and Sheryl’s. Quite a collection now. The clock read eight,
no matter how hard he stared at it. Well then, what did he have to lose?
“Ah, Thomas! I’m glad you called. I wonder if you’d care to join me this evening at the Victory Club? I can send a car for you.”
He thought about replying, What, like last time? but didn’t.
“Shall we say forty-five minutes? And Thomas, shirt and tie if you please.”
The cheeky bastard.
Half an hour later, having ironed two shirts and hung one up in the wardrobe, he put on the shirt and tie Diane Wright had given him last Christmas and waited by the window. How many times, he wondered as he stared at the street, had Miranda stormed out that door or been there waiting for him?
A woman walked past with a kid firmly clasped by the hand. Funny time for a stroll. He recognised her as a neighbour, a few doors up, but no names. Hers was the face at the curtain when he’d dared to park in her spot. Ah, Southern friendliness. So different to Yorkshire. Somehow, the bigger the town the more small-minded the inhabitants.
The car arrived early, pulled up in the street and left the engine running. He clocked it through the curtain and smiled. Sir Peter had sent the Daimler, along with his personal driver. Thomas grabbed his wallet, keys and new phone off the table, having finally decided to forgo wearing a wire. Then he locked up with all the diligence of a burglary victim and went out to the car.
Sir Peter’s driver, Phillip, acknowledged him with a nod and did Thomas the courtesy of not opening the door. Thomas got in the front beside him. He took a breath, loosened his tie, and eased back into the leather seat, running a hand along the wooden panelling. How the other half lived.
“It’s been a while since Southampton.”
Thomas stirred, surprised that the chauffeur remembered. It had been a dash down to the SSU’s hub on the south coast, also at the behest of the old man, so he could spar once more with Bob Peterson. He suddenly wondered if Peterson would make an appearance at the club. It could make for a very interesting cabaret.
“Any clues why I’m here?”
“I do the driving, that’s all. Now, would you prefer the direct route or the scenic route?”
When it came to London and history, Phillip really knew his stuff: Romans, Normans, churches and bridges. Thomas tried his luck when his tour guide was in full flow.
“Have you ever driven to the ASI building at Bank?”
He wasn’t expecting a proper answer — nothing verbal, anyway. The running commentary died like a bad stand-up routine and it took Phillip a moment to recover. When he spoke again his tone had changed, as though he had mentally reclaimed his chauffeur’s uniform.
“I’ll take Tower Bridge. It’s particularly beautiful in the evenings. Opened in 1894.”
Thomas had his answer. And why would Sir Peter need to visit ASI? To see Stephen Heick, of course.
A mile or so beyond the southern end of the bridge, the Daimler snaked through the backstreets and slowed behind a Bentley and a Jaguar. When it came to their turn the drivers each got out and opened the passenger door like a liveried servant.
“Listen, about earlier . . . sometimes I speak without thinking.”
Phillip indicated to the kerb. “I doubt either of us believes that for a second. The thing is, Thomas,” it sounded like a compliment, “we’ve each got our job to do.”
Thomas counted seven black and white tiled steps as his shoes slapped against them. The inner double doors were inlaid with glass and the brass push plates gleamed. He eased one door inwards and immediately inhaled cigar smoke. A white-gloved concierge glided towards him before he'd taken a fourth step.
His name and identity confirmed — the old-fashioned way — Thomas was accompanied through another door. The inner sanctum put him in mind of the stately homes his mother insisted on taking him to as a child — plush carpets and oak panelling as far as the eye could see. They navigated a path between high-backed leather chairs grouped around tables, arriving in a corner of the room with two chairs — one of them empty.
The concierge presented Thomas by name, as though he were a raffle prize. Sir Peter emerged from the leather, impersonated a benevolent smile and invited him to sit down.
“Have you eaten? I’ll ask the staff to bring you something.”
The staff waited patiently. Thomas considered asking for a club sandwich, just to be difficult, and settled for steak and a tonic water. He figured it was all going on someone else’s bill. Sir Peter requested a cigar and another single malt.
Thomas admired the Victorian lighting. “Nice place.” He knew he was expected to ask why he’d been summoned, but why give the old man the satisfaction?
Sir Peter lifted the remnants of his scotch, and it glowed amber. “We had an arrangement. I gave you Signor Moretti,” he let out a heavy breath, “and in return — in a manner of speaking — you’re going to give me Stephen Heick.” He sipped slowly.
The concierge entered the room from another door, catching Thomas’s attention. He waited until the tonic water rested in his hand and the embroidered napkin lay on the table. This seemed too easy, slow-feeding the old man information that Heick wanted him to have anyway.
“Heick got to Moretti and still has him, last I heard.”
Can a man look pleased even when he isn’t smiling? Sir Peter glowed like his scotch. Thomas nodded, the enemy of my enemy, and all that.
“Secondly, Heick is involved with . . .”
Sir Peter raised a chastening finger and Thomas held his tongue.
He received his steak sandwich and took a bite, wiping his lip with the napkin. Victory indeed. He chewed thoughtfully, watching as the concierge detoured to another table where someone else had made eye contact.
“Go on,” Sir Peter commanded quietly, tilting forward a little.
“Henriette Voclain.”
“Impossible!” Sir Peter scoffed.
“Then I’ll have to get you some evidence.”
Sir Peter reached into his blazer pocket and then placed a plastic card on the lacquered table.
“For any sundry expenses.”
Thomas smiled. He’d seen that trick before: a traceable bank card.
“I don’t think so. Remember the last time?”
Sir Peter tilted his glass. “So it was you who copied the bank card for Ken Treavey before he disappeared?”
Thomas played inscrutable and stuck to smiling on the inside.
“I congratulate your resourcefulness. Let me reassure you, Thomas, I have no interest in monitoring your activities — quite the opposite, in fact. I want a clean pair of hands.” Sir Peter downed his second glass in one sitting. “Excellent. You say Heick has a personal connection to Henriette Voclain — show me proof. Something I can use against him. Do that for me and I will not forget it. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He stood up and toyed with a gleaming cufflink. “Enjoy your sandwich. Phillip will be outside when you’re finished.”
Thomas watched him leave through the main doors and shifted his seat round a little to take in the room. He sat back and enjoyed his sandwich, along with the stares from his fellow guests, and fantasised about putting his feet on the table. He watched them watching him, in a mutual exchange of contempt, and pocketed the bank card.
Chapter 28
Lying awake at six-thirty Thomas reflected on his meeting at the Victory, which he now knew — from the brass plate by the door — was the name of a single room. He replayed salient moments in his head: Sir Peter pausing to speak to someone on his way out, the clatter of his knife against the plate and the hushed disapproval as he stood up and collided with the table. As he’d left to collect his Daimler and driver he came face to face with one of Sir Peter’s confidantes as she emerged from her chair — Eva Fairweather, a former Home Office minister he’d crossed paths with before. Her sour expression left him in no doubt that she was the unforgiving kind. As Karl might have put it: unfinished business and another story for another day. He’d turned to close the double doors behind him and peered back through t
he antique glass. A final glimpse at the unwholesome combination of the wealthy and powerful with the young and available.
Still in bed, he rang Karl to check he’d received the text from the new number. Karl sounded like a bear clinging to its cave.
“Huh — that you, Tommo?”
“Another late night? Shall I pick you up for work?”
“Aye, that’d be grand. See you around eight. G’night till then.”
It seemed only fair to make Heick his next call — shame he had to leave a message.
* * *
Karl flopped into the car and rubbed his eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was daylight. Thomas got in first with a summary of his evening. Karl listened and yawned, quite the multitasker.
“So our Great Leader thinks you’re pissed off with Heick.”
Thomas chewed an imaginary wasp. Thinks? Too right. Heick had manipulated him from day one.
“You’re the expert, Karl, what would be enough to expose Heick and finish his career?” He’d swear in a court of law that a light shone from Karl’s eyes.
“Well, the tried and tested routes are something compromising in the bedroom, accepting money, drug-taking, or that perennial favourite — being seen with the wrong people. A.k.a. guilt by association.”
Thomas squeezed the car past a bus. “Why can’t we use the truth? Show Heick and Henriette together?”
Karl made a face. “I don’t think lunch with my new stepmother is going to rock the Shadow State to its core or see Heick and his lady sent into exile. Still, capturing an intimate dinner might be enough to convince Sir Peter.”
Karl gave up and went to sleep, leaving Thomas to his thoughts. It was obvious, really, all he had to do was ask Heick for his schedule and surprise him. He glanced at the time. Jesus. Nearly half an hour to travel a couple of miles, and all so that Karl could have an extra nap before work.
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