“Thing is, Tommo . . .” So Karl was the messenger. He sounded almost apologetic. “. . . We all thought it was time, after everything that happened earlier this year, to settle a few things.”
Thomas waited it out, feeling no obligation to make it easy for them. He was done asking questions anyway. That faculty was already stretched to the limit, trying to figure out what had happened to the Land Rover. And what the hell he was supposed to do about a fugitive, a weapon he wasn’t supposed to have, and footage of an industrial accident that didn’t seem to have any purpose?
In the end, Christine played her seniority card. She started by reminding Thomas of things he already knew — a classic way of placating people and asserting some kind of normality. He nearly laughed at the thought: normality.
She covered old ground quickly — how there was still a faction within multiple government departments — including the SSU — that supported a fast track to a United States of Europe.
Even now it sounded like bollocks. Or it did, until he remembered Sir Peter Carroll and the set up with the money and the ache in his chest, where Yorgi the hit man tried to plant a bullet, seconds before Sir Peter put him down for good.
“You know of course that we each report to different agencies.”
He nodded dumbly. In his experience, dumb usually worked. Christine took the bait.
“And now that you know we’re on the same side . . .” which sounded a lot like ‘now that you have proved yourself.’ “. . . we only need to have this conversation once. You know Karl served in the army, Ann?”
Ann Crossley sat back and lifted her head proudly. “Naval Intelligence.”
Christine’s whole posture seemed to relax, as if the effort of pretence was over. “And before I met you Thomas, I spent two years in the Foreign Office.”
Blimey. He looked daggers across the room. He already knew about Karl’s background, but Christine’s bombshell . . . Somehow that little nugget had failed to come out during the year he and Christine had shared a duvet.
Every statement threw up more questions. He let the opportunity pass — he had enough to think about. Christine was still talking, so he tried to refocus.
“Whereas you, Thomas, have a purely civilian background.” The way she said it made it sound like some sort of infectious disease.
“But that gives you a certain objectivity and independence, which could be advantageous.”
For two months, ever since Yorgi had been surgically removed from the equation and the whole bad business put to bed, he’d been kept away from their in-house counter-intelligence. He knew it was still going on; that became obvious when Karl was late or didn’t show up for an entire day and Christine never said a word. Although God only knew who Karl actually represented. MI5 maybe?
Anyhow, it didn’t take Brain of Britain to realise that the three of them were assessing him to see if he was still capable of playing a role.
“The explosion at the test facility has unfortunate implications.”
That’ll be a great comfort to the victim’s family. He made the supreme effort and bit his tongue.
“Karl cannot get too involved in this matter, so Ann will provide any support you need.”
Now his feelers were twitching; he let his tongue go. “Support for what?”
Christine steamrollered his comment like it was soft tarmac.
“Tomorrow morning, you will report to Sir Peter Carroll in Whitehall.”
“Now wait a f . . .”
Christine gave him her know your place look, the one that always stopped him in his tracks. The one her mother had tried at that disastrous ‘Happy Families’ Christmas with him and Christine at the big house. The only time he’d ever missed Christmas with the Wrights — when Miranda had been abroad.
“It’s out of my hands, Thomas. Karl would be seen as too partisan.”
Karl hadn’t looked at him since he’d first sat down. He shot the big feller a glance, but Karl wasn’t receiving loud or clear.
“Okay, that’s all. Dismissed.” Karl and Ann rose to their feet immediately, and were at the door before Thomas had shifted his chair. Christine raised a hand.
“Thomas, can you hold on for a minute?”
Ann closed the door carefully behind her. Thomas watched as she and Karl went over to her desk, talking all the while. Best friends forever, or was that supposed to be Ann and him now?
“A couple of things . . .” Christine attempted one of those efficiency smiles — pragmatic and energy saving. “Firstly, yours I believe?” She opened a drawer and picked out an audio surveillance transmitter. “I found it under my table after Yorgi . . . when Bob Peterson was still in charge.”
She flushed scarlet and he sunned himself in the afterglow. Bob Peterson, her former boss and her former shag.
“I won’t ask what it was doing there or how you came by it.”
He accepted the bug and pocketed it, along with the battery, which she’d thoughtfully separated. He hadn’t thought to check the secure web server for sound files. Or maybe Karl had fixed that too.
“Look,” Christine softened her voice, touching his arm with her fingertips. “Karl told me you’d agreed to speak to a professional about what happened with Yorgi. I’ve cleared your schedule for this afternoon — no sense delaying, now that you’ve made up your mind.”
She held up a business card that he snatched away, like a petulant child. Her perfume wafted across; Clive Christian, if he wasn’t mistaken. Some things never changed. Which made him wonder whether she’d stopped seeing the very married Bob Peterson, especially since he’d pressured Sir Peter Carroll to transfer Uncle Bob out of London. Like Jess had said, they never leave.
* * *
Karl had stumped up for lunch; condemned man’s last meal and all that. A pub lunch, naturally, with Karl sticking to shandy. It was an olde worlde pub with thoroughly modern prices. They sat, cheek by jowl with dozens of anonymous suits, arranged in orderly fashion like a factory farm for diners.
“I’ve noticed a certain scrutiny from you today, Tommo.”
Thomas put down his panini and licked the mozzarella from his hand. “It’s nothing. I’m just surprised about working with Ann, that’s all.”
His unspoken question burned in his eyes — when did Karl get to know about it?
Karl raised a glass to his heart. “I’m touched by your loyalty. Rest assured it’ll be a temporary state of affairs. Word is that you’re going into uncharted waters.”
“Come again?” The hackles on his neck rose up.
“I believe Major Eldridge has requested your attendance.”
Thomas took another bite of panini, hit raw onion and crunched it up. The sharp, sour taste suited his mood perfectly. “But I thought you two were buddies?”
“Well, we served together, right enough. And I’d go so far as to say that he’s a decent man. It’s the former that’s the problem, if you get my drift?”
He didn’t. The onion was lingering, so he rinsed it down with the last of his orange juice — couldn’t very well see the shrink, reeking of onion. “So what will you be up to while I’m playing fetch with Sir Peter Carroll tomorrow?”
“I’m out for the day — compassionate leave. My mammy’s unwell.”
He caught his breath. To all intents and purposes, Karl never even had a family, until now.
“Is it serious?”
Karl managed the smallest of chuckles and rubbed his forehead, spiking his brown hair. “You could say that; she’s dying.”
“Shit.” Not the most eloquent message of support, but it spoke volumes.
Karl checked his watch. “You’d better get your skates on or you’re not gonna make it to Harley Street on time. Nothing but the best for our boys and girls. And listen, give me a bell later — let me know how you got on, okay?”
“Roger that.”
Karl smiled on cue. “And get some chewing gum; this close up, you smell like Onion Boy.”
“Listen,
if you, er, want to talk any time — or meet up — just give me a call.”
Karl waved his shandy towards him. “Come on now, will you ever fuck off? Please — before we start doing hugs and high fives.”
* * *
He left Baker Street tube and took his chances crossing Marylebone Road, before checking in with Jess. She was quieter, and he’d expected that. You might be able to cope with incredible challenges and stresses, but it all caught up with you eventually. Shit, that’s why he was there. She had nothing to report — if he could believe her. Which he didn’t.
He counted the street numbers until he found a column of buzzers with the name he was looking for: R. Kyriacou. He tapped his feet self-consciously and glanced up the street. Right then, here goes nothing.
The buzzer was answered immediately, confirming his name and appointment time. The voice sounded just short of warm, non-judgemental. The door clicked and he slipped inside, climbing the lacquered stairs in rhythmic strides.
On the third floor, he branched out to the left, where a woman was waiting. Her glasses hung on a chain around her neck, and her expression was neutral.
“I’m the two thirty.” A pointless repetition of his intercom intro, which might have been why it drew no response. “I’m here to see Mr Kyriacou.” Sudden thought: was it shrinks who didn’t use the term doctor or was that surgeons?
“That would be me, and it’s Ms Kyriacou.”
A brilliant start. He followed her in. No padding on the walls — always a good sign. At one end of the room was a wall-length bookcase, which puzzled him. If this was a place of work you couldn’t possibly find time to read all these; it felt like a pose. Maybe it impressed the rich clients.
“Can I get you a tea or coffee?”
He sat down with a mug of tea and a biscuit. Thankfully it wasn’t a ‘you don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps’ mug. He took a good look around; this could almost be someone’s living room. There was a faint roar of traffic; he tuned in and let it carry him inside. It reminded him of lying on a ridge as a boy and cupping his ears so that the wind blew past in a continuous sigh.
“Shall we start, Thomas?”
If he took what she said at face value, then she knew nothing about him, other than his name and that he worked for a government department. This was, she explained, a confidential referral service for people such as himself.
“Now, how can I help you?”
Chapter 10
“You see, Tommo, I told you there was nothing to fear!”
He pulled the mobile back a little and smiled at the mouthpiece. “We’ll see. I’ve been booked in for eight sessions and apparently I’m dealing with a trauma.”
“Just the one? Jeez, what a lightweight!”
He checked his watch. “I can get to Liverpool Street for four thirty, if you’re allowed out for a quick drink?”
“Aye, sure enough. I’ll see you in The George then.”
Next stop, Regent’s Park. The pocket camera was like a toy, compared with the day job, but he couldn’t let the opportunity pass by. As he crossed the busy road again and risked the wrath of cab drivers and cycle couriers, he was already getting a sense of what he wanted to photograph. This was the way he had worked when he was still chasing a role on the dailies; the jolt of inspiration and the anticipation of pulling it off; joy or disappointment — no middle ground.
Conscious of time, he’d chosen an easy win — a black and white of a lone tree beside water. It was a curious thing, photography; you could learn a lot about the snapper from their compositions. He preferred landscapes, except for shots of Miranda. She wasn’t exactly his muse, but after twelve years or so of skirting around each other, it wouldn’t do to break the set. He’d told himself that the bleak moorland photos he loved so much were a reaction to the day job, until he remembered that he’d always taken those kinds of pictures. He found a suitable cherry tree and rattled off five snaps from different positions. If any of them worked out, he’d add the best to his wall and give a print to Miranda.
Jess didn’t pick up when he rang her mobile again. No sweat, he’d be home before seven pm. She was probably in the loo; as far as Thomas knew, he was the only person who carried the mobile everywhere in case of a call.
* * *
“I tell you, Mr Bladen, the office has been damn quiet without you this afternoon.” Karl shook a couple of crisp bags to simulate excitement.
Thomas sat down and passed the pocket camera over.
“Hmm . . .” Karl scrutinised the Regents Park pictures. “Number four is probably your winner. I suppose by then you knew what you were doing, and by number five you were getting sloppy.” High praise indeed from Karl.
It felt like a Friday, on a Monday. Karl talked him through the Case of the Disappearing Land Rover, of the efforts (minimal) and the progress (non-existent) to locate and recover the vehicle. At least the paperwork had been completed. And it was satisfying to know that they’d deprived some schmuck of the special feature.
Karl dismissed any theorising on who and why and how. That could wait till another day, he insisted; this was just a wind-down meet-up. A couple of times the conversation stalled and Thomas primed himself to mention Jess. But when it came down to it, he couldn’t do it. Karl had enough on his plate with his mother. Still, there were things that needed to be said, and there was only one place where he knew Karl would talk freely.
“How about we get together, one evening this week at the gun club?”
Karl’s face seemed to glow momentarily. That or it could have been the light reflecting off his shandy. “Really?”
“Sure. Why not?” Thomas put his hands together in mock prayer. “My therapist did say I should confront my fears.”
“Fantastic. You don’t have to participate if you don’t feel ready.”
“We’ll see.”
Just the thought of the club and the cold weight of a gun made his hands sweat. But seeing the unexpected joy on Karl’s haggard face almost made it worth it.
Two drinks on and Thomas realised that he hadn’t bought Jess anything to wear. He blushed, because the idea of it conjured up all kinds of complications. He turned the conversation to the following morning’s meeting in Whitehall.
Karl listened for a while and cut in at the first opportunity. “I understand how you feel about Sir Peter Carroll. The words snake and poisonous come to mind. But the art of politics,” he nodded in Thomas’s direction, “which I accept is not your bag, lies in shaking hands with the person who just tried to stab you in the back.”
Thomas consoled himself. Besides, Karl’s shadowy friends were now running Sir Peter Carroll as a . . . was it a double agent or a triple agent now? Whatever it was, it made his head hurt.
As he was leaving, Thomas had another thought. “Is Major Eldridge married?” Apparently he was, although Karl never said if it was happily.
* * *
He caught the overground train to Walthamstow Central and negotiated his way through the drifters and delinquents who treated the space outside McDonald’s as their personal territory.
No one paid him much attention and that was how he liked it; he could have been any other pen pusher trudging home, rather than a recent collector of unclaimed weapons and people. He cut down a side street to cross Forest Road and gave a nod to Lloyd Park. How many years was it since he’d proposed to Miranda by the Yew tree there? Still not long enough to forget that she’d deflated his big moment by telling him that Yew trees were connected with death and graveyards. So much of life, he pondered, as he popped into the convenience store for milk and bread, was fixed by tiny events — like pixels in a digital frame. Even now, as he wondered whether it was insulting or considerate to buy tampons and deodorant for his houseguest — it was all down to having Karl’s mobile when the call came in. If only he’d given Karl his phone back.
What was it the therapist had said? ‘Trauma can make us examine our values and our choices. Often, traumatic events
are entirely out of our control. But what we do subsequently can be influenced by them.’ He wasn’t quite sure how that applied to toiletries, but it was something to think about.
* * *
Instinct wasn’t something he often laid claim to; he preferred to think of it as being observant, reading what was there for anyone to see. It was all in the details. As he approached his flat, he knew straight away that something wasn’t right.
He stood outside, checking life’s pixels. And there it was, the join on the curtains — seamless. Beyond neatness and beyond how he’d left them that morning. He checked the front door — locks intact, not a scratch on them; hinges the same. A familiar sinking feeling settled in his stomach as he unlocked the door; if he was right, there wasn’t much point in announcing himself.
He dropped the shopping by the door and flicked the lights on. It was very quiet. The front curtains had been bulldog clipped together. He tried the back door then spotted that the nearby window was unlocked. Not a sign of Jess about the place, or her original clothing. Part of him was worried, but he couldn’t see how anyone could have broken in and taken her without leaving any traces behind.
One sideboard drawer was slightly out of line from the others — and £40 adrift. The missing cash he could live with, but leaving his flat vulnerable was a cardinal sin. He noticed the post on the coffee table, so she must have been there when it came, at around eleven. His brain shifted up a gear. Of course, she could have been anywhere when he spoke to her earlier on the mobile. Well, done is done; now what? He flipped his mobile and dialled the most-called number.
“Miranda Wright, who wants to know?”
“It’s Thomas. There’s a problem. Jess has disappeared; she got out of the flat while I was at work.”
“So your sexual magnetism repels as well as attracts?”
“Yeah, very droll,” he snapped. “Meantime, one woman is dead and another one who was at the scene is out there alone.”
There was no response for a few seconds. “How do you know she’s alone?”
Line of Sight Page 6
