Good question. “I double-locked the doors, front and back; no forced entry.” He could hear keys jiggling in the background.
“Doesn’t mean someone didn’t collect her; or she could have gone out to meet someone.”
Maybe she was on to something.
“So why ring me? Are you planning to form a search party?” That was Miranda, all heart.
“I didn’t know what else to do . . .”
“Yeah, you did,” there was a snarl in her voice. “Ring Karl — it’s his mobile, he can deal with it.”
He thought about Karl’s mother and shuddered a little. “No can do, Miranda. It’s my problem.”
“I’ll come over, if you want.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
There was a definite swagger as Miranda waltzed in, an hour later. He’d put on dinner for two — a freezer special — and brought out a bottle of wine, Miranda’s favourite, from the back of the cupboard. She was in a triumphant mood from the off.
“I knew she was bad news; the way she turned on the waterworks to order.”
He choked a little and scuttled off to the kitchen.
“Fess up then,” she called after him. “Did something happen?”
Crockery clattered.
“Look, it’s no skin off my nose. We’re not exclusive to each other . . .”
He nearly dropped a plate. We’re not?
“. . . But we ought to be mature enough to be honest with each other.”
He was never any good under pressure with her. “Alright. We kissed. Well, that is, she kissed me.”
“You poor defenceless man. And I suppose you fought her off to protect your honour.”
“Hey, don’t take the piss. I stopped things going any further if that’s what you’re looking for.”
She was only a few feet behind him. Close enough to hear her sighing. “You’re so easily manipulated . . .”
He didn’t know if she meant him or men in general.
“. . . Pathetic . . . make a man feel like Sir Galahad and he’ll whore himself out and be grateful to do it.”
It took all his self-control not to retaliate with: Is that how we got together? Somehow he managed to dish up without smashing anything, and carried the food through with a face like thunder. It was hard to know what was pissing him off more — the fact that Miranda was talking like this, or that she was probably right about him.
They ate and watched TV without talking; not exactly a dazzling evening. He wondered why she’d bothered coming over at all, and then remembered that she’d given him a choice — some treat that had turned out to be.
By mutual consent, they gave up the ghost at half past ten. He performed his ablutions and waited for her, but as he followed her into his bedroom she paused at the threshold. “I’ll get you the duvet for the sofa.”
He felt his mouth open about a foot. She feigned surprise. “Surely you didn’t think . . .” Game, set and match to Miranda.
He collected the folded bedclothes by the door and hunkered down on the sofa again. For a while, as he lay there, he thought about how he’d feel if Miranda had shared his bed one night, then snogged some stranger the next. He fired off a jovial text to Karl, and tried to sleep without thinking about what he was missing.
The click of the bathroom light disturbed him around midnight. He woke to a face full of cushion. The door at the end of the room was open; the bedroom glare bled across the carpet.
He heard the familiar hiss of the tap running in the bathroom. He shifted position on the sofa and saw a naked Miranda heading into his bedroom. She stopped and turned in the doorframe, cutting the kind of silhouette that would chase a man to his dreams and leave him there weeping.
“G’night then, Thomas.”
He was still gazing forlornly at the illuminated carpet when the door closed firmly, consigning him to darkness. He lay there, breathing in her perfume as it wafted through the flat. Even if he didn’t have visitation rights, his bed had been well and truly scent-marked.
Chapter 11
He took Miranda in a cup of tea at seven am and didn’t stick around to chance another rejection. Later, in the shower, he thought he heard her trying the locked door. He emerged, towel tightly around his waist, determined not to have a row.
“You coming over to Caliban’s after work?” Miranda was waiting for him.
Caliban’s — her bar in the East End; it sounded like an invitation. If he’d been any more confused, he’d have had to ask for directions.
“Sure, unless I get another call to deal with.”
“Up to you. Your loss.”
Ouch. Wrong answer. He skipped breakfast and the offer of a lift to the station, leaving Miranda to lock up with her own keys when she was done. He thought about Karl, and then about how he’d feel if it was his mother. A big question. He wasn’t close to her anymore, or his dad, unlike his sister Pat — who lived a few streets away. No, family had never been his strong suit, unless it was Miranda’s family — as his own were quick to point out.
* * *
St James Park tube was his exit from the underworld. Despite the heady concoction of heat, machinery and teeming crowds, he loved it below the surface. A million micro dramas and all you had to do was take notice. Miranda reckoned it was his father’s miner genes, desperate for expression.
And of course, where there were crowds, there was coffee. Life always felt better when it had an espresso tinge to it. He waved the little cardboard cup under his nostrils like a connoisseur, his nose tingling with delight. He alternated between choc-chip cookie and coffee, promising himself a salad at lunchtime by way of penance.
Main Building in Whitehall felt smaller than when he’d last been there, as if Sir Peter Carroll’s exposure and deflation had taken it down with him. He entered the lobby and paused, enjoying a moment of confidence. Well, almost. Karl’s cryptic comment about uncharted waters didn’t sit too comfortably.
He walked across to a wall-mounted screen, tuned to News 24. Same old shit; war, dodgy politicians, public scandals and celebrity toss. Oh, to be in England. Still, it was a good five minutes before he could tear himself away, and only then to check the time. Mustn’t be late. Ten minutes to go. May as well check in.
After the usual round of Guess Who, he put his ID away and placed his hand on the scanner. All present and correct. A kindly guard told him to go wait by the seats and someone would come to fetch him.
He sat down and toyed with his mobile, hopeful that Karl or Miranda might have something to say. Then he remembered the piece of paper with the two numbers Jess had called. His hand gravitated towards the beige phone on the glass table. What harm could it do? Answer: none because he was calling from Whitehall. He figured the first number would be the most interesting, given how Jess had described her message to the folks. This would be the prep number, hopefully. The second ring had barely kicked in before it was answered.
“Cecil Eldridge. Hello?”
Blimey. He gulped under his breath and slowly leant forward to cut the call without attracting attention from the front desk. Then he lifted his finger clear and nodded as if he were still in conversation, playing out the last of it as his security escort arrived.
“Mr Bladen? If you’d like to come this way?”
The escort was stony quiet as they made their way up in the lift. Usually that bothered him, but he was glad of it today — more time to think. Why would Jess ring Major, or rather, Cecil Eldridge? And if he answered his mobile without his rank, that suggested a very personal number. But Jess, from what she’d said, wasn’t even on the official payroll. No, she was contracted to that outfit . . . Engamel Solutions. Something else he ought to do some checking up on.
Top floor, lift doors open, turn right and compensate for the bounce from the carpet. No CCTV up here, just in case the MI5 bloke along the corridor fancied a quick chat with the CIA liaison office. The idea made him smile momentarily.
Now he was at the door. Tappety-tap; it was
The Three Little Pigs in reverse.
“Come in.”
The sound of Sir Peter Carroll’s voice sliced through Thomas’s composure. Tension slid across his shoulders like an ice floe. The escort abandoned him outside and went on his way.
He turned the handle, taking a deep breath to resist the urge to smash the man’s face in.
“Hello, Thomas.” Sir Peter’s tone was cautious, and he was keeping to his side of the desk.
He took comfort in that; they were both finding their feet in this brave new world. Sir Peter may have founded the Surveillance Support Unit and Thomas may have been a mere underling, but since Sir Peter’s collusion with the United States of Europe movers and shakers, Mr Carroll also did the bidding of Karl’s people.
“I’ve ordered coffee — it should be here presently.”
He took a seat and nodded, without offering a handshake. He winced at himself. Skating very close to looking like a dick. Whatever had happened, Sir Peter was still the boss.
The boss rested his fingertips on the edge of his desk. Maybe it was meant to be some show of honesty. Fat chance. “I’ll come straight to the point. You and Karl McNeill were asked to capture supplementary evidence at the test facility, following an equipment malfunction.”
Thomas felt his mouth open and his right hand — the punching one — start twitching. “I think you mean the scene of the fatality.”
Sir Peter’s face was blank, and pale. Either he hadn’t known or he was doing a bloody good impression. He cleared his throat and lifted his fingers away quickly, as if the desk had a built-in polygraph. “Something has gone missing from the facility and a light touch investigation is required. Suffice it to say, this is not something the military police need to concern themselves with at the moment.”
Two knocks on the door. Sir Peter shifted a gear to benevolent host and coffees were served. When the orderly had closed the door behind him, Sir Peter put his spoon down with infinite care and patience. Thomas took it as a sign that bad news was coming.
“Major Charles Eldridge has requested your assistance. He requires a surveillance officer — specifically, someone without an armed forces background.”
“But Karl and I always work together — you signed the executive order.”
“And I’ll continue to honour it.”
Honour? Do me a favour.
“However, in this case, Karl has already agreed it would be in everyone’s best interests if you dealt with Major Eldridge alone, wherever possible.”
The penny was dropping. Everyone’s best interests implied that Karl wanted things this way as well. He could live with that, even if it did mean cosying up to Ann Crossley for a while. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
Sir Peter smiled, a thin-lipped rat-in-a-corner smile. “There is a certain commercial interest in this investigation, but that can wait. Now, Major Eldridge will be here in a few minutes. When you are dismissed, I want you to leave the building and return in one hour — is that clear?”
He shook his head infinitesimally; wheels within wheels. It shouldn’t have come as a big surprise, but somehow it did. Sir Peter was still a wheeler-dealer, still playing political poker and managing to cash in early.
When Major Eldridge put in an appearance, Sir Peter and Thomas were looking at photographs together. A love of photography had sparked their first conversation, back when Thomas was a pen-pushing civil servant. And, to a degree, photography still sufficed as a neutral zone.
“Sir Peter, Thomas.” Major Eldridge nodded curtly in lieu of handshakes.
That was okay, courtesy seemed to be off the menu today. The good major explained that he had asked for an independent support officer — he didn’t mention surveillance at all. Thomas waited until the any questions part of the programme.
“Who’s the commercial interest? And what are my responsibilities there?”
Major Eldridge straightened his jacket. “The prototype weapon is being developed by a consortium: Engamel Solutions. It’s likely that they’ll want to speak with you.”
Sir Peter glanced at his watch. “I think that’ll be all for now, Thomas.”
“Very good, Sir Peter.” He rose and glided to the door, like a butler on casters. It amused him to think that Sir Peter would know this was sarcasm, while the major would see it as deferential. Perhaps they’d compare notes afterwards.
* * *
Out in the park and safe from prying eyes, Thomas checked his mobile and picked up a call me when free text from Karl. He wasted no time.
“Hey, Tommo, how’s the new job?”
“Plenty of perks — free coffee, ginger nuts, duplicity. So where are you now?”
“I’m watching the front of Main Building — I thought you might want to accidentally bump into Major Eldridge on his way out.”
“How did you know he—?”
“Come on now, Mr Bladen, credit me with some intelligence — forgive the pun.”
“I’ve been instructed to go back there in an hour so I shouldn’t imagine the major’s going to emerge any time soon. I’ll come over to you.”
Karl wasn’t looking his best. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to realise that his mother’s impending demise was hitting him hard.
“I, er, don’t know what to say.”
“That’s okay, Tommo, I know you’re the sensitive type.” Karl took a breath and touched a finger to his bottom lip. For anyone else you’d say he’d just had a thought. But Thomas knew that Karl was always thinking. “Let me make it easy for you. She has cancer — last time I spoke with the doctor, she said Ma had maybe two months . . . and I won’t be going to the funeral.”
He nodded. Karl hadn’t taken his eye off the entrance to Main Building, but now he was sitting up. “Tell you what, Tommo. Better get your skates on. Your new army friend is strolling for the border. Time to make like a Yorkshire Terrier!”
* * *
“Major Eldridge!” Thomas gasped as he made it across the road.
The major turned slowly and his face softened in recognition. “Thomas, just the man. I wanted to speak with you privately, later.”
He smiled and read him like yesterday’s news. Yeah, maybe I could ring you on your personal mobile.
“I look forward to working closely with you.”
“Me too — may I call you Cecil?” It was either clever or stupid, but he was determined to squeeze something useful from their micro meeting.
And while Major Eldridge barely flinched, his pupils did a Latin tango. He recovered sufficiently to pass on his phone number — not, Thomas noted, the number Jess had called him on. He considered asking the major how Jess was and where she was. Maybe not though, just in case the major had nothing to do with it after all and it spooked him.
He bounded back to the park like a kid who’d just been given a new football. Karl was waiting on a bench, hunched forward, sharp as a cat. “Good meeting?”
“You could say that,” he felt his smile engulfing him. “By the way, I meant to return your mobile — from the base.”
Karl pocketed the phone without looking at it. “Did Major Eldridge ring you? I gave him the number when we stopped at motorway services. I figured it best he have a private number.”
Confirmation then of how Jess knew where to call. “No, nothing from the major . . .”
“And yet?” Karl frowned, sitting back and narrowing his eyes.
He tapped out a rhythm on the bench. “Someone else called; turns out there were two technicians at the test site. The other one left the base and wanted assistance.”
“Very interesting,” Karl congratulated him. “So the major must have slipped her the number.”
Thomas blew out a breath. “Well, that might not be all he’s been slipping her. After me and Miranda picked her up, she rang the major on his personal mobile — I checked.”
Karl ran his tongue along his teeth as if scraping away the taste. “Hmm, messy. If Major E snuck her off the base then he’s prob
ably also responsible for the Land Rover cargo. That’s a lot of risk for a man in his position. I won’t ask where you’ve stashed this woman.”
“Jess,” Thomas dropped in his little pebble and then Karl made a show of lightly cupping his ears. He sprawled out on the bench beside Karl. A jackdaw scrambled to the ground a few feet away and eyed the two of them curiously.
“See now, he’s a real scavenger. Know something, Tommo? I can’t help thinking the major was using me as a mule. First the weapon components and now this Jess — it was my mobile she rang after all.
Yeah, Thomas thought to himself, the one you conveniently left with me. He scuffed the ground with his heel and the jackdaw jolted to attention. “I thought you weren’t getting involved?”
“I’m not.” Karl’s voice was flat, non-negotiable. He filched about in his pocket, dug out what looked like half a peanut and flicked it over to the waiting bird. “But let me know how you get on.”
Thomas was still mulling over what the hell he was supposed to do about it all when Karl stood up and brushed his trousers. “I’ve always trusted Major Eldridge — that doesn’t mean you should.” The jackdaw erupted into comment like a trained stooge.
Thomas’s mobile trilled; a simple ringtone; the most nondescript on the list. He nodded to Karl and dove in. “Hi, Miranda, what’s shaking?” Sometimes he was so smooth he could barely keep the phone in his hands.
“She’s turned up again, at the flat. She wasn’t expecting to find me here though.” Miranda’s tone all but screamed ‘I told you so.’
“Did she say where she’d vanished to?” Thomas upped the volume a little; making sure Karl caught every word. “See if you can get her mobile on the quiet and check the call record. I need to know who she’s called. Okay, speak to you later. Thanks.” He cut the call, turned to Karl and waited.
“Quite the little team, you and Miranda. A fella could get jealous.”
Thomas pointed to a tree. “Quercus coccinea.”
“Is that your privileged Yorkshire Secondary Education coming through?”
“Nah, it’s my 1987 encyclopaedia and a school project on oaks in Britain.”
Line of Sight Page 7
