“Ah yes, the scarlet oak. And don’t look so surprised; haven’t I always told you we have lots in common? Right, I’m out of here — see you around, unless you’re clubbing tonight?” The sort of club that welcomed Glocks, Smith & Wessons, Brownings and Colts.
“Sorry, got a date I can’t break.”
Karl smiled sadly and walked off towards the trees.
* * *
As soon as the call came through from Sir Peter’s office, he rushed back. The same escort shadowed him in the lift, did the customary three knocks at the door, waited for a muffled reply and then scarpered. Before Thomas could get to the handle, the door opened and the face behind it was that of a stranger.
“Hey there, you must be Thomas. Come on in.”
He extended a hand mechanically, like a dog giving paw, while Sir Peter Carroll watched from behind his desk.
“Thomas, this is . . .”
“Michael Schaefer,” the man announced himself, heavy on the volume. “Please, call me Michael — Engamel Solutions.
As John Wright might have put it: fuck a duck. And a Texan duck at that, by the sounds of things. Thomas took up the empty chair — no coffee, he noted — and waited for someone to speak.
“This is very delicate, Thomas.” Sir Peter ran his finger along the edge of the desk. “I need you to establish an audio presence on Major Eldridge.”
He took out a notebook and listed the requirements. It helped to quell any lingering inclination to ask the wrong questions — and there were so many to choose from. Okay, so it wasn’t the first time he’d provided internal surveillance for a government department. But — and this was a biggie — the major was MoD, unlike the SSU. And laughing boy wasn’t even on Her Majesty’s payroll.
“Now, Thomas, Christine will need to be briefed, to some extent; strictly on a need to know basis.” Which meant Christine would get the wafer thin version.
“Michael will be my personal representative in this matter.” Sir Peter waved a conciliatory hand towards Schaefer as Thomas looked on. In this poker game, a Corporate seemed to beat a Title.
“Ya see, Thomas . . .”
Ah, it speaks again. Well, drawls.
“Engamel Solutions knows Major Eldridge is of the highest calibre. We just want to be . . .” he looked to Sir Peter for the right word.
“Doubly sure?” Thomas pitched in.
“Absolutely! I can see you’re the right man for the job.”
Thomas shot a glance across the desk and then went back to note taking. Two devices, preferably. One in the major’s office and anywhere else would be a bonus — car or home. No pressure then. “How will I get access to the base?” Best to identify the mountains from the off.
Sir Peter took in a breath, as if he were competing for oxygen, and released it sparingly though a sickly smile. “Major Eldridge has requested your support while the investigation is being conducted.”
He couldn’t hold back a murmur of discontent. Since when did the Surveillance Support Unit offer that kind of support?
Schaefer’s smile was pure Osmonds; Thomas nearly shielded his eyes. “If you have any out-of-scope expenses, this ought to cover it.” An Engamel envelope wafted across.
He looked to Sir Peter, as though appealing for a free kick from a referee. Sir Peter didn’t stir.
“What happens if the major doesn’t need me on the base?”
Sir Peter shifted a little in his expensive chair. “Major Eldridge’s home and private apartment addresses are also in the envelope.”
* * *
Outside, Thomas rang Miranda for an update. “Sorry, I couldn’t talk earlier — long story. What’s the latest?”
“I’m on my way to Caliban’s; Jess is with me.”
“What? Are you insane? She should stay at the flat.”
“And we all know how successful that was. Look, Thomas, I have a business to run. At least this way I can keep her company.”
He stopped walking and stared out at the skyline. “Is Butch involved?” It was their personal code for anything dodgy, coming from Butch, a hands-on photographer Miranda had encountered in her youth — and whom Thomas had given a beating.
“No,” she chuckled. “Butch ain’t around — stop worrying. I’m varying my route and staying glued to my mirrors. Catch you later, hon.”
He smiled and closed the phone. Hon, the way her bar manager, Sheryl, addressed all the male customers, flinging it about like free sachets of salted peanuts.
Chapter 12
It was weird, being in the office without Karl. Ann Crossley — his designated backup — sat on the other side of the room with nary a second glance. Or a first one. He returned the favour and typed out some notes, anonymising the major to Target and detailing the reporting instructions that Sir Peter had laid out. Times New Roman didn’t make it any clearer, so he mentally filled in the elements that would not be documented.
Someone — the major was still the frontrunner — had wanted him and Karl to receive parts of the UB40 Scavenger. Someone — again, the major was favourite — had spirited Jess away and given her Karl’s number to ring. Since then, Karl had washed his hands of it all and the Land Rover had gone walkies. On the plus side, he still had the Scavenger bits, and Jess, and footage from the accident. But what the bloody hell was he supposed to do with any of it?
He looked across to Ann for inspiration and coughed, like a teacher trying to catch out a daydreamer. She surfaced from whatever thoughts she’d been immersed in and pointed to the vending machine.
She was so different from Karl. If he had to put a finger on it, she tried too hard — the model of efficiency and bugger-all instinct. Karl might be a little rough around the edges, especially where paperwork was concerned, but he got things done. Ann? He wasn’t sure if he would trust her to pick up some shopping.
“Is this an official coffee break?” he cracked a thin smile and it shattered on very stony ground.
“How did your meeting go at Whitehall?”
So many meetings, so little sense. “I’ve been assigned to the MoD.”
She selected two coffees. “Come on,” she pushed the doors and stood at the stairwell.
He caught the door in time and followed her, tapping his security pass to make sure it was there. The lock clicked hard behind him. Ann held a plastic cup out, perhaps as a peace offering. There was no enmity between them; they just weren’t close, like Australia and Africa. He glanced up and down the stairwell. It always struck him as strange that the Surveillance Support Unit occupied only a couple of floors in buildings that belonged to other government departments.
That was one of Sir Peter Carroll’s masterstrokes when the SSU was formed in the 80s, intended to integrate with other departments. Didn’t work of course, other than to localise the disdain. Nobody welcomed the floaters, although they were happy to use them.
“What do I need to know?” Ann’s tone was blunt.
How to win friends and influence people might be a start. He didn’t answer right away, sipping the machine coffee, letting it detain his taste buds and beat a confession out of them. The real question was: What did he need Ann Crossley to know? He relented and swallowed the coffee down. They were all supposed to be one happy team after all.
“Sir Peter wants me to assist the major from the army base, while keeping him under surveillance.”
Her pupils dilated. He tried to break new ground.
“Ann, can I ask you something? What’s the deal with Karl — I know his mum is ill, but that’s about it.”
It was her turn to hide in her coffee. “Just ask Karl when he was last in the province.” She stepped around him to the door; their alfresco meeting was over.
An email from Major Eldridge awaited his attention: Thomas, I’ll see you in my office at 10.30 tomorrow. I look forward to working with you. Major C Eldridge. He stored the email address and deleted the email.
The afternoon dragged without Karl to bounce off, despite Ann Crossley’s enigma
tic presence. Since Christine’s permanent promotion, Ann was the Number Two. Karl had wrung endless juvenile fun out of that one. However, since Ann and Karl had resolved their acrimony, she largely left the two of them to get on with it. Jeez, this whole outfit was turning into one big version of Truth or Dare, without the Truth part.
At four thirty, he reminded Ann about his appointment on the base next morning and the need to do some prep work. He felt a little like a school kid handing in a note from his mum. Down at Stores, he added a GPS tag to the list, just in case Jess decided to go walkabout again.
* * *
Outside, fast approaching five pm, the city seemed to be on wind-down. The suits and the hipsters, the fashion-hungry and the drones, all gravitating towards whichever bar best represented their image.
He stood on a street corner as they trundled past in groups, chatting about their days. Had he ever been like that when he worked behind a civil service desk? Hopefully not. He turned to watch a bunch of drinkers through the faux-Victorian plate glass. A city gent, clutching a pint in one hand, was shouting into a mobile phone trapped between his ear and shoulder. If there was any justice, someone would be stealing his laptop from under the table.
Time to hit Caliban’s for a Q&A session with Jess, always assuming she hadn’t done another bunk. He pictured Miranda rugby-tackling Jess and bar manager, Sheryl, pinning her down. That was a film for another day.
On the drive over, he tried shuffling the picture cards in his mind. Jess, the major, Karl, Sir Peter Carroll, Ann, Christine and Old Smiler from Engamel; it was too much like hard work. Just when did he — to use one of Miranda’s delightful turns of phrase — become everyone’s Spy Bitch?
He ran a hand over his face and jolted when some kindly soul behind him beeped their horn. Green light. He glanced in the mirror, considering a quick one-finger salute. He almost missed the light altogether when he saw that the driver behind him was Karl.
It was a haunting smile and it carried him along on the world’s shortest convoy. A face like his mam, back when he was a kid. Mournful, that was the word for it; making the best of it and longing for comfort where there was none to be found. He sighed. All this insight after only one session with the counsellor. Another seven, and he’d be weeping into his pillow about the camera he’d wanted as a boy.
Chapter 13
Karl parked up and slowly got out. He looked like an advert for antidepressants — the before picture. “Hey, Tommo. I felt like a drink — alright with you?”
“Course!” Better than alright. Miranda had rescinded Karl’s life ban, the one she’d imposed when Karl’s job had been his one character reference. Plus, Karl could meet Jess and maybe, just maybe, inject a little sense into all this.
The bar was surprisingly busy. He had an immediate theory on that, going by Sheryl’s T-shirt and waistcoat combo.
“Hey, Thomas,” she beamed. “What would you like?”
He basked in her smile. Karl seemed to be in a world of his own — no Battle of the Banter today.
“A pint of shandy for the lad,” he turned to Karl, who merely nodded in thanks. “And a lemonade for me.”
Sheryl raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Coming right up . . . boys.”
And not, he noticed at the till, on the house.
Karl drew his chair close to the table and propped himself against it. “So how do you rate your first day flying solo?”
Thomas lifted his glass and the chunks of lemon Sheryl had added bobbed about furiously. “In a word: shit. The sooner you get back to work the better — I’ve no friends to play with.”
“Aye, well, won’t be long now . . .”
He suddenly felt like the world’s greatest arse, realising Karl meant after his mother had died. He fished out a chunk of lemon and sucked at it; it didn’t help. “Ann Crossley suggested I should ask you when you last went . . .” he stopped, appalled by his own ignorance; he didn’t even know what to call Northern Ireland.
“Home?” Karl gulped at his shandy. When he lifted his head there were tears in his eyes. “Jesus, Tommo, you’ve forgotten the crisps — see what you’re doing to me here!” Karl was laughing, only he wasn’t.
Thomas scuttled over to the bar and took his time about it. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Karl pull out a handkerchief. This was not good news; he had enough trouble with his own emotions, never mind other people’s. He lingered with Sheryl as long as he dared, while she circled him for sport. Miranda reckoned it was just her way but he’d never noticed her putting in that much effort with other men. Though that was probably what the other men told themselves.
He brought back Karl’s holy trinity: ready salted, salt & vinegar, and cheese & onion. Karl was a man who hadn’t moved with the times. He repeated Karl’s mantra as he opened the bags out. “You can’t mess with perfection.”
As he sat down, Karl patted the table. Turned out it wasn’t a hankie, just a square of white paper. “I’ve realised I’m not being very fair, leaving you in all this without so much as a helping hand.
“True,” he acknowledged. And you haven’t answered my question.
Karl’s took out a pen and held it above the paper, poised. After a few seconds, Thomas cottoned on that Karl was volunteering to be the scribe. He rattled off names for Karl to write down, and then added his thoughts — who trusted who and where the alliances seemed to be. Karl circled names and added arrows.
It was therapeutic, brain-dumping all this on to paper. Now was the ideal time to reveal that he was simultaneously assisting the major and bugging him, while still keeping schtum about the hidden components from the UB40 Scavenger. And of course there was Sir Peter’s expressed intention to update Christine with a low-fat version of events.
“To be honest,” Thomas stared at the busy page in defeat, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with Jess or the components.”
Karl scooped an assortment of crisps into his mouth. “Seems to me you’re holding a few decent cards, Tommo. Can you not see that?”
“Maybe . . .” he drank some lemonade. “But how do I play them?”
Karl swallowed the last of the crisps and ran his tongue over his lower lip. “If it was me . . .” he pulled out another piece of paper and started to write a numbered list. Karl loved lists. Lists and maps. He was what Sheryl would call ‘a visual kinda guy.’ The list was very short.
1. Tell the major what you’ve been asked to do and then bug him anyway.
2. Tell him that the Land Rover was stolen.
3. Ask him what he wants you to do with the photos.
4. Do not let anyone else get hold of Jess.
Thomas read through the idiot’s guide to problem-solving at least twice, static as a caravan. Karl’s face looked like it could break into a smile at any moment, but had chosen not to, so Thomas picked up the paper and folded it into his back pocket.
Karl took another dive into his shandy. “I could, er, really use a proper chat, sometime this week.” He looked like he was just about holding it together.
“Yeah, come round the flat. Maybe not tonight, in case I’m babysitting again.”
“I’d prefer the club if it’s all the same to you — neutral ground.”
“Of course. How about tomorrow night?”
“Thanks, Tommo, you’re a pal.” He downed the last of the crisps. “Now, where are my manners — what are we doing here?”
“Come on,” Thomas shifted his chair. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
* * *
Sheryl rang upstairs and waved them through. Miranda was ready and waiting.
“Smile, boys, you’re on TV,” she pointed to a screen split four ways.
He didn’t know whether to be pleased she’d had it installed or pissed off that she hadn’t told him beforehand. He settled for a dignified murmur of approval. “Where’s the guest?”
As if cued to his voice, Jess emerged from the side room. “Hello, Thomas,” she extended a lettuce-
limp hand, which hung in the air like a bad smell. “I feel I owe you some sort of explanation.”
That made him feel even more irked. “For what? Leaving the flat without telling me, turning up again without warning or running the risk of being seen and picked up?”
Okay, so it might have been a bit over the top but it filled Karl in nicely, in double-quick time. Karl was still standing in the background — Jess hardly seemed to register his presence at all. Then Karl did a funny thing. He came forward, sidestepped Jess altogether and shook Miranda’s hand lightly, touching her shoulder at the same time. It was a curious mix of formal and intimate.
Miranda smiled — not her fake ‘how nice to see you — not’ facial glimmer but a warm, gentle response. “Karl, this is Jess — our . . . guest. I believe you have a mutual friend. Why don’t you two have a chat while I thrash Thomas at pool next door?” She grabbed Thomas’s belt and hauled him away.
Miranda racked up the pool balls loudly, making it impossible for Thomas to eavesdrop through the open door. He caught a few mutterings but not the substance of them.
“Give it up.” Miranda gave the triangle another shake. “I’m sure he’ll tell you everything later.”
Thomas wasn’t sure either of them believed that. She spun a coin. “Call it.”
“Tails.” He took the cue and leant on the table, pulling back to break.
“Jess said you were the one who came on to her.”
The cue ball nearly went airborne, slamming into the pack unevenly. Miraculously, a stripe had been scared down a hole.
She met his gaze. “I didn’t believe her of course.”
He tried to recover his composure but his reflection was nearly as red as the three ball.
“I just wanted you to know the kind of person you’re dealing with.”
There was no answer to that; none that would avoid lighting the blue touchpaper. In between losing focus, losing advantage and losing three consecutive games, he tried hard to pick up the occasional word from next door. Midway through the fourth game — convinced that pool-star Sheryl had been giving Miranda lessons — he held the cue in the air like a totem.
Line of Sight Page 8
