Line of Sight

by DEREK THOMPSON

  “What do you want me to do about Jess, then?”

  “I dunno,” Miranda seemed pleased and flummoxed at the same time. “Just watch your back.”

  “That’s what I’ve got you for.”

  She smiled, took her cue and cleared the table of spots. Somehow, though, she ran out of steam on the black. He squared his shoulders, put on his best Comeback King face and — despite Miranda whistling the opening bars to The Entertainer — set to work. With careful concentration, he put the remaining stripes down methodically. Down to the black now and not even Miranda pushing up her breasts and pouting, glamour model style, would distract him.

  “Ahem.”

  He turned to see Karl and Jess, standing in the doorway like guilty adolescents. “We’re all done here.” Karl’s tone was business-like.

  Jess took a step forward. “I’ve told Karl that I’m going to the funeral. It’s what Cecil wants as well.”

  Thomas looked daggers at Karl, but they bounced right off him. He opened a conciliatory palm to Jess. “Look, we can’t protect you if you don’t stay out of sight.”

  Jess opened her mouth and nothing came out. But her eyes said plenty.

  “How about a compromise?” Miranda broke the silence. “You lie low until the funeral and that’ll give the boys time to figure something out, longer term?” No dissenters, carried unanimously, and Miranda wasn’t done talking. “Sheryl’s staying here while her flat’s being redecorated. There’s another spare room upstairs. It’s not the Hilton or anything, but it’d keep you out of Thomas’s hair.” She laughed then, as if to say, ‘Because he’s so vulnerable.’ Jess seemed to share the joke.

  “Tell you what,” Karl acted like he’d just had a brainwave, although Thomas knew him better than that, “Why don’t you pop us your keys and address, and then we can pick up some clothes and personal stuff for you.” His face was as earnest as a social worker’s. What could be amiss? Jess could hardly object. Karl held out his hand and smiled.

  Jess froze for an instant, weighing it up. “Thanks,” she twisted her mouth into a smile and handed the keys over to Thomas.

  Miranda wangled them some bar food. Jess asked a lot of questions and, for all her innocent abroad act, Thomas could see she was taking everything in. She grew more sullen as the meal went on, outplayed by three people who could evade questions without catching a breath.

  Meal over; time to go. He kissed Miranda goodbye — a matter-of-fact kiss, under the spectators’ gaze. Then he and Karl left together. Karl didn’t speak until they hit the car park.

  “Worst double-date in living memory.”

  Thomas rattled Jess’s keys as if he were calling in a cat. “Jess’s place is probably being watched — it’d take an expert to get in undetected . . .” he did his best impression of forlorn.

  “Okay,” Karl relented, “give it here. I’ll see if I can get someone to deal with it. One suitcase of clothes and personals, a black suit for the funeral and a passport if I can find one.”

  Thomas frowned.

  Karl spread his arms. “Just thinking ahead. Anyhow, can’t stop — got to get a postcard in the mail — I had Jess write and sign it. Only one I had was of Yorkshire, sorry.” He pulled out a picture postcard of Scarborough. It was addressed to Amy at a liaison office, as if it had arrived internally. Clever Karl. It might take the heat off for a day or so; and it’d make Jess’s reappearance at the funeral seem a little more plausible.

  That didn’t stop Thomas from picking holes. “How do we know Jess hasn’t contacted the victim’s family already?”

  Karl didn’t skip a beat. “Amy was an American citizen, didn’t you know? And no doubt our friends across the pond are already watching the post.” Karl stepped towards his car. “Get some sleep, Tommy Boy. I’ll bring the things to the club tomorrow night — see you at the usual pick-up — seven o’clock.”

  Chapter 14

  The flat felt way too quiet when he shut the door behind him. Funny to think of Miranda at home, in the place that used to be theirs. It all seemed like a long time ago, and now here he was in Walthamstow, end of the line.

  He settled in and took the answering machine out of the drawer — one of Miranda’s do not disturb foibles. Three messages; hang out the flags. First up, his sister, Pat — even her hello sounded cagey. Her husband Gordon’s job was at risk, and he had to work away for a couple of days. She sounded lonely, even though Mum and Dad were a few streets away. Next, Christine Gerrard — unusual for the boss to ring him at home. Just seeing how he was and what he was up to. He skipped, mid-message and played the last of the trio.

  “Alright mate, Ajit here . . .”

  “Yorkshire’s finest!” Ajit’s other half, Geena, had shouted from behind him.

  Thomas knew that would have wound Ajit up big-time because he actually came from Lancashire. You could hear the two of them scrabbling for the phone like children. Ajit had the upper hand, and given the size of him those upper hands were massive. “Just wondered, like, how ya doing and when you’re next in this part of the world?”

  “Oh, give it ’ere!” The phone clattered then Geena’s voice cut in, loud and clear. “Right you, when are you getting your arse back home? Ajit’s fretting for you! And I’m the size of a bungalow now, Uncle Tommy.”

  Yeah, thought Thomas, and so’s Ajit.

  “Come and see us soon, eh?”

  Another clatter — Ajit must have grabbed the phone back. “And bring some jellied eels for Geena. She’s into foreign food.”

  He made a coffee, dug out a biscuit from the tin, one that had not fared well in captivity, and sat down by the phone. His mobile was on, just out of interference range, in case Miranda or anyone else wanted to get in touch. Used to be that his people skills extended as far as Miranda, her family and Ajit. But, since the moors, he’d widened his circle a little. He smiled; must remember that one for the counsellor.

  Pat, first. She had an obligatory cry on the phone, but soon pulled herself together. He’d never shaken off the older-brother/lord-high-protector mantle, even though he’d been shit at it. After an update on Mum and Dad, and the kids, Pat had him buttered up so smoothly that he slid right into place.

  “No, I promise, I’ll come see you soon — when I get some time off. Course I mean it. Tell my little niece and nephew I said hello.” No message for her husband, Gordon, though — no point scaring him.

  Christine was out, or busy. He thanked her answering machine for the call, said he’d get in early next day to update her, and that he’d be around if she fancied a chat tonight. She wouldn’t, and nor would he, but it was one of those things that people said.

  It was still the right side of ten thirty, so he gave Ajit a bell, figuring he wasn’t on a nightshift. Geena picked up, squealed with delight and did a deliberately piss-poor version of a Chas & Dave song. Miranda’s mum and dad loved Chas & Dave, although he’d never tell Geena that.

  Ajit must have taken a while to crane his bulk out of a chair. “Hee, Thomas Bladen, as I live and breathe.”

  “Constable.”

  “Listen, funny man, I might not be a constable for much longer.”

  And though he should have been pleased, Thomas shrank a little at the news. Without doubt, Thomas roping him in to do the clean up on the moors would have helped Ajit’s standing, and his confidence. After all, it had made the papers. ‘Yorkshire Police assist in apprehension of drug-trafficking gang.’ A little more palatable than: ‘Yorkshire Police assist in removal of assassin’s body and subsequent European conspiracy cover-up.’

  “Well done, mate.” Thomas raised his voice to artificially high levels of encouragement. Truth be told, he was happy for him. But, as Miranda had sussed out early on, too much change made him tetchy.

  “So, are you coming up or what?”

  “Aye, go on then. Not sure when — soon, though, in the next couple of months.” It was the closest he got to commitment.

  “Nice one. I’ve got my sergeant’s exam s
oon. It’d be grand to see you, but not worth sacrificing stripes for!”

  * * *

  He slept fitfully that night, the pale glow of the mobile entering his dreams as a sallow moon over the moors. He was stumbling over unfamiliar territory, a ridgeway he’d never seen before. And right at the top, he saw a caped figure waiting for him. He woke suddenly, the smell of damp air in his nostrils and a last image of the cape’s hood lifting to reveal Karl’s face gleaming back at him.

  First thing he did was jot down the dream, just as the counsellor had asked him. It was probably all bollocks; still, anything for a pal.

  Chapter 15

  The office clock showed eight, glaring at him as if it couldn’t quite believe it either. Ms Gerrard was already in situ, her door ajar.

  “Hi, Thomas,” she called out without moving. “I brought a croissant for you.” She pronounced every French syllable exactingly. Education was surely a wonderful thing.

  He dropped his bag at his desk then thought better of it and carried it through, closing the door behind him.

  “There’s a hot choc there as well.”

  Not chocolat — how disappointing. He tried to observe her without looking her over. The latter never went down well, especially since her promotion. The hot chocolate was good, a world away from the vending machine crap on offer. A sip of it went down slow and easy.

  “How was Whitehall?” She had a certain economy of speech. Karl did that too sometimes.

  “Sir Peter wants you kept at arm’s length.”

  She didn’t seem surprised. He’d skipped over ‘I want to know what the hell’s going on’ and landed with ’I’m clear on where my loyalties lie.’ It wasn’t quite how he’d meant it to come out, but she knew him well enough. Speaking of which, he pulled his eyes back from her legs, signalling at him from under the table.

  Over hot chocolate and croissants, he told her about bugging the major and the American from Engamel. Jess didn’t figure in the conversation. They parted, all smiles; he nearly leaned forward to give her a hug but she was the boss. Plus, he’d heard Ann Crossley arriving in the main office and he didn’t want to set team expectations.

  * * *

  Traffic was snarled up around Liverpool Street, as he battled through and headed north, like a lazier latter-day Amundsen. He called Ann Crossley, hands-free from the car, safely stuck in a jam, and tackled her about Karl and Northern Ireland — the question Karl had yet to answer.

  She didn’t miss a trick. “He’s not as squeaky clean as you’d like to believe.”

  He took a breath, long and lean, as the driver in front remembered to take the handbrake off. “None of us are, Ann. I’ll ring you again once I’m off the army base. Thomas out.”

  So much for all being comrades now. He reached for some crisps — Jesus, he was morphing into Karl’s understudy — and flicked on the radio. There were the usual scandals and politicking, plus some US film star had got drunk at an awards ceremony and ranted on camera. And apparently, shares in the technology sector were particularly buoyant, pending some global alliance venture. Engamel Solutions didn’t get a name check, although he did wonder.

  * * *

  At the army base, Checkpoint Charlie exited the guard cabin and walked slowly around the barrier. If his face were the first line of defence, he was doing a grand job.

  Thomas flashed his ID, waited for the card to be returned and generally tried to keep a low profile. From the face on Charlie, even after verifying the ID, the Surveillance Support Unit was as welcome here as they were everywhere else.

  “When the MPs arrive, follow them through.” The ID card was thrust back, as if the guard had just wiped his arse with it.

  And a lovely day to you too. In the distance, a squad or battalion — or whatever they were called — was drilling. There couldn’t have been a man among them under six-two. Any of them would have given Ajit a run for his money in an arm-wrestling contest.

  * * *

  The major was waiting outside as Thomas parked up. He thanked the Red Caps and ushered Thomas inside with his two cases.

  First thing Thomas did was sweep the office and back rooms for existing bugs — competition wasn’t good for business. After the all clear, he sat down and mentally went through Karl’s list of handy hints.

  The major was busy outlining what he needed; Thomas didn’t pay attention. He was more interested in what wasn’t being said.

  “So, Thomas, any questions?”

  Was he taking the piss? A pro might have warmed up slowly, tried a little subtlety. He couldn’t be arsed. “I’ve been ordered,” he thought the major would like that, “to bug your office. Which phone would you prefer?”

  The major didn’t exactly look surprised, more disappointed. “Why are you telling me?”

  Good question. He shrugged. “It’s what Karl would do. Right, I suggest you sort out any personal calls while I’m on lunch and then vacate the room while I do my stuff.”

  The major glanced at two telephones on his desk, and tapped one.

  “Everything will be switched off until then, sir.”

  “Thank you, Thomas.”

  One item mentally crossed off the list. Next . . . “Oh, you may get a call from Services about the Land Rover we used last week. Someone stole it on Sunday night — from outside my home.”

  The major blanched; hard to tell under the neon whether it was more guilt or concern. He left the news hanging in the air to see how the major would catch it. In the end, it hit the ground without a whimper. “One more thing, Major — what did you want me to do with the copied photographs?”

  “I understood Karl was taking care of that.”

  He swallowed and turned his face, drawing in the scent of heated polish from the desk lamp. Liar — Karl would have said so. He chose his next words carefully. “Karl has been assigned to other work, because of his military connections.”

  The major snorted a sigh and glanced around the room. “You’re sure this office is clear?”

  He nodded — silly question; the major looked like he wanted to be convinced.

  “Right, this goes no further. Aside from Amy,” his voice cracked a little and Thomas thought well of him for it, “there was another technician. I took the decision to get her away from here, and made sure there was no record of her presence, on the day of . . .” he faltered, “. . . the accident.”

  “Well that’s just it. Was it an accident?”

  Major Eldridge stared at him like a sentencing judge. He flipped a folder over.

  Thomas glanced at the cover. “I don’t have clearance for this.”

  “Just open it, man; you won’t get a second view.”

  It was standard stuff. No mention of exactly what was being tested, a vague reference to mechanical failure and a conclusion suggesting that whatever test had failed was unorthodox.

  Thomas backed up a few pages, hoping to find some names to remember. “Mixed rounds.”

  The major was reading the pages with him, from across the desk. “A random selection, I suspect.”

  Yeah, Thomas thought, or you’ve been told. He handed the folder back. “There’s no mention of a second technician.”

  “Quite correct. There should always be two — to check the calibrations.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Corner-cutting. The project was behind schedule.”

  For a man on the periphery, the major seemed to know a lot about it; perhaps it was pillow talk. Thomas picked at a knuckle; he felt no closer to the truth.

  “Can we cut to the chase? This is all a whitewash; I get that. So why hold the photos? If the media even got a whiff of this, it’d end up squashed and never see daylight.”

  The major carefully locked the folder in his desk. “The photos were all I had.”

  Yeah, besides a fat pension. “Any chance of a cuppa?” Not so much tea and sympathy as tea and strategy.

  * * *

  He stirred his tea rhythmically, even though he’d
skipped on the sugar, tapping the spoon against the china like a séance-bell. Sir Peter did the same thing, using the sound to command attention.

  It occurred to him that the major hadn’t mentioned Jess’s emergency calls — either the one to Karl’s mobile, or when she’d rung the major’s personal number. Maybe he just needed a nudge.

  “Is there something else I need to know?” He waited, blinking to the rhythm of his thoughts.

  The major ran a slow hand across his forehead. It had all the hallmarks of a magic moment. “I take it you’re referring to Jess. I gave her Karl’s number for outside assistance.”

  And? More blinking.

  “She’s been in touch since, but I don’t know where Karl’s hiding her.”

  He peeled his collar away from his neck. Holy shit; Jess was playing him too. So what was her angle?

  “You’ve been honest, Thomas, so I’ll return the compliment. I was hoping you’d be willing to speak to Karl, to get a message to Jess.”

  He watched as the major’s face tightened at the name. Maybe she was putting the squeeze on his marriage — the price you paid for playing away. He clocked the time.

  “I’ll nip off for lunch and then you can give me a little space here to do the necessary. I don’t work well with an audience.”

  Chapter 16

  A staff sergeant provided the taxi service, ferrying him over to the mess hall. He also kept him company over dinner.

  “You’re not ex-mob then?”

  Thomas stalled his fork. “That obvious, is it?”

  “It’s the way you look around, as if you’re working out the angles.”

  That raised a smile. “Sorry, photographer’s habit.” He dropped back to his lamb and veg.

  “I, er, take a few pictures myself — as a hobby.”

  Many’s the time some part-time snapper had lusted after a lens he’d been carrying, or read the badge and wanted to be friends. He figured they were all after one of two things: tips from the professionals, or a peek over the fence to a future career, if the day job with the MoD, police or whatever, ran out of steam. He got the gist — to an outsider it must look like easy money, playing pretend spies — a long lens here, a microphone there and a few parcels up and down the country.