“I know, love,” her eyes softened. “I know you are.”
Thomas and Miranda went off to make a fresh brew; he made sure she closed the kitchen door.
“So,” he lined up the mugs with his back to her. “What sort of things did you used to say to your mum and dad about us?”
He glanced round and Miranda was there waiting. She refilled the kettle.
“I didn’t tell them we’d, you know, done the deed.”
That was polite, by Miranda’s standards. Something about being at her parents’ home often dampened her farmyard sensibilities.
“Well, what then?”
“Just stuff — I was a teenager back then. Teenage stuff. That I was safe and I’d met this gorgeous boy from Yorkshire. My very own Heathcliff, all moody and intense, only with much shorter hair!”
The kettle bubbled and frothed and she lifted it off the element just before the switch popped. It always pissed him off.
“For all I knew, they might have killed me when I first met them. I was absolutely bricking it.”
“I know,” she said, grinning at the memory of that first meeting. “I s’pose I wanted to see whether you really meant all the things you said in Leeds. I know different now.” The last sentence sounded like an afterthought.
He took a tray, with mugs and biscuit reinforcements, back to the front room. John and Diane had that stilted look, as if they’d been deep in conversation only a moment ago and didn’t quite know how to disguise it. John airlifted a mug.
“So why’ve those blokes got it in for Karl — some sort of Paddy religious thing is it?”
“Not exactly.” He had been hoping to keep Karl’s private life out of it, but he saw now that he’d been naïve. He couldn’t really expect John and Diane to get involved — and the signs were promising if they were still asking questions — without at least giving them the background.
It was like swimming in Gormire Lake, back home. At first you recoil from the shock, from that hollow feeling in your stomach. But after a while, once you accepted it and started moving around, you got used to it. And that was how he felt, spilling the beans on Karl’s past love life.
Diane did the talking. She wanted to know about Karl’s background, about when he’d last spoken with Martin and Francis-Andrew. And her radar was finely tuned. “Where’s Karl’s dad, then?”
Funny you should ask that. “Not sure. He never mentions him. I don’t even know his name.”
“John?” Diane nudged him.
“Yeah,” he re-entered the fray. “I was just wondering if these people know what Karl does for a living? Unlikely I s’pose — given how you secret squirrels like to operate.”
Thomas flinched. A little below the belt but no less accurate for it.
Diane paid no attention. “How does that help us?”
John sniffed and bit into a ginger nut. “Well, what if we could shoehorn Karl into another business, temporarily? Maybe that would get him safe passage over there, for work.”
Thomas could already see the flaw. “But what if they want to know what he’s doing over there — apart from seeing his mother I mean?”
John shook his head slowly, like a cat outlining the options to a cornered mouse. “Doesn’t work like that. In this line of business, no one ever asks. It’s just not done. Leave it with us, we’ll make some calls — discreet, like — and let you know.”
Chapter 20
Thomas washed the suds from his face and let the noise of the shower clear his head. Many of life’s more cosmopolitan experiences had eluded him, but tonight he could cross another one off his list. Because tonight he was having dinner with Michael Schaefer — courtesy, no doubt, of his Engamel expense account. Obviously, it wasn’t a date date, though come to think of it Schaefer had been quick to decline his suggestion of bringing along a partner. Nah, surely not.
He turned off the shower and squeezed the water from his hair so it ran down his back. Then he dried off and put on the clothes hanging against the door. If he was nervous before, that little thought just increased it by the power of ten.
When his makeover was complete — having deliberately toned down on the aftershave — he unlocked the door and stepped out confidently. Karl was sat on the sofa, flicking through a Raymond Chandler novel.
“Pretty as a picture, Tommo. If the SSU ever do an in-house magazine, you’ll get my vote for the cover.”
He struck a pose. “Surely you mean undercover? Come on, then, let’s see your toys.”
Karl put the hardback down and opened his magic box. Some of the bugs and tracers were standard surveillance kit, stuff Thomas had worked with, day in day out for the last two years. But Karl also had his other supplier — the one he never spoke about.
Thomas rifled through the trays like a kid in a sweet shop. Karl sighed and laced his fingers together impatiently. “And you’re sure you don’t want me to follow you around?”
“No ta,” he replied without looking up. “I’m not even sure Schaefer will give up anything useful — it’s probably his chance to suss me out.”
He suffered Karl’s fussing and accepted the compromise; a tracer in his shoe — in case he got lost — and a wire, under his jacket. But finally, after much persuasion, he agreed to one of Karl’s shadow army remaining on standby. He didn’t ask for details; it was better not to know.
* * *
Leicester Square was an unusual choice for a meet-up, at any time — more chance of losing someone than connecting with them. Even in the evening there were still hordes of tourists drifting about. And never far behind them, watching from the shadows: the homeless and the hustlers.
He walked past a burger vendor who was half-heartedly plying his trade. The rich smell of over-cooked onions and under-cooked meat product seemed to sum up tourist London after hours: full of promise but unlikely to deliver.
He was deliberately early and did a couple of circuits, reminding himself what the area felt like and where the nearest tube stations were. It was different, being here without a camera. He had no use for the lights and the chaos, no clear purpose to cling to. Now, wandering around, anonymous and adrift, he was just killing time.
After the second visit to the Swiss Centre clock, he figured he’d head over to the restaurant. It would have been easy to find, even without directions — it looked expensive and exclusive. Miranda would have loved it. He loitered at the door, fiddling with an imaginary cufflink. “Here goes nothing,” he announced quietly, for the benefit of the transmitter.
Schaefer was in the bar and made eye contact him as he went inside. So far so good — at least he hadn’t been stood up.
“Tommy — come on in!” Schaefer oozed confidence. His handshake was assured and unambiguous, very alpha male. “Glad you could make it — and a little early too. No problem, they’re already waiting.”
They? He followed Schaefer over to a bar table where two women were sipping champagne.
“Ladies, here’s the man I’ve been telling you about. May I present — Mr Thomas Bladen.” Schaefer made it sound like a chat show. To complete the charade, he wrapped an arm around him as if they were old college pals and followed it up with a back slap.
Thomas resisted giving him a slap of a different kind in return and coughed, so that he could check the surgical tape under his shirt was still in place. The two women languidly greeted him; they were dressed barely the right side of decent, and he accepted a champagne glass just to have something else to focus on. Ordinarily he wasn’t a fan of the hallowed grape — Christmases at the Wrights and once at an engagement party — his own. But needs must, and all that.
Schaefer was enjoying centre stage, clicking his fingers for another bottle. “We’ve already ordered,” one of the two floozies pointed to a menu on the table.
He opted for the tried and tested; it saved time. He told himself to loosen up, but he was drum tight. Unfamiliar people, unfamiliar location and unknown motives; it all added up to a whole lot of uncomfortab
le.
Schaefer re-introduced Deborah and Clarity as fellow employees of Engamel Solutions. Thomas wasn’t sure if he believed him. Or that Clarity was a real name.
Their table was called and Deborah carried over the champers, clutching it close to her chest. Even the bubbles seemed that little bit more excited. Schaefer had them seated boy-boy and girl-girl at the round table, so the immediate view was Deborah; he had to fight the urge to wipe the condensation off her cleavage. He sipped at his glass and sailed through the starter, skirting the edges of conversation about his work. Schaefer was happier talking about Engamel in any case; the man was a walking promo: blah blah, multi-million dollar; blah blah, world-beating innovation.
They were on to some like, totally amazing white wine now, which he didn’t have the heart to tell them reminded him of chip shop vinegar. Clarity pressed a hand over his.
“So, Tommy, don’t you think London is the greatest city in the world?”
He left his hand where it was and waited for hers to retreat. “I’m not from London. It’s alright though, but it’s not a patch on Harrogate.”
Okay, he might have been exaggerating a little, given that he had relatives in Harrogate. But it gave him a breather as Clarity tried to process the irony without the aid of a safety net. It was a full thirty seconds before she caught on.
“Hey, you’re just making fun out of me! Seriously — so which part of London is Harrogate in?”
Bless her heart, she was only 200 miles out. He seized control of the conversation, and went down a familiar route, giving them an armchair tour of Yorkshire, comparing American Football with Rugby and generally doing a flag-waver for the Yorkshire Tourist Board. All material he’d previously practised, bantering with Sheryl at Miranda’s bar.
Schaefer’s lobster would have made Freud blush. Deborah had followed suit and the two of them ripped into their crustaceans with gusto. Clarity had shifted her chair towards Thomas a little; he noticed, even if the others hadn’t. He stuck with small talk and fillet steak. And he watched as Clarity filleted her Dover sole with infinite care, the flip side to Schaefer’s Yankee brashness. Somehow, they managed to talk below Schaefer and Deborah’s noise level, but nothing much was said.
He felt relieved when everyone opted to skip dessert and fast-forward to coffee, even though the wine was still flowing on the sidelines. He hadn’t risked looking at his watch, but his internal clock ran to about two and a half hours. It was a skill he’d honed in childhood, measuring the angry silences of his father.
Okay, so the evening had largely been a waste of time. A good meal though, and somewhere to take Miranda when he won the lottery. He settled his cup down and listened half-heartedly as the Engamel trio laughed at some private joke. Then the conversation cleared like static, and Schaefer leaned towards him.
“If Jessica comes to the memorial service, I want to speak to her.” It didn’t sound like a request and that got his back up. Rather than confront it head-on, he tried a sideways approach.
“Listen, Michael, if we’re going to get those papers back, maybe we need to give her a little breathing space — to grieve and that.”
Schaefer’s chest expanded a couple of inches. “No, you listen, Bladen,” Schaefer prodded the table, jangling the crockery. “Five minutes with me and she’ll be sending the papers back by courier.”
He remained still, although the urge to smile because Schaefer hadn’t questioned the papers was nearly killing him. Schaefer wasn’t finished.
“And don’t give me any crap about grieving. Jessica’s only interested in herself. Sure, she was close to Amy, but I wouldn’t say it was a two-way thing.”
Thomas sipped at his drink calmly, hoping for more treasures. Schaefer didn’t disappoint.
“I’ve gone through her file, Tommy — reads like a psychology manual. Only child, orphaned at a young age. Extended family rallied round as best they could, but she ended up in care and sort of missed her turn in life.” He sounded almost gleeful.
Thomas turned defence advocate again. “It must be hard to recover from a start like that.”
“Tell me about it!” Schaefer took a slug of wine and swung the glass around like a conductor’s baton. “Total fantasist. Her application says she studied at Oxford . . .” he paused until Deborah and Clarity had given him their full attention. “Sure, some backstreet outfit near Oxford.”
Thomas’s brain started somersaulting again. He picked up a bottle and refilled everyone’s glass, except his own. “Then how come Engamel took her on?”
This was fast becoming a Q & A session, for the benefit of the tape.
Schaefer slurped some more wine, dripping it on the tablecloth. “Kinda nosey bastard ain’t ya?”
He smiled and looked Schaefer right in the eyes.
“Nah, I’m only messing with ya, Tommy, you’re okay — you’re one of us. At least, I hope you are!” Schaefer flicked a glance to Deborah and Clarity.
Thomas caught it, but couldn’t make any sense of it.
“Jessica might be a little screwy but she’s got it all going on up here,” he tapped at his temple. “Genuine eidetic.”
Thomas nodded politely. Not a clue. As things wound to a close, he took stock. No harm done, a little team-building, a new word to look up and maybe Karl could sift something useful out of the evening’s commentary. Time for group hugs and then he could piss off. “Well, thanks for a great meal and everything,” he shifted the chair back to stand. Schaefer raised a hand to block him.
“Hey, the night is young. You’re not planning on leaving us already? I booked us all rooms nearby.”
Oh bollocks. He felt a chill skateboard down his spine. God only knows what laughing boy had in mind.
* * *
The streets of London felt full of foreboding, but Schaefer just breezed along, locking arms with Deborah for mutual support and anything else going, judging by the look of them.
Clarity tagged along beside Thomas. She said nothing. If he were a betting man, he’d say it was odds on she’d been paid to be there. He let Schaefer lead them a merry dance through the darkening streets, staying vigilant for the four of them. After a while he stopped holding his keys at his side, through his knuckles.
“Here we go,” Schaefer announced, flinging an arm towards the hotel as if he’d just paid for it out of small change. It would have needed a lorry load of small change.
They stumbled up the marble steps. In a word: palatial. Schaefer showered tips like confetti and collected the room keys.
Thomas hung back by the lifts with Deborah and Clarity, watching as they whispered and nodded in his direction. He blushed, like an idiot; if he got any more out of his depth, he’d be needing scuba gear.
Schaefer sauntered over with a collection of keys and the lift doors opened. The journey took forever and that just made it worse. Someone was pressing against his arse — he didn’t dare look to see who; he was too busy sweating.
He remembered being a teenager, and a game of strip poker with male and female friends. Rushing home to put on three T-shirts and extra socks then dashing to the venue, stiff with worry. A bead of sweat meandered down the blind side of his face. He felt every millimetre it travelled, imagined it gradually negotiating the terrain of his face. And all to the faded soundtrack of Celine Dion.
He was last out of the lift, hurriedly wiping his face as the others moved ahead. Schaefer and Deborah fumbled along the corridor together, parting and colliding, like moths against a light bulb. Schaefer opened the door. He was still holding all the cards, and the keys. The room was massive. If Thomas had to guess, it was a penthouse suite.
It took him a moment to realise he was the only one standing at the doorway. No big deal, he told himself — just a nightcap with his new friends. Then he’d collect his key and leave them to it. The it bothered him. He stepped inside and closed the door carefully behind him.
Shoes had been scattered across the carpet. He heard laughter and the sound of water. “
We’re in here!” Deborah’s voice teased.
He crossed the room slowly. Sweet Jesus.
Schaefer was climbing into a Jacuzzi, au naturel; Deborah was already ahead of the game. She leaned back and the water from her hair ran down her breasts. At first he couldn’t see Clarity, then she turned her head from the side of the tub and wiped her nostrils.
Miranda sometimes liked to taunt him — rightly — that he hadn’t led a very adventurous life. But even he knew it was coke. He made a flippant comment about sinusitis, for the tape.
Clarity lifted up a tray and Deborah took it. She seemed to hold it there above the frothing water, poised, as if watching for his response. Clarity glanced at him over her shoulder and eased into the tub. And she took her time about it. Then she reached for a champagne glass at the side and patted the water playfully. Schaefer’s head disappeared under the water. Deborah finished her line and shifted position to accommodate him.
“No need to be shy, Tommy. We’re all grown-ups.” Clarity swished a hand through the bubbles. Without warning, Schaefer’s head surfaced in front of Deborah, who was all smiles.
He gazed at the three of them and blinked slowly. Back in Sunday school in Yorkshire, there’d been a picture in one of the books. He could see it in his mind’s eye now, clear as day. Two roads: two destinations. On one side, a beautiful glowing angel and a road that led to a bright green meadow where Jesus seemed to be having a picnic. On the other side, an indefinable shape, almost human, calling from a path of overgrown trees and shadows. He’d had nightmares about it.
Now, as he watched the three amigos get very amigo-ey indeed, this looked like an adult version of the same thing. Schaefer moved between the two women, his arms around them like serpents. “Well, Tommy, what are you afraid of?”
Afraid wouldn’t cover it; try completely intimidated. And curious. And even the teeniest bit repulsed.
As he stood there, like a coeliac at a bread festival, he felt his cheeks burning. In the haze of dinner and naked Americans, he’d forgotten something important. And he hated himself for it. “You do know that Amy’s memorial service is tomorrow?”
Line of Sight Page 12
