Jess went right to the front and stood beside Major Eldridge, with Miranda in tow. Thomas paused for a moment, unsure how the seating worked. He figured it’d be best if he stuck close to Jess, because a storm was brewing. He opted for the row behind — Schaefer, Clarity and Deborah were opposite him, across the central aisle. Schaefer looked seriously pissed off.
A heavy hand thumped down on Thomas’s shoulder. For a moment he thought Terry had finally put in an appearance, but he turned to face Sir Peter. They stared at each other for what seemed like minutes and then Sir Peter smiled softly, as if nothing more needed to be said.
Classical music filtered up from somewhere and the doors at the back opened. Thomas caught a glimpse of the coffin being carried up, front and centre, then he became aware of the minister for the first time. She rose and stepped forward to the lectern, waiting respectfully until the string music faded.
“We are gathered here today to remember Amy Johanson, whose brief life ended in tragedy.”
His ears twitched at the American voice, He shifted forward a little. There was a summary of Amy’s life, followed by a reading from Psalm 144. Thomas turned to the page and nearly choked at the opening:
Praise the Lord, my protector!
He trains me for battle
and prepares me for war.
He is my protector and defender,
my shelter and saviour,
in whom I trust for safety.
He subdues the nations under me.
Hardly the stuff of solace and sorrow, more like a rallying cry to the troops. Maybe it was meant to be job-related or the major was making a point. The minister spoke fluidly. She sounded sincere, paused for emphasis and looked out at the congregation every now and again.
Thomas followed, word for word, and at verse seven, the major looked across to Schaefer and held the look.
Reach down from above,
pull me out of the deep water, and rescue me;
Save me from the power of foreigners,
who never tell the truth
and lie even under oath.
He heard Sir Peter moving behind him, shifting towards his ear.
“What the hell’s going on, Thomas?”
He didn’t have an answer so he bent forward as if to shrug Sir Peter off. Schaefer looked livid. Now, more than ever, he hoped Miranda’s brothers were close by. The minister asked if anyone wanted to say a few words and Jess’s hand shot up like a flare.
A gasp from the American trio echoed around the chapel. Jess squeezed past Miranda and took the stand. She looked about as grief-stricken as an undertaker on Bank Holiday overtime. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly smiling, but she wasn’t a shrinking violet either. The minister stood politely to one side as Jess unfolded a piece of paper.
Somehow, she managed to talk about Amy while glorifying herself. It was sickening to watch, the way she talked about sharing Amy’s confidences. The major squirmed like a worm on the hook. Jess went on about how proud they’d both been to work for Engamel and how they’d believed in the vital research work. To a cynic like Thomas it sounded like a loyalty pitch to Schaefer. And he noticed the way she didn’t refer to her notes — not once. All in all, it was a marvellous performance; it should have been entitled: Woman Without a Soul.
Clarity was about the only one showing real emotion. She wept slowly into a handkerchief, and for a while Thomas almost forgave how she’d acted the last time they’d met. The moment soon passed, right about the time that Jess stood down. As she did, Jess turned the page over to fold it up and just for a second he saw rows of figures. Unbelievably, this selfish bitch was using Amy’s funeral to taunt Schaefer — and anyone else paying attention — with what looked like numerical data. The speech had all been memorised in one almighty fuck you exercise.
As Jess sat down, there was more music. This time, a real tear-jerker — Janis Ian’s ‘When Angels Cry.’ Thomas felt emotion rising and choked it back. A solitary tear escaped the barricades, which he managed to ignore. The major’s shoulders rose and fell; the poor guy was in real difficulty. Thomas glanced at Jess’s face, somewhere between indifference and introspection. He flexed his hand and tried not to think about getting up and slapping her. He wished he were beside Miranda, to feel her hand in his. She always said that weddings and hen parties made her feel emotional — for him it was funerals, every time.
The music drew to a close and the minister concluded the service. The atmosphere was electric. He glanced over, watching Schaefer to see if he would be crass enough to make a move there, in front of an audience. Jess took her own sweet time departing, even waylaying the minister for a few words before she left. She certainly had some balls.
As Jess reached the double doors at the back — first out, naturally, a man stepped forward and grabbed her. Thomas broke into a gallop and Miranda was a second behind him. Michael Schaefer body-checked him six feet from the doors. Six feet from the commotion on the other side.
“Whoa there, tough guy.” Schaefer grabbed him forcefully. “I think we’ll take it from here.” He sounded smug, in control. Right up until the moment Miranda punched him in the kidneys. Then he sank to the floor with a choking, guttural gasp.
Thomas half-opened, half-shouldered the doors. They only moved partway, jammed against a groaning body — stocky, with crew-cut, dark hair. Definitely not Sam or Terry. He drew the doors back and gave them one almighty shove. There was a yelp and swearing, then the doors burst open. Jess was nowhere to be seen, and nor were Sam or Terry.
“My car!” Miranda called, legging it to her Mini Cooper.
He detoured to his own car first and grabbed the emergency bag — this was definitely an emergency.
Miranda wheel-span on the gravel to pick him up and then barrelled for the exit. Fortunately, there was nothing coming in. He rang Sam and it went straight to message — same with Terry. Nothing else for it, but to proceed as planned and hope that they’d managed to spirit Jess away.
As Miranda drove like a demon, he started thinking. Assuming Jess made it to Caliban’s, where could he hide her next? If Schaefer had seen the page, like he had, then things had cranked up a notch. Maybe, if he could reason with Jess, he could get a copy of the stats or whatever they were to Schaefer, and he’d call the whole thing off? Some hope.
Mentally, he cycled through the few numbers in his address book. In the last few months he’d added one more to make it a round half dozen. Petrov, who Thomas had saved from his murderous brother, Yorgi. He smiled unexpectedly; he’d just had an idea.
* * *
By the time they reached Caliban’s he was firing on all cylinders. It was still a chewing-gum-and-string plan, but in the absence of Karl it was the best he could do.
Sheryl was waiting by the door and ushered them in, bags in hand. There were no jokes today, just straight between the eyes attitude.
“You better not be dragging Miranda into any trouble, not after last time.”
He pushed past her and mounted the stairs in twos and threes. Terry met him at the top. “Thank fuck for that, Thomas, we thought you’d got lost on the way.” Terry was nursing his hand; Thomas didn’t bother asking.
Jess flounced over and kissed him on the cheek, with Miranda standing right beside him. He shook her off before either he or Miranda decked her.
“Sheryl!” he yelled, only to find her stood behind him. “Can I talk to you in private?” She showed him to her temporary bedroom.
“Have you, er, got a wig and sunglasses — the more fake the better.” He didn’t mention Miranda’s little revelation about her dressing-up box, a few weeks before.
She opened a cupboard full of wigs and extensions. “Help yourself, honey,” she said, in the most unhelpful voice imaginable. Once he had what he needed, he shifted effortlessly into ‘job mode.’ The blood was really pumping now, but it was just a surge against a tidal wall.
“Right, gather round and listen up, we don’t have much time. Miranda, grab the biggest coat y
ou can find and put these on as well. Sheryl, once we’re out of here, I want you to ring Ann Crossley on this number and tell her to take Jess to this address,” he began scribbling on a scrap of paper.
Then he stopped and changed demeanour. “Jess, can I just check something?”
She moved in close, forcing a gap between him and Miranda. He snatched Jess’s handbag and turned to one side to open it. Before Jess could lift her hand to stop him, Miranda had it pinned down.
“Don’t. I’ve already put one person down today; I’m quite happy to make it a double.”
It gave Thomas enough time to find what he was looking for. He took the sheet out and unfolded it; there were columns of numbers to four decimal places.
“Sheryl, please pass this on to Ann Crossley, to be given to Michael Schaefer.” He turned back and flung the handbag to Jess. “When will you get it into your head that this isn’t a game?”
Jess gave him a simpering look.
Miranda adjusted her blonde wig. “Where are we going, Thomas?”
“Yorkshire — just you and me.” He looked right at Jess, making sure she’d got the message.
The cab arrived quickly. The lure of an extra fiver probably helped. He promised to ring Sheryl later when things had calmed down. It had been a long day already and it was about to get a whole lot longer. Especially when they got to Yorkshire, dressed for a funeral.
Chapter 22
“Do I really have to wear this, now we’re on the train?” Miranda hissed.
“Yup,” he tried hard not to smile, but it was killing him. With the coat, dark glasses and tumbling blonde wig, she looked like a D-List celebrity, desperate to be noticed.
“People keep looking at us.”
He sipped his coffee nonchalantly. “That’s the idea.”
She huffed back into her seat and rifled through the first of three magazines she’d made him buy her at Kings Cross.
He stared out of the window, mobile in his hand. The second it hummed, he was on it like a cat. He turned to Miranda as he listened, nodding at what Ann Crossley reported. Then he sat back a little easier and tried to play footsie under the table.
“What’s made you so bloody cheery all of a sudden?”
He dimmed his voice to a whisper. “Ann’s completed the drop-off for me. And she’s turning over the paper to the Yank, later today.”
Miranda peered over the top of her over-sized shades. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
He waited until the train had passed Doncaster before ringing his sister. He had to hold the phone out to cope with Pat’s scream of delight. His adding that he’d brought along a surprise only heightened the volume. He swore her to secrecy and arranged a pick-up away from the station, a good hour and a half after their arrival.
It was exciting, being back on home territory with Miranda — like old times. He couldn’t hep smiling to himself as he packed his Conan Doyle biography back into his bag.
She stirred and leaned forward, resting her hand on his. There was a pause, a moment when time froze and it felt like it had when they were starting over, leaving Leeds for the uncertainty of London. Him, bracing himself to meet her family for the first time and Miranda squished up at his side, like a punked-up prodigal daughter.
What brought him back to the present was the edge of her old engagement ring, driving into his hand. He flinched, and immediately regretted it when she drew her hand away.
“Sorry, forgot. Hope I didn’t hurt you,” she said, displaying her usual talent for irony. She swivelled the band round, stone uppermost and started to ease the ring off.
“Better take this thing off for a while. Don’t want your parents freaking out.”
“You know,” he gulped, “you could always leave it on.”
He stared at her and she gazed back implacably as she wriggled the ring free.
“I think we need to talk that through a little more carefully, don’t you?”
The tannoy announced their imminent arrival at York and reminded travellers not to leave any possessions behind. Yeah, he thought, like hope or vulnerability.
* * *
Leeds might have industry and a suitcase full of Miranda memories to its name, but York had culture. The cobbled streets and ancient walls oozed history and charm. He steered her into the crowds — there were always crowds in York, didn’t matter what time of the year — and tried not to think about the ring. She took his arm and cranked him close; but it felt like a consolation prize.
“Come on, cut out all that macho bollocks. We will talk about it, you know.”
If anything he was annoyed at his own stupidity. What was he thinking? Answer, he wasn’t thinking at all. He’d been responding to the moment. And he should have known better.
They found a busy café and took a table outside. There, among the faux Vikings and a hen party on warm-up, Miranda’s appearance didn’t seem quite so conspicuous. Espresso might not have been the answer to his prayers but it made for a bloody good psalm.
“Gonna show me round York Minster then?”
“Aye, go on, then. But don’t go nicking anything — I know what all you thieving cockneys are like.”
It was the sort of thing Ajit would say, and he beamed at the thought. Ajit and Geena would meet Miranda again after who knew how many years. Yes, and so would Mum and Dad. Maybe he’d light a prayer candle in the Minster, as back up.
* * *
Pat, his sister, was on time. Even as he approached the car she looked nervy, scuttling out of the car and waiting for him to approach — not her usual animated self. She cried of course. Miranda took off the glasses and put on her best encouraging smile. Pat shook her hand and gave her a polite kiss on the cheek, before doing a double-take.
“Why, it’s Miranda, isn’t it? How come you’re in disguise? I thought he’d found himself a floozy!”
“Not here.” Thomas ushered them both into the car. “Take us over to Ajit’s place and not a word to Mum and Dad.”
He gave Pat a paper-thin explanation for his sudden appearance and skipped Miranda’s altogether. Pat played the polite sister and asked after Miranda’s family. Miranda seemed to want to help her out and gave her a ten-year update on all the people Pat had never met and was never likely to. And then it was Thomas’s turn to talk.
“I, er, needed to get away and Miranda agreed to come with me.”
Pat didn’t speak for a while. Then, without looking at Thomas beside her, said, “Is this to do with your job? I’m not daft, yer know! Our dad has never breathed a word about what you were up to on the moors, but I read the papers.”
Pat dropped them at a street corner. She got out of the car with them and clung to him for a few seconds. He whispered his thanks as he prised her off, and promised to ring her that evening. She didn’t look convinced as she drove away.
* * *
He walked Miranda to Ajit and Geena’s place, fizzing with anticipation. Outside of Miranda’s family, he had few friends. And Ajit had the plus of not being connected to either Miranda’s lot, or Karl.
Thomas rang the doorbell and jostled with Miranda until they were both on the step together. An inside door creaked and a broad silhouette filled the door glass. The front door swung in and Geena’s puffy face filled the frame. His heart almost skipped a beat.
“Alright, pudgy? Put kettle on, I’m parched.”
A smile erupted across Geena’s face. “Blimey, Ajit’ll bloody wet himself — you should have warned us. Get in then. And who’s this lass — surely not the famous Miranda?” She grabbed hold of Miranda as if she were a long-lost relative. “Come on in, love. Thomas can fetch bags and make the tea while we sit and talk about him.”
He followed them inside, pleased and disturbed in equal measure. First thing he did, after closing the door, was draw the curtains in the front room. Miranda took her cue and removed the wig and glasses.
“Going on to a fancy dress party?” Geena laughed, taking Miranda’s coat.
&nbs
p; “Long story,” she replied, making a time-out letter ‘T’ at him with her fingers.
He searched around the kitchen manfully, determined not to ask for clues. In any case, the chatter and laughter filtering through told him he’d get no assistance. He grabbed three mugs of tea, and choccy biscuits from a drawer, and took them through.
Geena invited Miranda to feel the baby kick and for an instant the laughter stopped. Miranda’s face froze and her hand went tentatively to Geena’s bulge. Her hand moulded around it gently and Miranda closed her eyes. Then she flinched at the kick and when she opened her eyes, she was a different person. Wistful, maybe. Whatever it was, he didn’t know quite how to deal with it. She popped a compact mirror and checked her make-up. He knew she was dabbing her eye and he knew her well enough not to draw attention to it.
The tea was drunk in near silence until Geena finally broke the deadlock.
“Can I ring him, please? Go on, I’ll put it on t’loudspeaker.”
He relented and they crowded around the phone, which was no mean feat given the size of Geena.
“What’re you doing ringing me on duty? I’ll be done in an hour.”
The speaker also did a neat job of picking up Ajit’s colleague’s piss-taking. Geena put on her best simpering tone.
“I just needed to hear your voice.”
“Nothing’s wrong is it?”
Thomas could almost hear the sweat running down Ajit’s forehead.
“No, calm down, lover boy. Just pick up a takeaway for four on your way home — we’ve got guests.”
Thomas couldn’t hold back. “And don’t be a mean bugger with the pakoras.”
“Blimey, is that Thomas Bladen, photographer to the stars?”
“The very same. See you soon.”
Ajit rang off and Thomas went back to his seat.
“Okay.” Geena bit into a chocolate biscuit. “Why are you up here?”
The notion that his friends could be just as suspicious as he was had never really crossed Thomas’s mind. Miranda, too, was looking straight at him now. Whatever he said would reach Ajit, which might implicate the good constable. So he settled for a sliver of the truth. “I can’t tell you. And besides, it’s better for you if you don’t know.”
Line of Sight Page 14
