Line of Sight

by DEREK THOMPSON

  Geena’s face lost a whole lot of its welcome. Miranda diverted her, asking about baby names and life oop north. He followed Miranda’s lead and made another brew to keep the conversation flowing and pass the time.

  * * *

  Ajit clanged the gate shut, whistling ‘London Bridge is Falling Down.’ Thomas itched to get to the door before the key was in place. But he sat still, sensing the smile spreading across his face like a sunrise.

  The door slammed. Geena muttered to Miranda about the paintwork. The tune, if you could call it that, continued through to the kitchen. Thomas shifted forward in his chair. Footsteps thudded in the hall and the door handle slowly turned. Then Ajit squeezed through the doorframe.

  “Ta da!” First thing he did was go over to Miranda and offer his arms. “Come on, then, up you get — let’s have a look at yer.” He swallowed her in a bear hug and lifted her round to one side. “Oh, you’ve brought a friend. It’s, er, Thomas, isn’t it?”

  “Dick.”

  Once Ajit had put Miranda down, he and Thomas did a hearty round of bloke slaps until Geena cleared her throat.

  “Ere, you big lump. Remember me — mother of your unborn . . .”

  Ajit nipped outside the door and returned with a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates.

  “Ah bless, he’s well trained now.” Geena turned to Miranda. “It can be done.”

  They ate in the kitchen. Thomas and Miranda split a beer between them. Ajit and Geena stuck to orange juice. It must be strange for Miranda, Thomas thought. Okay, so he talked about Ajit now and again, but the last time she saw them — barring their one weekend in London — was years back.

  Geena broke off from an assault on her lamb bhuna. “So, are you two like, back together?”

  Ajit gave a nudge under the table, like a mini earthquake.

  “What? Are we not allowed to mention it or something?”

  Thomas was still peeved about the train journey so he said nothing and raised his eyebrows at Miranda. She looked straight at him then to Geena.

  “I’m still in the fourteen days cooling-off period; I haven’t made my mind up yet.”

  Geena laughed so hard that she needed a sip of orange juice, which didn’t help her any. While Thomas, he just felt very small indeed. And at that moment, he envied the life that Ajit and Geena had — the certainty and stability, even allowing for Ajit’s terrified anticipation of parenthood. As for himself, he didn’t know what he wanted.

  “Hello, Thomas? Are you still with us?” Ajit’s voice broke through.

  “Yeah,” he blinked at a soggy piece of naan bread in his hand. “I reckon we should make tracks soon, Miranda.” And now for the tricky part. “I’ll ring Pat and see if you can stay there tonight; I’ll go to Mum and Dad’s.”

  She nodded slowly, as if she’d been expecting this. Ajit raised a hand.

  “Don’t be a silly beggar — you’re both stopping here with us.” Ajit and Geena joined hands in a show of solidarity; it hurt Thomas to disappoint them.

  “Nah, that’s okay. I sort of arranged it earlier.” It was a shit lie and even Miranda’s little supporting smile didn’t make the pill any less bitter.

  When he rang her, Pat was happy to oblige, even if her part-time husband Gordon was complaining in the background. But bollocks to him.

  “Miranda, time to get your gear back on.”

  Ajit drove them over to Thomas’s parents, taking the scenic route. On his own, Ajit sounded more like a police officer and less like a friend. “I’m not stupid. We don’t see you for yonks and then twice in three months. I take it this is work-related again?”

  Thomas shrugged. Miranda stayed quiet in the backseat.

  “Well, if you need me, you know where I am.”

  “Yeah, Thomas brightened. “Under Geena’s thumb, as usual.”

  Ajit gave Thomas a playful shove that nearly dented the passenger door from the inside. Pat was already waiting at the drop-off around the corner from their mum and dad’s. She looked more agitated than before. Ajit waved from the car as he pulled away and Thomas pondered what might have been if Ajit and Pat had gone through with the teenage thing and made a go of it together. His dad would have really loved that — a copper in the family.

  “Gordon’s looking after the kids.”

  That’s big of him, considering they’re his too.

  “Are you gonna tell me what the glasses and the wig is all about? You know mam and dad are gonna ask.”

  “Not if you let us in with your key, first.”

  * * *

  “Only me!” Pat giggled, quietly ushering Miranda and Thomas in the door.

  As soon as she was inside, Miranda took off her accessories and shoved them in her coat pocket. Then she grabbed Thomas’s hand.

  “Ready?” he whispered and kissed her softly, tasting the spices on her lips.

  Pat blushed and eased the door in from the hall. “I, er, found a stranger outside so I thought I’d bring him in.”

  Their father rose from his chair. “If it’s another bloody charity collector they can go wanting. Honestly, Pat!”

  Thomas went in first, Miranda’s hand still in his. He watched while his father’s face changed as he looked from him to Miranda.

  “Hello, Dad. You remember Miranda.”

  His mother poked her head out of the kitchen door and for a moment there was silence. Pat came in and stood beside Miranda. Thomas thought they looked like bodyguards and maybe that wasn’t such a bad comparison. You could have heard a pin drop, in sand.

  “You both look very smart.” Thomas’s mother noted, collecting a teacup from the mantelpiece.

  “We’ve been to a funeral today, in London.” He stared his dad down: your move.

  Mam made a break for the kitchen with Pat in tow. Thomas could hardly blame them. Thomas’s dad sighed and folded up his newspaper.

  “I’ll go first, shall I?” Miranda’s voice was like a chisel against mahogany. “We had a very pleasant journey, thank you.”

  Bladen senior scratched at his chin then his eyes crinkled at the edges. “I’ll say this for thee, you’ve got some spirit about you — not like him, stood there like a wet weekend.”

  Thomas willingly accepted the role of fall guy in order to keep the peace.

  “So, are you alright now then, lass? I presume you’re speaking to him again.”

  He winced, thinking back to the aftermath of the moors incident, when Miranda would have nothing to do with him. He didn’t need reminding about it now.

  Pat called out from the kitchen, asking if Miranda took sugar. Thomas quickly replied on her behalf, just to have the chance to say something that couldn’t start an argument. Tea, cake and north-south prejudice — Yorkshire hospitality at its finest. In this house, no one asked what they were doing in Pickering.

  He bore the tension as long as he could, then cast a pointed glance at his sister. Pat launched out of her chair and announced that she and Miranda were making tracks. Miranda didn’t offer any objection as she got to her feet — lucky cow. She said her goodbyes, complimented his mum on her cake and generally behaved like the perfect guest. He saw her to the front door, making sure her disguise was on properly before she left.

  There were maybe a dozen steps back to the front room and every one was laden with expectation and disappointment. It was like returning to the headmaster’s study.

  “So, how have you both been?” he said.

  His parents were squeezed in together on the settee; they looked small and vulnerable. His mother stirred her tea carefully. “Should I make your bed up for tonight?”

  He nodded and took up a position alongside them. The TV came on and all hostilities were suspended. He wasn’t big on television, but he was happy to embrace the local news and a charming story about a school choir. Eventually, his dad began to pass comment. A few nods and murmurs from Thomas and soon all embassies were on speaking terms again.

  When his mum slipped upstairs to sort out the be
dclothes, Thomas’s dad looked at the closed door.

  “So,” he turned back to the TV, “everything alright at work?”

  “Aye, pretty much. We ’appened to be in the area so we thought we’d pop in.” It was neat, connecting the visit to his job, just by association.

  “Got summat to show you,” his dad stood a little shakily and opened a sideboard drawer. He drew out an envelope, passed it across then lowered himself down to the cushion. Inside the envelope was a set of photographs of garden birds.

  “Finches come regular now I’ve started putting out the right food.”

  “And what about that whippet you were talking about?”

  “Aye, well, mebbe once my leg’s back in shape.”

  Photography had been the one thing they’d had in common while Thomas was growing up. Even after he’d been thrown out and had moved down to Leeds, he could usually count on a friendly reception if he had a camera or prints in his hand. Ironic that photography had brought him into the government job that he knew his father despised.

  He turned in at nine o’clock and gave Miranda a call to see if her attempts at happy families had gone any better than his. She said he had a wonderful nephew and niece and it was a shame that he never saw them. And she volunteered that Pat’s husband Gordon looked shifty. Ten points for that alone. And just when he thought Miranda was happy to follow his lead, she turned everything on its head.

  “If they’ve tracked us to Yorkshire — and they’d have to be stupid not to — then what happens next?”

  He hadn’t figured on Miranda needing to know, or on wanting to tell her. “I’ll ring you back in a bit.”

  “Take your time,” she said. “I’ve got a bedtime story to read first.”

  Downstairs he could hear Ma and Pa talking about him. She was worried and he was reminding her that Thomas was a grown man and could look after himself.

  He rang Karl to swap updates and funny stories. Karl got in there first.

  “I’ve heard of a wedding crasher, but never a funeral one. Honest to God, I leave you alone for five minutes and suddenly it’s bedlam. How’s life up North?”

  It seemed that everyone knew where he’d headed. “You tell me.”

  “Well, I happen to have a little inside information. Jess has been reported as a vulnerable missing person — by the family she doesn’t have anything to do with.”

  He felt his spirits flagging as the call went on. “How long have I got, Karl? The morning, really? No, I’ll sit tight and wait it out — might warn Miranda though.” But not Pat, not if he wanted a little authenticity.

  He gave and got what he needed to, then cut the call. He sat in his old room, gazing up at the cross on the wall. Did his mother still feel the Good Lord was watching over them? Forgive us our trespasses and all that? He was a fine one to talk. He was using his family — all of them — in order to give Jess a head start. He lay on top of the bed, unable to settle. What if Ajit was doing the knock in the morning? Would Ajit be tempted to alert him beforehand? Not if he ever wanted his stripes.

  He had to think long and hard about what to say to Miranda before he dared pick up the phone again. She listened calmly, taking it all in her stride. If anything, it made him feel even more wretched.

  “And you’re not angry or anything?”

  “Aw, Thomas, I didn’t think I was coming up here on a fancy-dress holiday. I knew you were up to something. And besides, I’ve just read Little Red Riding Hood to the kiddies so I know all about big . . . bad . . . wolves, like you.” Fairy stories had never sounded sexier.

  “I, er, don’t know exactly how it’ll go down tomorrow. Sorry and all that.”

  “Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning. And listen, about earlier, on the train. I know how you get, after funerals. I promise we’ll talk, when we get back to London.”

  A flash of memory lit up his brain. That was how he’d come to propose, the first time — after her nanna’s funeral. Blimey, she knew him so well it was frightening.

  He fell asleep easily, perhaps a little too easily. Karl had once told him that when you no longer had doubts, or a conscience, it was time to give it all up. Easy words for the Celtic Avenger. As for Thomas, he wasn’t sure if he was numb to the repercussions or just fixated on getting justice for Amy, even if that meant helping out Jess in the process.

  Chapter 23

  By the time his alarm bleeped at six thirty, he’d been awake for at least half an hour. At seven o’clock, the house began to stir so he showered and made sure his bag was packed; he had a feeling he wouldn’t be there for much longer.

  The call came through just before eight. Pat was frantic, screaming about the police hammering on her front door and scaring the kids, and all the neighbours watching from the street. After a quick shouting match with his dad, he took the receiver, tried to soothe her and promised he’d come straight over. His father looked daggers at him.

  “Is this your doing? I might’ve known you’d bring trouble up here — again.”

  His mother peered out from the kitchen but didn’t say a word.

  “If you’ve got Pat into difficulty, don’t bother coming back here. I mean it.”

  He grabbed his bag and headed for the door. A burly policeman was already heading up the path; it was Ajit, accompanied by a colleague.

  “Thomas Bladen? I have reason to believe you may be harbouring a vulnerable missing person against their will, in contravention of . . .”

  Thomas tuned it out and glanced behind him. “She’s not here.”

  Ajit pushed past. Thomas was led away before Ajit went inside, but it was a cert it wouldn’t be pretty. By the time they got round to Pat’s, a few streets away, a female officer was leading Miranda away to a police car. Thomas was kept in the car behind and the whole circus started to wind down. As they drove away, he saw Pat’s haunted face staring out, and he knew that he’d crossed a line.

  * * *

  He didn’t see Ajit again at the police station — probably just as well. Not much to be said, under the circumstances. He wondered if Ajit had known about it the previous night, but that seemed unlikely. And besides, wouldn’t he have coughed up the truth about Thomas’s companion? Something else best not thought about.

  He saw Miranda at the far end of a corridor, being buzzed in for processing. She was holding it together well. With a family like hers, they’d probably been drilled on police procedure from a young age. When the desk was clear, he was moved forward to take his turn. He kept to the script and gave his details in a monotone, wondering how long it would take for the misidentification to get back to Schaefer and Sir Peter Carroll. Well, nothing he could do about it now.

  A sergeant took the lead, funnelling him into an interview room where the décor screamed 1980s, but without the feel-good factor.

  “Tea or coffee?” The sergeant made it sound like he’d make it his personal business to add the phlegm.

  “Coffee, please.” No point being an arse about it. They were doing their job and so was he. The drink arrived pronto, along with a constable.

  “Reet, can we get down to business? You’re not under arrest — you’re just helping us with a few inquiries. Clearing up a few anomalies, as you might say.”

  Like why were the police asked to check on a missing person, only to find that the person they had identified was somebody else? And in what way couldn’t this be construed as wasting police time?

  He breathed in the aroma of vending machine coffee, with a delicate hint of cream substitute and artificial sweetener. His thinking went like this: Miranda could be counted on to say nothing, which could complicate things further down the line. What he needed was a ready-made get-out-of-jail-free card.

  “You’re one of them floaters, aren’t you? Surveillance Support Unit.” The way the copper said it, it sounded like a grave insult.

  He smiled to acknowledge the point and took a chance. “If I can make a phone call, I can straighten this out.” He sat back and tri
ed to look comfortable with his situation, diverting his attention to a rabies poster on the wall while the sergeant made up his mind.

  A minute later and he was in the room on his own. He fetched out his mobile and rang Whitehall. The switchboard operator took his name and request, and transferred him straight through.

  “Thomas!” Sir Peter’s voice was frosty. “Where on earth are you — we’ve been worried.”

  Yeah, so worried that you had the police pick me up. He gritted his teeth and danced for the piper. “I’m in Yorkshire, helping police with their inquiries. I understand that Jess has disappeared. I need a favour from you.”

  Sir Peter Carroll didn’t sound too convinced, so Thomas went for broke. “I can either ask nicely or get Karl to make you help me.”

  It was a low blow, but as Sir Peter was in Karl’s debt, it did the trick. “What exactly do you need?”

  Half an hour later, a fax arrived at the police station, confirming that Thomas Bladen was in Yorkshire on assignment and that one Miranda Wright was accompanying him. Further, that under Section 6 of the Official Secrets Act 1989, this matter could not be discussed or elaborated upon.

  Miranda was waiting at the front desk; she wasn’t wearing her blonde wig anymore. He wondered what the first officer on the scene must have thought when she removed the blonde wig to reveal her own blonde hair. They must have thought she was taking the piss. She gazed at him blankly, as if she couldn’t quite fathom what she was doing there. They signed the book and headed for the door.

  “Did they explain about the fax? I got a photocopy for the family . . .”

  She shook her head in disgust. “What are they supposed to do, frame it?” Then she stopped abruptly.

  A few paces ahead of them, Ajit was waiting. Miranda flew at him.

  “Some fucking friend you are! Then again, maybe you deserve each other — you both put the job before other people.” She walked a little way up the road.