Karl seemed lost for an answer, so Thomas obliged him. “From the very beginning, you came to us, both of you. And since then you’ve told us everything except the truth.” He looked directly at the major.
The major seemed unfazed. “Are we all square, Karl?”
“Yeah,” he held out the carrier bag. “Electronics deactivated and removed.”
Jess made a grab for the shoes and scowled at the major.
“Now, Thomas here has some questions for Jess. It’d be easier for everyone if we could just get on with it.”
Jess gazed at Thomas earnestly and then took a step towards him.
“Where were you when Amy died?”
She stopped in her tracks. Everyone froze on the spot, but Thomas caught the signal that the major threw her way, even if he didn’t understand it.
“I was outside.” Jess spoke quietly. “We had a visitor.”
The major turned to her slowly; clearly, this was all news to him.
“Mr Schaefer came to see me; it was my lunch break.”
But not Amy’s? “Go on. What else?”
“He’s always been very interested in us; we were trying to finish all the tests ahead of schedule. Mr Schaefer promised us a bonus if we completed the full spectrum of scenarios early.”
“And how would you do that?” the major’s veins had come out on parade.
“We worked it out between us,” she sounded proud of her own intelligence. “Coming in early and finishing late, splitting our lunches.”
Major Eldridge stared, rigid with malice. If he’d been carrying a gun, Thomas reckoned he’d have shot her. “How much?” He hissed.
“Five thousand pounds each.” Jess seemed bemused. “Amy said we could go away on a cruise together.”
Thomas stared. She couldn’t help putting herself in the middle of the picture. Amy was dead, but Jess was still painting herself as the orphan. He gravitated towards one of the pillars, aware that Karl wasn’t far behind him; it was starting to feel like a business negotiation. “All this for five grand?” The knot was coiling in his abdomen.
“You don’t get it, do you, Tommo? Schaefer was willing to take shortcuts, to risk lives for five grand apiece. But that’s not the half of it; we’ve more digging to do.”
Jess and the major were right where they’d left them, not talking to each other. Thomas wondered how the major was taking the knowledge that his mistress had been sacrificed on the altar of expediency. “What’s Schaefer giving you for the data you stole?” Simple, blunt, unambiguous.
“No.” Jess screwed her face up into a ball. “I never stole anything. Mr Schaefer asked me to memorise the data; it was one of my extra jobs, right from the beginning. Sometimes he’d visit and quiz me to check — it was our little game.”
Thomas looked at Karl, who shrugged off control of the conversation. He tried again. “So what’s in it for you now?”
“Mr Schaefer’s promised to take me away.” She smirked. “Don’t worry, not romantically, silly! He’s offering me a new job in America — a fresh start. Mr Schaefer says that there are opportunities with other consortium partners.”
Yeah, Thomas thought, and Mr Schaefer’s a scumbag who . . . He stopped, mid-thought, and stared at the stark, white pillars of marble. Bingo. Jess was a rare talent; Schaefer could move her around like a human memory stick. The clever bastard. And of course, once she was in the US, she’d be out of the picture. “When are you next seeing Schaefer, Major?”
Major Eldridge answered. “Tonight, to confirm the arrangements. Once Jess is safely through passport control, I’ll hand over both copies of the DVD. Karl — I’ll need yours back.”
Thomas took a breath; surely the major realised that Jess’s departure would cast suspicion on him? Or maybe a cover-up was better than everything coming out in the open. Yeah, that would make sense: a mutual cover-up.
Chapter 31
Getting Jack Langton’s details from the Wrights wouldn’t have been difficult — one phone call, basically. But better they were kept in the dark. Miranda too, come to that. This was a private job for Karl and it would have to stay that way. It was hard to remain hidden these days. What with the Internet and private investigators. Thomas had once fancied himself as a private dick — part Sherlock Holmes and part Masked Avenger. Back when his career at the SSU looked to be coming to a premature end, he’d seriously considered it. Note to self: be careful what you wish for.
The office in Dalston was a portal into a murky world. From the outside, it could have been a minicab outfit; tinted windows with gig posters plastered over them like camouflage. It looked the kind of place you check your shoes on the way out — and your pockets.
He went inside and took a seat, waiting for the woman across the desk to stop glaring at him.
“’Ave you got an appointment?” she dared him to reply, opening her desk diary to confirm the obvious.
“No. I was just passing.” Like anyone ever sees a private investigator on the off chance.
“Wait here,” she flicked her hair extensions over her shoulders and went to a door at the back.
Peter Tosh was crackling through the radio, pulsing the speakers: ‘Coming in Hot.’ Thomas felt himself nodding to the rhythm, thinking about Ajit and simpler times. Then he went all self-conscious, wondered how he’d look to the receptionist, like some twatty, inverted racist, white guy, thinking he was all ‘street.’ It didn’t spoil the music any.
Hair Girl still had her head poked through the open doorway, playing mutter-tennis with whoever ran Lyon Investigations. She glanced back, checking him out, finished her conversation and then swaggered back to her desk. “Boss says you can go in.”
Nice. He walked stiffly past her, rapped on the open door and went in, closing it behind him. “Thurston Lyon?”
The West Indian guy laughed, as if he’d just thought of a howler. “That’s what it says on my door. You here to do business?”
Thomas took out a printed page and passed it across.
Thurston looked at it carefully, turning it over, but finding the other side blank. “He owe you money?”
“Something like that. I need his home address and phone number, same for business, car registration and which pubs he drinks at in Hackney and Clapton.”
“And then what?” Thurston straightened, the scent of money in the air.
“That’s my employer’s business.” Like Karl had told him, the less he said, the more convincing he’d appear.
Thurston sucked at his teeth. “Is he some kind of gangsta?”
Thomas held his poker face. “The worst kind.”
Thurston Lyon laughed again. “In dat case, I need to apply an extra charge — for health and safety.”
“When and how much?” Thomas cut to the chase.
Thurston’s eyes danced left and right. “Give me two days.”
“I need it by this time tomorrow — I’ll call you.”
“The price just went up,” he raised three fingers.
Thomas took £100 from his jacket and flattened it on the table. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow. If this works out, my employer could put more work your way.” He paused, like Karl had told him to, and then promised that Martin — using his full name — could be a very generous client.
Thurston’s eyes flickered, but, as far as Thomas could determine, it wasn’t a name the private detective recognised.
Thomas left it at that and walked out, leaving the door yawning behind him. As he reached the street, he glanced back to see Hair Girl scurrying into the office. They looked like they could do with the business.
On the way back to the car, he made a call. “It’s done.”
“Nice one, Tommo. By the way, Christine’s trying to reach you. Our glorious leader requests the pleasure of your company at Whitehall. I’ll see you in the park afterwards.”
* * *
Thomas supposed he should have got used to the cat’s cradle of allegiances by now, but it still rankled. He worked
for Christine, and Christine worked for Sir Peter Carroll. But Karl — who worked with him, for Christine — also pulled Sir Peter’s strings. Then there was Michael Schaefer, working for Engamel and spying on Major Eldridge, with Sir Peter’s consent. And finally there he was: everybody’s best friend. Well, maybe not Schaefer’s — Thomas hadn’t heard from him since Amy’s memorial service.
Once again, they kept him waiting in the lobby at Main Building. He thought about taking out his diagram to try and decipher it and decided against it, in case the CCTV took an interest.
And what if he had proposed to Miranda by text? Still possible she was kidding, but he might have sent it and then deleted it somehow. If he’d proposed, would that really be so bad? Ajit and Geena were happily settled in their semi, awaiting their firstborn.
Then he remembered his last proper conversation with Miranda; the one where she told him to remove his gun from the premises. No, Ajit was definitely a happy endings sort of bloke. He used to feel the same way about himself, but lately he saw only shadows.
He managed to solve three clues from the Times crossword in the ten minutes it took someone to collect him, and he reckoned one of those was probably wrong. The silent treatment in the lift didn’t faze him anymore; it was just another facet of the not-so-great game. On the way up, he tried to concoct a progress report for Sir Peter; no doubt one was expected.
“Thomas, take a seat.” The Old Man continued with his paperwork.
From Thomas’s vantage point, it looked like a report of some kind. Don’t bite; don’t give him the reaction he wants. He gazed around the office, settling on the portrait of Churchill — arch defender of Great Britain. And, if you believed the Net, an early proponent of a United States of Europe, and patron saint of federal nutcases.
“Michael Schaefer has concerns about your loyalty.” Sir Peter’s head was still down.
It speaks. He ran a thumbnail between his teeth, as if sharpening a talon. “Schaefer wants to take Jess out of the country, before the inquiry is complete.”
Sir Peter glanced up; he didn’t look at all surprised. “Karl McNeill is a loose cannon, Thomas. You’d be wise to keep your distance, especially when he creates problems for himself — and for the department. This is still my organisation and you’d both do well to remember that. This is not a sport for solo players.”
That riled him, as it was supposed to. “Why did you send for me?”
“I think you ought to know certain things; things other people aren’t telling you.”
“Like Schaefer risking lives to rush through the Scavenger tests?”
Sir Peter snorted. “That’s old news, Thomas, and such a worm’s eye view. I’m disappointed. I thought you were smarter than that by now.”
Thomas tilted his hands open, inviting all the goodies into his lap.
“There’s much more at stake than a revolutionary weapon.” Sir Peter shook his head slowly, side to side. “You’re being used, Thomas. It wasn’t a coincidence that you and McNeill were on the base — he arranged it with me.” And there was that look again, the one that implied, I’m always ten steps ahead of you.
Thomas stared him down. His father used to have a similar look whenever they played chess; right up until the day Thomas checkmated him. Then they never played again. He narrowed his eyes. “Say you’re right — so what? Isn’t it better that the reasons behind Amy’s death are out in the open?”
“Do you really think a fully-funded military research programme will grind to a halt because of a project director’s inability to control one of his staff? Open your eyes, Thomas!”
One by one, the pieces slid together. It didn’t really matter who carried the can — Amy, the major or Schaefer. The wheels of industry would continue turning, regardless. The great and the good would have their new toy.
What he couldn’t figure out, from this sitting at least, was which side of the line Sir Peter stood. Time to find out. “You could stop Jess leaving the country — revoke her passport or something?”
“Could I now?” Sir Peter puffed himself up and squeezed his fingers together, daring Thomas to figure it out.
Oh Jesus. His jaw widened. “Unless you’re one of the people who wants Jess out of here.”
Sir Peter smiled, like a vulture witnessing a car crash. “Congratulations, Thomas; you’re finally starting to see things as they are. I’d no more want to impede Jess than I’d have wanted to stop Karl McNeill at Aldergrove.”
Thomas swallowed, and Sir Peter’s eyes took on a hypnotic gaze.
“Schaefer is a liability. McNeill realises that; it’s time you did as well.”
He couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be a statement or a warning.
Sir Peter folded the file cover down. It looked suspiciously like the one that Major Eldridge had shown him on the base. “We’re all parts of one organism, Mr Bladen — symbiotically interlinked for the good of the whole. And what’s true for people and organisations can also be true for nations. You do see that now, don’t you?” This was starting to sound like a recruitment speech.
“Was there anything else, sir?”
“That will be all. Take care, Thomas. For all our differences in the past, I wouldn’t like to see you come to any harm.”
He made his way outside, switching his mobile on in the lift. He picked up a message at the door, from Michael Schaefer. And he didn’t believe in the Coincidence Fairy today.
* * *
Karl was ready and waiting in St James’s Park, sat on their usual bench and toying with a domestic camera. “You look like a man with something to say.” He pulled a muffin from a bag at his side.
Thomas received the bounty and slowly rotated it. “Have you ever lied to me?”
“Never,” Karl was abrupt. “I may evade the question and hold things back, but there’d be no point deliberately lying to you. What’s on your mind?”
He parked the use of deliberately and picked at the muffin, pulling off the chocolate chunks first, like a child. “Our leader reckons you arranged the photography gig at the arms fair.” He stalled, waiting to be proved wrong.
“It’s true.”
Thomas cursed under his breath. “And the reason is . . .” He left a gap a mile wide.
“Quite simply, I was hoping to have a nosey — see if there was anyone there that I recognised from files.”
He’d whittled away most of the chunks. “And I’m s’posed to believe you?”
Karl grabbed a muffin for himself. “You can believe what you like, Tommo. It happens to be the truth.”
Truth. He’d started to wonder if anything was true anymore. “Coincidence, then, that your former Major was on the base as well?”
“No, no. I knew that in advance. I expected to make contact with him in the afternoon; as we discovered, he knew we were on site. And then of course, there was Amy.” Silence followed. “Look, I promise you this, I would only keep something from you if I thought it was in the long-term interest.”
“So you won’t mind telling me while I dragged my arse over to Dalston, using a second-rate private eye to get information I could have found out myself?”
“Hey, hey, there’s nothing second-rate about Thurston Lyon. He’s good at what he does, and if anything goes wrong, he’s one step removed. It’s a sensible false trail, should we need it. You did remember to give him Martin’s full name? You might want to mention it again when you collect the info tomorrow.”
“Yeah, well,” Thomas shrugged his shoulders, “if he’s up to it.”
“Not a worry there; Thurston’s like a Mountie — he always gets his man.”
“So you’ve worked with him before?” He figured he’d push it.
“Well,” Karl took a muffin-sized bite, leaving a thin crescent; “After a fashion. I’ve not met him personally — I always use a go-between, someone I can trust.”
“What? Someone like me?”
“Jesus, make your fucking mind up, Tommo. You want to get involved —
but not too involved. And you want a private life, away from all the cloak-and-daggering. So I keep you at the edges, for your good as well as mine. Now, are we done playing Q & A? I need a sandwich — I’m all sugared out.”
Chapter 32
The neon sign for Caliban’s shone out, defying the rain that spattered against the roof and overflowed the guttering. Thomas straightened his coat and wondered what sort of reception awaited him.
The bar was packed, but Sheryl’s neck craned up as he eased the door inward. She nodded; he went straight over.
“Miranda around?”
“Go straight up, honey.” She had a talent for saying one thing and letting her face tell a completely different story.
As he turned from the bar, a camera flash went off. He flinched, started chambering a fist.
“Relax, they’re just tourists — Germans, I think, or Polish.”
It looked like a full crowd. And it didn’t take Brain of Britain to realise it was Sheryl they were taking pictures of. And she was milking it like a Little Dutch Girl.
The door upstairs was closed; he tried the handle — locked. It felt stupid announcing himself, but he did anyway. Miranda was slow in answering, as if she had something better to do.
She cranked the door open about a foot. “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?” That was far as she managed without laughing.
And yet, when he saw her standing there, laughter cascading through the air like poetry, he almost wished he had proposed again, properly. But he knew that those little moments of magic were only that: moments.
“You feel like a nibble?”
He blushed. God, he was useless at playing it cool. The first time he met her, when she was seventeen, he’d broken out in a sweat. And he’d never really recovered since. “Sorry, I’ve got a meeting with Karl and Jess.” Then, to pre-empt whatever caustic remark she was cooking up, he added, “She’s being sent abroad.”
“What, like an endangered species? Come on, coffee’s hot — if you’ve got the time.” She sounded just a little hesitant and he loved her for that.
Line of Sight Page 21
