Thomas suppressed a chuckle and offered his sympathies.
“Thank you, Tommy, I knew you’d understand. Anyway, where was I?” She found her way back to the spotlight. “Clarity and I worked together before, just for a little while, on a project to develop a vehicle.”
“I see,” he said, not seeing at all. “Out of interest, what was it?”
There was a long pause, followed by a loud sigh, as if she’d drawn the receiver closer. “I know I can trust you — it was codenamed C12. I reported to Clarity, and after three months I was suddenly transferred over to the UB40, working alongside Amy.”
“Thanks for telling me, Jess. Look, I’d better go — I’ll see you tomorrow — why don’t we get there early then we can have a coffee together, just the two of us?”
“Tommy, that night, at your flat — I wish you had taken advantage.”
He put the phone down carefully and lifted his hand away, as if it were toxic. She’d make someone, somewhere, a wonderful stalker.
As his laptop booted up, he took out the log-in details for the server and sat, ready. The usual procedure — an anonymising server first and then calling up sound surveillance for the major’s two office phones. He started with the one the major knew about. It was run-of-the-mill stuff, mainly day-to-day comms and a couple of family calls. Mrs Eldridge gave the impression of being a real blue blood, the sort that Christine Gerrard’s mother would have welcomed with open arms.
Line two was a little light on recordings — which made sense now that Jess was out in the open. The final file held a nasty surprise. It was a landline call from Karl, thanking the major for his assistance in Belfast. So far, so what? Then things took a sharp detour. Thomas listened, rooted to the screen as the vocal peaks and troughs played out for him like dancing daggers. Major Eldridge was offering Karl a deal: the deal of the century in fact. If he got the data out of Jess, to hold Schaefer accountable for Amy’s death, then the major would guarantee a way back into the army.
Thomas’s first instinct was to ring Karl, there and then, and have it out with him. Then again, Karl hadn’t responded other than agreeing to give the matter consideration. He bit on a fingernail and replayed the call. Was it really his business what Karl did? Point and counterpoint rolled around in his head. He logged off and shut the laptop down, leaving the arguments to fight it out in his dreams.
Chapter 33
Thomas floated up from the depths of sleep, gradually becoming aware of the wind outside. Safe in his bed, he pictured the rubbish being blown up the street. As if God Himself was clearing up the place, once and for all, and making a bloody racket about it. He heaved his eyes open; it had to be early, the sun hadn’t put in an appearance. He rolled to one side and the alarm clock glared back in the semi-darkness, silently screaming: five twenty-five.
He smiled. Somewhere out there was the prospect of a sunrise, waiting to be photographed. If he got a shift on, he could be at Epping Forest for the dawn, to watch that pale brilliance streaking through the tree line. Or he could relax back into the mattress, close his eyes and spend the next hour or so in warm comfort. No contest. He sprang out of bed and tiptoed around the flat, as if in fear of waking himself. In times gone by, he used to leave Miranda little notes on the pillow — dragging her along had always delayed things and often started an argument. Now, there was no one to tell, but there was still a rush of excitement. He was a kid again, lugging his rucksack to the front door in Pickering, where Ajit’s dad would be waiting outside.
Final bag check: flask, camera, emergency chocolate bar — no point wasting time on a shower — and out the door. He could see right up the street, sense the onset of the day. His mother would have called it a holy moment; he could live with that assessment. A quick bite of past-its-best snack bar and then a gratuitous door slam for the benefit of his neighbours. Lower the rucksack carefully into the passenger-side foot well, and chocks away.
* * *
The A406, heading east, held few surprises and almost no companions. Just a postal van trying to break the land-speed record and a bunch of lads probably heading home after a trip to the pleasure dome. You could love all humanity at a time like this, when it was sleeping. Only when the teeming masses came to life, clogging the roads and his head, did humanity degenerate into liars, cheats and arseholes.
At the first sign for Epping he gave a cheer. Didn’t matter that he was alone in the car; it was just one of the rules. Like apologising for farting when you didn’t mean it, or wondering how your ex spent her weekends, when you didn’t really care. Traditions you follow, stuff that makes you who you are.
Now came the second wave of elation: where to park, where to walk and how to frame the shot? Occasionally he’d seen other snappers out there, plus the odd wayward soul, seemingly from nowhere. No possessions or car, as if they’d materialised at the roadside. Always male, and he never stopped for them.
He guided the car in, with that delicious muffled sound of tyres on dirt. The wind rocked the car gently in welcome. He took another bite of the sad snack bar, grabbed the camera and started walking. Many photographers — according to the chat rooms — already knew what they were looking for, so it was a case of matching the picture in their heads. Thomas tended to fit into the other category, treating spontaneity as a gift from circumstance.
If you waited long enough, cleared out your mind of all the dross about your job, your bank balance and — God help us — your relationship, the picture would come. Never failed, like a child wishing for a present that the parents had already bought and hidden away.
Up the ridge, a pallid sky awaited, shimmering blue grey at the edges, with a last star or two and a vanishing moon. One massive beech tree, stark before him, reached out to the cosmos, dominating the frame — it had to be. The wind blew on, rattling the branches, daring technology to capture a moment of stillness in a ballet of movement. Withering leaves flickered to some jazz rhythm he hadn’t connected with. He paused a little longer, then: one beat, four beats, steady now, seven beats . . . nine beats — snap, snap, snap, snap. No checking until he got home though — a golden rule, seldom broken. Commissioned photos were different of course, and he’d had one or two of those over the years. But the unanticipated, gifted pictures were magical. And Pandora’s Box could only be opened once he was back at home. Otherwise, he might spot an error and try to correct it, might try to manufacture natural. That never worked. Even if you achieved a better composition, it ended up stilted and hollow to the trained eye.
He strolled back to the car, closed the door and poured his tea. When he’d been a young boy, his dad had done this with him. That was one memory of home he treasured. Although, as the years had wound forward through the trials of adolescence up to when he was kicked out of the house, he’d almost convinced himself that he’d imagined it. Not today though. Because this morning, right now, he remembered how he felt.
The drive back to the flat was tinged with sadness. Time for work, time for school: it was all the same, all lining up for someone else’s parade. He smiled as he spotted the first super-commuters and lorry drivers, patting his camera at the lights and telling himself that he wasn’t like the rest of them. And almost believed it.
* * *
Second exit from the flat, time became important again. He finished the flask of tea in lieu of breakfast, and promised himself he’d do a proper shop later in the week. The forced march, up to Hoe Street, got the blood pumping. If he could collect some data from Jess, and get the info from Thurston Lyon, it would have been a successful day.
He swiped himself through the barrier, tried to forget that this could track his movements, and scanned the free newspaper as he walked. He carried both mobiles — his and Karl’s throwaway. And before he’d left the flat, he’d copied the accident footage to a disc, just in case. They’d probably put that on his headstone: Here lies Thomas Bladen — just in case.
First call, McNeill residence. “Good morning campers, rise and shine.”<
br />
“Ah, Tommo, I’m glad you caught me early. Afraid I can’t make the John Denver fest.”
“The what?”
“Leaving on a jet plane; catch up when you can.”
Thomas leant against the wall to avoid the slipstream of people swarming past, and waited for an explanation. “Because?”
There was a deep sigh from Karl. “Stuart Fraser rang me late last night. It seems that my cousin Marion contacted the authorities, asking after me. Apparently, Martin sent flowers to her house — on my behalf, as I’m supposed to be in custody.”
Thomas pushed his suspicious nature down.
“So Marion has been asking all sorts of awkward questions, such as when was I in Belfast and what have I been arrested for. Poor Stuart has had to take cover behind a ‘no comment’ statement and now solicitors might be involved. The upshot is that I need to lay low this morning and straighten everything out. I’ve left a message to put Christine in the picture. You’ll be able to cope on your own, won’t you?”
“Sure,” he said, except he didn’t think so. “I’ll call you as soon as Jess is on her way.”
“Thanks, Tommo, have a nice time.”
It felt like a good sign that Karl could still muster sarcasm. “Yeah, you too.” So, he’d be Billy-no-mates among the Engamel crowd. Not counting Jess — and he wasn’t. He jumped the first available train and did some mental juggling.
It went like this. Karl knew that both of the major’s lines were bugged, and he had rung the major, not the other way round. Maybe Karl wanted Thomas to know about the deal? So did it compromise their working partnership? Possibly. Or perhaps it just showed how desperate the major was to hang Michael Schaefer, which didn’t make him a bad judge of character.
The train juddered back and forth, back and forth, moving thoughts around his head like ball bearings in a child’s puzzle. Every time he thought he’d achieved equilibrium, something set off another thought ricocheting against its neighbour. As the train surfaced at Gloucester Road, he dredged up a text from Jess. He scrolled through the warm welcome, to the meeting point in Terminal 4. And got out at South Kensington to get a ticket extension to Heathrow.
More passengers with cases were joining the train now — the ones who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, afford the Heathrow Express. No, this was more his style, especially if your idea of fun was crowd control. The connecting carriage door burst in and a shorthaired dude with a stripy waistcoat and a battered guitar began a round of introductions. Soon, the entertaining Aussie started belting out his own little bit of happiness. From Thomas’s end, the bloke didn’t sound bad, if you could hear him above the tutting chorus. Aussie Bloke was lost to the music and into his act, serenading a few and trying his luck with anyone willing to give him the time of day, and some change. Thomas dropped him 40p, just for being a trier.
* * *
At Terminal 4, he wove his way through the United Nations, sidestepping the barricades of suitcases, surfboards and boxes mummified in brown tape. If he’d had the day to himself, he could have happily hung around, immersing himself in the sounds and colours and excitement of travelling. But the only excitement today was the prospect of getting useful data out of Jess.
There was no surprising her at the rendezvous; as soon as he arrived she was all over him like a rash.
“Tommy!” she quivered, flinging her arms around him.
For reasons he couldn’t fathom immediately, she was wearing a headscarf and dark glasses, like a child’s idea of an incognito film star.
“Where shall we go eat?”
That newly acquired mid-Atlantic tone was already starting to grate. He played safe and turned the attention back to her; it didn’t take much doing. She’d slept well, and her bags were already checked in. Engamel were arranging for everything from her flat to be shipped over by sea. What she really wanted for breakfast was pancakes and syrup. She led the way confidently, having memorised the map.
And speaking of memories. “How did you get on with that test I set you?”
“Oh, let’s not talk about that right now, Tommy, not before our last meal together.” She breezed along, pausing at anything with a reflective surface, to check herself out.
After the second or third time, he realised who it reminded him of — Miranda, in disguise, when they’d set off for Yorkshire. He gave up trying to fathom what was going on in Jess’s mind, and just hoped it included wanting to help him. Two armed police officers glanced sideways at her but let it go. He already had his hand on his ID card, ready to intervene with an explanation. Roll on the final gate call.
They soon arrived at the cafe and settled down to their last supper, in breakfast form. He’d half expected to see an Engamel handler there, so things were looking up. As he sat, watching the same families walk up and down for third time, he had an idea. “I’ll be back in a sec.” Before Jess could object, he added, “It’s a surprise.”
She beamed and lowered her glasses. Then he waved with just his fingertips and disappeared into a gift shop. Gift was a little strong; a gift to commercialism, certainly, but that was about it. He found a teddy that was midway between cute and extravagant, swallowed hard as he passed over his credit card, and snuck the carrier bag into his jacket. Then he used a passing family as camouflage and returned to their table from a different direction, clocking her as she stared out, Labrador-like, desperate for signs of him.
“Wotcha!” he pressed a hand against her shoulder blades and felt her mould her back into his palm. “I just wanted to get you a little going away present.” He placed the bag in front of her and sat down to watch the show.
She scrabbled to take her glasses off and peered feverishly into the bag. Fair enough, it was a good teddy, but it didn’t deserve the floods of tears she christened it with.
“It’s beautiful, Tommy — I love it!” she was staring at him now, drinking him in.
Did it feel a little manipulative? Yeah, but he was beyond that point by now. Checking the upload from Karl’s mobile earlier, and seeing Amy again — what was left of her — had removed any final shreds of conscience.
After a minute or two, with no offer of data pages forthcoming, he realised he’d struck out. He tried not to show it in his voice. “When are the others arriving?”
Her face reddened and she brushed her hand tenderly over the teddy bear. “Mr Schaefer is expecting me down by the check-in.”
“Well, let’s not keep him waiting.”
Jess carefully untied her headscarf and put it in the bag with the glasses, followed by the bear. Then she pressed the top of the carrier closed and looked up at him, as if dismayed at her own regression.
He stood and she followed, walking close beside him, prisoner and escort. She didn’t look at mirrors now; she just faced forward.
* * *
Schaefer looked seriously pissed off, gazing in all directions like a hyperactive sentinel. As soon as he laid eyes on them, he lifted his mobile to call off the search. Clarity and Deborah quickly emerged from different directions, through the crowds.
“You’re late.” Schaefer had a talent for the obvious.
“My fault,” Thomas took the flak. “I asked Jess to meet me for breakfast and we got talking.”
Schaefer’s face turned barley white. The two harpies looked worried too, particularly Clarity. It was hard not to enjoy the moment. The party of five moved off along the concourse, two prisoners now, and Schaefer leading the way. If Schaefer was wondering about Karl’s absence, he was keeping pretty quiet about it; all he seemed interested in was getting Jess through security and away. Away from Thomas, most probably.
Deborah and Clarity were sharing whispers. Thomas stayed alongside Jess, slowing when she slowed, keeping her company. One suggestion was all it took to divert them to a coffee shop. After all, as Thomas innocently pointed out, Jess had plenty of time yet.
They crowded around a table the size of a footstool. Jess ran true to form, like a wind-up doll, chatting about her n
ew apartment and the new neighbourhood. Reciting enough facts and figures to impress an inquisition. Impressed they may have been, but they were not entertained.
“Hey, Tommy,” Deborah burst in at one of Jess’s pauses for breath, “you ever think of transferring overseas?”
Jess’s eyes shone like headlights. Thomas blinked at Deborah, as if sending her a message in Morse code: bitch. Schaefer’s shoulders lifted to accommodate a sickly smile.
“The way I hear it, Tommy’s more of a stay-at-home kinda guy. Outdoors can get pretty rough, don’t you find?”
Thomas’s brain bounded the stepping-stones. His first thought, following after Sir Peter Carroll and his big mouth, was the standoff out on the moors, months before. Mentally, he squared up to Schaefer and nodded for the benefit of the audience. “Yeah, last time I was outdoors I shot a man.” He figured Schaefer knew all the details anyway.
“What d’ya do that for?” Deborah was laughing — at him, and probably at the looks of horror on Jess and Clarity’s faces.
He looked her full in the face, deadpan. “Because he deserved it.”
Then suddenly she wasn’t laughing any more. And nor was Schaefer — this must have been new information for him.
“I thought you guys weren’t licensed to carry a piece.”
Thomas opened his jacket and flicked it with his hands. “We’re not, usually. That was a special occasion — protecting Sir Peter.” He finished his coffee and rested back in his chair; time to flip the tables, try and fill in a few blanks of his own. “So, what will happen to the testing if Jess is moving on?”
Schaefer’s face took on a swagger, the sort of look that made Thomas want to slam a door into him.
“I’m sorry, Tommy,” he inclined his forehead forward, like a bull about to charge. “That’s privileged information.”
Jess was watching Thomas intently. She seemed to eat when he ate, drink when he drank. He figured he’d better play it cool or she might side with him, take up against the Yanks and refuse to go — not a good career move for either of them.
Line of Sight Page 23
