Fortunately, the clock was still ticking and Jess showed no sign of doing a runner. A real pisser about the data though.
“Hey,” Jess suddenly brightened, “I can write to you at home.”
Deborah and Clarity warmed up a little. Jess waited until she had their full attention. “I still have your address from when I stayed over.”
Schaefer grinned like an idiot; no practice required. “That’s what I love about you Brits — all that stiff-upper-lip bullshit on the outside, but behind closed doors you’re no different to the rest of us.”
Thomas’s eyes bored into Jess, waiting for her to qualify her statement. She didn’t. She milked it, happy to ride his reputation if nothing else. After that, the clock couldn’t move fast enough.
It was a slow walk to the security gate — with Jess hanging loosely on his arm, like a dead pheasant. He didn’t bother shrugging her off; if she needed to act out this last fantasy then so be it — he was past caring what the Americans thought.
One by one, Jess shook hands with the Engamel farewell party. Thomas though, she singled out for special treatment. As the last hand retreated, she called him forward to walk her to the door. Then she turned in front of him, so that she walked into her, and pounced. Her arms slithered inside his jacket and around his waist. She reeled him in and kissed his cheek, moving her lips to his ear. “Thank you for picking me up, that first night.”
He felt something flat being slid into his inside pocket, something very much like an envelope. Then she withdrew her hands and cupped his chin, drawing a final kiss from him before she broke away, sobbing, and went through the door. He straightened his jacket and turned to face the Engamel cheering section.
“Goddamn, Tommy,” Schaefer clapped his hands together. “You’re a real dark horse! Okay people, how about a little drink, to celebrate a successful conclusion to a difficult situation.”
No one had mentioned Amy, and Thomas wasn’t about to. Especially when there was every possibility that Jess had slipped him something useful. He bore their false bonhomie and took a gamble, reckoning Schaefer was such a cocky bastard that his contempt for Major Eldridge lay just beneath the surface.
“Do you still want me to maintain sound surveillance on the major?”
“Sure, why not?” All he lacked was a Stetson to tilt and some stubble to strike a match against, the prick. Schaefer played to his gang, as if they were discussing whether to torment the fat kid after lunch. “Now come on, Tommy, are you sure you won’t have a proper drink?”
Thomas raised his orange juice and emptied the glass. “Not for me thanks, I’m driving this afternoon — work.” He didn’t elaborate, and no one around him seemed to care enough to pursue it. He did the decent thing, waiting for them to finish up, and they took their time about it. Schaefer and Deborah excused themselves for the loo, leaving Clarity behind like the kid sister cramping their style.
“Know what I think?” she tried to tempt him.
“Nope,” he said flatly. It didn’t seem to deter her any.
“I think there’s never been anything between you and Jess. Wanna know why?” She didn’t wait for him to reply. “She still talks to me, sometimes — she mentions you the same way she used to mention the major, sorta exaggerated, for effect. Because she’s never had any feeling for either of you. It’s all bullshit.”
“What’s your point?” Okay, so he was a little bit interested now.
“I’ve got you figured out, Thomas Bladen. You’re actually one of the good guys.”
He tried his best half-second smile. “Don’t be too sure of that.”
She touched his arm. “Nobody wanted Amy to get hurt.”
His mouth curled up at the edges. “She didn’t get hurt — she died.”
Clarity checked to see if the other two were returning. “Look, all I’m saying is: don’t make this into some personal crusade. The assignment will finish soon; it’s not worth making enemies.”
He took a long time to think about that, on the tube back into London. It was getting to the point where he didn’t know who was threatening whom. And, call him paranoid, but he wasn’t about to open the envelope anywhere that had even a gnat’s chance of being within sight of a camera. He checked the time on his mobile. Jess would be in the departure lounge by now, probably trying to hit on some poor sod sat on his own. Still enough time to get to Thurston Lyon’s place, but later than he’d have liked — should have driven into town first.
At Walthamstow Central he sprinted for the stairs and out the exit, dialling Karl as he slowed to get his breath back. “I’ll be in my car in ten minutes then on the road.”
“Ten-four, good buddy!” Karl did a poor American accent.
“How did you get on with your new buddy?” It always paid to talk in riddles, so Karl could say as much or as little as he wanted to.
“Fraser? Yeah, it was interesting. He’s going to attend the funeral on my behalf. Well, on his as well, hoping to run into Martin again.”
They were skirting around the obvious. “How about we meet up tonight, after I do my info collection in Dalston?”
Karl must have considered it for all of three seconds. “Yeah, okay. Tell you what, I’ll meet you in Hackney and we can drive in together.”
* * *
Thomas reached his car, checked the time again and opened the envelope while the engine was running. By the looks of things, Jess had come through for him. Yeah, she was as still mad as a fish but, judging by the numerical content, here was the evidence that the major was so desperate for. He sat in the car, tapping the envelope against the dashboard, wondering. Would this be enough to get Karl back in combats?
Chapter 34
Dalston, like so many parts of London, always seemed to be busy. It might be what politicians would politely call economically and socially deprived, but there was a buzz about the place. It was another closed community, as far as Thomas was concerned, but even looking from the car at the lights, there were a million photo opportunities going on. The surly faced woman, heaving bags of shopping across the street with her grandson/nephew indifferent to her struggles, as if his earpieces drowned out his conscience as well. Two girls, because that’s what they were, wheeling baby buggies.
He wound the window down a little to take in the sounds of the street; the heavy beat musical backdrop, the spicy food wafting along the street. It made Walthamstow seem second-rate. There was community there too, but he never got to see it. Most of the time E17 was just somewhere to park his car. And speaking of which, it was time to negotiate the back roads near the housing estate and head in on foot.
Some kids were playing football on the green outside the flats. As he passed, one or two stopped to stare at him, firing questions with their eyes. He let them get on with it. Life turned the volume back up on the high street, leaving little space for private thoughts. He pushed the door, and this time there was no music. There was something amiss. Nothing out of place, just an atmosphere, as if he’d brought in a bad smell. Hair Girl was watching the door intently. He raised a hand; it made little difference. She must have buzzed or something, nodding to him to go straight in without him opening his mouth. He threw her a smile but it bounced off her face and shattered.
The office door creaked inward. He found himself checking the corners of the room, searching for a tangible reason for his own jumpiness. As soon as he set eyes on Thurston, he stopped searching. The man had scuffmarks across his face and purple bruising on his jaw. One arm hung higher than the other, as if crying out for a sling.
Thurston Lyon didn’t speak. He leaned forward with some difficulty, and wrenched back a desk drawer, waiting. Thomas flicked the remaining £200 on the desk. Thurston’s eyes never left him.
“The price gone up, brother. I need another two hundred pounds.”
Fuck. He didn’t have it. He stood there, wondering what to do next, trying to remember what he had in his wallet. “I’ve got another £100 and that’s it.” It was easy to s
how an honest face when you were telling the truth.
Thurston mulled it over and lifted the envelope up. Thomas took out his wallet so Thurston could see he wasn’t bullshitting.
“I hope it was worth it.”
Thomas was startled. So much venom in so few words. He put the envelope in his jacket and buttoned it up. Then he remembered Karl’s words of wisdom and reiterated Martin’s full name and the prospect of further investigations.
“I don’t think so, mister. You are bad luck.”
Nothing much he could say to that. But he thanked him again and went on his way. Hair Girl sucked her teeth at him on the way out; he figured it wasn’t a local version of ‘have a nice day.’ On the way back to the car he dived into a newsagent and grabbed some crisps. Lately he was living on snack food. Note to self: do some shopping.
More footballers of the future stopped to gawp at him. He did wonder what the fuck had happened to Thurston. But hey, what was he going to do about it now anyway?
He got in the car, locked it and sat for a moment. The mobile was on and no one was ringing; may as well check Thurston’s handiwork. He bent forward to extract the envelope. At first, they were just dark shapes, like crows flapping their wings. Then the shapes rushed in, crowding out the light. He registered one white guy and one black, and the iron bars they were carrying. Instinctively he crouched down, one arm above his head as the crowbars converged on the windscreen. Holy Fucking Christ. The car shook at the first impact, and the next; then he was shaking so much he couldn’t register any more. The glass creaked like thin ice, fracture webs jigsaw-ing the light from beneath his arm. It may have been six impacts, maybe more.
Then, when he fully expected the whole thing to collapse in on him, they stopped. They didn’t run off though. They looked down on him cowering there, admiring their own handiwork, and bust his headlights for good measure before they jogged away.
His mouth was moist; he tasted blood, metallic and warm. In blind panic and unable to cry out, he’d bit into his own lip. It was quiet outside. No nosey neighbours, no good Samaritans — fuck all. He couldn’t stop shaking, fingers trembling as he crushed his mobile in both hands and pressed two thumbs together. One lad, who looked like he’d been playing football earlier, ran past and jeered.
“Karl, I need your help.” Thomas didn’t remember saying anything else, but he must have, or else how would Karl have found him minutes later?
He didn’t get out of the wreckage until Karl arrived in a screech of wheels and brakes.
“Come on; let’s have you out of here.” There was a hard edge to his voice. He helped Thomas into his own car, put the seatbelt on him and then made another call. “I have a priority collection and repair . . .” He glanced at Thomas. “Hold on, Control, I’ll tell you when I’m at the end of the road.” They took off, slowing down briefly at the first junction so Karl could call in the details.
Karl drove to a pub a few miles away and parked up outside. “We could skip the club tonight?”
Thomas hadn’t spoken up until now, just nodded here and there. “I thought they were going to kill me.”
“I know; I’m sorry.”
Thomas tilted his head; that didn’t sound right somehow. Why would Karl be apologising? He kept it together, pulling Thurston’s envelope out.
“You open it,” Karl broke eye contact.
He slid his fingernail beneath the seal, watching as the bloodstain from his nail smeared across the crisp white paper. It was a single page, neatly folded into three. He bent it open for both of them to see, and his jaw dropped.
STAY OUT OF MY BUSINESS.
Karl took in a mass of air and blew it out again, like a subdued roar. He took the page and screwed it up into a ball, crushing it tight. Then he stuffed it into the door pocket. “I’ll have him.”
Thomas felt like there was another voice inside him now; a weaker, younger voice that nonetheless was going to be heard. “You used me.”
Karl put a hand to his face, as if shielding himself from the accusation, or from the truth. “I didn’t know this was going to happen; I swear to you, Tommo. I’ll fucking have him though, and that’s a promise.”
Thomas turned his head slowly and stared at Karl through a haze. Then he pushed his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. It felt as if a single tear was rolling down his left cheek, on his blind side. He wanted to brush it away, but he stayed deathly still, trying to take it all in.
* * *
Karl turned to the passenger seat. “We don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Yeah, we do.” They’d been sat in the car park for at least five minutes, Thomas’s eyes boring into the heavy-duty door of the gun club. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Karl’s brow furrowing. “Come on,” he pulled on the passenger door, letting in a rush of autumnal air. It had been raining again, the damp scent of leaves and change adulterated by the grimy stench of the city.
Thomas was out the door, leaning on the car, pressing against it as if it were a talisman. It wasn’t the thought of the guns that reassured him; it was the environment. Somewhere he could be in absolute control — how often did that happen in life? Answer: never.
As Karl paid their way in and they waited for their IDs to be returned, Thomas thought back to Dalston. Did they rough up Thurston to set him up? Or had Thurston tried to cut a deal with Jack Langton and paid the price for his insolence? Maybe it didn’t matter; either way — neither of them had come out smiling.
Karl didn’t bother to offer him a choice of handguns, opting for a pair of Baby Brownings. Thomas smiled when he saw what was in the box. He could palm the gun in one hand. Karl let him go first, obviously some psychological bullshit or an act of penance on his part.
As usual, there was no talking; that suited him fine. He still felt like a jackass for getting emotional over a little thing like terror. Hard to know what was worse really — the shame of cowering there while they destroyed his car or the humiliation of Karl seeing him like that. He tensed his legs, settled into his pelvis and relaxed his grip a little on the handle. It weighed about the same as the Makarov pistol in his hand, but it felt different. No more thinking. He entered the kill zone and instinct flooded out thought and reason, honing everything down.
Four shots rang out, each a hammer blow that reverberated inside his ribcage. Bang. Bang, bang, heartbeat steadying, sweating over, bang. All done. The gasping click of the empty chamber like a death rattle of some other self, the one he left behind in that private underworld — the one that was afraid. And as he surfaced from the moment, he gazed upon a dark certainty: Jack Langton would have to pay.
Karl’s marksmanship was below his usual exemplary standard. Thomas watched from the back of the room, noticing how Karl never seemed to get comfortable. Still, as he knew from personal experience, guilt played havoc with your concentration.
“I meant to ask,” Karl finally set the pistols back in their box. “How did you get on with Schaefer at the airport?” It was the closest they’d come to a normal conversation since the emergency pick up.
“He’s still a prick. And he wants to maintain the voice tap on Major Eldridge.”
“Even with Jess away? Interesting. I mean, she’s hardly likely to ring him long-distance.”
No, Thomas thought, not him. “What’s your thinking, then?”
Karl clicked the lid shut. “Maybe he’s just being cautious. Unless he’s got something else to worry about?”
Thomas reached into his jacket and remembered Karl’s none-too-private chat with the major about army recruiting. He didn’t say anything, just whipped out Jess’s envelope and flopped it on the lid.
Karl stared for a few seconds then reached out a tentative hand. A huge smile spread across his face as he straightened out the pages. “Jesus, Tommo, you’re a miracle worker.”
He grinned and withstood the pat on the back.
Karl pocketed the envelope. “I’ll make us a copy before I hand this over.”
There was no follow up about any deal. Thomas let it pass and waited for Karl in the corridor. No doubt about it, the place was beginning to grow on him. Karl returned, minus the weapons, whistling ‘Mr Postman,’ and led them through to the café area that Karl liked to call ‘the bar.’
“What’s he going to do with it?”
Karl looked up from his coffee. “The major? Assuming the data’s accurate, he could go to the inquiry and accuse Schaefer of negligence.”
Thomas shook his head, he couldn’t see that happening.
“Or,” Karl mused, “if he’s the kind of man I think he is, he’ll want something a little more personal and conclusive.”
In a word: revenge.
“Look, Tommo, I’d like your help with Jack Langton.” Karl waited, checking his reaction before he continued. “As far as everyone is concerned, I’m under lock and key. I can’t very well turn up in Jack’s local watering hole. And besides, it’s not quite what I had in mind.”
Thomas gazed at his right hand, stroking the tiny graze where he’d slipped as he got out of the car. As Karl had dragged him out. “Whatever it is, I’m in.”
Karl’s eyes narrowed and a twisted smile played upon his lips. “Jack Langton already thinks Martin is prying into his life. As far as he’s concerned, you were some nobody snooping around on Martin’s behalf and he’s sent you both a clear message to stay away. Now I’m going to tip Jack over the edge.”
“What’s the objective, besides the obvious?”
“Well, I’m hoping Jack will go looking for Martin, big time. After that they can fight it out between them.” Karl checked the clock. “Time I was dropping you home — you got anything to eat?”
“Sort of — but what about my car?”
“Ah, yeah, I’ll arrange a replacement for the time being. Come on then, drink up, I’m getting hungry.”
Line of Sight Page 24
