* * *
They opted for a curry; Karl paid. As they sat waiting for two bhunas, pilau rice and a couple of garlic naans — squinting to follow a football match that neither of them gave a shit about — Thomas wondered how Ajit was doing. Maybe he’d call and clear the air.
Karl gave him a nudge, “D’ya think you and Miranda will ever settle down?”
Cue nervous laughter. “Only if I quit my job.”
“Not very likely, then.”
Somehow this didn’t seem like the time or place to reveal his innermost thoughts and feelings. “And what about you, Karl — think you’ll ever leave the SSU and seek gainful employment?”
Karl nodded towards the counter and leapt up to collect. “Well, I knew this one was coming. My answer’s the same as when you asked me in the mess hall.”
“But the major—” he stood to join him.
“Look, Thomas, it may surprise you to learn that I’ve told you more than I’d tell him. It suits my purpose to have him think I’m itching to get back into camouflage. Now, come on, let’s get this back to yours, we can have that ice cream in your freezer for pudding.”
“Huh?”
“I checked last time, when you were taking a leak.”
“You looked in my freezer?”
“Sure, I’m one nosey bastard — how do you think I got the job?”
* * *
Ten minutes later they were sprawled out on the sofa, devouring bhunas. The TV was showing another wildlife programme, all massive skies and photogenic carnage.
“Divide and conquer, my friend,” Karl dropped in another comment from out of nowhere. “I’ll meet you at work tomorrow and take you to your temporary car.”
Thomas felt like saying it was the least Karl could do, but he was enjoying the company too much to want to ruin it.
“Then you can do a clandestine on Jack Langton, while I’m away at the army base. And best you leave the Makarov at home.”
Chapter 35
Karl had given him a head start, digging out Jack Langton’s details. You just had to know the right people to ask.
The Ford Focus smelt of new car. It was immaculate — untouched by ungloved hands, probably. He had a good play with the controls, reminding himself of the time he’d gone with Miranda to buy her new Mini. The salesman had ignored her and spoken only to him. Miranda had dealt with it by insisting on speaking to a woman instead. And, as usual, she got her way.
It had been days now since he’d heard from her. She’d have taken it for granted that he was immersed in work. He watched Karl disappear out the supermarket car park — with the mystery deliveryman in tow — and reached for his mobile. As texts went, it wasn’t exactly Shakespeare. The sentiment was there though: Hi M, how’s life in the fast lane? Tx
* * *
He took a run through Jack Langton’s neighbourhood, making sure of the fastest routes to two major roads if he needed them. Forest Gate was remarkably lacking in forest. Lots of big houses though — mostly converted into bedsits, judging by the clusters of overflowing wheelie bins. He clocked the house in question, parked up and waited.
A large man in chinos and a polo shirt squeezed out of the front door. Thomas watched as the guy lumbered down the street towards a high-end BMW — the personalised number plate had been a bit of a giveaway.
Thomas counted the beats as the BMW passed, and started up his trusty new Ford. It wasn’t exactly chase of the century, and Thomas gave him enough rope to hang himself. The Ford had an inbuilt low profile; he could have been a sales rep or a teacher, anonymously making his way across town.
Jack Langton drove with one hand, a tree trunk of an arm elbowing out of the window. And naturally, he thought his favourite radio station was too good not to share. The BMW pulled into a bus lane and stopped outside a convenience shop.
Thomas swung in at the next left turn and scrambled out of the car to take up position. Jack Langton was on the phone the moment he got back, newspaper tucked under one arm like he hadn’t a care in the world.
Two snaps later, Thomas ran to complete the world’s fastest three-point turn, ready for the BMW to pass. As he rejoined the main road, the BMW was just clearing the lights. It was a simple equation: if he caught up with Jack Langton, he’d stick with him; if not, he’d return to Chez Langton for some background surveillance on the family.
He scraped across the lights and made up the distance, three cars behind. It was a perfect position to be in. Close enough to watch the BMW’s turns without the need for knee-jerk reactions, and far enough back to be invisible. He played follow-my-leader for nearly half an hour, including a stop-off at a café for a sandwich, heading somewhere in no great rush.
The BMW looked out of place by the flats — a rose among rundowns. Thomas watched Langton stepping lightly into the building and up the centre stairs, catching a glimpse of his silhouette through the glass as he tracked him through a long lens. Up and left, coming out at the second floor, moving along the balcony. Thomas captured a couple of side profiles and counted down the numbers of the doors, wagering with himself that it would all end up with a woman. Jack Langton slowed — number seventeen, unlucky for someone.
Jack rapped at the letterbox — no key — and waited calmly, packed lunch in hand. The door opened and Jack turned towards it, blocking the view with his fat head. Shift over, you bastard. Jack bent down and a slim arm curled around his shoulder for what looked like a polite kiss on the cheek. Just move, will you?
Thomas froze, button poised, ready for a second’s clearance. Bingo, he caught a glimpse of a face and squeezed the button. He heard two bleeps and then he lowered the camera. As Jack wriggled past the woman Thomas’s eyes confirmed what the camera had already revealed: it was Sheryl, Miranda’s bar manager.
He didn’t hang around, made a pact with himself to get as far away as possible. Maybe sweep past Chez Langton on the way home. He felt like a kid who had woken up too early on Christmas morning, only to find out that Father Christmas was actually just his dad. Sheryl and Jack Langton — it made his skin crawl just thinking about the maths. It explained a couple of things, though. Now he understood why Jack had given Sheryl a bar job, and probably why she was working for Miranda. And why the Wrights were so accommodating to her.
The road signs couldn’t gallop towards him fast enough. He stopped at a set of lights and slapped the dashboard, examiner style. That must have been what Sheryl meant, back when Miranda had been abducted. For the first and only time, Sheryl had threatened him with a couple of phone calls that would sort him out — no prizes now for guessing who she’d have called.
He shot back to Walthamstow for printing and editing. The image of Sheryl was pinpoint sharp; even Karl would recognise her. He checked his watch — too late for lunch, and time to check in.
* * *
Karl was in a good mood. “So, Mr Bladen, any news from the front?”
If you only knew. “Yeah, I caught Jack Langton as he left home and I’ve managed to get some distant headshots. His car stands out a mile — personalised plates.”
Karl picked up on it straightaway. “Great. If we can find out where he goes, it’ll give us a choice of possible strike points.”
That sounded ominous. He felt himself cringing silently. He closed his eyes, like a kid bracing himself for bad news or a bollocking.
“Is there a problem, Tommo? You weren’t seen, were you?” There was concern in the voice, but it was hard to tell who for.
Jesus, that was something he hadn’t even considered — what if Sheryl had seen him?
“I don’t think so. Nah, it’s fine, I reckon. It’s best I do some more surveillance.”
“Good man, Tommo, I knew I could rely on you.”
He said his goodbyes and stared at the photo dangling from the printer. There was nothing else for it — he’d have to see Sheryl. Next call . . .
“Miranda Wright, and what can I do for you, Mr Bladen?”
There wasn’t time to r
un through a menu, more’s the pity. “Just a quickie,” he knew she’d like that. “Just thought I’d say hello. By the way, I was, er, driving near East Ham on a job and I could have sworn I saw Sheryl. She must have a double.”
“Doubt it. Anyway, she lives up that way. Sweet though, you asking after her. I’ll tell her you called.”
“Nah, don’t do that.” He started sweating. “You know how she is with me; it’ll only encourage her.”
“Okay. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me — I’ll protect you.”
“Good.” A little too emphatic — time to change the subject. “So, when are we getting together again?”
“Well . . . I was gonna invite you round to Mum and Dad’s, but I wasn’t sure if you still felt weird about the business with Karl?”
He smiled; that was the least of his worries. “It wasn’t their doing. Go on then, pick a night and I’m all yours — as long as I’m not working.” He paused, in case she wanted to have a pop. But no, Miranda rarely questioned his job anymore. She still didn’t like it but she knew it was a lost cause.
“How about tomorrow night?”
“Deal.”
“Fish and chips, and a few hands of cards.”
“Brilliant. I’ll bring some beers.”
“Anyway, gotta go. I can’t stand here talking to you — Sheryl’s off today so it’s just a barmaid and me. Don’t work too hard, Thomas.”
Thank you, God. Next stop: East Ham.
* * *
Jack’s BMW was nowhere to be seen. Thomas checked all the surrounding streets before parking up, not far from his original spot. This was all a gamble, but maybe his luck was in today.
He took the stairs, running through opening lines in his head. Nothing too cocky, but no sense beating around the bush. Mind you, she could just tell him to fuck off. That thought didn’t help his confidence any as he edged along the balcony.
At the door, he heard the faint sounds of jazz. Funny, he’d never had Sheryl pegged as a Miles Davis fan; he’d always seen her as more of a rock chick. He rapped the letterbox twice and stood back a little, shifting from foot to foot.
The door pulled back. Sheryl opened her mouth, but said nothing.
“Can I come in?”
She looked smaller, less certain of herself, as she nodded and led the way. He carefully closed the door behind him.
“This is a surprise. How come you know where I live?”
That was going to take some explaining. He sat down on the sofa. “Any chance of a cup of tea?”
“Sure,” she looked perplexed.
He rode it out and gave nothing away. As she hadn’t mentioned Miranda yet, he figured she was still running through the options.
“What can I do for you, Thomas?” She passed him a mug. She wasn’t smiling so he followed her lead.
He bobbed his head side to side, searching for an easy opening; then he gave up the search. “It’s about Jack Langton.”
She shrank back, grabbing her chair like a safety line. “Go on.”
He sighed and sniffed in rapid succession, as if desperate for stale air. “I know you two are involved — he was seen coming up here, earlier.”
She gulped at her tea, the cup hovering mid-air. “And that’s what of your fucking business?” Her eyes glowed, pools of molten hatred. “Are you here on some kind of work assignment? Don’t lie to me because I’ll ask Miranda — don’t think I won’t.” But her voice had lost its usual edge. He figured she was bluffing.
“She doesn’t know I’m here; no one knows I’m here. I just want to talk.”
“I heard about Karl,” she lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry he got into trouble in Belfast.”
Now he was pissed off. “Got into trouble? Jack Langton set him up! Special Branch arrested him.”
One look at her face told him she wasn’t going to let that be dropped at her door. “Oh, what, and you’re here to even the score?”
He sought solace in his tea; this was turning into a bad idea gone worse.
“Come on, Thomas,” she goaded him. “Why are you here? You looking for information? Blackmail? I’ll make it really easy for you — Miranda doesn’t know that Jack visits me. Happy now?”
He blushed, like an idiot. “Blackmail? No.” He was floundering now.
“I think you’d better go.” She looked vulnerable; this was a side of Sheryl he hadn’t seen since Miranda’s disappearance.
“Wait up, just give me five minutes.” He waved his hand like he was trying to hold back a stampede. “Then, I promise I’m out of here and no one gets to know, not from me.” And this, he told himself, was why he was so shit at cards. “These are the photos.” He pressed them flat on the table and smoothed the creases. “No copies and no files.” He tried reasoning. “Look, Jack Langton isn’t safe to be around.”
“You think I don’t know that?” She picked up the page to look at it.
“Then why are you . . .” he grabbed at the first phrase to hand, “. . . having a relationship with him?”
“A what? You think he’s my boyfriend?” She leaned back as if to spit out her reply. “You asshole.”
He blinked a couple of times, as if he could see the Angel of Conscience standing before him. “You’re right.” There was one thing he hadn’t tried yet: the truth. “I was trying to even the score with Jack. A couple of days ago, I was sniffing around, trying to find something about Jack that would be useful, to help Karl. Next thing I know, two geezers are panel beating my car while I’m still inside it.”
“Look, Thomas, I don’t get involved in Jack’s business.”
He ignored that. “So this morning I decide to follow him, and now here I am.”
“What are you planning to do — confront him? Because take it from me, he’s not a guy to cross.”
“Has he hurt you? Is he one of those pricks that likes to knock his girlfriends around?” His shoulders tensed.
Sheryl started laughing. “Miranda always says you have a vigilante complex. But you’ve got it wrong this time, big time. Jack’s not my boyfriend — he’s my father.”
Hostilities quickly ceased. “What does his wife think about it all?”
“The short version is that she doesn’t know. Oh sure, she knows I exist, but she thinks I’m some kind of step-niece or something. We’ve only met once.”
She brought the cups through and he followed her. Jack’s tinfoil was neatly folded on the kitchen table. “If you have to ask, then I won’t be telling you.” She picked the foil up and stuck it in a pedal bin, flicking a remnant of white powder from her fingertips. “So, what are you going to do?”
“He owes me for my car and he owes Karl for a whole lot more.”
She shook her head. “Jack doesn’t back down. Ever. And he doesn’t care who he uses or hurts.” She pointed a finger towards the pedal bin, dagger straight. “You think I want him to bring that crap into my home?” She turned to face him. “Why are you really here, Thomas?”
“Okay: confession time. I was hoping to convince you to tell me about Jack Langton’s movements. In return for . . .”
Sheryl folded her arms protectively. “Your silence? You’re gonna use me just like he does. I thought you were better than that.”
He swallowed and paused, as if listening to himself. “I am. It’s your choice. Either way, Jack will get what he’s due.” They faced each other like Samurai.
“And you’ll never tell Miranda about any of this?”
He nodded. “Besides,” he reminded her, “you know my secret too now, and when Jack gets a visit . . .”
She squeezed herself. “I want Jack out of my life for as long as possible.”
He smiled. Sir Peter Carroll had told him, during his interview, that every surveillance assignment was a problem to be solved. This was no different. “How often does he bring the packages over?”
“Every week or so. He doesn’t need to — I think he does it to show me he can.” She lowered her head. “I’ve
no idea where the stuff comes from and it never stays here. He keeps scales and bags in the drawer.”
Thomas put on his best poker face. “I think I can find out where he gets it.” He stepped forward and hugged her; it seemed the right thing to do. For a moment, he felt he had lost the fear of her, stepped around her Siren persona, the one who led innocent men to their doom. Well, maybe not entirely innocent.
But as he moved away, she lit that touchpaper smile and he reddened again like an idiot. He was pleased though; equilibrium was restored.
“How will I get in touch with you?”
“Let me have a mobile number and I’ll text mine to you,” he said.
She snorted back laughter. “You really are one cautious son of a bitch.”
He was already edging towards the door.
* * *
It was a mile or so before he pulled in and rang Karl back. They were trying out a new system: if the call wasn’t picked up by the third ring, hang up. The way things were going, he was holding much better cards than he’d started the day with.
Karl picked up with one ring to go. “What’s the score then, Tommo?”
“Are you okay to talk?”
“When have you ever known an Ulsterman who wasn’t okay to talk?”
His first thought was: when he’s in custody. But he let it pass. “I’ve found a way to track Jack’s movements.” He didn’t elaborate and Karl knew the drill by now.
“That’s grand. Unfortunately, I have bad news. They’re shutting down the testing on the base and moving it in-house to an Engamel facility. The major was very coy about it; I can’t figure him out. I was so sure he still wanted Schaefer’s blood — now I don’t know so much.”
“P’raps they’ve offered him a deal too. Let’s face it, if everything came out in the open his career would be bollocksed, along with his marriage.”
“Aye, maybe. I thought he was bigger than that, though. Anyway, enough of me going on — where are you now?”
“London. You?”
“Like the song says — working my way back to you. The major and I finished our wee chat and now Christine would like a word — in person. And guess what, you’re invited.”
Line of Sight Page 25
