Word also reached him — via John Wright — that the case against Jack Langton was pretty watertight. There was a good chance he’d go to prison. The rumour was that other things had caught up with Jack at the same time — he’d be looking at a hefty sentence, even with a decent lawyer.
* * *
“You seem very pleased with yourself.” Miranda’s talent for the obvious didn’t diminish the feeling any.
“I managed to have a chat today with my new overseas friend.”
Miranda murmured and went back to sifting through a pile of DVDs. “Rom com, thriller or black-and-white?”
He laughed. The chances of finding a romantic comedy in that lot, unless she’d hidden it beforehand, were exactly nil. “Anything, you choose.” He sat back and watched her foraging through the DVD cases. Life was good.
“Speaking of phone calls,” Miranda’s voice wavered, “I talked to Geena last night. She wanted to know how we’d feel about being godparents, sort of.”
He shrugged against the upholstery. “Blimey, that’s a bit premature.” But he stopped himself from ruining the moment. Nice that Geena — or more likely Ajit — had put them at the top of the list. Although he figured it was a very short one anyway.
“I know, babe, but it’s nice to be asked. Anyway, we could always . . .” Miranda didn’t get to finish her sentence because the doorbell rang. “I’ve got it,” she trilled and headed for the door.
Meantime, he sneaked a peek at the DVDs she’d approved. He was still shuffling a trio of them when Miranda returned with a visitor: Karl.
“Any chance of a cuppa — I’ve brought my own biscuits and everything.”
Thomas smiled. But, as he still hadn’t subscribed to Coincidence Weekly, he signalled for Karl to follow him through to the kitchen. “How’s things then?” he kicked the door shut behind them. Miranda would understand.
“Yeah, pretty good, Tommo. I come bearing news — and you’ll likely not appreciate it.” Karl opened the biscuits and helped himself to a plate from the cupboard.
Thomas sorted the mugs and spoons, relying on Karl and the redemptive powers of confession.
“Sir Peter Carroll met with Christine Gerrard this week. Seems he’s flexing his muscles a little. He wants us back on the job Monday.”
“That was the plan anyway, wasn’t it?” he pushed a mug across to Karl and picked up the other two.”
“Nah, he wants us back on the same job. I’m to report to Major Eldridge now and you, my friend, are to report to Michael Schaefer.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Do I look like it? Oh, and while I’m here, could I have that mobile phone back?”
They went through to the front room. Miranda muted the TV and gave up on the remote. She grabbed a mug from Thomas and a couple of biscuits from Karl.
“You two look like you won the lottery and then found you’d burned your ticket.”
Karl took up residence in an armchair. “Does she know . . . ?”
“Oi. I am in the room, thank you very much.”
Karl looked suitably shamefaced. “No offence, Miranda — force of habit.”
“Tell her, Karl. I want Miranda to hear what we did last week.” He didn’t know how this was going to play out. Fuck it, Karl could decide what she ought to know.
Karl put his tea down and looked straight at her. “Thomas saved my life last week. He put himself between a threat and me, and he shot her.”
Miranda’s face grew rigid. And even though Thomas could only bear to look at her sideways on, he recognised the dullness in her eyes, and he was sorry for having started it. Miranda turned to him and he sensed she was on the verge of tears. He knew that because one look at her and he felt the same way.
“The thing is, Miranda,” Karl’s voice had changed, picking up on the mood shift, “we need to finish something that started with Amy, at the Army Base. And I’m here to ask Thomas to trust me to do right by her, and by him.”
Wow. Thomas hadn’t seen that one coming — a speech to the jury from Karl.
“Look, I won’t stay any longer. I can see that you both might need a minute — if I can just have the mobile then I’ll be away.”
Miranda casually brushed her hand across her face, crushing the tears as she stood up. “Nah, you stay put, Karl. It’s about time we got past this. I know how much that business on the base affected Thomas — you too, I s’pose. So you finish your tea and sort out what you need to sort out. I’m just walking down to the chippie — I’ll get three cod and chips, shall I?”
Chapter 41
Same reception desk at the Engamel Facility, same arrows at the roadside. But it all led to a different block, far from the car park where the Land Rover had lost out playing who’s hardest with the C12 armoured vehicle. From where he parked, this time, he couldn’t even see the furrows up the embankment. Or maybe they’d re-laid a shitload of turf since his last visit.
The side door was unlocked. As he walked through, glancing in at windows along the corridor, there was office space, technical classrooms and a comfort lounge, all filled with the great and the good and the name-tagged. It didn’t take long to find Michael Schaefer, not when he had his name above the door.
“I’m really pleased you made it, Thomas.”
He nodded. Maybe this was American for contrite.
“They won’t let me see Deborah. Sir Peter and his cronies have closed ranks — for all I know she’s been spirited away.”
Yeah, like Jess. “Is that why I’m here?”
“What?” Schaefer paused as if thinking about what he’d just said. “Shit, no — did I come across like that? Sir Peter thought I needed support staff for the next couple of days, until the big announcement. And we couldn't think of anyone more appropriate than you.”
He shuddered, and was only stopped from replying by the sight of Clarity some way behind Schaefer. Judging by the hand gesture, she wasn't happy with the aftermath either.
With the welcome speech over, Schaefer handed him a schedule sheet. First thing Thomas noted was the product launch, two days away, and the location: Larksford Army Base. Back where it all began. If it wasn’t for Karl, who had schooled him over cod and chips, he could have cheerfully lamped the Yank. But Karl was already on the case, apparently.
“So really you’re my personal assistant — just for a couple of days. I’ll need you to take some promotional photographs, and to go back through any archives we can use — once you’ve removed Deborah from them. I want a really classy portfolio for the guests.”
“Guests?”
“That’s what I love about you, Tommy. You never see the bigger picture. You’re so . . .” he searched for the right word, “. . . ambitionless! Must be some Limey working-class thing. We’ll be presenting to the investors and our corporate partners, representatives from the military — the people who will take this project forward and make it a success.” He did everything but wave a little flag. “Clarity will show you where everything is. I’ve gotta go to a meeting.”
Thomas stood aside so Schaefer could strut off, and waited at the doorway, wishing he had the Makarov to hand.
“You may as well say it,” Clarity peeled herself away from the keyboard and stood before him, like the accused. “You’ll feel better afterwards.”
He couldn’t see that happening until the assignment was over. “Best I don’t, under the circumstances — I’m just the hired help.”
* * *
Erasing Deborah from video footage and a series of photographs proved to be strangely therapeutic. Often, she was just a figure at the edge of things, but once or twice she’d been the one making promotional presentations. He worked around that by splitting off and running her vocals through some software, and then cutting the footage to turn her into an unseen voiceover. As far as Engamel was concerned, she never existed.
Clarity left him to it and laughing boy didn’t return until late afternoon. So he worked at his own pace, painstakingly
editing out the past to meet the needs of the present. And, with Clarity keeping her distance, he took the opportunity to make copies of everything for himself. Have memory stick will travel . . .
He was on his way out the door when he encountered Michael Schaefer in the corridor. A hand blocked his chest. “Hey Tommy, lucky I caught you.” It felt about as coincidental as Christmas in December. “I forgot something — Major Eldridge has requested that you and Karl McNeill don’t contact each other until this is over. I’ve been assured of your cooperation.”
He nodded and pushed past. ‘Assured of cooperation’ sounded like another way of saying, ‘We’re monitoring your calls.’ Same old bollocks, only with a two-hour drive back to London to look forward to.
Outside, the fading sunlight gleamed off his old car, delivered to his flat the night before. The replaced windscreen and bodywork were actually an improvement on the original. He got in and shut the door on the world, checking his mobile before he set off for home. There was one text: Fancy a meal out tonight? Meet me at Caliban’s. Mx. He pinged back a Y and did the rest of his thinking on the road.
The security staff on the gate waved him through, with the kind of detached professionalism that suggested they couldn’t give a shit about him. He returned the sentiment.
* * *
Sheryl clocked him as soon as he walked through the pub door. He was relieved to see that predatory look on her face — things hadn’t changed between them. “Hey there,” she called over, luring him to the bar. “The fair Miranda awaits your pleasure upstairs.”
He took the steps one at a time. That nagging instinct that something was amiss was playing in his head like a familiar tune. “It’s only me,” he called up. No reason, other than to convince himself that he was in control.
“This came today, for you,” she passed him a courier package. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
He shrugged, took the package and opened it in front of her. She stared without comment as a mobile phone saw the light of day — the same mobile Karl had taken away last time they’d all met for cod and chips. When he switched the phone on, there was one new text. Miranda sidled up as he hit the magic button. Don’t rock the boat. Just go along with it. See you in 2 days. J4A. He nodded and turned the phone off.
“Ready to eat?” Miranda picked her coat off the chair.
“You certainly are.” He gave her a winning smile and pocketed the phone.
* * *
“Terry and Sam still feel bad about deceiving you, by hiding the Land Rover and everything, for Karl.”
It was the ‘and everything’ that interested him. So where was the remaining Scavenger firing mechanism now? He kept his thoughts to himself; the Wright family had been dragged far enough into this. “What’s the latest with Jack Langton?”
Miranda made him wait. She sipped her wine and ran her eyes over him. “Dad spoke with Mrs Langton — did you know she’s Jack’s second wife? Course you did,” she answered for him, in the way that he hated. “You must know all about him.”
He counted to twelve. No sense having a row with Miranda because of some scumbag. “No, I didn’t. I just wondered what’s happening and how Sheryl is about everything.” Out of habit he checked the surrounding tables to see if anyone was paying them any attention.
She went back to her meal. “What’s J4A?”
He followed her lead, and didn’t look up. “I’m guessing: Justice for Amy.” Then he raised his eyes and caught her smiling. It might have been the wine, but the blood swarmed to his face.
“Don’t get me wrong, Thomas, it’s great that you always try to do the right thing. But what happens when you get out of your depth?”
He grinned stupidly. “That’s when I call in Karl.”
“Hmm,” she tapped a nail against her glass. “I’ve noticed that the more you hang around with Karl, the more aggro it seems to make for me and you.” She dropped her cutlery and raised her hands a little. “I know he’s a good bloke. He just always seems to have an agenda.”
“True,” he conceded with a grin, “but he means well.”
She didn’t share the joke and they finished the meal under a cloud. He paid the bill, insisting that the waiter brought the card machine to the table.
Miranda dug out a tip. “Fancy coming back to mine for a nightcap?” She was matter-of-fact about it, so he didn’t feel bad turning her down.
“Not tonight, babe, I’ve a long drive tomorrow.”
She snapped her handbag. “You wanna be careful, or you’ll end up alone — like Karl.”
Chapter 42
Schaefer had insisted on seeing all the proofs. Thomas drifted to one side as he pored over the options to decide which images would make it into the final presentation portfolio. “I gotta hand it to you, Tommy. Your work’s good. These shots of me and Clarity are pretty smooth — it’s like Deborah never existed.” There was a smirk on his face, as if he wanted to say more. Then Schaefer flicked through a series of images and stopped short. “This your idea of a joke?”
Thomas held the corners of his mouth down. He knew what Schaefer was looking at. A high-resolution solo he’d cleaned up from the CCTV. A composition he liked to call ‘smouldering Land Rover.’
“Asshole,” Schaefer muttered aloud. Then he did what Thomas had expected — rechecking the whole series carefully, to ensure there were no more hidden surprises.
By four o’clock, the deed was done. The glossy portfolios were printed on site and boxed, ready for the big event. Clarity hadn’t been around all day, so Thomas got to see Schaefer close up, watching him as he put the final touches to his speech.
“What happens tomorrow — for me, I mean.”
Schaefer stopped typing, unable to hide his irritation. “You?” Then his face lit up like an incendiary. “You can pick me up here at eight am and drive me to Larksford.”
Eight in the morning. That meant a bastardly early start for a two-hour drive, plus another hour over to the base, with Mr Smug for company.
“Oh, and Tommy, put on a suit. You can at least look the part of a loyal employee. And I want you where I can see you.”
* * *
It felt like the last day of school, albeit one that began with the alarm clock shrieking in the dark. A small price to pay though — after today, there’d no more skivvying for Engamel. He did the shit-shower-shave routine before his brain really moved into gear, then struggled into the suit he’d pressed the night before. A pity he didn’t have a Surveillance Support Unit tie for the finale. He chose a grey one to match the morality.
He kept to the speed limits — speeding was for mugs and emergencies — and promised himself a coffee at the halfway point. He wasn’t relishing the prospect of revisiting Larksford. Maybe Schaefer had chosen it to make a point, as if declaring to one and all that he didn’t care about anything except the project.
Next roadside services, eighteen miles. Thank Christ for that. He tapped at the crucifix he’d put on for the day. Mum would be pleased. He flicked on the radio to keep alert and wound the window down a little. Roll on, caffeine and sugar. As the sun eased through the clouds he began to smile at the absurdity of the situation. How did he get from being a snap-happy teenager in Yorkshire to temping for a weapons manufacturer? He smiled all the more at the answer, and adjusted his crotch as the familiar roll call of memories flooded his brain: Miranda — pure and simple. All roads led back to her.
* * *
He followed the slip road traffic into the services car park. Three minibuses of students, who looked like they were on an outing for soap and water, had spilled out on to the tarmac. He watched them as he parked up, playing a familiar game of spying out which ones were involved together and who the loners were. A couple of young women spotted him and launched into a clinch, prising themselves apart to glare at him, daring him to disapprove. Time for refreshments.
He sat in the cafeteria, to avoid getting crumbs on his suit. On the table beside him, Karl’s giveaway mobi
le was giving nothing away. He was ahead of schedule by fifteen minutes — time enough for caffeine and reflection. And all without resorting to Karl’s 80/20 rule, ‘Always drive at 80 mph for 20% of the time.’ The dick. Well, best be getting on; don’t want to be late on my last day.
* * *
It was too much to hope for that Michael Schaefer would be waving at the security gate, ready to go. No, Thomas had to play follow the lights one last time and then await his master’s orders. He thought about Schaefer’s words as he stood at the main reception. Did he really lack ambition? Nah, he decided. He just had different objectives. Like seeing Schaefer held accountable — that was worth putting on a suit for.
Michael Schaefer arrived through a double door, wheeling an aluminium trolley. Four boxes filled the two shelves. “Tommy, will you get these loaded?” He pushed the trolley out. There was a set of keys on one of the top boxes. “We’re taking a different vehicle,” he pointed in the general direction of the car park.
One scan of the cars on offer was enough. It had to be the Jaguar. Schaefer was just that kind of man. At least the driving detail wouldn’t be so bad. He trolleyed out the boxes and stowed them away. Judging by the amount of catalogues they were expecting a good attendance.
He expected Schaefer to be watching him, and when he took the trolley back he wasn’t disappointed. Schaefer caught up with him at reception. “Not even curious, huh, Tommy?”
He smiled softly; no reply was a silent victory. Once they were in the car — which did indeed drive like a dream — Schaefer was Mr Convivial. It was as if the Jaguar’s air-con carried some sort of truth serum — the man could not stop talking. Mostly it was anecdotes about the important people he’d dealt with in the past and the after-show parties that he’d enjoyed.
Line of Sight Page 31
