Authors: DEREK THOMPSON
CAUSE & EFFECT
CAUSE & EFFECT
A thriller you won’t want to put down
DEREK THOMPSON
First published 2015
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
Derek Thompson asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
©Derek Thompson
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There is a glossary of British slang and a character list in the back of this book.
ALSO BY DEREK THOMPSON
CAUSE & EFFECT is the third book in the series featuring Thomas Bladen
Get the first two now!
BOOK 1: STANDPOINT
The woman he's always loved is in danger
Thomas Bladen works in surveillance for a shadowy unit of the British government. During a routine operation, he sees a shooting which exposes a world of corruption and danger. When his on-again, off-again girlfriend Miranda is drawn into the conspiracy, Thomas must decide who he can trust to help him save her life
http://www.amazon.co.uk/STANDPOINT-gripping-thriller-full-suspense-ebook/dp/B00UVQBVVU/
http://www.amazon.com/STANDPOINT-gripping-thriller-full-suspense-ebook/dp/B00UVQBVVU/
BOOK 2: LINE OF SIGHT
http://www.amazon.co.uk/LINE-SIGHT-gripping-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B00XIOAOBK/
http://www.amazon.com/LINE-SIGHT-gripping-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B00XIOAOBK/
A young woman lies dead at an army base. Was it really an accident?
When Amy Johanson is killed during a weapons test, Thomas and his partner Karl are determined to get to the bottom of it. They must protect Amy's friend Jess, the only witness they have, who plays a dangerous game of seduction and lies. Meanwhile, Thomas’s girlfriend Miranda and her family are once again put in the firing line.
Can Thomas get justice for Amy, solve the mystery of Karl’s past, and decide who he can really trust?
For Warren, the voice of reason.
My thanks to the following people:
Anne Derges, Christine Butterworth, Clive Aplin, David Brown, Elizabeth Sparrow, Jasper Joffe, Martin Wood, Paul Sullivan, Sarah Campbell and Warren Stevenson.
My thanks to the following organisations:
Inside Time
The UK Cards Association
Harnell Street. A Tuesday morning. Playgroup is closed for the day, Janey is out of ciggies and that bloody kid won’t stop screaming.
“Just shut up will you?” she snaps, as little Jacob bawls on defiantly. She feels her hand trembling; she waits for him to look away. It’s stupid but she can never bring herself to hit him when he’s staring at her.
Jacob’s in luck — Janey’s remembered the twenty pound note in the emergency tin — the one that Jack Langton used to top up when he came round to collect his post. She scrabbles at the back of the cupboard, pops the lid and leaves it clattering on the Formica. The Queen seems to smile at her from the twenty and she can’t help smiling back. Sorted.
“It’s all right, Jacob; we’ll go out and get some sweeties, yeah?”
He cuts the racket at the sound of the magic word. Now he’s smiling too. She’s rough with him as she gets him ready because it’s all she knows. And he doesn’t make a fuss because it’s all he knows as well.
It starts raining when she’s halfway up the road. Jacob’s all right, lucky bastard — the plastic cover fastens down, safe and sound. Janey hunches forward, rolling the buggy along like a penance. The street is deserted. This is the East London that regeneration never quite reached.
She relaxes her grip as the shop comes into view. “Nearly there, darling.” She dangles a hand in front of the blurred plastic and little Jacob squeals excitedly. Without stopping, she wriggles her phone out of her jeans. “Greg, where’s my money this week?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Don’t be bullshitting me — your kid’s gotta eat.” It’s a short call — promise extracted, there’s nothing more to say. “That was
Daddy
, Jacob,” she says with spite, “being an arsehole again. He’ll be over later, if you’re a good boy.”
She reaches the shop, parks the buggy up so Jacob can watch the cars, and nips inside. The girl serving on the till is no quicker than the old cow in front of her. So back out Janey comes and sure enough the little sod is kicking off again. He wants to see the cars properly and his buggy cover is all steamed up. His choice then; he can get wet watching the traffic. She unfastens the cover and legs it back inside before anyone can take her place.
Janey doesn’t hear the screaming at first. It’s a woman rushing into the shop that alerts her. The buggy hasn’t moved, thank God, but Jacob . . . She rushes to pick him up and stops, paralysed. For a moment she’s certain there’s blood pouring down his face, and then she realises it’s paint. Someone has sprayed her baby’s eyes. And now the two of them, mother and son, are screaming together.
At seven-thirty the alarm went off. It was the rule. It didn’t matter how wasted Ken Treavey had been the night before, there had to be some standards. He got up, shuffled to the bathroom and wrung out his kidneys in preparation for the next onslaught. He generally avoided the mirror these days, but sometimes he’d catch a glimpse of the man he used to be — that straight-backed, eager servant of the crown. Then his memory would paint in the beret and army fatigues — those were the really painful days.
By eight-ten he was ready. A crisp shirt and fresh creases in his trousers. Cereal, toast and tea — all to the backdrop of Radio 4 and issues of the day he used to care about.
He locked up his digs —
flat
was too grand a word — and moved briskly down the steps before any other doors opened. Sometimes he’d pick up some shopping for one of the old-timers. Not now though — this early time was sacrosanct. His shoes clipped rhythmically against the stone steps, stepping out in a marching gait.
Sometimes when he drew his first breath out on the street, inhaling the decay and neglect, he wondered how he’d ended up like this, far from his native Glasgow, slumming it in London. An ex-wife and a daughter he could scarcely pick out of a line-up, living in the North East and sending down a new photo every Christmas.
He picked up the pace, soothing himself with the tap-tap-tap against the pavement. The man in the corner shop gave him a nod and watched without comment as he picked up a tabloid, a four-pack of lager and some provisions. A brief exchange of words — usually about football — hand over the cash, and he was on his way. ‘As you were.’
His shift as a nightclub doorman didn’t start until eight in the evening, so the wide expanse of the day stretched before him. The world played out in a tape loop; cars and commuters clogged the streets. A gaggle of schoolgirls, all hormones and horoscopes, drifted past on their way to a local comprehensive. He smiled and they looked through him — he wore a different form of camouflage now.
There was a spring to his step as he re-entered the block. On a good day the tabloid could fill up nearly an hour. He took the steps two at a time, ears pricked for sounds of life. Upstairs a radio was blaring out what passed for music and that bawling baby along the landing was testing her lungs again. The familiar soundscape of what he called home.
He halted at the top step, aware that something was different. It took a moment to register that the black rubber mat outside his door was slightly skewed, just enough to bring him up short. He approached warily — no wires on show and only a faint bulge in the centre of the mat. He held his breath and eased the mat away, inch-by-inch, until he saw a small padded envelope. He turned it slowly, examining it at arm’s length, reading his name and flat number on the front.
Safely indoors, he rested the envelope on the kitchen table and put his shopping away. Never more than a couple of steps away from it, he circled it like prey as he boiled the kettle and poured the tea. Now he was ready.
The envelope contained a folded piece of paper — the good quality kind, with no marks on it. The page showed a phone number, a time to call and details of the phone box he had to use. The last line read: ‘Work opportunity.’
He stood the folded page on the table like a tent and sat facing it, sipping his tea. Someone knew all about him — where he lived, what his routine was and that he needed money. They hadn’t wanted to be heard by the neighbours otherwise they’d have used the letterbox.
* * *
At one thirty in the afternoon, overfed on a menu of tabloid opinion and daytime television, he left the bedsit, giving himself half an hour to make a ten-minute journey. He plucked out two hairs and set them top and bottom of the locked front door, half-convinced that some bastard planned to rob him while he was out. Then again they could have done that earlier. Or maybe it was some elaborate plan to mug him at the phone box. He took along the knuckle-duster that accompanied him to the nightclub, just in case.
The world seemed different now, foreign and foreboding — cars he didn’t recognise and blank faces. He dropped into the corner shop for some chewing gum, and paid with a tenner to get a handful of change. After walking past the phone box three times, he creaked the door back and took a good look inside. Nothing out of place, just the usual smell of stale cigarettes and sweat. He could hear his own breathing echoing in the old-style kiosk.
Only curious
, he told himself,
following the trail to see where it leads
. He stood and waited, chasing the sweep hand of his watch as it counted down the last couple of minutes.
The phone number picked up on the first ring. “Who’s calling?”
“Ken Treavey.” No point in subterfuge; they knew his name anyway, and more.
Silence. He closed his eyes, straining to hear. He felt like lighting up a cigarette, even though he’d given up six months ago. Was anyone still there?
“Very good. Take down these details.”
Now he could breathe again.
Two hours’ time, across town — no explanations. He took it to be a test of his ability to follow instructions. He could live with that — at least until he knew about the job and what it was worth. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere else to be, apart from his regular TV date with
Trisha
.
* * *
The pub had two exits, one on the main street and another out to a side turning where traffic-calming bollards choked the road down to single file. Not a problem, as he’d come by Tube, but he noted it anyway. He didn’t like crowded bars, although the thrill of the unknown excited him just a little and the prospect of some ready money tipped the balance.
He’d arrived early and waited across the street. Five minutes before time a Daimler pulled up. The suited gent in the back clocked him instantly and they stared at one another through the traffic. The suit exchanged a few words with his driver, who let him out — like a proper chauffeur — before gliding off. The suit went inside the pub.
He waited until the last minute and nipped through the traffic. The man was at the bar; he held out a hand as Ken approached.
“A lager for you, Ken?”
He smiled. The mind games had already started. They had all the gen on him while he knew nothing about them, but at least they were buying. The suit took a single malt, the expensive kind, and gestured to a table. He grabbed his lager from the bar and sat down with his back to the room, surveying the saloon by its reflection in the window.
“Your service record was impressive.”
He had grown used to
was
now. Faded glory and years gone by. Even so, he wondered what they knew about his history and how they’d got hold of it.
“I’ll come straight to the point. I’m looking for someone like you — I need a man killed and I’m willing to pay you £10,000.” There wasn’t a pause.
The voice had been monotone, a trick way of speaking without anyone else hearing. Ken sipped his lager, taking it all in. As he lifted his eyes, the suit met him face on. He liked that — no bullshit.
“And why come to me?”
The suit nodded, as if appreciating that he’d cut to the chase as well.
“Your past recommends you.”
He narrowed his eyes and read the sentence two ways. Someone he’d served with, maybe? Or did they mean his actual army record? “You havnae answered my question. Why me?”
He could see the suit was put out, even though he tried to mask it. Seeing through masks was a skill that could save a life — catch the difference between innocent bystander and insurgent.
The suit cast a casual glance behind him and moved in close. Ken read the tension on his face — the barely parted lips and the rigid jaw.
“It needs accurate timing and it cannot look too . . . clinical. You’ve done this sort of work before, I understand? If the rate is acceptable you’ll be contacted with further details.”
Ken lowered his pint. “I need to know more.”
The suit checked his watch and eased down the last of his malt. “The man you’re going to kill is a murderer.” He put his glass down and it rang out a hollow note. “Now, do we have an agreement, in principle?”
He knew there was no sense prevaricating; he’d have to make a decision. He gripped the hand floating before him and sealed the deal. The suit nodded and the colour came back to his face.
Ken watched him leave and returned to his lager, his hand trembling slightly as he lifted the comforting liquid to his lips. He’d killed people for less in the past, in a roundabout sort of way. Ten grand. He’d be able to send Steph some of the child support he owed her. Maybe they could start over . . .
Aye, that’ll be right!
He checked whether anyone was taking an interest and thought about another pint. Maybe this was all some kind of wind-up. And even if the suit was on the level there was no saying he’d actually go through with it. His hand throbbed a little, as if to remind him of the pact he’d already made. It was up to them now.