CAUSE & EFFECT (11 page)

He stared at the alarm in disbelief — six fifteen — and made the best of it by dragging his weary arse out of bed to order flowers online for the new Mummy and Daddy. He skipped breakfast and was out the door before seven, beating the rush into the capital. Too restless to take photographs, he walked around St Paul’s Cathedral and gave a fiver to a beggar to make himself feel better.

Karl arrived for the pick-up at eight fifteen, in high spirits judging by his whistling. Paulette Villers was first on the day’s Benefits’ hit list and Karl opted for their previous vantage point. Thomas was determined not to mention the previous night.

He blew across the camera buttons for dust, paused, and then removed the lens cap. “What’s put you in such a good mood?”

“Irony and information. Guess who manufactures the SSU’s ID cards now?”

He shrugged; he couldn’t give a shit. Doubtless, Karl would regale him with a tale of corporate conspiracy if he waited long enough.

“Give up?” Karl lasted ten seconds. “Engamel, that’s who!”

Thomas sneered at the news.

“Yeah.” Karl huffed a breath and folded his arms. “I thought that’d give you something to think about.”

Engamel — manufacturers of the Urban Ballistics UB40, also known as The Scavenger. The weapon a woman had died for needlessly, a few months back — when, for once, Sir Peter Carroll had done the honourable thing and stood up to the Euro-Cartel.

Thomas bit at a thumbnail, cradling his camera with his other hand. “Anything more from your army mate, Ken?” He waited for an update, which never came.

When Paulette Villers arrived with her partner, she was limping. Karl picked up his camera.

“See.” Karl pressed into the eyepiece. “That’s what I don’t get about domestics. The other lass gives her a beating and then helps her into work — her
illegal
work. The mind boggles.”

They captured the footage, mapping every step and glance. Thomas focused on Paulette’s companion. Once the target had entered the building, the other woman waited a few seconds, flapping her arms against her coat to stay warm. His camera picked out her anxiety and the uneven stance.

Thomas lowered his lens. “Listen, do you fancy doing a sandwich and coffee run? I didn’t have breakfast and I’m famished.”

Karl held out his hand for cash. “I’ll give it back to you later, scouts’ honour.”

He watched him leave and returned to his vigil. Something didn’t sit right; that familiar tension was creeping over him, subtle as seduction — instinct. Paulette’s other half was still there, checking both directions from the corner. Paulette Villers rushed back out of the laundry, grabbed the woman’s arm and they cautiously made their way up the side street.

He was out of the car before he really registered what he was doing. There was no plan; only a sense that something was wrong and he might be able to help. But even that was an afterthought.

“Paulette, wait . . .” He was only a few paces behind them now.

Both women turned and then pulled closer together, shuffling up the street like wounded animals.

“Look, I wanna help.” He stopped moving.

“Leave us alone. He’ll see you and then we’ll all be in trouble.”

He?
That threw him. “I’ll be here on Monday, early — if you want to talk.” He didn’t wait for an answer. A silver Saab cut into the side street. He sized up the driver effortlessly; well-built with cropped, greying hair — a geezer who’d use an old-fashioned gym and wouldn’t be seen dead in a leisure centre. A mastiff of a man; the sort of bloke you didn’t fuck with.

Thomas turned his head away slowly, so that he could get a look at the number plate sideways on — one for Karl to check out later. He told himself it was probably nothing, until the Saab stopped in the road. He crossed over to get a better look and saw the two women, now parallel with the car, slowly get inside.

Karl was waiting by Thomas’s locked car, without breakfast. “There was a queue at the café, so I didn’t bother.” He didn’t speak again until they were moving. “I’m waiting, Tommo. This had better be good.”

Thomas passed over the number plate and assembled his thoughts aloud. “I know it’s a stretch, but I’ve been right about stuff in the past, haven’t I? You set the ball rolling with your comment about ‘domestics’ and when Paulette left the laundry and they both started walking . . .”

Karl closed his eyes, as if asking for intercession. “Where is this going?”

“If you can check out the Saab’s owner.”

Karl smiled, cat-like. “You used to do that kind of thing privately.”

“Yeah, well, I think you proved conclusively last night that we’re a team. And besides, your contacts will be quicker.”

Karl made the call at their next observation session. By the time a Nigerian family — based on the clothing and the notes — exited number 43 and locked the front door behind them, proving fairly conclusively that Mr Liang was subletting, he had his reply.

“Well, well,” Karl lowered his mobile. “Looks like you were on to something. You had a close encounter with Mr Charlie Stokes.”

That was two hits on the radar; it was definitely time to speak with Jack Langton again.

* * *

Ninety per cent of surveillance was sitting around waiting for something to happen, but it wasn’t the worst part of the job. Every assignment demanded some interaction with their hosts and that could only mean one thing: meetings.

The review was scheduled for three thirty — a crap time by anyone’s estimation. Karl checked through the paperwork en route. They agreed a ‘no questions’ pact to get out by four-thirty, so they could visit the SSU office at Liverpool Street.

Karl must have been working a night shift again; he’d taken dressing down to new depths and could have passed for a benefit claimant himself, like the one they’d just followed to a doctor’s surgery. Despite that, Karl was relentlessly upbeat.

“Don’t you get a thrill from it? With each assignment we become someone else.”

Thomas shrugged. “Same shit, different department.”

Undeterred, Karl hummed a
Disney
tune on their way through the turnstile. Second floor, sharp left, and along the corridor to the glass-walled meeting room. Welcome to the goldfish bowl.

Not the last in, but close. Someone muttered, “Floaters,” as they took their seats. Karl retaliated by coughing, “Wankers.” At three thirty on the dot Dawn Yeates rose from her chair and hushed everyone. As she turned towards the whiteboard, the beads in her hair clattered together.

“Let’s make a start. Karl?” She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Perhaps you’d like to kick off?”

Thomas glanced at Karl, who was smiling back. Was this some kind of magic moment? He gave a succinct progress update, highlighting their successes and the gaps. This was Benefits Investigation Karl, who spoke the language of the locals —
claimants
,
suspected
and
benefits, recipients
. Thomas sat back to enjoy the show.

Dawn Yeates lapped it up, showering him with praise and suggesting tactics. Karl took notes. After that, feedback Friday went round the table like a Mexican wave. Some of them sounded like big game hunters reflecting on their kills, while one pair — clearly ex-coppers, lamented that they no longer had the power of arrest.

The latecomers put in an appearance close to the end — another SSU team, based over in West London. Thomas had never really spoken with them; he only knew them by their surnames — Malone and Iqbal. They sounded like injury lawyers. Malone always seemed buttoned-up, her skirts safely below the knee, while Iqbal’s smart suit belied his position. Thomas suspected that he’d been assigned on the grounds of ethnicity and language skills. Or maybe the pair of them weren’t in favour with the SSU.

He waited outside for Karl to finish his schmoozing. The good folk of the BIT passed him without a word. Even their West London SSU cousins only managed a murmur of courtesy. Karl emerged with a folded piece of paper in his hand.

“Right. Time to visit our real family!”

By the time they reached the Liverpool Street building it was well after five. Naturally, Christine and Ann were still working.

Karl nudged Thomas. “It’s like a double-date.”

Christine ventured out from her office. “Thomas, could you spare a minute?”

She reached behind her desk and lifted an A5 envelope from a pile of papers. He received it without comment and slid out the contents.

“Standard visual surveillance,” she explained. “Where he goes and who he speaks with.”

He stared at the photograph, waiting for her to state the obvious. Bob Peterson — the married Bob Peterson, her ex, now banished back to Southampton.

“What am I looking for?”

“I’m not sure.”

He didn’t bother asking if this was on the books, given that Bob Peterson had been the boss for a brief period.

“I’d like to end your assignment with the Benefits Investigation Team.”

The deal with Sir Peter was that he and Karl always worked together. “And Karl?”

“It’s up to you. As long as you report back to me — and me alone — you can run it however you like.”

He could almost feel Karl drumming his fingers at his desk. “When?”

“With immediate effect, unless you have any objections?”

Three or four
. He decided to stall her. “I’d prefer to stay put for the next couple of weeks . . .”

“Oh?”

Now for the tricky part — eyes down and keep the voice low. “Miranda and I are having problems . . .” That at least was true.

She tapped her fingertips — corporate empathy. “Try not to let it interfere with work. I take it this means you’ll be visiting the prison again?”

He smiled a little; now for the last minute save. “I don’t mind working weekends if you think the target warrants it.”

It was her turn under the microscope. She didn’t stay there long.

“Weekends will be fine.” She nodded. “We’ll talk again – Karl’s waiting for you.”

Karl was busy at his laptop as Thomas emerged, and immediately started packing up. “Fancy a wee drink?”

* * *

The Swan
was good and local; shandy and crisps, and the luxury of seats facing the doors. He’d noticed that Karl preferred his back to the wall when there were crowds. They sat for a while and watched the show — the city boys and girls, out to impress; the office workers trying to shrug off the day’s drudgery; and even — God love ’em — a couple of MI5 blokes from their building, almost blending in. He nudged Karl and they raised their glasses to the second cousins from the first floor.

Karl chose his moment carefully. “Have you spoken to Miranda since you left Yorkshire?”

He shot him a leaden glance.

“Understood.” Karl lifted his hands away from the force field. “Only I’ve got the weekend off, if you’re at a loose end . . .”

“Actually, I’ve got a job lined up.”

“Not another wedding shoot?”

He pretended to enjoy the joke. “Something like that.”

* * *

Friday night was the worst; rattling around in the flat with his mobile burning a hole in his pocket. Twice he thought about ringing Miranda; he’d revisited their last car-crash conversation in his head until his cheeks burned. Pat had given up leaving messages and Ajit and Geena were now knee-deep in nappies. And anyway, he was probably still in the doghouse.

The doorbell rang; a flick of the curtain confirmed the welcome visitor.

“Alright, boss? Chicken Jalfrezi, pilau rice and a Peshwari naan.”

He carried the booty into the kitchen, laying everything out on a plastic tablecloth. Already in the hallway were a camera and a road atlas ready for the early morning jaunt to Southampton.

Christine had struggled to fill a page. Bob Peterson’s home address, the SSU office there, his children’s school, and the charity Mrs Peterson had last worked for. The handwritten notes also detailed locations of the nearest supermarkets and the number plates of both the Petersons’ cars. All in all, it looked very much like a private inquiry.

It was no great hardship being on the road at six thirty a.m. He enjoyed his own company — something the moors had taught him. Just as well because Miranda and he were on opposite sides of a crevasse. The Reichenbach Falls had nothing on this
final problem
. He gazed at the pale horizon and wondered how to draw a line under the past when it still cast a shadow over the present.

By eight thirty the weekend traffic around Southampton was chock-a-block. Erring on the side of caution, he had parked up in good time at the end of the street. Bob Peterson was only five minutes out from Christine’s schedule; she’d certainly done her research. Bob did the whole family bit — waving and smiling to the wife and kids before he pulled the 4x4 off the drive and went a-hunting.

Thomas stayed well back, trailing Peterson to the supermarket. The 4x4 slotted into a space but Thomas still kept his distance, waiting until Bob had been inside the supermarket for a good five minutes before he nipped over to the petrol station for some snacks and a piss. On his way back across the tarmac, he stopped to tie his shoelaces and slipped a shop-bought transmitter out of his pocket, attaching it under the rear wheel arch. The handheld locator read Uncle Bob’s stationary position loud and clear; he was all set.

Thirty minutes later the target emerged with enough food to last a nuclear winter. Thomas let the camera tell its own story, as Bob Peterson carefully stacked plastic containers in the 4x4. What had Christine ever seen in a dick like that?

He trailed him home, letting him off the leash more now that he had the tracker in place. As Thomas arrived, Bob was carrying the last of the containers inside. He stared at the house, unclear what he was looking for, when Bob was suddenly back on the road. Only this time, he wasn’t hanging about.

First stop was a nondescript SSU building. Not hard to spot though, when you knew the signs — like the grilled car park and the reflective film on the office windows. Peterson was only there ten minutes; his next port of call was a multi-storey car park.

Thomas gambled on covering the front exit and decided he’d give him twenty minutes before checking out the shopping centre on foot. The radio offered up a discussion panel show with the topic: do we have a culture of snooping? Concerned citizens phoned in to trade certainties and insecurities, pooling their outrage at future plans to fit microchips in wheelie bins. The second course covered supermarket loyalty cards and what data they might hold. It passed a pleasant quarter of an hour without putting a scratch on the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act 2000.

A quick jaunt on foot through the multi-storey yielded nothing. He checked his own parking bay, did a quick tally up of how much time he had left, and went walkabout again. Mixing with the shoppers was the closest he’d got to normality since he ran from Yorkshire. He watched them with a cold eye, moving among the couples and families in search of his quarry.

He kept the handheld screen at his side, glancing at it every twenty paces, not that he could do anything now if Bob started driving. It all seemed like a bastard waste of time, unless he wanted a great deal on a new phone or to chat with one of the honeys trying to extort money for charity.

And then, like a gift from God, there was Bob — sitting in a café with a woman. He could only see the profile, but she didn’t look like wifey, and in any case Bob had left the missus at home.

He walked on, checked there was no one following him and regrouped his thoughts. Christine wanted photographic evidence but would she really want
this
? Sod it: the job was the job. He slipped an Olympus mu-10 out of his coat and did a practice run, further along the precinct; walking past a shop with his camera nonchalantly by his arm, tilted to the shop front. It wasn’t his finest work on playback, but it was better than nothing. He set off slowly to avoid jogging the phone around.

It was a punt, a fly-by, and he didn’t dare turn his head until he was clear of the row of shops. The footage was far from perfect — at best he figured on pulling off a couple of decent images. A shame about the fat bastard who’d cut across his line of vision, but that’s
Joe Public
for you. Bob would be at least a few minutes behind him — probably with his mystery woman — which gave him time to get into position.

Peterson’s car was on the fourth floor, tucked away in a corner. And naturally the nearest lift was out of order. With the blood still pounding in his head, Thomas checked the tracker was securely in place and looked around for a vantage point. He wanted to get a clear shot of the woman too, not that he expected Christine to like it. He took pleasure from that without knowing why.

Ten more minutes and he’d be risking a parking fine.
Come on, Bob. Shift your arse.
The surveillance mantra must have worked its magic because Bob Peterson arrived a couple of minutes later. The woman held back by the stairs, still in the shadows — smart. Maybe she was too smart. He did the best he could without a flash and, seeing as Bob was setting off solo, he legged it back to his own car to try and beat the parking rap.

Back at the car he turned his mobile on, expecting Christine to have texted for an update. There was a message, but not from her:
Can we talk? Mx.
The familiar dilemma: work or Miranda. He moved the car, fleeing the city centre to find a quieter backstreet without permit parking. The phone stared back at him, awaiting his decision. A text would have sufficed, but she deserved better than that.

She picked up on the third ring. “Hello, Thomas.”

After the killer opening line — “How are you?” — he stalled.

“Are you free for lunch?” She sounded edgy or tired — he couldn’t tell which.

He took a deep breath. “I can’t; I’m working.”

“Oh, I see.”

“But I’m free later,” he winced at his own enthusiasm.

“Ring me later then and I’ll see what I’m doing. Take care, Thomas.”

Her voice was hollow. He was about to ring back and renegotiate the terms of the truce when the handheld caught his eye. Bob Peterson was on the move, out of the city.

A quick flip through a street guide and he’d worked out a reasonable intercept point, assuming Peterson kept to the same course. Any thoughts of Miranda were put back in their box; there was a job to do.

The tracker signal died without warning. He ran through the probabilities. Peterson could have discovered it or the bloody thing might have fallen off somewhere. It had happened to him once before on a job. Whatever the cause, he was buggered. Might as well head for home and try again on Sunday. Not much for a morning’s work — not good at all.

A couple of miles up the motorway he spotted the blue lights behind him, cutting a swathe through the traffic. He slowed again, out of habit. The chequered car drew alongside him and signalled for him to pull over. He played it cool and glided to the hard shoulder, pushing the tracker screen under his passenger seat when he came to a halt.

The über-cool patrol car nestled in behind him. He was no petrol head but this was a car to die for. Miranda’s brothers would have been wetting themselves. He kept to the drill and waited for the knock on the window, clocking the two coppers behind him as they talked among themselves for a minute or so.

He felt for his Surveillance Support Unit ID in his jacket and then checked his phone was turned off. The passenger door of the police car squeaked open and a burly figure loomed towards him.

“Do you know why I’ve stopped you, sir?”

Stopped him? By the way they bombed up the motorway they were hunting for him. He shook his head and smiled, playing innocent. The conversation reminded him of a fly-on-the-wall documentary — the sort of thing Karl loved. It was the standard checklist: driving licence — clean (and nigh on immaculate), road tax, insurance and MOT all up to date. Burly cop seemed perplexed.

“There’s a marker on our system against this vehicle . . .”

Now he flashed his SSU card. Less a loyalty card and more of a ‘see, we’re on the same side’ card. It made sod-all difference. Burly cop gave it a cursory glance.

“What sort of marker?” He stared at the copper’s buttons, wondering how you tell real ones from fake.

“Can I have your keys, sir? It won’t take long.”

The cop went back to sit with his chum. Maybe he could ring Ajit for some advice? Then again, he was hardly flavour of the month there.

Judging by the rear view mirror, the traffic cops were having a conversation with no winners. He imagined they were listening to a third party feeding them instructions by radio. Finally, the driver took her turn, jangling his keys in her hand as she walked over.

“Can you follow us down to the nearest services?”

It was a question with only one answer.

As they entered the services, nose to tail, he noticed the faces of other drivers — the freaked out, the intrigued and a bloke in a van who gave him two thumbs-up. He parked beside supercar and heard the numbers counting in his head, slow and steady. The police car became his sole focus.

He wound down his window and looked across, smiling. A parallel pane descended.

“If you could wait here.” The window rose back.

He put on the radio, dropped the numbers routine and thought about the marker on his car. Perhaps Karl could look into that. The sight of a 4x4 approaching with a number plate he recognised dispelled any further questions. Bob Peterson was the guest of honour. It was tough to know what was worse, being caught out — and by Peterson of all people — or the realisation that his target had played him brilliantly. He could hardly lamp Peterson in public with two coppers present.

Bob Peterson nodded to the police officers, stopped his vehicle so that it blocked Thomas’s car and took his time getting out. Then he reached behind the driver’s seat to retrieve a package. He left his driver’s door wide open and motioned to Thomas to join him.

Peterson waited for Thomas to draw level with him. “Two things — one, this is the package Christine is expecting; and two, leave Christine alone.”

Thomas took the package and circled back to his car without a word. Peterson had sounded stone cold serious, which suggested he might have a reason for behaving like a possessive arsehole.

“I mean it, Thomas,” Peterson called behind him. “I’m always three steps ahead of you.”

Like he couldn’t have been satisfied with two — dick
. Back in his car, Thomas watched Peterson pull out his phone, make a quick call and then walk briskly back to his 4x4. He made a two-fingered matey salute to the cops and then drove off.

Thomas turned to the cops, who looked as bemused as he felt. He got out again and stood by the police car.

“Am I entitled to know what the marker is on my car?”

The driver deferred to her colleague.

“Must be a glitch — the database probably needs updating. All I can tell you is that your vehicle is flagged ‘of interest’ if seen in the Southampton area. Sorry about that.”

“I’m here on an assignment.” He showed them his ID card again. “So being stopped makes it difficult to do my job.”

“I’ll pass it up the line,” the driver promised half-heartedly.

He called it quits and decided to grab a coffee in Motorway Services Shangri La. They were gone when he came out, but they’d left a contact card under his wiper blade. He couldn’t work out whether it was a warning or if he’d made a friend.