CAUSE & EFFECT (13 page)

He woke exhausted; nightmares always wore him out. There was nothing easy about this Sunday morning.

Karl passed him a bag when he got into the car.

“I picked up something on my travels — I sampled it for quality purposes.”

He peered inside: handmade chocolates. “Thanks; I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t — they’re for Miranda. I thought you could use all the help you can get.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he gave Karl the low down on the Peterson job and shared his speculations.

“Okay, Tommo, I can understand her wanting to force Peterson’s hand — what the heart wants, and all that. But he’s connected to the cartel, albeit at the bottom of the food chain, so there has to be more to it.”

“Then you’re saying Christine is somehow working him?”

“I’m not saying that — you are.”

It would have been smarter to use Karl’s car, but he wanted to see whether the police stop in Southampton was a one-off. He had half a mind to ring the number on the card left under his wipers, to see what happened.

Sunday in the Peterson household was hardly a web of intrigue. The whole family went for a swim, while Thomas dissuaded Karl from a little housebreaking. Later, the Petersons trundled off to a burger bar — the posh kind — while Daddy read the paper and Mummy kept the children entertained with drawing pads. Through a long lens it all seemed like domesticity, but Karl wasn’t buying it.

“Christine must know
something
, or at least suspect.”

Thomas thought about the padded envelope she hadn’t opened in front of him.

“Could we find out what Bob and his teams are working on?”

Karl frowned. “I prefer not to spy on other SSU teams. It’s like professional incest.”

He nodded, noting that
prefer not to
wasn’t the same as saying
no
.

* * *

After the burger bar the Peterson family went straight home. Thomas figured there was only so much fun a family could take. He suggested they give it another thirty minutes, no more, and sure enough Bob Peterson was out in twenty-five. They tracked him back to the Southampton SSU office, where he disappeared into the rabbit hole and kept them waiting.

Thomas nudged Karl, who was practising surveillance on a pigeon.

“What do you think Christine suspects . . ?” He was dropping a pebble for ripples.

Karl lowered his telescope made from a copy of Private Eye. “I think she suspects he’s up to something.” That was all he said.

Thomas reached for Radio 2 — something soothing that didn’t require any concentration. As he settled in to enjoy
The Drifters
, the metal gate beside the front entrance started rolling up.

“Pool car.” He started his engine.

Peterson emerged from the underground car park in a silver Ford Focus.

“We should call it in to the boss.” Karl was already reaching for his mobile.

Thomas nodded — what harm could it do? By the sound of things Christine was keen to continue the information gathering. He gestured to Karl to up the volume and asked the crucial question: “What’s our primary objective?”

Christine was unequivocal.

“I want to know exactly what he does and who he talks to — understood?”

“Ma’am.” Karl ended the call. “Methinks Peterson is out of favour.”

He clocked the sign for Southampton Docks. “I’m pulling over.”

Karl was unperturbed. “It’s your call.”

They watched Peterson disappearing into the distance. Three steps ahead . . . Peterson knew to take a different car and he knew Thomas’s number plate. He’d be going to the docks — Thomas was sure of it.

“How about the wife? While we’re tracking Uncle Bob, she could be anywhere.”

“Nah.” Karl rooted around in the glove compartment for food. “I’ve already checked her out and she’s clean. Besides, where would she stash the kids?”

This called for some lateral thinking, which he did in silence. He grabbed his mobile, ignored Karl and rang Christine with the pool car’s number plate. Peterson’s pool car was easily located when they got down there, thanks to Christine, but the great man himself was nowhere to be seen. No problem, Thomas already had a plan.

“We get him paged.”

Karl was all ears. “I like it — some kind of emergency. We need him somewhere we can see him along with anyone who’s with him.”

“Yeah, well, as long as we’re not worrying the guy about his wife and kids.”

“Ah, Tommo, you’re all heart. Leave it to me.” Karl climbed out of his sweatshirt, wrapped it around his fist, and then got out of the car. “This’ll do nicely.” He picked something up and went across to Peterson’s car. Without another word he cracked it down hard on the windscreen, chipping it in the centre. Then he knelt down to see to two of the tyres before getting back in the car.

“What?” Karl lifted his hands in exasperation, the sweatshirt smeared in brick dust hanging off his arm. “That ought to do it. Now we just get Christine to page him.”

“Are you taking the piss? We could have paged him ourselves.”

“Yeah,” Karl smirked, “but now . . .”

Thomas caught Karl’s logic train. “Now he can’t drive it away, so either someone comes to collect him or someone has to give him a lift.”

“Spot on. So let’s split up and find out who his date is.”

Thomas found a sheltered spot in the Mayflower terminal and rang Christine. A few minutes later, Bob Peterson’s name hit the tannoy.

“Surely he’ll know it’s a set-up?” Thomas muttered into his mobile.

“Possibly, but he won’t ignore the call.” Karl’s voice crackled and whinnied outside in the car park.

“And you can’t be seen?”

“I have done this before Tommo, once or twice.”

“Yeah, but this is against one of our own.”

Five minutes on, and with no sign of Bob Peterson, Thomas was getting restless. Maybe Peterson had figured it out and gone straight to his car; he could be surveying the damage and updating the police national computer database.

He was about to make another call to Karl when Bob Peterson arrived at the helpdesk. He looked relaxed, even when the man behind the desk relayed the bad news. A woman appeared beside him, standing close, as if they were a couple. Maybe they were. Busy, busy Bob.

And speaking of bobs, the blonde had her hair styled in a bob cut. As she turned to look behind her he realised he knew her. The hair was different now and she wasn’t in uniform, like the time he’d met her in Leeds. He felt as if someone had wrapped a thick blanket around his shoulders, closing him down. He circled the pillar to find a spot behind a plant tub, taking pictures on his phone. He didn’t hang about, fleeing to the nearest gents so he could check the pictures and contact Karl.

The toilet resembled some kind of septic tank disaster. He closed the cover and rested a foot on top, as if to literally keep a lid on things. The picture wasn’t great, but it
was
her. The same woman he’d met in Leeds when he collected a Document Security Bag for Sir Peter Carroll, months back. He stared at the image and then sent it on to Karl. Shortly afterwards, he rang him, speaking in a shout-whisper.

“What’s the score, Tommo?”

It felt like two-nil — to the opposition.

“Did you get the image I sent you?”

“No, it sometimes takes a . . . hold on, it’s here now.”

The line went quiet; all Thomas could hear was a pulse in his head and swirling static in the earpiece.

“Right, got it. Listen, we have a problem.”

“You’re telling me, Karl. I’ve seen her before . . .”

The outer door of the gents swung in and Thomas immediately cut the call. He stayed perfectly still. He heard deliberate breathing, as if someone were trying to compose himself. Then the bleeps of a mobile phone pressed into action.

“Hi Julia, it’s Bob. No, everything’s fine, darling. It’s just work . . . I know I said I’d be back before three . . . let’s not do this now . . . yes, I know. Look.” The word ricocheted off the wall. “We’ll talk later. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Okay?”

He heard a rhythmic tapping like fingernails against the side of a sink.

“Okay, love you; bye.”

It sounded like Bob Peterson did a good line in irony. The thing Thomas noticed after that was nothing. No footsteps, no one washing their hands or taking a piss; not even — thank God — someone going into the neighbouring cubicle.

There was just shallow breathing. What if Peterson suddenly appeared, looking over the top? Photograph him? Make a break for the door? Lamp him one? He thought about flushing and walking out — Peterson was hardly likely to keep him captive in a lav. Except . . . being seen there was tantamount to an admission of guilt.

He breathed slowly through his nose, nice and easy, and started counting down in his head. One-eighty, one-seventy-nine . . . At one-forty-eight the main door squeaked open and footsteps retreated. He texted Karl — He’s coming out now — turned the phone off, and finished his countdown. He figured Uncle Bob would want to see to his car straightaway. As he eased through the crowds he thought back to the mystery blonde who had been with Peterson. Did he know her name?

Outside, the distinctive aroma of Southampton Water blended perfectly with diesel and drizzle. The cruise ships and ferries might promise glamour and prestige — at a push — but that didn’t change the backdrop.

His phone rang as soon as he put it back on.

“Where the hell have you been, Tommo?”

“Hiding in the toilets.”

“Peterson’s made a couple of calls — I couldn’t see the numbers at this distance. It looks like he’s leaving his car here to be collected — the two of them are moving away. Hang on, I think he’s having a tiff with blondie.”

Thomas swallowed. “I’m out now; where do you need me to be?”

Karl seemed quieter than usual. Thomas followed his lead and stayed in position until a people carrier arrived and whisked the unhappy couple away.

“Did that go well?” He honestly didn’t know.

Karl was non-committal. “We got what we came for — we know who Bob Peterson’s contact is. Christine ought to be pleased.”

They found a café on-site, now Bob Peterson had gone. Karl was well into his second coffee before he shared anything useful.

“You remember my trip to Geneva? She was there too.”

It seemed like a good time to mention he’d seen her in Leeds. He picked up a spoon for his coffee and it lingered, mid-air, as a thought congealed in his brain.

“So the mystery blonde is one of your people?”

Karl stared at him blankly — his
keep out
sign.

“How should we play this?”

Karl chewed his muffin thoughtfully. “You report back to Christine and then it’s her call. I’ll convey the same information to other quarters.”

Thomas plunged the spoon. “Do I tell her about Leeds?”

“’Sup to you, partner.”

It was the most uneven partnership he’d ever heard of.

“Bob will be really pissed off about his car — and he might have seen mine — so the police could be lying in wait. Perhaps we should head back to London by train. I can pick it up in the next day or so . . .”

Secretly he was hoping Karl had access to false number plates.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered. I’m just waiting for a call back. How about another drink? Tea for me, ta.”

Which explained why they were still hanging around the port. When he returned from the counter, Karl was on the phone. There was a time when he would have stood back and waited, but Karl did have legs. The call ended quickly.

“Make yourself comfy — they could be another half an hour.”

“They?”

Karl put on his inscrutable grin.

* * *

Thomas watched as the final flap of tarpaulin was secured over his car sitting on the recovery vehicle. “I have to say, you’ve excelled yourself.”

Karl took a bow. “They’ll drop us off in a lay-by, well past the city limits, and you can take us on from there.”

“You really do think of everything!”

“If only . . .”

Christine took the news stoically and said not to bother coming into the office, which told him she was probably there. It seemed an opportune moment to mention his next prison visit and to her credit she didn’t ask for details, which saved another layer of subterfuge.

And so ended another weekend. Or it would have done, had he not dragged himself back to Walthamstow and seen a blue Mini Cooper parked along the street. It was the best news he’d had for days.

As he opened the door he caught a whiff of Kung Po chicken — luring him along the hallway to the front room.

“Well, this is a surprise.”

Miranda was perched on the arm of the settee.

“Are we celebrating?”

“More like turning over a new leaf.”

He searched her face for a smile, found one and breathed a little easier. It lasted until she added, “and I thought we’d clear the air.”

It only took one bite for Thomas to realise that this was no ordinary Kung Po.

“You picked this up at your local Chinese in Bow.” He closed his mouth for a moment to savour the tender cashews mingled with the meat. “Luckily for you I was coming home.”

She finished her mouthful. “No, luckily for you I first checked with Karl that you weren’t already booked for the evening.”

He let it pass; it was hard to be churlish when the food was so good.

“Ice cream and fritters afterwards?” He thought he’d push his luck.

“Of course, once we’ve had a little talk.”

It didn’t spoil the food any, but he wasn’t in a rush to finish. Miranda didn’t actually say a great deal; she left that to him. He had little to say that wouldn’t start a row. As far as he knew this was going to be a quiet night in, watching
The Matrix
again. He gave her twenty seconds of thoughtful silence and she took the hint.

“If we’re going to move forward we need to be completely honest with one another.”

When he really thought about it, there was only one solution.

“You know what? Let’s not. Be open, I mean. We each have our secrets and I reckon it should stay that way.”

“Thomas, I’m not asking about your bloody job—”

“I know. And I’m not asking about the past. Done is done and raking over what’s gone is not gonna help either of us.”

It all came out in a rush and Miranda suddenly reached over and kissed him while he still had the taste of chicken in his mouth. It wasn’t passion exactly, more a sense of connection. And there was still the prospect of two kinds of dessert.

* * *

Over breakfast he showed her Jack Langton’s list of suspects.

“Do you know her?” He prodded at Andrea Harrison with a butter knife, blotching the paper.

“Doesn’t ring any bells.”

It was a long shot but he was disappointed. Advance intelligence was a tactical advantage — another of Karl’s pearls of wisdom. He’d have to settle for a Q&A session in the next day or so.

“I wouldn’t have thought Jack was the gallery type.” She got up to clear the plates. “I’m going to take a shower. There’s room for two in there . . .”

He glanced up at the clock. Surely fifteen minutes wouldn’t do any harm. Karl could always read a newspaper.

* * *

Thomas picked up the text on his way out the door. Karl’s message was succinct: Detour to the office — by request. He pictured the scene awaiting him; Christine, or Sir Peter, or even — but hopefully not — Bob Peterson himself.

The drive in was the usual blend of frustration, stop-starts and death-wish cyclists. Remembering the road works at Tottenham Hale, he’d bitten the bullet and cut through Stratford instead to pick up the A11. Unfortunately, half of London decided to join him.

As Newham begrudgingly gave way to Tower Hamlets he got a deeper sense of Old London Town. The garment wholesalers and discount warehouses rubbing shoulders with those mobile phone shops that managed to stay in business even though you could buy everything cheaper online — like they had. Mile End, Stepney Green, Whitechapel and Aldgate East . . . He marked off the Tube stations and drank in the words. Every one brought him back to Miranda; she was London to him. Mile End — turn left to get to Caliban’s; Whitechapel — opposite the London Hospital where Miranda’s Nan had spent her final days.

Dragged along in the slipstream of traffic, he started thinking about rainy childhood Sundays in Yorkshire. Playing
Monopoly
as a family and laughing at Dad winning second prize in a beauty contest. And the terrible caravan holiday in Cleethorpes, where it poured down day after day and Dad hit the bottle.

The van in front hit its brakes. He tensed up; he’d been drifting, driving on autopilot. A radio news bulletin warned of traffic jams in the city.
No shit, Sherlock
. He heard the sirens up ahead. Once the van had moved he could see lurid emergency lights — two police vehicles and an ambulance. A motorcyclist was down, poor bastard. There was a man standing perfectly still, staring into space — probably the driver. A police officer was already taking measurements.

He wondered who was doing the photography. That would be a
real
job, instead of spying on benefit cheats. The rear view mirror smiled back at him. Karl’s words had taken up residence in his head.

He watched the drama unfolding, like every other ghoul as they edged past. This was how life was — a series of accidents, lucky and unlucky. Meeting Miranda — top of the plus list. And Bermuda . . . Bollocks, why did he have to start thinking again? The lights shone a lucky shade of green and he swung round towards Liverpool Street without answering the question.

The underground car park swallowed him, drawing him into the nether land of the Surveillance Support Unit. His brain locked into work mode. The office door smelled of polish, or maybe it was the carpet. Unnaturally clean, like an adman’s fantasy. He wondered how they went about vetting the cleaners. Maybe Karl’s people were missing a trick — cleaners were surely the ultimate in invisibility. Perhaps that’d be their next assignment.

He had the space to himself so he caught up on his emails, including the one from Karl that duplicated his text. There were no surprises: refresher training dates, performance review dates for his e-calendar and a request for volunteers to provide feedback on new equipment: another day in the service of the Crown. He heard the lift outside shunt to a halt. Only one set of footsteps exited; the rhythm confident and unhurried. He didn’t bother turning round.

“Hi, Thomas — you got my message. Come through.”

Christine collected him en route, unlocking her door and plonking two bags on a spare chair. She didn’t fire up her laptop, waving him round to the seat opposite as she emptied her mobile from her coat.

“I spoke with Karl last night, about the situation. Thank you for your email by the way. I think we’ll put the Southampton surveillance on hold for the time being.”

If there was a subtext it eluded him. He’d bide his time; people always showed their hand if you waited long enough.

“Karl says you’re assisting him on something. The prison?” She arched an eyebrow. “Just make sure I’m in the loop, okay?”

That was rich; to keep her in the loop he’d have to know what was going on. In the absence of any better ideas, he tried a stab in the dark.

“Is Bob Peterson a risk?” She could take that however she pleased.

“At this stage, he’s a medium priority, but I’d planned for this contingency.”

There it was — the management speak, so beloved of the movers and shakers. Maybe she picked it up from all the mentoring Peterson had given her, back when she and Thomas were trying to prove her mother wrong about the class struggle.

“Something else on your mind, Thomas?”

“I was wondering how it all works now — between the three of you.” He stalled, suddenly aware that she might think he meant Mr and Mrs Peterson, instead of Karl and Ann Crossley.

The lift door clunked open in the distance and he heard welcome voices — Karl and Ann flying the flag once more for team spirit. They came right into Christine’s office, and then things got strange.

“Please wait outside,” was not something he had ever expected to hear from Christine. From her mother, maybe, back in the day; but not from her.

The door closed discreetly behind him. Well, two could play at secrets. John Wright picked up on the fourth ring.

“Morning, John; any more word from Jack Langton’s solicitor?” He waited for John to start talking and then cut across him to catch him off guard.

“Have you got any info on Andrea Harrison?”

“We used to know her, years ago,” was hardly intelligence coup of the year. But the way John said those few words let Thomas know that something had gone awry, way back when.

The meeting of the allies was over in fifteen minutes. Karl emerged first.

“All set, Tommo?”

“Well, unless Christine wants me back in there . . .”

“Nah, she doesn’t. I’ll fill you in when we’re on the road.”

Two chocolate bars from the vending machine and they were on their way. Karl had a quiet sense of purpose about him — no jokes and no cracks in the façade.

The lift opened, ushering in the damp of the underground car park.

“You do realise I signed the Official Secrets Act?”

“It’s not about trust; you know that by now. It protects you, Tommo.”

Yeah, but from who, or what?

He unlocked his car; Karl could ride shotgun today. They waited on the ramp as the metal grid raised, the links shrieking as they disappeared into the housing.

“Needs oiling,” Karl said. “Maybe that’ll be our next job.”

“You’d know before I did.”

“Touché, Mr Bladen. Okay, where are we?” Karl pulled a clipboard from the passenger door. He answered himself. “Just off Old Ford Road.”