CAUSE & EFFECT (17 page)

“You look shattered.” Karl slurped tea from a polystyrene cup. “That girlfriend of yours shouldn’t take you out gallivanting on a school night.”

Karl had already heard the fruits of their discussion with Andrea at RT’s big night. One stewed tea later, he was ready to say his piece.

“We know conclusively that RT wasn’t in the country when Jacob was attacked, based on his passport.” He broke off for a bite of a fried egg sandwich, leaning forward in time to save his jeans from the drips, if not the floor of the car.

“And the red paint wasn’t a match, so he’s not our man.”

“Not directly, anyway. But this art scam changes the landscape.” Karl churned his breakfast with every syllable.

“I don’t see how.”

“It’s another reason to wonder what else is going on in Jack Langton’s universe.”

“He’s really got under your skin, hasn’t he, Karl? I mean, I know he didn’t do you any favours when you went over the water . . .”

Karl took a savage bite of his egg sandwich and didn’t reply.

Thomas turned his attention to the world beyond the windscreen. “We’ll see what RT says tonight. I can’t wait to hear his explanation.”

“Quite the little team we’re building up, huh?”

* * *

His heart wasn’t in the day job — not today, anyway. Collect the evidence, log the details and document any observations; all for someone else’s evaluation. He knew the drill so well he didn’t have to think about it. In fact, the predominant thought was that this was his SSU career low point. Sometime in the not too distant future he’d take that up with Christine.

Lunch was an extra-large bag of chips, shared.

Karl scooped up the deep fried ambrosia of the gods. “All I’m saying is that Jack Langton’s not an idiot — far from it. Look at the evidence.” He waggled a vinegar soaked chip in the air. “Drugs, clearly; art and property; and let’s not forget the gun he supplied to Miranda’s Dad.”

“For me.” Thomas added.

He wondered how much Andrea really knew about Jack’s past. Karl listened without interrupting; partly, Thomas surmised, because he was still focused on the chips. Had RT been forced into the arrangement? Did that put him back in the frame for Jacob? Some sort of retaliation and in a way only Jack would understand?

“You’re neglecting another possibility, Tommo. Uncle Jack might not know anything about the art scam. Now,” he cupped his chin with a greasy hand, “imagine how pissed off he’d be should his investment be exposed as a fraud. You might want to test that theory tonight over dinner.” There was a hard edge to Karl’s voice.

“You don’t like these people any more than I do, which is saying something.”

The remnants of the chip bag were offered over.

“It’s different for me though, Tommy Boy. The English class struggle is your fight, not mine. Jack Langton . . .” His eyes narrowed a little at the name. “He’s the enemy. Same goes for Charlie Stokes.”

This was new; calm and controlled Karl making it personal.

“I’ve told you before, Tommo. Drug trafficking is just one of the ways the Shadow State funds its activities.” Karl’s lips curled into a sneer. “It’s all big business — and big businesses cross national borders. They’ll invest in anything that favours and furthers their interests. If I had my way I’d take them out of business permanently. Unfortunately, my orders are to gather enough information to
turn
individuals in the distribution network and track it back to source.”

“And you’re fine with that?”

Karl didn’t answer.

* * *

The Dolan brothers were a joint investigation with a difference: identical twins. A logistical nightmare; they dressed alike with the same hairstyle and mannerisms. Karl’s suggestion that they forcibly tattoo one of them didn’t find any takers at the briefing.

So far they’d spent an hour watching a pizza delivery back door.

“Roland Dolan, Tommo. Jesus, that’s practically child cruelty, right there.”

Thomas tapped the clipboard. “Is this really a good use of our time? Couldn’t you find out their mobile numbers, ring one and see who picks up?”

“It’s not a crime to carry your brother’s mobile phone around, or to answer it. Not unless it’s a deliberate attempt to—” Karl stopped speaking.

A car pulled alongside the mopeds; one occupant — Charlie Stokes. The unnamed Dolan approached, leaned his face in the passenger window and withdrew with some sort of package.

“Extra anchovies?” Karl had picked up a discreet pair of binoculars.

The car didn’t wait, and nor did Dolan. He added the package to his rear pannier, revved up and shot off in the opposite direction.

Thomas started the car. The moped had a head start and they had additional ground to cover. But it beat sitting there, reeking of chips. They had two things in their favour: the mystery Dolan didn’t know he was being followed, so he wouldn’t be speeding, and Karl — the human road atlas.

“Cut around and turn left onto the main road. If he’s turned left we’ll catch up, and if he’s turned right we’ll see him go past us.”

“And if he turns off before we see him, we’re buggered.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a Plan B.” Karl reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a handheld radio. It was tuned to a police channel. “In case we lose him and want to call it in.”

Thomas hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Police involvement was the last thing they needed. He reached the high street and eased out into traffic.

“Okay, so he’s got a package, but he could drop that off any time.”

“Nah, That’ll be drop number one and I want to see where it lands. Quick, up there – indicating right.”

Karl was spot on. Same last four characters of the number plate. They trailed the moped for another half mile, under Karl’s direction. As the pizza delivery boy pulled up, Karl made Thomas slow down.

“Give me a sec.” Karl unclipped his seat belt and wriggled through to the back seat just in time to take a big, obvious photograph.

Dolan turned towards him, helmet still on, and gave him the middle finger.

“Round the block, not too quickly; I want the little scrote to be on his way. Right now, I’m more interested in identifying the address he’s delivering to.”

* * *

Thomas had done enough surveillance over the past two years to know that there were good days and bad days. This one fell into the latter category. The dice didn’t roll in their favour. The next two claimants on the list weren’t where they were supposed to be — either that or they were masters of disguise — and a quick call to Dawn Yeates came to nothing because she was in a meeting.

By five o’clock there were more ticks under ‘to be continued’ than ‘evidence completed.’ Karl was mightily pissed off about it.

“Think I might go back to the delivery address tonight. Pity you’re not available.”

Thomas felt a pang of . . . jealousy? Yeah, something like that. Karl was on to something and meantime he was back over at Andrea Harrison’s for dinner and deception. At least he had Miranda for company.

He managed a quick shower at home and put on the ‘going out’ clothes that he’d ironed that morning before leaving for work. Miranda picked him up at eighteen forty-five sharp, and let him drive her Mini.

On the way over they talked about RT’s rogue sculpture.

“Other artists have done it as well,” Miranda insisted. “I was chatting with Sheryl today and she looked it up on the net.” She caught his look of disapproval. “You know you can trust Sheryl. Like I was saying, Andy Warhol used to sign blank canvases and so did Kosabi.”

“Yeah, but were the punters — and the investors — in on the act?”

“Dunno. All I’m saying is that maybe this is all part of the modern art experience.”

He sighed, unconvinced.

Miranda had planned in advance, ringing ahead to know which wine to bring. She’d also arranged for flowers to arrive earlier in the day, which Thomas would be paying her back for. He told her that Jack Langton would be picking up the tab, courtesy of the initial £500 John Wright was holding for him. She looked surprised, proof that even their family had its secrets.

As they walked up the street together, he started playing house in his head. These properties were way out of their league. Even so, his flat in Walthamstow and her flat in Bow, combined, would surely pay for something decent. The sight of an Aston Martin, one of his dream cars, brought him down to earth with a thud. He was an interloper — a peasant in paradise — and about to be the bearer of very bad tidings.

“All set?” She took his arm for the last twenty yards.

The upstairs curtains were drawn and glowing golden. He imagined Andrea up there, plumping cushions and tending to her coq au vin.

Miranda rang the bell and peered through the glass. “All tidied up; you’d never know there’d been a show. It’s a better job than the cleaners we use at Caliban’s — maybe I should get their number.”

He knew she was making small talk for his benefit. She could always read his mood. This was smoke and mirrors territory. Andrea seemed like a decent person, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t use any leverage to get information out of her. He rationalised that it was all for little Jacob, although that was only half the story. They were
bent
— no two ways about it — and he would get to the truth.

RT came downstairs to let them in. Miranda handed him the wine and his eyes lit up when he saw the label. RT carefully locked up after them, which made Thomas smile, and then led the way upstairs. He gabbled on about the show and a couple of media interviews that he had lined up, speculating about what the critics might say and how it all created a trail to the money.

RT clutched the Rioja Reserva to his heart; clever of Miranda to fetch along some quality Spanish plonk. Upstairs, things were a little more formal than his last visit. Andrea had dressed up as well. She seemed genuinely happy to see them both. Then again, she had no reason not to be — yet.

He still hadn’t figured out how to play his ace. This would be far from easy.

“How did you meet Jack?” RT fired the first salvo.

He skipped the prison visit by royal command, and started talking about Miranda’s parents, following it up with a familiar version of how he and Miranda hooked up together. It was painting by numbers — two runaways in Leeds and love’s young dream. He didn’t mention the bloke whose nose he’d broken on Miranda’s behalf, or the Bladen family feud that bubbled along like a river of discontent.

At the point when he felt he was on the ropes Miranda cut across them.

“How do you find living in Spain?”

She talked about going there a couple of times with the family when she was younger, though not in Cuenca; and once, it had to be said — and she bloody well said it — when she and Thomas had needed some cooling-off time.

Naturally, the artist in residence loved all that and began waxing lyrical about the light and the warm evenings and the
ladies
there. Thanks to RT’s self-promotional tour, dinner was a little late. No matter, Miranda and the wine had oiled the wheels.

“Thomas takes urban photographs,” Miranda announced, swinging a wine glass wildly over her food.

He followed her lead and told them about his early morning shots of London and the failed attempts to get on one of the dailies.

“I did say I’d be happy to take a look at your portfolio,” Andrea insisted. “It’s the least I can do.”

He ignored the momentary scowl from Miranda and decided there were some roads he didn’t need to go down. Besides, Andrea might feel differently before the night was out. He had a vague sense of how he wanted to do it. Cosy up to RT and Andrea a little more, ask for another look at his new
creation
and then go straight for the jugular.

Dinner was followed by more wine — which he declined because he was driving, and which Miranda declined because she had an early start for stocktaking. That didn’t put the brakes on either RT or Andrea. By the time the chocolate torte was a pleasant memory he was beginning to wonder if they’d manage the stairs okay.

“I’d love a private view of your work.” Miranda tapped RT’s arm and he flickered into life like a Christmas tree. “We couldn’t stop talking about it after we left your show.”

Andrea was happy to bestow the favour. She led the way with RT bringing up the rear behind Miranda, charm dripping from every syllable. Down the stairs they clattered, Thomas gripping a tiny torch from his pocket. They started at the Crocodile in the main gallery room. It was all very jovial until he noticed Andrea steering the conversation round to the decor at Caliban’s — ever the saleswoman. A good deal of time was spent beside
Naked Heat
and
Naked Ambition
, so that Andrea could regurgitate the tale of Thomas’s bravery and the damage to the works. Her delivery was sales pitch perfect.

“And that’s what makes these pieces of urban art truly original. They’ve literally been impacted by their environment.”

RT found it hilarious. Thomas bit his tongue.
Laugh on
,
while you still can
. He felt his pulse quicken as they passed through the beads and approached the side room.