CAUSE & EFFECT (8 page)

Thomas tapped the steering wheel and stared at the locked scrap yard gates. Already past eight thirty and no other bastard had shown up. Karl, he could forgive — at least he had bullets to collect. He stifled a yawn. Jesus, what a world he inhabited.

Another text came in from Ajit: Are you avoiding me? And speaking of guilt and avoidance, he hadn’t contacted Miranda for a while either. Funny how spending time with Karl tended to push everyone else out of the frame.

He was on the point of ringing Terry when a cobalt-blue Peugeot roared up. Terry gave him a thumbs-up, got out and unlocked the gates. He looked hung-over. Thomas drove in after him. Karl had been quite specific about the depth of target he wanted, so they made a scavenger hunt around the yard.

By the time Karl put in an appearance, fifteen minutes later, they’d assembled an assortment of boards, posts and a couple of old car doors, ready for the build phase.

Karl took charge, instructing them how to reinforce the planks with wooden pallets so that the target stayed upright. Once it was all set up, he paced away what seemed like a ridiculous distance and turned, shifting his head from side to side like an owl. Finally, he made a line in the dirt and returned to his car.

“So what is it?” Thomas waited until Karl had set the case on the ground.

“The weapon?” Karl flexed his gloved hands. “A Winchester .300.” He fitted the weapon together, screwed the silencer on and then strode away to his mark.

Thomas cleared off to grab a brew with Terry.

“Thanks again, Tel.”

He shrugged. “You’d do the same for one of us.”

True enough. Like the time he warned them off Harwich Port when he was working with Customs & Excise.

Karl took three shots and then came over to join them, holding the spent casings aloft in a bag. “If I’d been more organised I would have brought along ballistic gelatine to go with the biscuits.”

Thomas delivered his most unimpressed face. Karl in the know was just about bearable, but Karl showing off was a step too far — not that Terry showed any interest. Tea break over, the three of them returned to the target. The three bullets had punched holes right through the wood and both doors, into the final block, where Karl carefully prised them out.

“You can imagine the mess they’d make. Right-oh, Tommo, We’ve got what we came for. I’ll be in touch.”

* * *

Thomas fortified himself with a bacon roll and a chocolate muffin, and trudged through the benefit claimants’ list alone. By the time he reached the stalking ground he’d already missed the first few.

He ran his tongue over his lip and tasted fat residue and salt. Was it coincidence that Ken had found Karl in the pub? Karl hadn’t seemed thrilled to see his old oppo. And why choose Ken at all? He started picking away at the chocolate chips, weary of his own thoughts. At this rate he’d be asleep before the afternoon shift.

Radio 3 offered up Grieg’s
Peer Gynt Suite
, which conjured up memories of Christine Gerrard and her spacious car seats. That wasn’t helping either. He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch again: eleven fifty-two. Karl would be on his way now.

A builder’s van drove past and Thomas started the car. Nick Barrowby should be on board, suspected of working cash-in-hand. And, by suspected, the docket recorded that
information had been received
. A tip-off, maybe by a disgruntled recipient of sub-standard tarmac.

The van logo matched the sheet. All he had to do was follow at a discreet distance and catch him in the act. The van stopped opposite a building site of a garden and four men got out. The youngest, sporting baggy jeans and a fake branded sweatshirt, matched the photo on the sheet.

Thomas knew to wait it out. Arriving wasn’t evidence of illegal working, any more than being with Miranda constituted a stable relationship. He bedded in and let the camera do its work.

Barrowby pushing a wheelbarrow. Then fetching out tools. At this stage he could still be helping out a mate and walk away. Thomas almost willed him to be
that
man. But the observer in him knew that the job was the job. He simply collected the data and some other schmuck made the decisions.

After the first batch of photos, Thomas’s mobile rang. Pisser. He placed the camera down in the passenger foot well with infinite care and then picked up the call.

“Thomas? It’s Ajit — where have you been? I’ve left messages . . .”

“Aye, sorry Aj. I’ve been working extra hours.” He winced; that sounded lame.

“So, are you coming up or what?”

There was desperation in the voice. He could picture Ajit’s family crowding around him, suffocating him with kindness and tradition. They were good people, but God help Ajit as the son bringing a potential heir into the world. Particularly if Ajit’s dad had anything to do with it. Bloody hell, Ajit taking up with an
anagareja mahila
— English girl — was enough of an adjustment for them.

“I’ll be there, Aj. Can Geena hold the baby in until the weekend?”

“You do remember that Friday is the due date?”

He didn’t, and he felt bad about it. “I’ll check with Miranda.” He gave Ajit a cast iron guarantee, which bumped Miranda up the list.

“Is that a tall, dark stranger?”

“Hi, Miranda,” he flustered. “Have you got a minute?”

“A minute? For you, I can spare five — when can you get here?” Cue background laughter, which told him that Sheryl was within earshot of at least half the call.

“Ajit wants us up at the weekend.” There was no laughter now. “You are still coming?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Great, gotta go. I’ll call you with train times. Ta-ra babe.” When it came to ending their calls he often felt like a dick. They didn’t do
love
, but ‘laters’ hardly seemed to cover it.

He lifted the camera again and leaned through the gap in the seats. The van was still parked, but no one was around. Nick Barrowby could have gone home. He could call it quits. Maybe a five-minute rest of the eyes would help decide . . .

“Oi!”

He stared up as an old codger hammered out a rhythm on the driver’s window. He took the hint and lowered it.

“You’ve been here nearly half an hour, asleep outside my house. This is a residential area you know.”

He blinked slowly. “Sorry mate — must have dozed off for a bit.”

“Right, well, can’t be too careful. I’ve made a note of your car. We don’t want the neighbourhood getting a reputation.”

He reached for his SSU ID and kept a strategic thumb over his name.

The resident’s demeanour changed. “Oh, I see. You’re on a stakeout, are you?” He looked up and down the street. “Is it the woman along there with the kids?” He flicked his head to the left. “Different fathers, and neither of them takes an interest from what I hear.”

Like Karl said: never let a good opportunity go by. “Listen . . .” He leaned towards the open window. “Any chance I could pop in for a few minutes?”

It was disturbingly easy to gain access to an upstairs room. In five minutes of photography Nick Barrowby was well and truly shafted. He ticked him off the list, using Karl’s patented ‘G for Guilty’ shorthand. Once the job was complete, he thanked his host, sidestepped a cuppa because he’d seen the sterilised milk downstairs, took a leak and then went on his way. Last thing he did was remind the bloke to keep schtum and stay vigilant, and not to let any strangers into his house again. A time check showed it was nearly one p.m. With any luck, Karl would rendezvous with him at the next location.

* * *

Karl’s car was just pulling in as Thomas arrived, so he joined him. Mr Paul Tomlinson wasn’t hard to track; he could have been followed at a light stroll. They watched as a man, old before his years, lurched unsteadily on two sticks. Karl’s head bounced side to side, scrutinising every step.

“He’s consistent; I’ll give you that. There’s a definite rhythm to his movements.”

Thomas twisted in his seat. “Doesn’t this bother you? When you think of all the assignments we’ve had . . .”

Karl considered the point for about four seconds. “Nah. They send us and we turn up to do the job. End of story.”

Mr Tomlinson shuffled along the street and shouldered his way through a pub door.

“You know what I’d do?” Karl carefully replaced his lens cap.

Thomas smiled; he knew all too well because they’d both read Conan Doyle. “A Study in Scarlet — smoke bomb through the window.”

“Right. Then see how quickly he moves.”

“So, what, he can’t be really disabled because he likes a drink?”

Karl stiffened. “Fancy a pint? I’m buying.” And before Thomas could answer he was halfway out the car.

They locked their cameras in the boot, for all the good that might do, and cut across the council’s idea of a play area. Municipal irony came in concrete. He followed Karl in silence, grabbing the pub’s swing door as Karl let it go behind him. Mr Tomlinson stood out like a sore thumb, standing behind a chair with his two sticks leant against it.

“Any news?” Thomas set the drinks down on the table.

“What, with Ken? Funny thing; he wasn’t pleased to see the case, pretty spooked by it actually. Think on that — I’ve gotta nip outside.”

Their quarry sat down and didn’t move. Thomas was glad; it seemed unreasonable to hassle a bloke in Tomlinson’s condition. Still, like Karl said: the job was the job. Evidence based reporting — once you began to make subjective decisions, it was a slippery slope leading to bias and poor judgement. Amen.

The saloon door rattled and Karl bustled in, whamming a newspaper down beside Thomas’s elbow — it made grim reading. Either a reporter had got clever, or she had contacts. The shooter’s location had been identified as a block of flats. Thomas wondered if child killers merited a lofty word like assassination. The leader page made it clear that access to the roof was only possible with a security key.

“Something troubling you, Thomas?”

“I made that possible.”

Karl seemed nonplussed. “Well, you’re hardly complicit. Anyway, some would say you deserve a medal.”

It didn’t make him feel any better. “What did Ken do in the army?”

“Not here.” Karl finished his drink and headed out the door.

Thomas was a second or two behind him; Mr Tomlinson had been outranked. Outside, grey clouds masked the horizon.

“Come on then — Ken?”

“I’m sure you’ve worked it out — he was a sniper. My, my,” Karl walked back towards the cars, “what have we got ourselves in the middle of?”

“Karl!” He grabbed his arm and spun him round. “I’m going away for a few days — I’ve got too much in my head. Ajit and Geena are about to have their first baby and . . .”

Karl nodded sympathetically. “Of course. Do what you have to — just don’t do anything rash. I’ll square your trip with Christine and call you if there are any developments. Go home.”

Miranda had thawed a little since the last time they spoke, but not by much. He understood. Yorkshire hadn’t covered itself in glory on the last couple of visits, but he still got nostalgic for the old days in Leeds when she lived in a bedsit on Hyde Terrace. He kept, captured in celluloid, fond memories of love’s young dream and the move down south to start a new life together. And what a life it had become.

He tore himself away from the photographs on his wall and picked up a sports bag; he was already wearing the rucksack. Karl had offered to drop him off at Euston Station, but he’d chosen the Tube. Walthamstow had a touch of
dirty old town
about it, but he liked that. There was honesty on those unswept streets — that and litter.

The tide of commuters had long since rolled through Walthamstow Central. Passing through the barrier he could hear the whirr of the escalators — like his own thoughts, circling without resolution. He descended into the labyrinth, half-wondering if Miranda would actually show up.

He surfaced at Euston and immediately texted Ajit: Nearly on train — speak later. Then he joined the throng in the station hall and started looking for a special blonde.

“I bought you a book.”

He opened the bag and read the cover:
The Spy Who Loved Me
. He wasn’t sure if she was taking the piss, so he kissed her anyway and then dragged her off in search of snacks. By the time they were on the concourse, he was £15 poorer; a small price to pay. He felt like a teenager again, heading home to Yorkshire. Miranda waited until they found their seats before she put a major spoke in the works.

“I’m going to stay in a hotel. You can join me if you like.”

He gave up trying to read her face. “My sister’s expecting you.”

“Yeah, I know, but I thought this way I won’t get under anyone’s feet.”

He did a sweep of the carriage from his seat. She looked up, raised her eyes and then went back to her magazine. Once what she called his
gentle paranoia
had subsided he settled into the journey. The soothing rhythm and flow of an ever-changing view allowed his mind to wander unfettered.

“When you’re finished, I’m trying to read.” She smiled impishly as he became aware that his foot was rubbing against hers.

Time for a crossword. He delved into the carrier and pulled out a book of cryptics. He liked the sense of order and structure, and their strange algebra. It seemed to him that much of his life was about cracking codes, solving problems, or bringing order to chaos. He itched to ring Karl, but now was not the time for a declaration of war with Miranda — especially as she’d already mentioned she was here under protest.

“All right, let’s get a room tonight and then see how we go.”

She lowered her magazine like a drawbridge. “How long are you staying?”

Good question. “Dunno.” He’d assumed Geena’s sprog would keep to the timetable, given Ajit’s punctuality. Against his instincts he wanted to tell Miranda about the case and the rifle, and everything he was running away from. He knew it wouldn’t do any good though.

“You were miles away.” She glanced down at the crossword he’d started filling in with little targets. “If you’re offering, I’ll have a large coffee, milk and sugar.”

“You’re the boss.” He returned her smile. Trains — was there anything they couldn’t do? The buffet car gave him some thinking space; there was bad news to deliver back at the table. He’d need to time it carefully

“Did I mention Dad’s picking us up at York?” He passed Miranda her coffee.

“You
are
kidding?”

He slid into his seat. “Well, I could hardly expect Ajit to come and fetch us when Geena might go into labour at any moment?”

“So you’ll tell him about the hotel then, before you get home?”

“Yeah.” He gazed out the window. “I’ll tell him.”

The sight of York Minster catapulted Thomas back through the years. Mum liked to make a pilgrimage there at Christmas and Easter – probably still did. She would dress in her church clothes, with Dad pressganged into a shirt and tie. Meantime he and his sister Pat would have to be on best behaviour. The routine never varied, including the arguments on the way there and the festive tug-of-war between the tearoom and the pub afterwards. In his mind’s eye he watched his younger self, traipsing round the shops with his sister, mimicking the adults and taking sides. He recalled the gaggles of carol singers and the roasted chestnut pedlars, and weaving through the crowds with Pat, breathing in the sugared air together. York had always been a place of sanctuary.

“Are you fit?” Miranda clutched her bag, packed and ready to go.

He nodded, dumped everything back in the carrier and turned to the luggage rack. Outside, there was a bustle of people even in the early afternoon. That was the magic of York – never empty and never dull. Dad was nowhere to be seen and he regretted not planning an overnight stop in York – a halfway house between the old life and his present one.

“Do you think he’s forgotten, or d’you reckon he’s still in the pub?” Miranda pulled her coat in close.

Visitors and students streamed past, jostling together as taxis homed in on the prey. Once upon a time he and Ajit had talked about getting a flat in York. In the finish, he’d overshot York by several hundred miles while Ajit had never really left Pickering. Funny how life worked out.

Miranda threw a quiet strop and went off in search of coffee, leaving him to guard the bags. He nudged them together with his foot, and texted Ajit: In York awaiting Dad. No sooner had he sent it than an earlier text came through: Where are you? Aj. Good old modern technology.

Miranda returned with one cup of coffee, so they shared. He couldn’t tell if this was punishment or intimacy, but at least it was coffee. He spotted the hazard lights as the car approached.

“Well don’t just stand there, get in.” Dad leapt out, kissed Miranda awkwardly on the cheek and gave him a manly grip of the arm.

Miranda had opted for the back seat, alone. Thomas turned round, periodically, to make sure she felt part of the conversation, but he may as well not have bothered.

“So, how’s things, Dad? Taken any good pictures lately?”

His father took the bait, distracting him with talk of the Rievaulx Abbey ruins, St Mary’s ‘Dracula’ church at Whitby and the moors, a mental guided tour.

“Now, I ’ope you’re hungry because your mam’s done a bit o’ baking.”

Miranda coughed and he felt her knee pushing against his back.

“Actually, Dad, er . . . we’ve made plans for tonight.”