STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (19 page)

“In my limited experience, Tommo, women don’t miss. Come on now, enough with the philosophising. Let’s go find ourselves a drink.

* * *

If the pub’s name wasn’t enough of a clue, then the military crests and insignia on every spare inch of wall were a dead giveaway. The landlord had greying ginger hair and a ruddy complexion. Thomas took him for a former sergeant major, still crimson from years of shouting; somehow he couldn’t see a former officer working this hard after demob to earn a living.

“Mr McNeill!” the landlord all but saluted. “Always a pleasure!”

Thomas hung back; no one paid him any attention. Karl crossed to the bar, leaving him in the centre of the saloon, like a deodorant commercial.

“A shandy for me and a whisky for my associate.”

Thomas felt unreasonably disappointed; not comrade or oppo, just associate. He listened with envy as Karl fell into easy conversation with Mein Host. No point standing around — might as well be comfortable. He grabbed an empty table with a view of the bar. The tabletop reeked of polish, but he couldn’t see any evidence of it; even the beer-mats had formed an unhealthy attachment to the veneer.

Karl took his time coming over. Maybe it was tough leaving his army pals behind. Once or twice he looked in Thomas’s direction and then carried on with his conversation. No matter — the extra time gave Thomas time to clear his head.

“Your very good and continued health, Tommo.”

He managed a smile, lifting the whisky up to the light, and breathed in deeply through his nostrils. Even good whisky couldn’t stop his stomach churning at the thought of cold, gushing water closing over his head.

“I know how you’re feeling, Thomas,” Karl lowered his voice. “There’s not a man or woman here who hasn’t been where you were, hasn’t asked themselves at some point: Is this the end?” Karl leaned forward and produced a packet of crisps from his pocket. “The thing is, this is what we do.”

There was no answer to that, but still the need to say something. “How scared were you then, when it was all kicking off?”

“Are you kidding me? I was like a brick factory on overtime. I get a sweat just thinking about it — if I hadn’t brought Robert and Lizzie out for the night . . .” Karl broke off and did his customary plague-of-locusts routine on the crisps. “Look Tommo, I know it’s a lot to deal with, first op and all.”

“I don’t know if I’m really cut out for this.” It sounded so much clearer, out loud.

Karl put the crisps down and straightened his back against the chair. “Well, only you can make that choice. But meantime, the packages will
still
come and go, Bob Peterson will
still
have lied to you about being at Harwich and Sir Peter Carroll will
still
be playing tin soldiers with the rest of us. Come on, aren’t you still the teensiest bit curious to know what the fuck is really going on?”

Thomas managed a grin and sank the remainder of his whisky. Karl had a point. But so had the bullet that had almost gone through his arm.

* * *

Thomas closed the front door and bolted it. He felt like never opening it again. He sat in the dark, hugged tight against the cushion, reliving the paddle from hell. It wasn’t long before he reached for the phone.

“Ajit, you awake? It’s Thomas.”

“Hiya mate, ’ow’s it going? Let me just take this downstairs — Geena’s asleep.”

Thomas pulled the phone close and lifted his feet on to the sofa. Only Ajit and Miranda could keep a meaningful conversation going for longer than twenty minutes. He knew because he’d timed it. And right now he needed to talk.

He chatted with Ajit for over an hour, about nothing in particular; the latest on Geena, the joys of Yorkshire policing and the glory days of Pickering; anything and nothing to keep his thoughts at bay. “By the way,” he added as things wound to a close, “I still have your
Blake’s 7
annual somewhere. I saw it when I was last having a clear out.” This, Ajit would know, was boys’ code for ‘I’m still thinking about you,’ and it sufficed.

Last thing before bed, Thomas counted out his money from Sir Peter. Three grand, tax-free — nice work if you could get it. Or not.

Despite the previous day’s excesses, Thomas woke early on Sunday morning; a fireworks-in-the-brain, no prisoners, wide-awake start to the day. His arm stung like a bastard and try as he might he couldn’t get his body to settle. The alarm clock glowed 6.45 defiantly. He popped one of Karl’s magic pills with a swig of cold tea and then got himself ready, using his left arm as little as possible. There was no pretence of putting a camera in his car; he knew exactly where he was going — across London to the well-appointed streets of Highgate. Time to start separating truth from fiction.

The traffic was non-existent so early on a Sunday. He remembered driving out to Enfield once to photograph a pair of foxes; this wasn’t so different. When he got to Christine’s street, he parked up, engine running. Did he really want to do this? Was it any of his business who shared Christine’s bed these days? True, he reasoned with himself, but if he backed off now that would mean he had a problem with it. The words ‘painted’ and ‘corner’ formed a trio with the painkiller to cloud what little judgement remained.

He pulled out and moved into second gear, rolling down the road at a steady ten mph, scanning both sides. There were several four-by-fours on the rugged streets of Highgate, though not the one he was looking for. Instead of relief, he felt a gnawing disappointment; it was there somewhere — he was sure of it. He dug out a street atlas and rested it on his knees, tracing a grid pattern, two streets away in every direction.

And suddenly there it was, the bonnet stone cold. The same vehicle from Harwich, the one Peterson probably used for taking the wife and kids shopping. So now what? He got back in his car and stared into the distance. Too early to ring Christine and anyway, what would he say? ‘Hi, I happened to be in the area and I see you’re shagging your boss who’s married.’ Yeah, that’d be a vote winner come his next assessment.

He thumped the steering wheel, sending shockwaves up his bad arm; it concentrated the mind wonderfully. He needn’t say or do anything for now — he’d leave it to Karl. Speed-dial number 4.

“Morning mate, I couldn’t sleep.”

Karl sounded like an advert for
Grumpy Bastard
magazine. “Well why don’t you get a bloody paper round? Do you know what time it is — what do you want?”

“I’ve got some information on Bob Peterson — he spent the night at Christine’s flat; just thought you should know.” He rang off: mission accomplished.

An hour later he was crashed out on the sofa, lullabied by the TV. He slept deep and heavy, waking by degrees as the mobile shrieked for attention.
Not now, Karl, bugger off and leave me in peace
. The mobile gave up then bleeped. He yawned and looked across at the clock. Blimey, it was evening — so much for Sunday. He rolled his neck from side to side and carefully hauled himself up to sitting. Still bleary eyed, he thumbed through to voicemail.

“Tomas, it is Petrov. You must help us; come quickly. Yorgi has contacted us — I am very afraid.”

Fuck.
He scrambled off the sofa and grabbed the cash envelope, his mobile and his keys. On the way over, he pulled Petrov’s number from the mobile and stored it for speed dialling.

He made good time into South London and called in his progress. Alexandra answered, calmer than her husband, but definitely freaked. He told her to get packed and be ready to move as soon as he got there. From the little sense she made, he gathered that Yorgi had phoned them out of the blue — pissed, high, or paranoid; possibly all three; ranting about a hospital and unfinished business with a traitor. And then he was coming for them.

South of the river and every traffic light, every fuckwit incapable of doing thirty mph on a thirty road, all piled on the minutes and the pressure. No point calling Karl now, he was practically there.

He beeped the horn three times as he pulled up. A curtain snatched back, then the family made a run for the car, dragging as many cases as was humanly possible. They didn’t look as though they planned on coming back. He popped the boot and revved up to encourage them, flicking his gaze between the windscreen and his mirrors. As he pushed into the car seat, primed for the off, the clamminess of his shirt squished against his back. He shivered and smiled; he was almost enjoying this.

Petrov ushered his family in the back and climbed in beside them. He seemed to take a last remorseful look at the house then Thomas met his eyes in the mirror. Time to go. For all the fire in his blood, Thomas drove sensibly, keeping to the speed limit and watching all directions. Petrov and Alexandra said nothing; he preferred that.

As they crossed London Bridge, the enormity of his actions began to sink in. He didn’t have a plan, beyond getting them away from there. He flicked on the radio for inspiration, but it was in short supply tonight.
Jesus, another tailback.
In a city that never sleeps, why did all the insomniacs have to drive? His passengers sat, trance-like, as he battled through the traffic. They hadn’t said a word, not even to ask where he was talking them; a question he was quietly asking himself.

His first, impossible thought had been to head to Miranda’s parents. Without question they’d help him, but it would mean dragging them deeper into his murky world. That was the word for it:
murky
. His second choice was less inventive. Pick a hotel at random; any hotel would do, but the more upmarket the better — and room service was a necessity. It had to be somewhere Yorgi couldn’t trace them to. He settled on Paddington, only because he and Miranda had once spent a weekend there playing tourists. And besides, the station afforded a range of escape options if he really couldn’t protect them.

The engine rumbled to a standstill. He glanced down at his mobile and thought about Karl. There was every reason to ring, and few not to. Petrov had called
him
though. He reckoned he could sort things out for the time being with less fuss. Behind him, Petrov’s family hardly made a sound, but their expectations massed around him like the roar of a West Ham crowd. He didn’t bother turning round. “I want you to stay in a hotel until I figure out the next step. You’ll need to remain in your room. Order whatever you need, but
stay put
.” He took out an even thousand and handed it to Petrov’s bewildered wife.

“Why would you do this for us?”

He swallowed; he didn’t really have an answer. Not without going into all the history with Ajit and . . . He stopped short. Maybe Ajit could provide police protection if he got them up to Yorkshire? The idea shattered before his eyes.
Wake up; this is more than you can handle. You need help; you need Karl.

Alexandra paused from her whispered conversation and stared through the mirror. “How long must we hide there?”

“I don’t know, probably just for a couple of days.” He shouldered the door and breathed in the rush of air. “Remember, don’t contact anyone except me.”

They looked settled in the car. Tough. He emptied the boot and picked up a couple of bags, ready to start walking. “Let’s get on with it.”

Chapter 22

‘Opportunities multiply as they are seized.’

Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Yorgi folded the book flat and closed his eyes. It was not enough merely to read wisdom; one had to imbibe and absorb it. He blinked against the harsh neon strip light and moved uneasily from the chair, holding the kitchen table to steady himself. His breath still tasted of vodka and his head bore the pitiless, unrelenting pressure of a hangover.

In the corner of the room, a black bin-liner sat and waited, serenaded by two flies. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, but did not consider moving it. He took a pub glass out of the cupboard, wiped it with his hand and ran the tap, squeezing his eyes closed to bear the whine of the pipes. Then he reached to the broken tiled ledge behind the sink and took the last of the painkillers. The box said
fast acting
so he sat still for three minutes. Only now was he ready to face the front room.

The table was upended — that much he did remember — but the extent of the devastation was a shock. He recalled speaking to Petrov; even the thought of his half-brother’s name was like taking a candle to a fuse. His head throbbed to the rhythm: Pet-rov, Pet-rov. He picked up an armchair and turned the cushion over to sit. There was little point; it was filthy, either side. Peasants might live like this; he would not. He nodded to himself and grunted approval. It was settled; he would increase his fees, work the girls harder. He sniffed hard by his shoulder — taking in the stench of sweat and vomit. It was a disgrace, he told himself, unconsciously resurrecting his father’s voice in his head — not Petrov’s lineage, but his
real
father.

“Yes Papa,” he promised aloud, “I will complete my chores and better myself.” He unbuttoned his shirt, pushed the sleeve back over the grime and rubbed his watch glass; the smooth, domed surface always made him smile; transporting him back to Amsterdam. He had only been pimping back then, when opportunity had presented itself. How the American tourist had begged and pleaded. But showing mercy to your enemy disrespects him. Sun Tzu understood that. So, once he had taken the man’s watch and sneered at his flabby white body, he’d brought the knife easily to flesh.

In the shower he mentally relived the scene, enjoying the steady throbbing between his legs. The way the fat American had collapsed on the floor, squealing, oozing blood across the pale carpet. It was all so vivid, so
alive.
The frozen horror on the girl’s face, making her gleam like an angel; like a religious statue. He sucked in the shower steam, felt it hot in his lungs as his memory wound on. That sense of absolute power as he’d fucked the girl on the bed, oblivious as to whether the man lived or died beside them on the floor. At that moment he had become a god, made in his own image.

He tilted his face to let the suds run down the length of his body and squirted shampoo around his pubic hair. Water spattered off his erection as he closed his eyes, moving his hand, slowly, teasingly downwards. Images of girls — so many girls, willing and unwilling — danced around him in a kaleidoscope of pleasure. Yes, Yorgi; yes. Now, as his hand found rhythm, the images were interspersed with the flashbacks of violence — the heavy certainty of the trigger or the knife handle. Pleasure and pain; pain and pleasure. At the point of orgasm he dug his nails hard into his penis, sending a delicious chord of agony and ecstasy through his body. When the pulses of semen had stopped, he relaxed his grip and gazed down at the savage marks on his flesh, like the bite of an animal.

He finished his shower and shaved, adding cologne to sting his face awake. A pair of trousers and shirt that had been hanging up for days gave him a respectable and inconspicuous air. He put the watch back on and checked the time: seven o’clock. Time to gather his things — the old clothes he would dump; another skin shed. A charity shop would meet his needs for the time being. He’d paid cash in advance for this hovel so no one should be visiting for at least another two weeks. By then, Mr Svenson — the name he’d given to the greedy bastard who’d made £500 out of him — would be long gone.

At Victoria station he stashed his bag and walked away with only a small carrier, stuffed in one side of his coat. He kept the silencer in the other pocket. He knew that the van driver, Dechevez, was in a private room on the third floor. But beyond that he knew nothing more than when he’d first encountered him at Harwich. Then, it had been a warning. Now, a permanent resolution was required. That it concerned politics was of no interest to him. Politics, he considered as he passed the hospital signs, was just another business — profit, loss and opportunity. Dechevez — whoever he was — was simply no longer profitable to someone.

* * *

Yorgi slipped through the open door at the side of the hospital and went straight to the basement. The stifling heat and the noise of the boiler took him back to his time at sea, stoking the engines and avoiding the attentions of the drunken louts who liked to use young boys as playthings. He remembered hiding behind the hottest pipes, risking a scalding rather than something far worse.

He went deeper into the hospital basement catacombs and pressed a hand to the boiler pipe, resting it there until it felt like the paint was searing his skin. A sharp reminder of what he had endured. His ears picked out the shuffling gait ahead of him and the squeak of the trolley. He hid in the shadows and fitted the silencer.

The cleaner shuffled past then stopped, just beyond the alcove. He let go of his trolley, paused and turned. Yorgi stepped out of the shadows like a panther, closing on his victim like the predator he was. Yorgi thought, for an instant, that the look of dread hinted at some kind of recognition. The idea amused him — that this was one of the people he’d trafficked to freedom, only to come back and claim him when the situation required. He levelled the weapon, surprised to hear a native tongue.

Sun Tzu wrote of turning every situation to one’s advantage by reading the signs and acting accordingly. Yorgi believed knowledge was nothing unless it was tested in practice. He made the cleaner take off his overalls; promised him mercy as long as he didn’t piss them in fear; a promise Yorgi had no intention of keeping, especially since they may have met before. The man stood before him in his underpants and vest, weight sagged forward a little, hands clasped together as if in prayer. Yorgi smiled and the man relaxed a little, smiling back. The first shot to the head — hygienic and efficient; the second, to the heart — just because he could.

He dumped the body in a laundry trolley and wheeled it out of sight. Only then did he change into the uniform; the overalls were baggy enough to fit over his clothes — a bonus, as was the ID card. When Yorgi smelt a foreign sweat against his clothes and skin, he felt a sense of transformation, as if he now inhabited the dead man’s shell, claiming him. His mimicked accent might have sufficed to get to Dechevez, but this new persona offered a better disguise. Small matter that the photo bore little resemblance to him. A cleaning trolley and a hangdog expression would grant him anonymity, and people would see whatever they expected to see.

He exited the lift at the third floor. The air reeked of sickness and disinfectant; the heat smothered him like a blanket. He pushed his watch up his sleeve and wiped the tiny beads of sweat from his face. He started mopping along the corridor, head down, humming softly. The latex gloves were a little loose and he knew that later they would make his skin itch. But it was a minor inconvenience.

As the dry linoleum retreated and the room numbers counted down, he felt the thrill of anticipation and his erection pressing tightly beneath the overalls. He looked into the distance at the Asian nurse who was bent over, reading, and thought about what he’d like to do to her. He watched her for at least a minute until she looked up and gave a nonchalant wave in his direction. He responded in kind then furtively felt for the bulge through his pocket.

When she moved out of sight, he pushed the trolley closer and peered through the door-glass for the first time. Dechevez was there, sleeping like an innocent. Yorgi leered at him, his teeth reflecting in the glass like fangs. He turned towards the trolley and drew out the gun, keeping it at his blindside.

He waited, head down, watching as the pretty nurse picked up a folder and left his field of vision again. Barely breathing, he reached for the cylindrical door handle in small, precise movements. He felt the handle give way and the door ease in. Heat wafted around his face. He remembered then, as a young boy, his father coming into his room; stealthy, loving and unannounced. He always looked forward to those goodnights, but could never stay awake to catch him no matter how hard he tried. He would just open his eyes and Papa would be there, like Santa Claus, at the edge of his bed.

Dechevez sighed softly. Yorgi heard his father’s voice again: ‘Sleep well, Yorgi; you are my good boy.’ His eyes glistened as he squeezed the trigger, his lips forming the words: ‘I love you, Papa.’ Dechevez’s body twitched against the pillow and the blood seeped down the side of the bed, pooling on the lino.

Yorgi fired again, just to see the head jerk a second time, like one of Papa’s wooden puppets. He hummed as he closed the door, carefully spraying polish over the aluminium handle and door plate and wiping it tenderly. Then he collected up his cleaning implements, pushed the trolley round to the lift and left it there. As he headed for the stairwell he heard the lift door ping behind him and a murmur of voices carried along the corridor. He removed the ID card from his jacket, looked at the name and whispered his thanks to the original owner.

Outside, he acknowledged the other cleaning staff gathered by a side door to smoke. He declined their offer to join them and muttered ‘newspaper,’ waving casually behind him as he reached the corner. He removed his overalls in the nearby public toilets and packed them into a carrier bag, ready for the nearest recycling bin. The ID he would keep — a souvenir of his own inventiveness. He felt for the watch underneath his overall sleeve; it was time to settle things with Petrov. And for that he’d need a vehicle.