STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (22 page)

Chapter 26

Thomas yawned in the gloom. He stared, bleary eyed, trying to make sense of his watch without disturbing the thick curtains. It was either five to eight or twenty to eleven. He leaned across and stroked behind her ear, certain that Miranda was awake and ignoring him.

She wriggled free from his fingers. “Listen, any chance you could drop me off at the club on your way into work? I left my car there last night and I’m picking Terry up from the airport today. I can give him his coat back too, if you like?”

“Very droll. Just take my car — I’m calling in a sickie.”

“Wow. Hold the front page. Do you wanna come with me, then?”

“Nah, I’ll just hang around here for a bit and meet you later at the club.”

She paused, as if in mid-thought. “Well, lock up after you and no going through my underwear drawer when I’m gone.”

“You know me so well.”

“Indeed I do, Mr Bladen. Speaking of which, what brought you to my door last night — welcome as it was.” She slipped out from the duvet and into a dressing gown. “Something about Christine wasn’t it?”

She knew bloody well it was. He sighed and tapped at the bedside table with his index finger.

“If that’s Morse code, I never went to Spy School.” She was still smiling.

“Christine’s involved with this married bloke; and he’s bad news.”

“Brave Sir Knight to the rescue?” she raised an eyebrow.

“Not quite.”

“Can’t Karl help you out?”

He felt her studying his face. He shook his head.

“Lovers’ tiff?”

“Something like that,” he braced himself for some righteous piss-taking, but it never came. That was Miranda, full of surprises.

“Well, I’m here if you need an ear. And don’t forget,” she gazed in the general direction of his groin, “I keep all your secrets.”

He waited until Miranda was in the shower before ringing in. Christine’s office phone was diverted to her mobile. She sounded relieved; it was a short call. Karl had been spot-on — a little breathing space would do everyone a favour. After he’d rung off, he tried the bathroom door — locked. He felt peeved; no reason to be but there it was.

* * *

Sir Peter Carroll took the call in his limo. “I’ve seen the picture — it’s definitely our man. Yes, indeed, very delicate. I’m certainly not aware of any affiliations. No, Yorgi, best you remain where you are — I’ll handle things from here.”

The call ended. Trevor, the driver, glanced up in the mirror and read his employer’s mood well enough to say nothing. Another number was dialled.

“Nicholas, I have an opportunity for you to redeem yourself. I want you to supervise a collection — Thomas Bladen.” Sir Peter could almost hear Nicholas salivating over the phone.

“Thank you, Sir Peter, we’ll pick him up before he gets to Harwich.”

“Excellent. I’m relying on you Nicholas — don’t let me down again.”

* * *

Miranda waited patiently at the lights, studying the pedestrians as they herded past the front of the car. Ever since Thomas had come out of the spy closet, she’d practised extra vigilance. Still, with a family background like hers, she was pretty vigilant anyway, especially where men were concerned. As a teenager, having boyfriends had been a dangerous pastime — for them. Back then, secret assignations and sneaking about were second nature. If anything, Thomas’s cloak-and-dagger act had brought on a touch of nostalgia.

A young mother pushed a stroller out just as the lights started to change. Miranda sat, primed, ready to flip the finger behind her if anyone dared beep. Mother and child; it made you think. Her biological clock wasn’t even building up to a tick, but that hadn’t always been the way. Once . . . well, one day when she’d come to terms with what might have been, she’d give it all some thought.

The second the mother reached the kerb, Miranda put her foot down, narrowly beating the change back to amber. She stole a final glance in the mirror then powered through the traffic. Eager for distraction, she flicked on the radio and re-tuned it to something closer to the last twenty years.

The green Peugeot she’d kept tabs on had been two cars back for a good five minutes now. Probably nothing in it, but she pulled in and watched as it passed without slowing down. Better safe than sorry. Back when Dad was first under suspicion, when he was being fitted up, the Wright family had sat down together and drawn up a set of rules.

Simple stuff: mistrust everyone; say nothing; if at all concerned, go to a public place — preferably with lots of CCTV and people. Thomas had said similar things that morning, like an echo of her dad. Although he did play poker better.

* * *

Nicholas arrived promptly at Great Portland Street. He’d prepared a briefing, but it was very clear, from the moment he opened the conference room door and laid eyes on them, that he was more passenger than leader. No round of introductions here. Everyone knew their place — and their distance.

“Shall we?” he headed for the stairs, crossing his fingers that they followed him. He took the front passenger seat in the people carrier and said nothing until they were on the move. The GPS tracker showed that the car was southbound, corresponding to the map onscreen. His job, he now realised, was to relay the data and coordinate the team. So why was the blue dot travelling further and further away from Harwich?

He considered ringing Sir Peter to check. No, he could manage things. Besides, how hard could it be to pick up one SSU man? He touched lightly at his cheek and felt the last vestige of bruising from where he’d taken a beating in Thomas Bladen’s flat. He blushed at the memory of waking up in the undergrowth of a roundabout, stripped to his underwear. Shameful, but he’d weathered that storm. Whereas his accomplice had never been seen again. “Get a move on; I think he’s giving us the run around.”

The driver obeyed him and he felt his silent companions behind him twitch to attention. “I’m Nicholas, if you didn’t already know.” Now he was in his stride, captain of the team.

“Alice.”

He looked round at her and stared, as if to say ‘really’? She didn’t flinch. Alice, it was then. Jack declared himself, but the driver — a much older man — said nothing. No matter, Nicholas was used to dealing with servants. No one ventured any further information, which didn’t surprise him. Scratch the surface of most departments and the protocol was the same.

They were making progress against the target vehicle and it didn’t take a science degree to pinpoint the destination: Gatwick. They still had the element of surprise and the advantage of numbers, if it came to that. So what was Bladen up to? Sir Peter evidently didn’t know; this could be the coup he’d been looking for.

He swapped hands with the tracker unit and felt the clamminess between his palms. “Good luck everyone; we’re nearly there.” He saw Jack and Alice share a glance of disdain — so much the better. He wasn’t there to be liked; he had a job to do. The numbers on screen whittled down as they approached the short stay car park. He already had the number plate and gestured as he saw the vehicle parking up; gestured because he was too wired to speak.

* * *

A people carrier with blacked-out windows drew in front of Miranda’s car. She heard the doors as she delved into her handbag for her mobile to ring Thomas and let him know she’d arrived. As she rifled through her things, she ran through a shortlist of opening lines and settled on: ‘Are you still inside?’

Before she could dial, her driver’s door opened. She turned to see a youngish man in an expensive suit. “Yeah, what do you want?”

He looked lost for an answer. She reached over to pull the handle in, but the light began to fade. Behind her, someone was blocking the passenger door. Panic time.

Posh Bloke had stepped back, allowing a woman to crank the door wider and start pulling on her arm. “Where is he?”

As Miranda felt herself being dragged out of the car, she went limp to conserve her strength. Then she grabbed the edge of her seat and pulled herself down towards the gear-stick. As soon as she was close enough, she kicked hard against the passenger window, right at the chink in the pane that Thomas had never got round to fixing, driving her boot heel into the glass with a roar. The window splintered on the third kick; a pity that light block had the sense to move in time. Now she rolled on to her stomach and let the woman pull her out, waiting until she was past the steering wheel to swing, left-handed. Not her finest work, but three years of kickboxing — and running a bar — did the job.

“Wait!” Posh Bloke held up his hand, like a teacher intervening in a playground brawl. “We’re here to help you. Thomas sent us. He’s in trouble.”

Miranda ceased struggling and the woman let go. They ushered her into the people carrier. If this was the cavalry, they had a funny way of showing it. As everyone climbed aboard, she copped the driver sending a text. No one else seemed to have noticed.

“What about my car?”

Posh Bloke seemed subdued again. “It’ll be taken care of.”

Next question. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”

Either they were stonewalling her or something was amiss here. Eyes darted back and forth, but nobody answered. Posh Bloke seemed to be the one in charge; she’d have to work on him. She played the game of pluses and minuses in her head, as much to organise her thoughts as to try and stay calm. Pluses: they hadn’t hurt her, they’d mentioned Thomas and they didn’t seem like hardened criminals — and she knew what
they
looked like. Minuses: Thomas must have sent them to her and she didn’t know what the deal was.

Nobody spoke to her as the people carrier sped clockwise around the M25. She wasn’t bothered; she had plenty to think about. How did they know how to find her, especially as she’d been driving Thomas’s car? A shame about the window though — she’d better let Thomas know she was safe. “I need to make a phone call.”

“Later.”

Well, that was brief and to the point. She toyed with the idea of just opening her mobile, but something told her to stay submissive and bide her time. The woman beside her winced as she practiced opening and closing her eye. Yeah, as Sheryl at the club would say, in her native Brooklyneese: ‘suck it up.’

Eyeball — no one had introduced themselves, bar the merest sniff of an ID card, so she had given them her name — Eyeball’s face changed. She seemed more focused and detached. Miranda
almost felt bad for punching her — sisterhood and all that.

“How well do you know Thomas Bladen?”

Miranda smiled inwardly. Outwardly she stayed as blank as a new canvas. All Thomas’s paranoia was finally bearing fruit. “We go way back.”

“And what do you know about his work?”

This was like painting by numbers. “He’s a government photographer — and he delivers packages.”
Too much information maybe?
She glanced ahead and read the A road as they turned off. Eyeball leaned over and touched her leg.

“I know this must all seem strange to you.”

That was a first; good cop and bad cop all rolled together, making: average cop. Miranda nodded and bit at her fingernail. Dad had said he used to do that in police interrogations, to accompany whatever crap he was feeding them.

Eyeball continued. “It’s just a precaution, you understand. Thomas’s cover is at risk and he wanted you kept safe until we have things under control.”

Miranda dug her nail hard into her hand, to stifle a response. They were lying, and badly. Firstly, Thomas didn’t have any cover. Secondly, he was
intensely
private, so how would they know about her? And thirdly, if Thomas had been in any kind of trouble, he’d have contacted the family first.

But here she was, in the company of strangers, and he did have that bandage on his arm the previous night, so something didn’t sit right. “Does Thomas know I’m with you?”

Eyeball swallowed and took a breath then swapped glances with Posh Bloke. “We’ll contact him once you’re at a secure location.”

Miranda narrowed her gaze and dug her nail into her palm again: jackpot. She sat back and took stock; she was sandwiched between two of them — no chance of getting out. Best play the dumb blonde for now and try and hold it together. “Yeah, that makes sense. Do you think I could just leave him a message? Only I was supposed to feed the dog later and he might worry if he gets back and Butch . . .”

Eyeball leaned forward and Posh Bloke mumbled approval. “Alright, but keep it short — you can use my mobile.” Eyeball opened her phone, punched in the digits from a piece of paper and passed the phone over.

It went straight to his office voicemail. “Hi Tom, it’s Miranda. Erm, something’s come up so you’ll have to sort Butch out yourself today. Sorry.” She returned the phone with a smile; it was up to him now.

Eyeball gave her a funny look. “I need your handbag, as a precaution.”

The silent wonder on her left wriggled in his seat; no, he squirmed. Even he didn’t fall for that line.

“Okay,” Miranda handed her bag over.

Posh Bloke signalled to the driver and they pulled in at the next lay-by. He seemed quietly agitated. When they stopped he got out, walked a few yards ahead and got on his mobile. Whatever he was saying, he didn’t look happy.