STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (23 page)

Eyeball leaned in close again. “We need to find Thomas urgently — do you know where he is, Miranda?”

“He wasn’t working today so he lent me his car.” Then she thought of something else. Oh bollocks, Terry would be waiting at the airport.

Eyeball seemed satisfied with the explanation, unlike the Silent Wonder. From the look on his face, he had less of a clue than she did.

After five minutes or so, Posh Bloke stormed back to the vehicle. His face was a picture — a portrait depicting ‘pissed off.’

“We’re to go here,” he announced to the driver, passing him a note. The driver seemed unperturbed, switching on classical music as he rejoined the traffic. Posh Bloke said nothing more, but his face spoke volumes.

Chapter 27

“Anything I can get you, Thomas?”

If Sheryl leaned any further over the bar, her breasts would tumble out to greet him. “That’s okay,” he flustered.

Caliban’s was practically empty. He felt like a teenager on a blind date, trying not to look conspicuous as he watched the minute hand inch its way round for the umpteenth time. He thought about ringing Miranda, but she’d probably be driving. He turned the mobile over and pretended he was fiddling with the casing instead.

“Wanna shoot some pool?”

“Sure,” he’d never sounded less sure of anything in his life.

“Relax, Thomas. I don’t bite.”

No, he thought as he followed her, but you do look capable of nibbling.

“You and Miranda go
way
back, don’t you?”

He smiled; that was the phrase they always used.

“So how come you two never quite got it together?”

He made a dumb face in the absence of a convincing explanation, and racked up the balls. The first two games went to Sheryl with ease — he barely got a look in. He turned the third game around and somehow snuck in the black, more by luck than judgement.

Sometimes when she looked at him, he wanted to ask her things — about Miranda, about herself; about why a girl from Brooklyn should wind up managing a bar in East London. But he let it go, same as always. For a while, he kidded himself that he was capable of winning, but Sheryl’s soon shattered any lasting illusions.

“Did you grow up in a Pool Hall?”

“Pretty much! You’re not too bad though.”

He chose to take it as a compliment. As he bent down to take a shot, his mobile trilled into life — it was Karl.

“Thomas, are you free to talk? It’s
urgent
.”

“Sure,” He felt the blood run cold up his neck. He shouldered the phone and moved to the main bar for better reception.

“Where have you been today?”

“Nowhere. I was out last night and I’m at Caliban’s now.”

“Tommo, your car’s been picked up at Gatwick airport. There’s damage to one of the windows, keys still in the ignition. Were you there?” It sounded like an accusation.

“No, I lent the car to . . . to a friend.”

The line went silent. “Stay right where you are and I’ll come get you.”

The room seemed to spin; he grabbed at a chair and it shrieked. Sheryl rushed over and the shock on his face reflected on hers. He sat down before his legs buckled under him.

Sheryl quickly rejoined him with two whiskies. “Talk to me.”

He shook his head.

“Is it Miranda?”

“They found my car . . . abandoned . . .”

Sheryl put a hand to her mouth. “I’ll ring Diane.”

“No!” he barked. “Let me take care of this. Karl’s on his way.” He downed most of the whisky in one go and felt the bile swirling inside him. Sheryl looked at him, as if she could see the turmoil inside. He realised that he didn’t even know what to tell her.

They sat, huddled together like victims in a lifeboat, neither one speaking. When he wavered and felt he was on the verge of tears, he pressed into his wound, choosing pain over emotion. Sheryl’s eyes were brimming; she just stared at him, silently, searching for something to cling on to.

* * *

Karl burst through the door. He pulled the chair back and hoisted Thomas to his feet. “Come on, we have to deal with this.”

Sheryl looked up at him and Karl laid a consoling hand on her shoulder. She stared back at Thomas, wide-eyed, in disbelief.

“I’ll be back later — I promise.

He shuffled to the car in a daze, Karl’s hand at his back. Karl didn’t speak until they were on the main road. “I’m sorry, Thomas; it doesn’t look good. Your nearside window was broken — from the inside.”

“Miranda had the car.”

Karl didn’t press him on it. “How much does she know?”

“Just the basics — and she knows about Christine.” It felt easier to talk when Karl was asking the questions.

“What about her?”

“I went over to Christine’s last night, to confront her about Bob Peterson. She warned me off, said it was my last chance.”

“Oh Jesus, Thomas. You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”

In the silence that followed, Thomas’s psyche began to regroup. “How did you find my car?”

Karl upped the speed. “That’s not important now. I checked your office voicemail today — I always check it.”

Thomas shot him a glance.

“Miranda left you a message about dealing with Butch.”

He felt his mind shift a gear. Butch: Miranda was in some kind of trouble.

“The thing is, when I checked a little later, someone had deleted the message. I reckon someone doesn’t want you to hear from her.”

Thomas pushed his hands together, prayer fashion, and touched the index fingers to his lower lip. “You’ve got to tell me how to fix this.”

“I’ll do everything I can, Tommo, you know that. First, we’re gonna pick your car up and get the window fixed. Tomorrow, when you go in to work, nothing has happened. Got it? If these bastards want anything, they’ll be in touch.”

Thomas nodded slowly as if punch drunk. “Did someone follow her?”

“They didn’t need to. Somebody put a tracker on the car. I suggest we leave it there. So if you need to go anywhere private, you take a cab from now on.”

Thomas covered his face with his hands, blotting away the tears.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Karl. I don’t think I’m strong enough.”

“You have to be, Thomas; you’ve no choice.”

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but Karl’s supernatural silence only amplified his thoughts. Why would someone take Miranda? And what the hell was he going to do about it? He lashed out and punched the glove compartment, jolting himself into some sort of clarity. “Unless they’d been planning this . . .”

Karl still said nothing.

He looked around, aware he’d just said the unthinkable. Who the fuck were
they
? No, wait, he was on to something; or maybe he just wanted to believe that. He put his hands together again and rocked back and forth. “I’ve only done two things that would make . . .” his voice cracked. “Two things. I contacted Christine and I helped Petrov get away from Yorgi.” As he said Yorgi’s name, he felt sick to his stomach, as if his intuition had suddenly whispered
yes
. “For Christ’s sake, say something, Karl.”

Silence again, apart from the pounding in his head. He looked around and saw the signs for Reading. Well, bollocks to it, he’d had enough. “Stop the car, I want to get out,” he already had his fingers on the handle.

“Tommo, just relax, we’ll be there soon . . .”

“I said, stop the fucking car. Now!”

Karl pulled hard left and crushed the brake, screeching the car to a lopsided halt. “Listen to me; we have to do this by the numbers. I know you’re scared right now, but so far there’s no indication . . .”

Thomas raised a chopping hand to interrupt.

“That’s enough!” Karl roared at him.

He fell back to his seat, defeated.

“Look, Tommo, I’ve dealt with this shit before; I grew up with this kind of coercion. When they want something, they’ll be in touch. Until then, we sit tight.”

He let go of the door and the car resumed its journey, snaking its way to an industrial estate on the outskirts of Reading. As they approached a set of nondescript units, Thomas recognised his car coming off a flatbed trailer to a waiting team of overalls.

“We’ll give them half an hour — come on, let’s take a wee walk.”

Thomas looked through the glass; it felt safe in Karl’s car. Somehow, if he went outside, he’d be accepting all this. Karl walked around to the passenger door and waited.

* * *

The pungent stench of rubbish and diesel couldn’t disguise the chill in the air. Thomas rubbed his arm self-consciously as they walked. Karl still wasn’t saying much and as for Thomas, he didn’t dare open his mouth for fear of screaming.

Karl’s destination soon became clear, as the white, mud-spattered caravan gradually got closer. “You need to eat something,” he insisted, pointing to the bargain garden furniture.

Thomas flopped into the chair and pressed his fingers hard against the plastic’s rough edges. He looked over at the counter; exactly how did his
best buddy
fit into all this?

Karl brought over a couple of teas and enough sugar to fell a racehorse. “Get it down yer. Burgers are on the way.”

Thomas didn’t protest. He hugged the polystyrene cup and tried to reason out his options. He didn’t know where Miranda was or who had taken her. Okay, he had suspicions about this Yorgi, but that’s all they were. The sound of nearby traffic lulled him into some kind of mental pause. She hadn’t screamed, ‘Come and get me,’ on her phone message — according to Karl anyway. No, she’d mentioned ‘Butch’ instead: private code for dodgy dealing. And the car window was a smart move, but what did it mean? Had she’d been taken against her will, yet still somehow able to make the call?

Two plates clattered down on to the table. Thomas opened his eyes; bloody stupid — polystyrene cups, but proper plates. At first sight, the burgers churned his stomach, and then hunger took over as his instincts kicked in.

“Okay,” Karl bit into his burger savagely; “you take the car to work tomorrow. And if anyone treats you differently, it’s a fair bet they’re involved.”

“And then what?”

Karl chewed on a piece of burger that was putting up a fight. “Then we get a better idea of who we’re up against.”

Thomas tilted the bap away so that the fatty juices didn’t run into his mouth.

“Come on, Thomas, think about it. Miranda left a message for you on your office phone. Nigh on two years, we’ve worked in the same office, and have you ever taken a personal call there? No, because neither she nor anyone else has your number; am I right?”

He nodded; he was already putting together a shortlist in his head of anyone he’d encountered since he’d joined the SSU. And while it didn’t exactly give him hope, it gave him a focus.

The burger was sliding down nicely. He felt more grounded, more settled, confident enough to take a chance. “Karl, I need to ask you something,” he kept his voice low and his gaze down.
Here goes —
“And if I don’t get the truth, I’ll go to the police.”

It was a terrible bluff, so shit that Miranda’s dad would have spotted it at a poker table. But he was desperate and it might, just might, rattle Karl a bit.

Karl took a long sip of tea. Thomas took the silence as consent to continue. “Is Miranda’s disappearance connected to the missing information you’re after?”

Karl inclined his head.

“Jesus, Karl!” he erupted, overbalancing the chair behind him as he stood. He was a dozen steps away when he heard Karl scrabbling behind him.

“Wait up, Tommo, please.” Karl drew level and laid a hand on him, shifting his eyes about like a guilty schoolboy. “Look, I honestly don’t believe Miranda is in any immediate danger. And what I’m about to tell you, well, you wouldn’t have believed me before now.”

“I’m listening,” Thomas conceded, and carried on walking back to his car, with Karl trailing alongside.

“I don’t know how well you know your European history, but the ending of World War Two was a messy one.”

Thomas laughed spontaneously, surprising himself.

“Anyways, after the boys finally put their toys away and buried their copious dead, the key players decided that steps had to be taken to avoid making it a hat-trick of stupidity.”

Thomas stopped in his tracks.

“Now, whatever you think of the European Union’s track record, the wars have at least been kept regional. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that a few years down the line, a United States of Europe is a real possibility.”

“And the point of this bollocks?” Thomas felt his fist tightening again.

“Some people aren’t willing to wait a few years; important and influential people with something to gain, throughout Europe and beyond. That’s the kind of information I’ve been looking for.”

Chapter 28

The technician greeted Thomas and showed off her handiwork on the side window. “Good as new,” she joked, as if she’d just done him a favour. He let it slide and collected his keys.

Karl tailed him back to a service station off the M25. When Thomas came out from the gents, Karl was kneeling by his car at the driver’s side. He didn’t seem at all embarrassed to be caught in the act.

“I was just checking the tracker on your car — it’s still active. Remember, anywhere you don’t want people to know about, use alternative transport.”

Thomas joined him by the wheel, determined not to comment on the gizmo Karl had in his hand.

“I need you to trust me, Tommo,” Karl whispered, close enough that Thomas could see the fret lines in his face. “Don’t go off doing anything stupid. And don’t forget, we’re talking to Petrov after work tomorrow, so get a good night’s sleep.”

Yeah, that was Karl: the wellspring of compassion. Thomas opened the driver’s door, nudging Karl out of the way. “And what do I tell Miranda’s family? Her brother’s already messaged me asking why she wasn’t at the airport.”

Karl shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’d, er, appreciate it if you stalled them for a while. A missing person report will only complicate things.”

“Yeah, but for who?”

“For all of us, Tommo. We all want the same thing,” he faced him. “Miranda safely home and the people who did this held accountable.”

He paled at the thought of lying to Miranda’s family. That was a complete no-no. But the alternative was equally unthinkable. So he made a pact with the devil. “Three days, Karl — tops. And understand this: I may not have your connections, but if word hasn’t reached me that Miranda’s safe . . .” he couldn’t finish the sentence because that sickening feeling rushed up to gnaw at his guts again.

Thomas sat in the lay-by and stared at his mobile. The car rocked as another juggernaut thundered past. As he switched the phone on with one hand, he was wiping away tears with the other. The most precious thing he had with the Wrights was trust and now he was destroying that. For a greater good perhaps, but it was still a betrayal. As the phone dialled out, he wondered, if he could do this, then what else was he capable of?

Judas time.
“Terry? Hi, yeah, sorry mate, I’ve been really busy at work. Ah, mate, total balls-up. Miranda had to go out of town, short notice . . .” the monologue went on, each line more forced and implausible than the last. Maybe Terry would just assume they’d had a huge fight, and Miranda had swanned off to the coast, like she’d done before. All he could do was act vague and leave Terry to join the dots for himself.

Terry seemed to accept everything he said; it was like taking a sick dog to the vet’s on that long, final walk. When the deed was done, he needed a drink. And where better than Caliban’s, where he could pimp the remainder of his soul by persuading Sheryl to back up his story.

He’d barely stepped through the door before Sheryl called him over. “Let’s go through,” she raided the scotch optic with two glasses on her way up to the office. The barmaid smiled at him; nothing seemed out of place as he passed. But he still felt like a condemned man.

Sheryl closed the door. “Have you found her?” she thrust a drink into his hand as if it was some kind of truth serum.

He shook his head.

“So what the
fuck
have you been doing since you left here?”

He let her anger run its course. She had a right; and yes, Miranda deserved better — far better than him. And something told him that when it came down to it, when Karl and all the monsters had finished playing their games, it would be left to him to pick up the pieces. So he cut the crap and told her straight; about Terry, about how he’d lied to buy Karl and him a little more time. And he pleaded with her to just let things lie for three more days.

Sheryl took a last gulp of scotch and set her glass down. Her hand trembled a little, but she raised her head to look him in the eyes, slowly and deliberately. “If anything happens to Miranda, you’re a dead man.”

He chose to take that as agreement to his request and started to reach out to her hand, then thought better of it.

“Is this to do with that Irish guy — the one you had a showdown with?”

There it was again, that uncharted territory: to trust or not to trust. “Sheryl, don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t talk about it with you.”

She swooped for his glass. “Hey, the only reason I’m even listening to you now is because I know that’s what Miranda would want. If it was down to me I’d make a couple of phone calls and . . .” she blinked twice slowly, “. . . well, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

On the drive home, he added Sheryl to his mental list of people to keep at a distance; hard to do when he’d promised to ring her mobile, twice a day — without fail.

* * *

Back at the flat, there were no messages — too much to hope for. He took the Leeds photograph of Miranda off the wall and propped it on the table. Just sitting there, he could hear her laughter merging with the sound of traffic, the scene ablaze with sunlight and the promise of happy ever after.

The oven pinged and he returned to the present with a thud. Only now did he remember that he’d put a cottage pie on. He took another shot of Southern Comfort to dry his tears.

He fired up his laptop and ate beside it, going through his usual anonymity server for untraceable web surfing. It wasn’t hard to get lucky on the conspiracy sites; everything and everyone had an opinion, and by Christ they were going to share it with you. After twenty minutes of being distracted by 9/11 theories he set about his search in earnest, following trails that led to the Bilderberg Group and the New Holy Roman Empire.

After that jaunt to La-La Land he narrowed his quest to historical documents relating to Europe from 1945 onwards. What he wanted were facts, and they seemed thin on the ground. Finally, he located a 1946 speech given by Winston Churchill, in Zurich. There, in black and white, was the phrase 'United States of Europe,’ along with the proposal to first set up a Council of Europe. Maybe Karl was on to something after all.