STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (24 page)

Chapter 29

The mobile went off at 6.30 am. Thomas spasmed awake from a nightmare and made a wild grab for the phone.

It was Karl, with nothing to report. He repeated the need for a veil of normality and reminded him about seeing Petrov after work: he was business-like, and, in a way, Thomas drew strength from that. If Karl was used to dealing with situations like this, then maybe everything would turn out okay.

Now wide awake, he showered and dressed, stared at Miranda’s photo for longer than was healthy, and then was out the door. The seven-fifteen traffic offered little resistance — so much the better for the two-hour slog to Harwich. Perhaps someday they’d get a surveillance gig in Chingford. He noticed that the radio had been retuned — it was obvious who’d done it — and he couldn’t bring himself to change it back.

Desperation was a strange thing; he’d learned that from his mum when his gran was dying. When you’re trying to negotiate with the Man in the Sky, you’ll offer up just about anything. So, by the time the first sign to Harwich had appeared, he’d resolved to cherish Miranda on her safe return, the way he’d always meant to. In the last chance saloon of life, he was still asking for one for the road.

* * *

Miranda liked to sleep in; that whole ‘up before the dawn’ insanity was Thomas’s thing. Unless it was for bedroom athletics, she’d always opt for easing herself into the morning. Today was different though. It wasn’t every day you found yourself the honoured guest at a bona fide cloak-and-dagger convention.

She’d turned in early the night before and now it was some God-awful time, and here she was, sat up in bed wide awake and thinking about Thomas. Okay, so they’d bullshitted her about being sent by him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t in trouble. She went back over the previous day’s events again, to fix them clearly in her mind. The same things stood out — the driver stashing his mobile as they got in the car and Posh Bloke losing his rag in the lay-by. And repetitive questions about not much in particular. Conclusion: either something was wrong or they were really shit at this. Or both.

The night before, she’d asked how long her stay was likely to be and all she’d got back was a few nervous glances. She smirked now as she pressed her back against the pillows — maybe the answer was classified. She’d get some sense out of them today. The woman, Eyeball, seemed like the best candidate for new friend.

She slithered out of bed and threw on an oversized dressing gown — blue towelling, not very chic. No harm in having an early morning wander, maybe watch a little satellite TV. She turned the door handle with infinite care — no sense in disturbing anyone else. As soon as the door clicked she heard scuffling in the corridor and caught the last moment of Eyeball launching from a chair.

“Good morning,” Miranda opted for friendliness first. Eyeball — and that eye certainly shone today — nodded blearily; she looked as if she had spent the entire night on the chair. That was a worry. Miranda ambled over, smiling like she was back on a Bermuda fashion shoot, and made a mental note to check if the windows were locked.

“Would you like some breakfast?” Eyeball said it like she meant it.

“That’d be great,” Miranda retraced her way to the kitchen.

Eyeball tagged along like the less attractive one on a double date. Miranda filled the kettle and tried the thing that usually worked on men — Thomas being a rare exception: keep them focused on one topic then switch channel suddenly to get a straight answer.

“If I’m staying tonight I’ll need more clothes . . .” she stopped there, hoping Eyeball would suggest that she pop home to fill up a suitcase or an overnight bag. No dice.

Instead, Eyeball asked for her sizes and promised fresh clothes, later that morning. They sat together at the breakfast bar, drinking tea and eating toast, like the new girls at boarding school. Eyeball must have been bottom of the pile, she reasoned. Because, let’s face it, you don’t get the top brass strapping their arse to a chair for the night.

A till receipt was still on the work surface — Miranda clocked yesterday’s date before Eyeball tidied it away.
Okay then, back to Project Best Friend.
“Look, I feel really bad about your eye, er . . .”

Eyeball glanced at the open door and replied, “It’s Alice.”

Alice Eyeball, it was then. “Alice, I don’t suppose there’s a gym around here? I could do with working off last night’s curry.”

A bloody takeaway — hardly James Bond. Useful though, Miranda recalled, as Alice rinsed the cups. The round-trip for the pick-up was about forty-five minutes so they couldn’t be that far from civilisation. The trouble with country lanes was that they all looked the same. With all the excitement the previous day, after leaving the M25 the rest was a bit of a blur. Unless they’d dropped something in her curry.

She told Alice that she ran a pub, which seemed to rattle her a bit. Probably because it meant another closely supervised phone call. She smiled again, remembering the one from last night. Ringing home was a tricky one. A calculated risk as Mum could have blown it, but she was brilliant.

‘Okay Miranda, thanks for phoning. Did you want Butch taken care of while you’re away, or is Thomas looking after him?’ Even the way she had told Miranda: ‘Take care and I’ll see you soon.’ It still sent a shiver of delight up and down her spine. Mum was on the case.

* * *

Thomas looked out across Harwich and tried to concentrate. Just him and the gulls, not so different from the day Bob Peterson appeared. What if he’d been less attentive that day? What if the shooting and Peterson had been all someone else’s problem — Karl’s, for instance? What if . . . and then a flashbulb went off in his brain, illuminating what was already there.

The door opened downstairs, shortly followed by the strains of ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.’ Karl huffed and puffed up the stairs, depositing his cases on a table with his usual lack of care. “Grab hold of these sandwiches while I do a sweep of the premises.”

Thomas watched as Karl went to work, checking for other people’s devices: surveillance on the surveillers. Karl worked quickly and methodically around Thomas, as he stood in the centre of the room, sandwiches in hand. Finally, Karl pronounced, “Clear!” with a dramatic flourish.

The morning soon filled up, with tracking shots of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise at work in a busy British port. Thomas even fitted in a couple of brooding skylines. But whenever he stole a glance at his companion, Karl was looking right at him.

“It’s alright, I’m not about to crumble into pieces.”
Not in front of you, anyway.

“I know that, Tommo. No news, I take it?”

“Shouldn’t that be my line?”

Karl shrugged with just his face. “Investigations are continuing. And just so you know, as soon as we get what we want from Petrov, we’re shipping the family far away.”

Like that was supposed to make him feel any better? Before Thomas could respond, the walkie-talkie crackled.

Karl made a face approximating ‘intrigued’ and nodded to whatever was being said. “Thanks Ann, out.”

Thomas furrowed his brow and Karl was immediately on the defensive. “What? Can’t I extend a little professional courtesy to my esteemed colleague?”

Thomas shook his head in mock disgust. Clearly, somewhere along the line, they’d had words and put their childish spat to rest.

“Anyways, she was letting us know that Christine will be on-site shortly.” Karl sat bolt upright, like he’d been stung in the arse. “Hey, shift; get your lens on the staff compound. Let’s see if she so much as twitches at your car.”

Brilliant. He and Karl took up position, two cats after the same canary. Christine Gerrard’s Mercedes glided up to the compound gate. She flashed her ID at the attendant — who looked like he couldn’t give a shit — and veered left where there were still spaces. Thomas’s heart was racing; unless she was planning to vault the fence she’d have to walk back past his car. If she even coughed beside his replacement window he’d have his first genuine lead.

Come on, come on; out you get
. Any second now . . . nearing the front of the car . . . He held his breath and pushed hard against the viewfinder, swallowing Christine’s face. She had a faraway look about her, as if she’d rather be somewhere else. Closer . . . and . . .
nothing
. The moment passed. She crossed the bonnet and walked beyond Karl’s shit-heap of a car without blinking an eyelid.

“What do you think?” Karl was still tracking her.

“I don’t think she faked that.”

“Well,” Karl looked up with a wry grin on his face; “You’d know more about that than me. Okay, she’s eliminated herself from our inquiries — for now.”

Thomas smiled back, a small crumb for Karl’s ingenuity. He liked the sound of ‘our inquiries’; it made him feel less alone.

Christine headed straight for their block. Karl made a half-hearted attempt to tidy away the remnants of breakfast and his newspaper, but as soon as he heard the door downstairs he busied himself with his camera.

She clip-clopped up the steps, clearing her throat by the doorway. Thomas turned, catching Karl out the corner of his eye following suit.

“Gentlemen, we’re downscaling our presence here — by two.”

Thomas looked over at Karl. Was downscaling even a real word?

Christine crossed the threshold. “Karl, why don’t you take a break — I’d like a private word with Thomas.”

Karl nodded gladly, as if he’d had the same idea himself. “I’ll go over to see Ann Crossley — call me there when you’re done,” he rattled a walkie-talkie.

* * *

Christine waited until they were alone. “After our last conversation, I thought we’d better have the next one face-to-face.”

Uh-oh. Suddenly she reminded him of her mother doing the ‘And what are your intentions towards our daughter?’ routine.

“I don’t know why you’re so fixated with Bob, and not that it’s any of your business, but yes, we are seeing each other on a casual basis.”

Seeing
to
each other, more like. But he wasn’t going to rise to the bait this time. Instead, he separated his Bermuda key ring methodically, detached the cover and applied it to his laptop’s USB port. Christine stood beside him while the software whirled and opened the folder.

“Bob Peterson was here on the day of the shooting,” he clicked on a series of folders and opened the one named Uncle Bob. As if to emphasise the obvious, he’d superimposed a black frame over Peterson’s four-by-four.

Christine stared at the screen for maybe a minute. Thomas handed her the gift of silence. She looked shaken. And if he were honest, he was savouring every second.

“Has Bob seen this?”

Thomas opened up the file marked
Uncle Bob V2.0
. “No, I filed this version with my report. But he probably realises I saw him there,” he paused, hoping that if he gave her enough space, she’d say something about Miranda or his car; a forlorn hope.

“Where is this going, Thomas? I mean, what’s brought this on?”

He stood up; they were almost toe-to-toe. “I have a friend who’s in trouble.” He stopped and looked into her eyes. “I think it’s connected with Bob.”

Her demeanour changed; she came over all Florence Nightingale and pressed his hand tenderly. “Bob’s okay, really.”

“Come on, Christine, he lied about being at the docks — in front of all of us.”

“Well . . .” she seemed to struggle for logic, “he stayed with me that week.”

“Yeah, but you’re not in the pictures. And the only day Bob turns up on site — unannounced — happens to be the same day someone is shot.”

“You’re surely not suggesting Bob was behind that?”

He pushed his hand up a little and felt hers firm against it. “No, Bob wasn’t behind it. I think I know who’s involved. But I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Christine stalled; it was as if a cloud of doubt had settled on her face. He imagined her asking herself the same question he had: was Bob the witness or the lookout?

“What kind of trouble — it’s not Karl is it?”

“No, it’s not Karl. But I can’t say any more — I don’t know who I can trust.”

“Hey,” Christine squeezed his fingers, “you know you can trust me!” She seemed to gaze at him in a way that she hadn’t done for a long time. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

Bollocks.
“Chrissie, can you just leave it please?” He felt tears welling up and withdrew to the window, coughing to stop his voice from cracking.

She took the hint. “Alright, I’d better be going, Thomas. If you want to talk, you know where to find me. I promise I won’t say anything to Bob.”

He kept his back towards her, staying that way until he heard the door close. As soon as he composed himself, he rang Sheryl. “Hi,” he kept the tone sombre; “no, nothing yet, but I’m a little closer to figuring out what’s going on. I’ll call you this evening. And Sheryl, thanks — you know.”

Karl sauntered back within minutes of the call. Anyone would think he’d been watching Thomas through binoculars. “So, we’re leaving Harwich soon,” Karl was trying his best to be subtle. “What did Christine drop by for?”

Thomas parked himself on a stool. “I called her at home.”