STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (5 page)

“I think I'd like to sweep this place for bugs, as a precaution. It’ll be Monday before I can get the equipment.”

She nodded; maybe she was adapting more quickly than he’d expected.
Leaps and bounds.
Yesterday she only knew he was a photographer; today he was Spiderman.

She snatched his glass away as she got up from the table.

“You know your way home.”

He swore under his breath and thrust his hands into his jacket, crushing his hand against the box until his fingers were numb.

* * *

Ten-thirty at night, the doorbell rang. He paused the film — a black and white comedy more than sixty years old. He was still smiling as he checked the silhouette through the glass.

Miranda didn’t move; she kept that model profile thing going on, knowing its effect on him. He managed to open the door without ripping the handle off. “We never got to dessert,” she said, slinking past him, with an overnight bag over one shoulder and a carton of vanilla Haagen-Dazs in her hand.

Chapter 7

Thomas blinked, in the Sunday morning half-light. All around him was the faint, unmistakable scent of ice cream. He pulled a spoon from under his shoulder and stretched his arm out, contacting Miranda’s leg.
Oh yeah.

She stirred, looked up at him like the cat that had got the ice cream and rewarded him with a delicious smile.

“Well, we haven’t done that in a while.”

She crossed her thigh over his and shifted closer — but not too close — honouring their unspoken rule: whatever happens today is only for today. And now it was tomorrow. He shaped a hand around her breast, but she held it to one side: down boy.

“Let’s just sleep a while.”

He closed his eyes and tried to think of something other than sex. Karl came to mind first, and he wondered what a therapist would make of that? Where did he stand with Karl now — could they really
reset the clocks
? He twitched and Miranda playfully slapped him to lie still. And what was Bob Peterson really doing on the scene?

Miranda groaned in protest.

“Look, if you really can’t sleep,” she flicked his erection and paused, opening her eyes wide to see his reaction, “Milk and one sugar, thanks.”

He disentangled himself and reluctantly left the bed, glancing down at his misplaced enthusiasm. Not today, by the sound of things. The kettle took its time so he waited in the kitchen, taking the pistol stance and handling a lethal fork while doing replays in his head. Something else he hadn’t told her about.

Miranda was feigning sleep when he returned to the bedroom, breathing a little too heavily — always a giveaway. He plonked the tea down and started gathering up clothes from around the floor. Along the way he lifted the ice-cream lid and flung it into a bin.

“Aren’t you coming back in again?” she pouted, drawing back the sheet like the world’s best show and tell.

He didn’t need a map and directions.

* * *

Miranda’s mobile alarm sounded at ten-thirty.

“Get up you lazy bastard — I’ve got things to do. I need to stop by the club.”

It was funny, the way that Miranda sometimes avoided calling it Caliban’s, even though she’d named the club herself. All part of her dumbed down, East-End girl made good façade. She had done well for herself though, opening Caliban’s a little more than a year ago; purchased largely with her own money from a lucrative modelling contract in Bermuda, plus a contribution from Mum and Dad — which Thomas always read as: other people’s money.

She always smiled when she saw her photograph on the living room wall; it was a spontaneous walking shot, from the streets of Leeds, taken with an old 110. True, it had dated, but somehow that just added to its eighties charm. Sometimes he’d move the photo around, just to try and throw her off guard, but it was always on one wall or another. Christine Gerrard, in her time, had hated that picture; another reason to treasure it.

Miranda stood before the picture gallery, head cocked to one side and a thin smile upon her lips.

“If you follow me down to the club, I can drop you back there after dinner.” The subtext: you’re going home alone tonight.

On the drive over, whenever they paused at traffic lights, he could see Miranda glancing back at him. Once or twice she gave a sly wave in the rear mirror, but her face was distant. Another clock reset, it seemed.

He parked at Caliban’s and followed Miranda to the back office. Sheryl was her usual indispensable self — coffee ready and waiting as they entered. He sometimes liked to think that she was the daughter of an American crime family, with the Wrights as part of an underworld exchange programme. But he never asked; everyone needed secrets.

Miranda settled at her desk and pored over the accounts. He left her to it and went into the pool room across the way. Sheryl followed him.

“Fancy a quick game?” she racked up the balls and bent forward enticingly.

He mustered an eggshell smile.

“Sure, why not.”

And it was a quick game. Sheryl played to win; she meant business. Small wonder that Miranda had appointed her as manager of Caliban’s. Best of three became best of seven and still the balls were sinking faster than his self-esteem. Part way through game six, 4-1 in Sheryl's favour, Miranda appeared at the door. Sheryl looked over and they shared a glance. With that, she killed the remaining stripes with clinical precision and then iced the black.

“He’s all yours,” she called across to Miranda.

“Thanks for keeping him entertained,” she winked, heading for the door.

As Thomas passed by Sheryl, she touched him lightly on the shoulder; “She tells me everything, you know.”

He hoped she was joking.

Outside, he transferred the chocs, wine and flowers to Miranda’s Mini Cooper. She took one look at the bouquet and shook her head.

“They’re past their best — we’ll pick up something better on the way.”

Fair enough. He liked to make a good impression with Mum and Dad, especially today when he’d be delivering an avalanche of bad news.

* * *

The Wrights’ house screamed
working class with money
, from the expensively paved drive to the retro coach lamp at the door. They’d dispensed with the wrought iron gates a couple of years back, after a police raid took them off the hinges. Miranda’s brothers — Terry and Sam — had already arrived, their BMW and Peugeot parked side by side; they shared a large house out towards Canning Town.

Miranda pulled out her key — all three children still had keys — for a while, Thomas had one too, but he’d turned his in when Miranda had left for sunnier climes. Dire Straits’ ‘Brothers in Arms’ was playing through the hallway like mood music. Thomas almost waited at the door until ‘Money for Nothing’ kicked in — a family anthem if ever there was one.

Diane, mother to the clan, waved and disappeared into the kitchen. Miranda peeled off to the living room to meet with the rest of them, but Thomas carried the spoils to Diane. Even in profile, she was a fine-looking woman and her genes had generously found their way to Miranda. Diane turned and smiled. “Sit your arse down and pour us both a glass of wine.”

Bliss. No pretensions, just honest to goodness real people.

“How’s things, Thomas?” she glanced up as she basted the chicken, and winked. She’d left off the rest of the sentence, which would have run: ‘How’s things, Thomas, with you and my daughter?’

“Not bad,” he blushed and Diane smiled again. He knew both she and John still held out a fragile hope that Miranda and he would one day get their act together. As John had succinctly put it, “Stop fucking about and settle down.” One Christmas, John had got so royally pissed that he’d declared: ”I sometimes wish I had another daughter, so you could start again from scratch.”

Thomas survived his gentle interrogation and sauntered on through to the others. John and the boys gave a cheer at his arrival. Miranda kept her distance. “How’s business, Thomas?” John asked casually, just as always.

Miranda looked daggers at Thomas. Yeah, John would get an answer and a half today. She retreated into the kitchen, morphing from successful businesswoman to mummy’s helper in the blink of an eye. They weren’t a throwback family, just traditional. Presents under the tree and Queen’s speech at Christmas; cemetery visits on Boxing Day and sovereign rings for the boys’ twenty-firsts.

John picked up a remote control and the wall slid back, revealing a TV screen that almost qualified as a cinema. Highlights from the last West Ham game flooded the room. Thomas watched with mild interest. He’d been to a few games with the boys over the years, but it didn’t really light his candle. For a while he’d even tried following the York City club, out of loyalty to his home region. But deep down he still believed football was for people who didn’t have the balls for rugby.

Sam had once had a trial for West Ham youth team, straight out of school. Somehow this still entitled him to offer comment on every pass and volley. Terry, not to be outdone, punctuated every unsuccessful manoeuvre with ‘bollocks’ or ‘that was shit,’ the two brothers relishing their double act. John looked on proudly at his sons and Thomas, if he could have, he’d have taken a hundred photographs from all angles to capture the feeling forever. The boys looked up to him, the parents thought the world of him and Miranda — well, he didn’t even have words for what they had between them.

At the table, with John carving, Thomas made an extra effort to join in with the banter. For a while he could forget his painful duty and just enjoy the company; that and Miranda rubbing her foot up against him under the table. But by the time the dessert bowls were passed around — no vanilla ice cream, thankfully — he had a sinking feeling.

“So,” he broke the easy chatter. “I’ve, er, got a bit of a problem.” The clan all shifted in a little and he cleared his throat. “I was at Harwich last week — I saw the van come back from Amsterdam.”

John Wright shot a surprised look to his sons. Thomas carried on. “The thing is, well, it’s not a good place to do business right now.”

The boys hadn’t said a word. John was first to speak. “How d’ya mean, Thomas?” John’s voice had a quiet authority. Or maybe it just seemed that way because Thomas had never seen him in a rage.

Miranda shifted her foot away and sat up a little straighter. “Thomas was working there, Dad, taking pictures.”

John nodded, eyes narrowing. Terry piped up. “No sweat, we didn’t get stopped or anything.”

Miranda cut in. “No, and that was thanks to Thomas.”

He gaped at her, open-mouthed — so much for trusting and sharing.

She clocked his face and turned beetroot, whispering to herself: “Bollocks!”

“That’ll do, thank you,” Diane stopped eating.

John sat back in his chair, scratching his chin as he looked over at Thomas. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Thomas nodded; at least he’d been given a choice. “I was on a film assignment for Customs & Excise — a training film.” So far so good, successfully tiptoeing the line between truth and bullshit. “Someone with me wanted the van checked, but I persuaded him not to bother.”

He felt Miranda squeeze his hand under the table; he couldn’t tell if the clamminess was his or hers. John took a sip of his beer — somehow he’d never made the conversion to wine. “And when was this exactly?”

Thomas looked along the table to Sam and Terry. “On Friday.”

John leaned forward. “I told you two to leave it well alone — how many trips has it been now?”

“Five, Dad,” Sam said.

A stranger might have itched to know what they were carrying. Thomas, he was just happy that they’d got through without incident.

“Well, thanks, Thomas. Do we owe this Customs geezer anything?”

He shook his head quickly.

John looked straight at him, like a dog deciding whether or not to attack. “So what’s the problem, then?”

Thomas twisted his paper napkin. “There’s this bloke at work — another photographer — only . . . only he might have taken an interest in my private life.”

“Do you want me to sort it out for you?” Sort
him
out, more likely.

“No, it’s taken care of now,” he looked to Miranda for encouragement. “But I’d be a lot more comfortable if you’d let me check your house over for . . . electronic devices.”

“You mean like the Old Bill might use?” John’s face twitched.

Thomas swallowed. “Well, it’s probably nothing; I’d just like to be sure.”

“It’s alright, Dad,” Miranda pitched in, “he’s doing the club for me as well.”

Diane stepped into the fray. “Hold on, let me get this right, Thomas. Someone’s been checking up on you and you think they might have planted stuff here, in our home? What kind of business are you involved in?”

“Mum, give him a chance. It’s just a precaution.”

But Diane was having none of it; it wasn’t hard to see who Miranda took after. “No, let’s have it all out in the open. You involved in drugs or something?”

The Wright family creed: no drugs or prostitution or porn. Some might say that wouldn’t leave a lot to profit from, but they’d be very wrong.

“Alright,” Thomas tapped the table, “here it is. About a year ago I changed jobs — still Civil Service but I became a
specialist
photographer.” He stressed the word so that hopefully it would say things that he wouldn’t have to. Diane recoiled like he’d just punched her.

“Well, you never bloody said! Did you know about this, Miranda?”

“No Mum,” Miranda admitted in a quiet voice, “I only found out yesterday.”

Thank you, Judas.

“Hold up,” John raised a fork. “If we’re gonna talk about this, let’s get comfortable.” Like a sofa would make it all easier.

John mainly listened and didn’t ask too many questions. Everyone else picked at Thomas like he was the day’s special.

“So let me get this straight,” Terry laughed. “You’ve been leading this secret life for over a year and you never told us!”

He shrugged, like a desperate plea for clemency.

“Hey, give the boy a chance,” John calmed the mob. “Never mind what he kept from us, for a minute; he still did the boys a favour and we’re in his debt.”