STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (7 page)

Chapter
9

Karl drove out to the docks with Thomas riding shotgun. He didn’t say much to Karl; he was too busy thinking.

Peterson didn’t need to lie; he could have mentioned being at Harwich, now that he’d met the team. He could have explained it as an informal assessment before taking charge. But no; something smelt fishy and Peterson was a week-old prawn.

By the time they arrived at their hidey-hole, overlooking the action, Monday weather had really kicked in — a drab, half-hearted downpour that set the mood. They sat, munching on sandwiches and peering through binoculars like schoolboy birdwatchers. Matter of fact, Thomas could identify the different gulls — Herring, Common and both types of Black Headed Gulls; not that he thought Karl would be interested.

Karl soon declared he was bored of scoping for women and went back to
Private Eye
. Thomas took to staring out at the sky, or what was left of it, as rain sprayed the windows in rhythmic bursts. It was, to quote Karl: “Shiter than a field of slurry.” Clearly, the man had the soul of a great poet.

After a further hour of struggling together with the cryptic crossword and generally wasting taxpayers’ money, the walkie-talkie spluttered into life. “Control to all units; we’re calling it a day. Come down and get some close-ups.”

* * *

The Customs teams went about their work, with little regard for the
Floaters
— a moniker the SSU had never managed to shake. The filming was supposed to be impromptu sequences, but as every good photographer knew, off-the-cuff material needed a lot of preparation. A dry lens, no reflections or glare, no inadvertent staring into the camera; it took time to stage that level of spontaneity.

Karl did the bare minimum and homed in on the youngest and prettiest Customs Officer. He swaggered about, displaying the subtlety of a Great Dane with a hard-on. Thomas drifted along behind him to witness the charm offensive at close quarters.

“Ah me, I do so love a girl in uniform!”

The woman turned, saw Karl’s beaming face and lifted her shoulders. “You must be the Floater everyone’s been warning me about.” Before Karl could answer, she flashed a smile. “So how do you want me?”

Karl did his thing, manufacturing life-like shots under cover from the rain. Thomas was regulated to bag man, moving equipment while the maestro was in full flow.

“By the way, whatever happened to the shooting victim?”

Thomas jerked to attention behind Karl; very slick, right in the middle of a sequence — classic misdirection.

“Funny you should ask.” Little Miss Flirtatious turned and made a Marilyn Monroe pout for the camera. “The way I heard it, he was whisked off to a private hospital somewhere.”

Karl moved from behind the camera and looked directly at Thomas, just for an instant — a regular Holmes and Watson moment. “Hey,” Karl knelt down near her to change his data card, “I wonder where all the booze in his van went?”

Karl’s supermodel looked over to Ann Crossley. “She supervised it.”

“Well then,” Karl chortled, “We’ll be alright for the Christmas Party! Okay sweetheart, I’m all done here — I just need to get the steam off my lens.”

She gave him a little wave and went off to join the others, glancing back a couple of times on her way.

“You know, the camera really loves her.”

“Looked like it wasn’t the only one.” Thomas folded his arms.

“Come on now, Tommy. I was working my subject, like any good photographer.”

Thomas squatted beside him while Karl put his trusty Nikon to bed. Thomas eyed it suspiciously. He preferred a Canon; but they’d had that debate many times over.

“You look pensive, Tommo — what’s eating you?”

“I don’t do
let’s pretend
very well, Karl. And you heard what she said . . .”

“Just keep to your boundaries and let me do my job.”

Thomas stalled him, arm outstretched. “But what exactly
is
your job?”

Karl walked around him. “Don’t go there, Tommo; don’t go there.”

* * *

17.45 on the dot, as requested. Christine’s door was already open. Thomas knocked politely on the frame;
start as you mean to go on
.

“Thomas!” Peterson cried delightedly, as if they were at a class reunion. “Come in, have a seat.”

On the desk was a fan-spread of reports, all bearing Thomas’s name.

“I understand you and Karl McNeill were on duty when the firearms incident took place at Harwich?” Before Thomas could reply, Peterson added, “But there’s nothing in your report.”

It was a pawn-to-king-four gambit — obvious, but effective. Thomas responded in kind. “I keep my reports factual and we were concentrating on the Customs Officers.”
Facts
. A light went on in his head. If he had any snaps of the red car heading up the exit lane, he’d probably have the registration number too.

“And these?” Peterson pawed at one of the mosaic shots. “What are these about?”

Thomas shrugged it off. “Just background detail. I like to set up early and get a feel for the location.”

Peterson stalled for a second and Thomas caught it. “Christine tells me that you have real potential.”

She shifted forward in her chair. “Bob and I have discussed this, and we think you’re ready for development. It means additional training in Staffordshire and it could open doors for you in the future.”

Thomas wore his best fake smile. Christine continued, “We’ll need a decision by the end of the week — there’s an opening next Monday.”

Peterson was staring intently at the mosaic photograph from the day of the shooting. Thomas kept his eyes firmly on Christine, which was no great hardship, and leaned back a little to keep Peterson in his peripheral vision. No doubt about it though, she was looking really good today.

“One thing I would like to ask you,” Peterson slapped the photograph down. Thomas jolted awake. “What’s your opinion of Karl McNeill?”

“He’s very good at what he does; seems to read people well,” Thomas played it safe and stayed vague.

“But what about personally? I gather you two socialise from time to time.”

Thomas concocted a cross between a laugh and a cough, each as fake as the other. “Well, we have the odd drink, now and again — I met him last weekend, as it happens. I get the impression there’s more to Karl than meets the eye. But I s’pose we all have our little secrets.”

Christine became a study in scarlet and Peterson dropped his pen, which rolled off the desk; they both froze. Bingo, right on the money.

Thomas decided to push his luck. “If you don’t mind, I need to be away soon; I have a date I cannot break.”
Yeah, looking for bugging devices in Dagenham, followed by a takeaway curry for six.

“Oh.” Christine looked surprised. Not disappointed, he noted; just surprised.

“That’s fine.” Peterson extended a wet-fish handshake. “Thanks for your time and your candour. Let Christine know about the training.”

* * *

Miranda always said that men couldn’t multitask, but Thomas found that London traffic always afforded him time to think. So a burst water main at Burdett Road was practically a gift. By the time he’d ploughed through to take a left at Bow Common Lane, he’d found one thought that he just couldn’t shake. And it wasn’t a good one.

Peterson would have scheduled an arrival time at Harwich that day and known precisely where he’d parked; probably the vehicles around him too. He was a pro after all. Then Thomas had given him — bloody
given
him, mind — a mosaic showing the whole panorama without Peterson’s four-by-four in it. As good as saying: ‘I know you were there and I’m keeping it to myself at the moment.’ Stupid, really stupid.

And now, suddenly, he was trainee executive material when earlier in the day he’d been facing the heave-ho from the team. Peterson had him snookered; not accepting the training meant showing his hand and accepting would put him at arm’s length.

Desperate times and all that; he swung the car into the first available space and fetched out his mobile. “Hey, Karl. Listen, any chance of a chat at the club, some time soon? Wednesday? Nice one; see you tomorrow.”

The Wrights left him to go about his work. All except Sam, who followed him around like a lost sheep: nothing new there. When Thomas had first brought Miranda back to London, Sam had only been about thirteen. Talk about hero worship. Thomas had rescued Miranda from the clutches of doom. Or more precisely, from the paws of Butch Steddings — modelling agent and all-round scumbag. Even now, Thomas and Miranda still used the word
Butch
as code for something dodgy.

By 21.30 Thomas had his feet up and John Wright was handing him a beer. All clear, no trace of Karl’s handiwork on the premises. And sadly, no sign of Miranda either. If she were playing hard to get she’d put in a cup-winning performance tonight. No reason to expect her at Caliban’s on Tuesday night either, for his next debugging booking. The only bit of good news that night was that no one had mentioned the business potential of Thomas’s new career.

By the time he got back to the flat in Walthamstow, it was close to midnight. The answering machine light was flashing insistently. He put the electronics case down in the hall, set the two door locks and hit the magic button.

“Hello Thomas, it’s your mother. Just ringing to see how you are and when we can expect a visit. Your sister and the kids send their love and so do me and your dad.” No names just titles — nice.

The next message was Miranda. “Hi, sorry I won’t be there tonight or at the club. Sheryl knows the score.”

He dithered for a second then stabbed the delete button. “Of course she does,” he seethed in the dark, “you tell her everything.”

Chapter 10

Karl held the heavy metal door open as Thomas stepped through. It felt as if that door was shielding him from the outside world. Once the formalities were dispensed with, Karl led him to a bay and went off to procure the equipment.

He leaned against the wall and gazed out at the targets, seduced by the stillness. A perfect backdrop to the maelstrom of his own thoughts.

Karl soon returned with two Browning 9mm pistols. “You won’t find any answers staring down there!”

So there were answers to be had?
He opened the case and, under Karl’s supervision, primed the weapon and took the stand. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the roar in his ears carry him. The barrel wavered. Sweat massed at his brow and his armpits felt sticky, as if the growing web of deceit and half-truths was oozing out of him.

He sighed, took aim and squeezed the trigger. Somehow he’d expected the first shot to settle him, but it had the opposite effect. The barrel shuddered — no chance. He flipped the safety catch and put the gun down.

Karl stepped up beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all about being able to close in, to focus on one thing. No distractions or prevarications. Because if it came to it, that’s what the other guy would do.” Karl nudged him aside and drained the magazine without breaking a sweat. “Now, try again.”

Thomas lined the target up. His stomach contorted and he fought against it, making himself breathe steadily to counter the nausea. It all came back to him then, the first time he’d held a gun.

* * *

1984. Maybe not the dystopia Orwell had predicted, but in Yorkshire, a police state nonetheless. Night after night, woken up by the sirens; the procession of policemen, like the invading Roman army they were learning about at school. At first it was exciting; they played at
Blake’s 7
, from off the telly, space rebels against an evil, galactic federation. Or else they tried to get close to the horses.

But the screw quickly tightened and then it wasn’t fun at all. When coalmining collapsed, so did the world they all knew. There were arguments at friends’ houses and rows at home; relentless shouting and door slamming. School became a refuge from home.

Every day his dad swore vengeance on ‘that heartless tyrant bitch, Margaret Thatcher.’ It was the first time he’d seen his father so full of hatred. In some ways, childhood fell away. The older kids talked about a revolution. They hadn’t covered that in class, so it didn’t all make sense.

And then there was that day, playing around in the greenhouse. That’s when he found it, wrapped up in newspaper and hidden in an old rucksack: a real gun. Next day his dad came home unexpectedly, caught him red-handed. He really went off on one; raged at him, threatened him — his own son — to keep his mouth shut about the pistol and to never go in the greenhouse again. Thomas had been so frightened that he’d pissed himself, right in front of his dad. Even now, just thinking about it, his face burned.

* * *

He swallowed hard and heard the echoes of his own laboured breathing. How long had he been standing there?
Just pull the fucking trigger
. One, two, three, four in rapid succession, gunning down his shame and the past. As if that was ever really possible. “Done,” he called aloud. As he stepped back, he saw Karl leaning casually against the wall, watching him. “Peterson and Christine asked what I thought of you, yesterday. I told them you were dependable.”

Karl nodded and packed away the pistols, game over. Thomas waited for him in the corridor. Maybe it had been a mistake coming here this time. The strangled whistling of a familiar tune made Thomas turn — ‘I Shot the Sheriff’ — Karl of course, the stupid bastard. “Come on amigo, something closer to home,” Karl passed him a larger case.

Thomas balanced the rifle comfortably, nestling it against his shoulder. The weapon smelt different, and the realisation amused him. He wriggled his face closer in to the sight and inhaled then released. The crosshairs barely moved as he levelled up and fired. He felt the recoil in his shoulder and shrugged a little, preparing for the next one. Now he saw the hole, placed close to the inner ring. Five shots followed, each within an inch of the original.

“Very good. Amazing what a little time and preparation can accomplish. Now, step aside and let me show you what a professional can do!” Karl was still a much better shot. He made short work of the remainder of his ammunition and lowered the rifle with a sigh. “The bar, I think.”

* * *

“Drink up Tommo — nothing worse than cold coffee.”

He swayed the cup mid-air. “Peterson wants to send me on some special training next week. I reckon he wants me out of the way.”

“I’m not surprised. Remember that wee Customs lass I was doing so well with?”

Thomas arched an obligatory eyebrow.

“She’s been reassigned — she told me when I rang her last night; did I mention I picked up her number before we left? Anyway, it looks like someone’s having a bit of a clear out.”

“Well, I’m staying put.”

Karl gave him the kind of look that
he
used to give his sister Pat when she still believed in the Tooth Fairy. “Think so? A quid says they split up our dream team within a fortnight.”

They both did mock spits and shook hands on the bet. Thomas toyed with the rim of his cup. “When I was a kid, I used to pray at night for Jesus to end the Miners’ Strike and save their jobs,” he sucked in one cheek. “Yeah, stupid, I know. But I was ten. It was the last time I ever thought about relying on anyone else.”

“Hey though,” Karl brightened, “just imagine if he’d ever achieved it. We’d have got him over to the six counties on the next ferry out!”

“Look, I owe you an apology, Karl, for thinking you were prepared to . . . you know . . .”

“Fix up your drinking hole? Understandable, under the circumstances.”

Karl wiped his face with a napkin. “Listen, I know you feel you’re in the middle of everything, but — and don’t take this the wrong way — stick to what you’re good at and leave well alone.”

Thomas pondered that for a second. The problem was, he was already involved.

* * *

He didn’t sit down to eat until after 10 pm; a cheese omelette with bacon bits in it and bread that was only good for toasting. He cleared away methodically and switched on the immersion heater. Now or never time. He drummed on the desk while the laptop fired up and didn’t linger on the default image: Rievaulx Abbey, beset by lightning. Sifting through the unused images folders, he found what he was looking for — two pictures of the red car at the port. Not his best work by any means — slightly blurred, though enough detail across the two frames to put together a complete registration number.

He dialled Miranda, without thinking of the time, and asked another favour.

“That depends. If it’s for your job, the answer’s
no
.” She sounded distracted, probably by all that background music.

“Are you in a club?”

“What?”

He was pretty sure she’d heard him and wasn’t that a man’s voice close by? “Are you with someone?”

For a few seconds there was silence then he heard a familiar tone. “I’ve got to go, Thomas. Just text me whatever you need. Bye.”

The room went cold. He sat for a while, staring into space, taking it all in. Sleep was off the menu now — a familiar part of the pattern. He washed up and sent Miranda the text. Then he grabbed his car keys and an SLR camera, promising himself that he wouldn’t end up outside Christine’s flat again.

To begin with, he just drove around, looking for a prospect. The radio was tuned to some late-show, where the emotionally stunted could unburden their souls. And in between the confessionals, a talk-jock served up a hearty stream of platitudes.

‘That must have been awful for you. Do you have a message for any listeners in a similar position?’

“Yeah,” Thomas spoke directly at the radio, “get a life.”
Like he had a life?
He flipped the station to something more melodic and cruised the City of London to the tunes of the eighties; happily cocooned until The Human League struck up with
Don’t You Want Me?
Ouch; too close to home.

Thoughts crept into his brain, or out of it. Was Christine still single — had he imagined some sort of buzz between her and Peterson? He smiled, taking his own bait: only one way to find out. No harm in taking a drive by her flat later. Driving past without stopping didn’t really count. He glanced down at the camera, mute beside him on the passenger seat, like his conscience.

At Archway he pulled over and took the tripod from the boot. He found a suitable position, set the camera up and started timing the traffic. After twenty vehicles, he opted for a timing of seven seconds. He waited, enjoying that delicious sense of anticipation. Despite all the technological progress, at heart it was
magic
— that’s what it was. A moment in time, in all its shame and glory, captured forever.

He was reverently packing everything into the boot when he heard talking. He cocked a fist and moved to the blind side of the car, crouching to get a better look. It was a woman, stumbling along the street towards him, having a conversation with herself. From the look of her, she was maybe seventeen; seventeen going on twenty-five. And she’d had a skinful.

“Alright mate?” she grinned as he stood up. “’Ave you got the time please?” She was too drunk to be scared of approaching a stranger at night. But that was okay because he was scared enough for both of them.

“It’s late — you should be at home.”

She started laughing and teetered about like a Jenga conclusion. “I missed my lift and I’m too skint for a taxi. I got college tomorrow . . .”

Hook, line and sinker.
“Alright,” he conceded, feeling he’d been played like a cheap violin. “Do you need a lift somewhere?”

“Nice one,” she gave him a wavering thumbs-up. “Ever heard of Battersea?”

He nodded wearily.
No good deed goes unpunished
. In the end, he crossed the river, found the nearest cab office and left her there with a tenner. Better that than explaining to an irate family that he was just a Good Samaritan, and nearly twice her age.

By the time he was safely over the Thames, he’d given up on Christine’s and opted for home. As he parked up, he noticed the small handbag in the passenger door. Brilliant — something else to be sorted out. He opened it carefully, as if it was a steel-sprung trap. There was a passport-sized picture of two schoolgirls; all grinning smiles and too much lipstick. Also inside were a college card and timetable, a door key, a nightclub matchbook, two tampons and a packet of condoms — one missing. Clearly, a woman for all seasons. He noted the college address; another good deed for tomorrow then, before work.