STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (9 page)

“I can’t. I’m off to see the folks.”

“Blimey, hell’s finally frozen over! How long you away for?”

“A long weekend.” There was a pause. He squeezed the phone closer, to hear her breathing.

“Well, if you fancy some company up there . . .”

If you only knew.
“The thing is, it’s also a work trip.”

“Oh.”

That was a conversation killer. She said to get in touch if he needed anything and left him to it. On the lounge wall, a seventeen-year-old Miranda gazed back from a hazy St Paul’s Street, Leeds, in the summer of 1994. The warmth of her smile lit up the frame. He closed his eyes and tried to pour himself into that photograph. No such luck.

He didn’t ring his family until Thursday morning; no point building the visit up if he could play it down. His mother started planning an itinerary while they were still talking. And she said that his father would be pleased to see him; she made it sound like a solicitor’s appointment.

Of course, he’d stay with them — they wouldn’t dream of him booking somewhere. He made a note to cancel the hotel in York. She closed the call with ‘give our love to Miranda,’ even though the break-up was years ago.

* * *

Karl was uncharacteristically quiet, had been all day. It was as if someone had super-glued his personality shut. Thomas had tried several approaches without success. Still, today was Thursday, so at least they would be able to talk on neutral ground.

Funny, the way Karl never questioned why he kept going back to the gun club; he’d never really asked himself that either. It felt safe, in a way. Not like being around Miranda and her family, but a different kind of sanctuary. Or maybe it was just Karl. He understood the pressures of the job and the demands it made. You became guarded, even to those closest to you.

“Are we still on for tonight, Karl?”

His oppo looked up from his eyepiece and gave a thumbs-up. “Roger that!” It still sounded like a watered-down version of Karl. “Got your jim-jams packed for tomorrow, Tommo?” It was the first time he’d mentioned the pick-up job.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, be careful, okay?”

“Karl, I’m touched, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Listen, laughing boy, just keep your wits about you.”

Strange times indeed.

By the evening, Karl’s introspection pills had worn off. They practiced with a Browning and a Glock, and then Karl nipped out for a .44 Magnum. Thomas felt completely intimidated by the sight of the thing — like that time he and Miranda rented a porn film. Still, he rose to the bait and made a complete arse of himself, to Karl’s evident joy.

“Are you sure now you’re not related to Clint Eastwood?”

More like Clyde the monkey. Later, Karl was his usual chatty self; firearms seemed to give him a new lease of life. By the second pastry, conversation had turned to the marital status — or otherwise — of their colleagues.

Karl was in the chair. “Crossley — not a chance; either plays for the other side or she’s saving herself.”

“What is it with you and her, Karl?”

“Let’s just say we had professional differences in the past. And despite her best efforts, I’m still here. We’ve buried the hatchet and all, but I doubt we’ll ever be pen-pals.”

Okay, crunch time. Thomas took a slip of paper out of his pocket. “I know I was supposed to mind my own business, but I did some checking on our mystery red car and the number plate’s a fake.”

Karl lowered his plate. “I can’t say I’m not impressed. Even so . . .”

“Come on Karl, this is all wrong,” Thomas raised his fingers to count off the points. “First someone gets shot and they take him to a private hospital. Ann Crossley removes the vehicle and the woman who told us about it gets transferred. Then the car I thought was suspect turns out to have false plates.”

Karl gazed at the ceiling as if seeking inspiration. “I’ll tell you what, Tommo, seeing as how we’re trusting each other. I’ll make you a deal. I’m gonna write something down and put it in an envelope. Don’t open it until we get together again on Tuesday. If I’m right, I’ll let you in — I mean it. But if what’s written down is totally wide of the mark, will you agree to let all this go?”

Like that was ever gonna happen.
“You’re on; I do love a magic show.”

“Me? I’m Ulster’s answer to David Copperfield, so I am. Now, sit yourself here while I find some stationery.”

Thomas relaxed a little; he was starting to feel like he belonged. Teresa came over; it was easy to imagine her in a uniform. He was still lost in the ‘regulation skirt’ when she coughed, bringing him back to reality.

“Where’s Action Man?”

“Action Man — brilliant!”

“Because he tries all the equipment here.”

Nought out of ten for deduction.

“So, are you thinking about becoming a member?”

Now there was a thought. Might also be his best chance of finding out about Karl. He shrugged.

“I’m sure someone could vouch for you.”

“Is that how it works, then?”

She smiled enigmatically; too keen. He noticed a cluster ring on her right hand; could have been an old engagement ring. She flexed her hand then massaged her neck self-consciously. “Coffee?”

He shook his head. If he had any more coffee today he’d be able to walk to Leeds.

“Well, well, this all looks very cosy!” Karl had tiptoed across, doubtless using his Action Man skills.

“I’m trying to find out your little secrets.”

“That shouldn’t take long — simple man that I am.”

Yeah, right.

“Here you go, Tommo. Remember, not to be opened until Tuesday.”

The envelope had a daub of wax on the back; blue wax, like a birthday candle. He held out the envelope, wax side up. “Just making sure.”

* * *

Back at the flat, he packed a bag and threw in an AGFA Isomatic 110. Because sometimes he just liked to take snaps. Round about midnight, he put down
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
and cut the light.

He always thought that if his father was called upon at the Day of Judgement, it was the one thing he could say in his defence: that he had introduced his son to the great works of Conan Doyle. Tonight he’d made a point of re-reading
The Red-Headed League
, a classic study in misdirection. And come to think of it, Karl had reddish hair too.

He lay on the bed, pondering the incongruities. ‘Oh, give over, Thomas; it’s just a story,’ he could hear his mother chuckling. Even as a child, he had always had ‘a head full of questions.’ He got undressed and eased into the cool sheets, wondering if Miranda were sleeping alone tonight. Or Christine, come to that.

In the early hours of the morning, a car alarm went off. He dragged himself to the window to check. Unlikely it would be his own car, since: a) the only reason anyone would break into it would be to fit a better stereo out of sympathy and b) he never put the alarm on.

A few doors along, a yellow Ford Escort was revving up for all it was worth, the throaty rumble making the window tremble against his hand. A young woman was stood at the kerbside, arms folded. He caught the gist of it straight away; Sharon didn’t love Kevin anymore, but Kevin wanted to prove his love by pissing off her parents and all their neighbours.

He flicked the curtain behind him to get a better view. An RS2000, with four round headlights — four of them! How did a toe-rag like Kevin afford a car like that? Probably wasn’t even insured, never mind the bloody tax.

Tax — of course! He shrugged away the curtain and let it fall back into place.
Thank you, Kevin.
The wall-clock showed it was nearly two. He didn’t bother putting the light on; hopefully this wouldn’t take long.

He fired up his personal laptop — where he kept copies of
all
his photographs. Stuff for work, recent shots that had never made it into his official reports, even a set of wedding photos for Miranda’s cousin. All filed, in an orderly system. It only took a minute or so to navigate the folders and subfolders — red car, four pictures. Two of those were partials of the front, at an angle. He magnified the appropriate sections, and positioned them side by side onscreen. Together, they formed a Rosetta stone, a complete registration that differed from the number plate.

He basked in the blue-green glow of the laptop, staring at the pictures; he was getting good at this. Unlocking a drawer, he lifted out a surfboard key-ring — a Bermuda present from Miranda. He pulled the thing apart, inserted the memory stick device and uploaded the crucial files. Now he’d sleep like a charm — mystery solved.

As he crawled back to bed, checking that the alarm was still set for seven, he wondered if Kevin was back in Sharon’s good books now. He hoped so; as far as Thomas was concerned, he’d earned it.

* * *

By seven forty-five, he was out of the flat and walking up Hoe Street — that still made Karl laugh — for Walthamstow Central Underground. The walkway was littered with rubbish bags, discarded cardboard and old newspapers. He fell in step with the rest of the ants, swerved around the offer of a free newspaper and disappeared into the maze of platforms and walkways, unaware that someone else had fallen into step with him.

He surfaced at Kings Cross and headed straight to the ticket office at St Pancras. In the queue, he picked up a text from Miranda:
Have a good trip. Mx.

And although he’d memorised Monday’s reporting instructions, he still pressed his hand lightly against his jacket. He could feel Karl’s magic envelope there too. The train was called early so he made the most of it, grabbing a copy of
Private Eye
on the way — just to see what Karl found so amusing.

Once Thomas had passed safely through the barrier, the person trailing him made a call. Sir Peter Carroll liked to be kept informed.

Chapter 12

Thomas left the train at Leeds, for a one-man nostalgia tour. It was a routine that he’d never deviated from over the years. Starting off with the Indian restaurant on Merrion Street where he’d taken Miranda for their first meal together. The place was closed; he pressed his face against the tinted glass. The décor had changed again. It was classier now; looked like there was a bigger fish tank too. He preferred it before.

Next stop Hyde Terrace, the bed-sit — sneaking in with Miranda after hours because the landlady on the premises ran a
respectable
property. Except when her gentleman friend came over on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Good old Christian hypocrisy — a little piece of home. He wondered if she still owned the place and if she’d recognise him as one of the teenage lovers she’d threatened to call the police on; probably not. He settled for a slow walk past.

He had a love-hate relationship with Leeds. It marked the transition between Pickering and London. Leeds was where life had begun to take shape. Being away from home, that first job with photography, meeting Miranda; the good things. But Leeds had also felt soulless; and all that grief with Miranda and Butch Steddings was like a bitter echo of school life. Yep, nothing like revisiting teenage angst for working up an appetite. He’d never tell him, but cafés without Karl just weren’t the same, so a pub lunch was the order of the day. Caliban’s aside, he wasn’t a huge fan of pubs. But the Angel Inn scraped through on atmosphere alone. Thanks to
Private Eye
and a problem with the sandwiches, he lasted a full forty-five minutes.

And finally, on to the main event: the Art Gallery, along The Headrow. Portraits fascinated him; the way they captured something of the inner person and revealed it forever. He’d tried to paint Miranda once — it was rubbish, of course. But the actual process, the way he’d been able to study her for hours and to see how the light changed her features — well, it was almost a religious experience. She hadn’t taken the piss either, not even when he’d said he wanted to be a professional photographer one day.

He checked his watch — time to go — and skirted around a gaggle of college girls outside, slowly smoking themselves to death. He made the station in plenty of time, unlike the delayed Scarborough train.

* * *

At York, he saw his mother standing by the car, as he exited, looking out for him. She waved enthusiastically and he reciprocated with a slow hand. If he’d been any more non-committal he could have doubled as a stunt pope. His father remained in the driving seat, hands on the wheel.

After the obligatory greetings they joined the Friday traffic, slipping across the Lendal Bridge and along the A64 before it clogged up for the evening.

“How’s sis?”

“Now, Pat’ll be coming over later,” his mother changed the subject without drawing breath. “She said to say that Gordon sends his apologies. He’s been working long hours and doesn’t think he’d be at his best.”

Thomas studied the veins on the back of his hand. “How are they getting along these days?”

His father let out a deep sigh, but his mother kept to the script. “He moved out for a few days last month — said he needed a bit of room to himself. He’s under a lot of pressure, you know.” She said it earnestly, as if to convince all three of them.

Yeah, right
. The only pressure Gordon was likely to feel was in his elbows, when he was on top of some tart in Whitby. “Why didn’t anyone tell me Pat was having difficulties?”

Thomas’s father half-turned. “Because you’re never around — not for
this
family, anyway.”

And there it was: gloves off, round one.

“Come on James, let’s not start.”

Father and son stared at each other through the mirror. No one spoke again.

* * *

It was hard to get too worked up about seeing the house, which had been his second childhood home, and he’d left in his teens. But it still held ghosts. He rolled his eyes at the memory of that final-straw row with his dad, over ‘drinking and backchat.’ Maybe one drinker was all the house could bear.

As soon as they got inside, his mother rushed straight into the kitchen to put the kettle on. It was like he’d never been away. Tea, the great panacea for fractured families, now with added digestives.

Thomas and his father sat in the parlour glancing in the general vicinity of each other. Stalemate. Thomas knew his father would crack first; a childish power play, but one he excelled at. All it took was time, and he could wait.

“So, ’ow’s life in London?” his father relented.

“It’s okay.” Hardly the response of the year, but anything too enthusiastic or dismissive would invite further discussion.
And we wouldn’t want to use up all that sparkling banter on the first day, now would we?

After tea, his father tried again. Rugby — Malton & Norton’s season compared with York then football — Leeds United getting robbed again in the final minutes. Thomas didn’t bother to remind him that he’d lost interest in sport years ago, not counting the odd West Ham game.

Everything had settled by the time Pat’s key rattled in the door. “It’s only me.” It sounded like she’d brought the little ones as well.

Thomas tried to recall when he’d last seen them and reached into his pocket for some guilt money.

“There he is!” Pat pushed the door to, beaming as if she’d just won the lottery. He eased out of the chair and opened his arms. She squeezed against him, the way a limpet fights against the tide. “It’s really good to see you,” she whispered, sniffing back tears.

Gordon. That little shit. One of these days he’d get through to him, using Gordon’s head for Morse code.

The kids kept their distance at first, hardly surprising as he rarely saw them. All it took was a few words of encouragement from Pat and a few silly noises from him. Pound coins helped as well.

“I thought we could all have tea together,” Pat suggested. “Me and Thomas could walk down to the chippie.”

He nodded, seduced by the thought of getting out of the house. Fish & chips — a feast for the prodigal son.

“Here,” his father held out some notes, “If you eat at my table, you’re my guests.”

And that about summed it up for Thomas; he was a guest. As soon as they shut the door behind them, leaving the kids hammering on the old piano, Thomas blew out a breath like an over-inflated balloon.

Pat laughed and grabbed his arm, winching him in close. “I have missed you though. You should come up more often.”

“So I hear.”

She looked away and pulled him towards the gate, still arm in arm. There had always been an easy peace between them, despite their differences. Pat had moved four streets away, settled down and continued the family line. Whereas Thomas, he’d abandoned them all, changed his accent and become a stranger. Pat never questioned that — she understood his reasons.

She waited until they were stuck in the queue outside the fish & chip shop. “How’s Miranda?”

“Still single,” he paused, reading between the lines. “As am I.”

She shook her head faintly, as if she didn’t believe any of it; sisters — too clever by half.

He waited until she’d paid for everything and stopped her at the door. “I’ll pay for this lot. Give Dad his change, no need for him to know. I’m sure Mam can use a little extra.”

She gave him a playful punch and he doubled up in mock agony. “You always were a silly beggar! Come on, I’m famished.”

* * *

It was a typical family scene, three generations eating together; adults with plates on knees, but children up at the table; a bottle of ketchup passed around and hot, sweet tea to wash it all down. Except, for Thomas, it was as alien now as that terrible weekend he’d shared with Christine Gerrard and her parents. It wasn’t that Pickering was smaller — no, it grew bigger with each infrequent visit. But the house, rooms and inhabitants alike — they all seemed narrower.

He walked Pat and the children home afterwards, doing a stint as Uncle Piggy-back. He didn’t go inside though, not if Gordon might be around. It was Pat’s life after all, and lamping someone rarely solved anything. As he wandered back the long way home, a police car blared in the distance. He smiled broadly for the first time that day; he’d make time to see Ajit before Monday.

Ajit was the only school friend he’d bothered to stay in touch with. They had two things in common: a love of photography and a secret they’d never discussed.

No one cared much when Ajit joined the class in 1988, except the throwbacks — and every school had them. It was racism all right, but with a twist. It wasn’t the fact that Ajit was Asian, just that he’d come from Lancashire. Or so they said. School life was a proving ground for every would-be alpha-male fuckwit. Thomas had experienced a little of that himself when they moved to Pickering, after Maggie Thatcher broke the miners in two. But any son of a miner was hailed as a hero, even though all he’d done was stand in the street in York, collecting money for them.

Day after day, Thomas had watched Ajit run the gauntlet; watched as the gang formed into a leader and four lieutenants. Thomas knew it wasn’t his fight. He and Ajit were both members of Photography Club and shared a few laughs, but that was about it. Still, wrong is wrong, when all’s said and done.

Originally, he’d only meant to scare off the main bully, give him a bit of a thump to show him what it felt like. That was how it started, anyway. But it developed a life of its own. He followed the ringleader, and trailed the group to where they smoked and drank cider after school. He bided his time, did nothing while the shoving and the tripping up and the sly punches on the arm continued; just stood and watched. He and Ajit even fell out over it. ‘Some friend you are!’ Ajit had snapped. Some friend indeed.

On that final, momentous night, he’d gone out fully prepared: black jacket, gloves and balaclava. That Friday, he’d waited in the shadows; even pissed in a bottle to avoid leaving evidence, and chucked it over the wall into the fields. Over an hour, sitting there in the dark, watching. And the more he waited, the stronger he felt. Like he was invincible.

The lad had ambled right past, half-cut on cider. He’d crept up behind with the speed of a cat, swiped him across the head and kneed him in the back, almost climbing on top of him with the momentum. Then, as the boy went down screaming, Thomas scrambled over him and legged it.

The screaming followed him as he’d crossed the road; not that it troubled him any. He scuttled into the first alleyway, pulled off the balaclava and folded it carefully into his pocket. He heard a front door slam and somebody call out in panic, but he kept on walking; he walked tall. A few streets on and he heard sirens; ambulance or police, could have been both. It didn’t matter; for the first time in his life, he’d seen justice.

When he came home, his mother was watching television. His dad was still down the pub — nothing new there. “Cup of tea?” he said it in a quiet voice and his mother obediently scuttled to the kitchen, leaving whatever she’d been watching.

He opened the stove door and carefully placed the balaclava inside, as if it were a funeral pyre. Then he knelt and watched as they burned, feeling the heat against his face. When his mother returned, the smouldering embers were still visible on top of the coal. She didn’t ask; mothers never do.

He’d stayed up later than usual even though he was tired. Pat was over at a friend’s; she tended to do that on Fridays. She was a smarter girl back then. His father came back after closing time, reeking of beer and resentment.

Things escalated quickly, and this time Thomas stood between his parents, blocking his dad’s approach as he swayed around the room — big mistake. The slap caught him unawares and knocked him to the floor. He sat there in a daze, unable to hear what was being said for the roar in his ears. His mother was a statue, no help there.

He remembered getting up and readying his fist. Even though he’d likely get a good belting afterwards, this time he was going down fighting. But his mother intervened, grabbing him roughly by the shoulders to move him to one side. Children hitting their parents back, that was crossing the line.

“Go to bed, James,” she’d seethed and his dad had meekly complied.

Thomas had watched with a mixture of amazement and contempt.

“You shouldn’t interfere,” she’d scolded, as she checked his face for injury.

“Someone should.”

“You watch your tongue. He’s still your father when all’s said and done.” Then she sat down to watch the television, as if nothing had happened. “He doesn’t mean it, you know,” she’d said later without looking at him. “It’s just, sometimes . . . the drink brings it out o’him. His dad were the same.”

Thomas didn’t reply. He rubbed his cheek until the side of his face was sore. Hopefully he’d have a bruise there next day; either way, he’d never forget.

Saturday’s local paper ran a front page about a violent attack that had left a boy in hospital. Suspected skull fracture, facial abrasions; cracked ribs. Not quite what Thomas had bargained for, but he wouldn’t lose any sleep. On the Monday, a policeman came to school assembly to talk about personal safety.

No one messed Ajit about any more. Nothing proven of course, and the rest of the bullies were hardly likely to speak to the police. On the Wednesday, Ajit didn’t come to Photography Club after school. And on the Thursday he caught up with Thomas, alone.