Tinker, Tailor, Schoolmum, Spy

by Faye Brann

  She smiled. ‘I’m on my way.’ Out of the pub now, she headed into the train station. She stopped at the ticket machine – the one on the right by the entrance – and started the process of buying a travelcard she didn’t need. Digging in her wallet for cash, she removed one of James’s Star Wars stickers from the sheet inside at the same time and quickly stuck it to the side of the machine, while she waited for her ticket to print. She breathed a small sigh of relief as she took her ticket and headed to the platform. Her mission was complete and the sticker was the agreed signal that the DLB was ready to empty. One of Jonathan’s team would retrieve the mould from the pub within a few hours and there’d be a meeting time set for her to get a copy of the key, plus all the other items she needed for the next part of the operation. Then the fun would really begin.

  She took a look around the station while she waited for the train to arrive. Old training habits die hard; her earliest days in MI6, before her transfer to JOPS, had been taken up with endless memory test scenarios where she was asked to recall every single person in detail after a few minutes in any given location. She used to play it when Ollie was a baby, too, to keep her from the crazy baby fug she had wound up in those first few months after he was born. She’d had mild post-natal depression, the loneliness and lack of purpose after so many years running around with nothing but a gun and her gut threatening to overwhelm her at any given turn. To keep herself sane, she would imagine herself and her son into any number of life-threatening scenarios where the ability to recall a face would be what saved them from certain death. It made a refreshing change from singing ‘Ring a Roses’. Today, though, the game was real. Jonathan was right about one thing – she would certainly be the last person anyone would suspect – but with Sacha set firmly in her sights she needed to be vigilant.

  She took inventory of the platform opposite as well as the one she stood on; it was a quiet time of day for the London-bound trains, with only a few suits headed into town standing across from her: nothing to be concerned about. On her own platform, headed south, several people stood nearby in various states of smartphone oblivion. Near the stairs, a tired-looking woman gripped onto a toddler for dear life, in case he made a dash towards the platform edge. At the far end, a young man was reading a paper. The train rolled into the station and she got on, noticing as she did so that the man had folded his paper up to negotiate the gap between the platform and the doors. Now she could see who it was, and she recognised him instantly. Jacob Zimmerman.

  She felt a flash of anger. What was the point in her going through the entire rigmarole of a dead drop if someone from her department was going to follow her around the whole time? She reached into her handbag for a burner phone, intending to call Jonathan and give him a piece of her mind. It was a waste of a phone, but seeing as he didn’t seem to care about wasting departmental budget paying Jacob bloody Zimmerman to follow her, Vicky didn’t really see why she should worry. He wasn’t very good, now she thought about it. This was the third time she’d spotted him in plain sight.

  Jacob sat down and opened up his paper again as the train started on its way. Vicky moved towards him slowly, the phone held to her ear. No signal. She swore and dumped the phone back in her bag. A mother sat with her toddler threw her dark looks.

  ‘Sorry.’ Vicky gave what she hoped was a placatory smile and sat down in a nearby seat, her view of Jacob partially obscured by a couple stood in the doorway with rucksacks on their backs. As they reached the next stop, they moved away from the door and she saw Jacob had folded the paper in half and then half again and thrown it onto one of the nearby seats. His eyes were closed. Vicky was furious. Was he that cocky, that he didn’t even bother to look at her while he was tailing her?

  At Parsons Green, their portion of the train emptied out, the mother and toddler thankfully getting off along with the rucksack couple. It was just her and Jacob now. The train lumbered towards the next stop; as they neared the station Jacob opened his eyes and stood up, checking around him and picking the paper back up. Vicky stood, half turned away as he came towards the standing area by the doors. In one swift move she spun and upended Jacob onto his back and forced his arm back hard enough to make him yelp. The paper flew across the floor.

  ‘Ow! What the hell?’ Jacob struggled, but Vicky held on tight.

  ‘Stop. Following. Me.’

  ‘Vicky? I’m not— I didn’t— okay, stop!’ Jacob used his feet to boot her away and she flew back against the litter bin. A coffee cup bounced out and onto her head, before rolling away across the floor.

  ‘Gross.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He leant down to help her up; she took his outstretched hand and used the extra leverage to upper cut him with her other fist. The train lurched just as she was about to make contact and her arm flew over his shoulder instead, landing them in a rather awkward embrace. Jacob gently peeled her away from him and they both backed off to face each other, leaning against the Perspex walls either side of the doors. Vicky tried to control her breathing, feeling her face burning from the exertion. Jacob looked as pissed off as she felt.

  ‘I feel like we may have got off on the wrong foot.’ He smoothed his hair.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  The train stopped again, the doors opening. Jacob looked out.

  ‘Got somewhere to be?’

  ‘Actually, this is my stop. I live just on the other side of the bridge.’

  Vicky narrowed her eyes.

  ‘I just finished an all-nighter. I’m off home for a shower.’ The doors began beeping to signal they were closing. ‘Correction: was off home for a shower.’

  She swallowed. ‘You mean you weren’t following me?’

  ‘I told you – no. It’s just a coincidence.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as a coincidence.’

  The train started up again.

  ‘Well, in this case, it’s true. I told Jonathan you didn’t need me interfering.’

  ‘That’s big of you.’

  ‘Look, we don’t know each other, and I know … well, I know you like to do things on your own. But I’m here – as back-up – or someone to talk to, bounce around a few ideas with. If you want.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She sounded sarcastic, but her anger was ebbing away.

  ‘Is everything going okay?’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m just a little jumpy; I haven’t done this in a while,’ she admitted. ‘It’s harder than I remembered, sometimes. And lonely.’ It felt good to talk to someone and say it out loud.

  ‘You’ve been away for how long?’

  ‘Fifteen years, give or take.’

  Jacob whistled. ‘It must be hard. If I take a couple of weeks’ holiday it feels weird.’ The train was slowing again. ‘Look, I’m sorry about Jonathan, and all the cloak and dagger tailing stuff. But I’ll be here if you need me, okay? Just don’t attack me again.’

  Vicky looked at him sheepishly. ‘Sorry about that.’

  The train stopped and the doors opened. Jacob looked out, both ways, and then jumped onto the platform. ‘Gotta go! Need that shower. Bye, Vicky.’

  He jogged away from her, moving quickly down the stairs and beyond her vision. Vicky got off too, and made her way to the station exit, rubbing her head where she’d hit it. Jacob hadn’t been at all what she’d expected. She realised, reluctantly, it had been nice to meet him properly at last.

  That evening, Vicky and Chris sat eating dinner together and Vicky temporarily abandoned all thoughts of spy work as they dug into a guilty pleasure of sausage, mash and beans.

  ‘Everyone’s really looking forward to Becky’s party,’ she said. ‘Did you get anywhere with our costumes yet? Kate is dying to know what we’re going as.’

  A dollop of mash fell from Chris’s fork. ‘Oh shit, the Halloween party.’

  ‘You forgot?’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Vic. Work’s been crazy, we’re short-staffed still and with the lead up to Christmas we’ve got so much on. Can you sort us out some
thing to wear? What about getting a Scooby-Doo costume from the fancy dress shop and I’ll go as Shaggy?’

  Vicky smiled. He was so predictable. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘Maybe we should take a look online tonight and just see what’s out there, for inspiration?’ Chris was facing hours of work after dinner, and Vicky knew he was torn between wanting to get involved and having to focus on what he needed to get done for his meetings tomorrow.

  ‘Chris – I’ve got this. I’ll figure it out, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  He looked downcast and Vicky’s heart melted. He was a daft idiot, but he was her daft idiot.

  ‘But none of that miserable hardly-dressing-up-at-all nonsense. No Mulder and Scully, Vics. I like to stand out from the crowd.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  ‘What about The Incredibles? Or Batman and Robin?’

  ‘I’ll get back to you with some ideas that don’t include Lycra, if that’s okay,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’ll get on the fancy-dress shop website and make a start right now.’ She left the dinner table to go to the utility room and get the laptop, then realised her mistake and did an about turn.

  ‘Are you keeping the iPad in the washing machine?’ Chris chuckled.

  ‘Very funny.’ Vicky spied it on the kitchen counter. ‘There it is.’ She leant in to kiss him on the way to retrieve it.

  ‘Must be hell in there,’ he said, tapping her head.

  ‘It’s the menopause. I’m losing brain cells,’ she said, airily dismissing the mistake.

  ‘Maybe a glass of wine will help. At least then the brain cells will die happy.’ He poured her a glass and she took it, picking up the iPad from the counter and heading into the living room.

  ‘I’ll have a little look for costumes while I watch Homeland,’ she said. ‘Enjoy your homework.’

  Chris made a snarky face and settled back down to the table, opening up his own laptop to start his long night of work.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A few days later, the Halloween party was upon them. Chris had been in his outfit of overcoat, floppy hat and long stripey scarf since the kids’ tea time, unable to contain his excitement. Vicky spent a little more time delaying the inevitable. She couldn’t complain too much; after all, it had been her idea. But as she slipped the all-in-one Dalek outfit over the top of her black top and leggings, she definitely had second thoughts. Why couldn’t she have been happy with a bit of Lycra and a cape?

  ‘Wooo-eeee-ooooo, weeeee-oooooo, wah wah wah wah wah diddle ah …’ The Doctor Who theme tune floated up the stairs and Vicky paused at the top, wondering if she’d make it down without stacking it.

  ‘Exterminate! Exterminate! Bloody hell, watch yourself, Vicky.’ Chris looked worried as she slid a couple of steps mid-descent. ‘Can you see alright out of those slits?’

  Vicky adjusted the top part of the costume. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to keep the head part on all night. I can’t drink, for one thing.’

  ‘We could get you a straw.’

  ‘Very funny.’ She heard the sound of laughter behind her.

  ‘Mum, you look mental,’ Ollie said, coming out of the living room.

  ‘Thanks, Ollie. Did you say hi to Gran yet?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Good.’ She turned back to Chris, who was busy with his iPhone. He was taking a selfie with her in the background, long scarf wrapped around his neck and a scared look on his face. ‘Chris, is your mum all set and ready?’ She poked her head into the sitting room. ‘Hi, Maggie.’

  ‘Hello, love. You look nice.’

  The TV was blaring Danger Mouse, and her mother-in-law was already looking mildly harassed. Evie was showing her a dance and James stumbled in a two-foot radius around the television screen, clutching a sippy cup, looking for all the world like he’d raided the drinks cabinet. It occurred to Vicky that with a teenager and a toddler in the house, they should probably put the Grey Goose somewhere less accessible at some point, but, watching James trying to locate his mouth to drink and knowing that Ollie could barely find the milk in the morning, there probably wasn’t any great urgency.

  Vicky surveyed the room for her phone, so she could make a swift exit. She spied it in James’s hand and cursed.

  ‘James … Mummy needs her phone, please.’ Her three-year-old began to cry as she prised the phone from his palms and put it in her back pocket. ‘Oh, baby, please don’t cry.’ James’s wails pierced her eardrums and she heard Chris call something from the hallway.

  ‘What?’ The noise in the room was unbearable.

  ‘Vicky! We have to go.’ Chris reappeared in the doorway. ‘Leave this to Mum. Kids, do as Gran tells you – eat your dinner, no junk – and when she says “bed” you go. Okay?’

  ‘Okaaaaaay.’ Evie gave a loud snort, flopped onto the easy chair in the corner and flipped open a Harry Potter book.

  Sighing, Vicky scratched at her hair. It was going to look a right mess by the time she got to the party. ‘Bye, Maggie. Good luck. Bye-bye, my little one.’ She kissed James on the head.

  Chris ushered Vicky out of the room and towards the front door.

  ‘So, you ready to walk round to Becky’s?’

  ‘Walk? I’m not bloody walking; it’s freezing for one thing, and for another—’

  ‘Don’t panic, you great hunk of junk. We’ll take the car and collect it in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Vicky retracted her arm from the lumpy tent structure that hung from her shoulders and pulled down her top that was riding up around her waist. ‘Well at least I can eat and drink whatever I like – it’s not exactly figure-hugging.’

  ‘What have you got under there anyway?’ Chris whispered in her ear.

  ‘You’re seriously trying to seduce me?’

  He lifted her head dress and kissed her neck. Vicky felt herself go a little gooey.

  ‘You are trying to seduce me.’ They both laughed, the moment disappearing as quickly as it had come. Vicky was almost sad to see it go. Even if he was apparently turned on by a plastic plunger sticking out of her boobs.

  ‘Are you two going or what?’ Evie appeared in the hallway. ‘Oh-emm-gee, Mum.’

  ‘Blame your dad, Evie. I wanted to go as Mulder and Scully.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mulder and … oh, it doesn’t matter. Say goodnight and we’ll see you in the morning, okay?’

  ‘Goodnight. Please don’t put photos on Facebook.’

  ‘Too late.’ Chris waggled his phone, showing his brand-new profile photo, and opened the door while Evie groaned in horror. ‘Shall we, Head of the Supreme Dalek Council?’

  ‘Exterminate! Exterminate!’ Vicky edged out of the door backwards. Evie put her head in her hands and her mother-in-law waved cheerily.

  ‘Have you got keys and some money for a taxi?’ Chris asked her. ‘I didn’t think to bring anything except a bottle.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got a bag with me under here with all sorts of stuff in it.’

  ‘Armed and dangerous, eh?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  When they reached Becky’s house, the road was full to the brim with cars and they ended up parking around the corner and walking the last hundred yards or so. To the untrained eye, she really did look like she was floating down the road. The Dalek outfit had been the perfect cover for carrying the kit she needed for tonight: a torch, a screwdriver, her burner phone and a microscopic tracking pin all shoved into an innocuous cross-body bag. Jonathan had ordered Sacha’s office phone to be tapped when they first picked up the case, and they’d had ears on him for weeks, but, due to the lack of relevant business calls, they guessed Sacha was using burner phones to get things done. Vicky had found out from Matisse that he often left his real mobile phone at home too. ‘I can never get hold of him for anything,’ she had said. It was causing them problems: not only did they not have ears on him most of the time, but, unless they went to the expense of tail
ing him 24–7, they had no way of knowing where he was either, prompting Vicky to suggest to Jonathan they needed to fit him with a tracker to trace his movements, with or without his phone. She was aiming to get one planted on him tonight.

  While Vicky planted the tracker and kept Sacha and Matisse busy at the party, the JOPS surveillance team were going to the house, to bug Sacha’s office with the aid of the newly cut front door key. Vicky had warned them about Magda, and the CCTV, but they’d arranged a diversion – a delivery of shirts from Moss Bros to the service entrance – and thanks to a hack on the cameras by Ops, they could slip through the gate and the front door unnoticed. Vicky was excited. Things were really happening now, and after tonight they would have eyes and ears on Sacha Kozlovsky from every angle.

  They could hear the house before they reached it; screams of middle-aged delight came from every window, and the strains of nineties pop music resonated down the road.

  Chris shook his head. ‘Blimey, I hope they got rid of the kids for the night.’

  ‘I think Becky’s mum has them.’

  ‘Thank God for grandparents, eh?’ Chris said, as they reached the house. The driveway and front porch were covered in fake cobwebs, carved pumpkins and inflatable ghosts. The door stood open, with a sign reading ‘Trick or Treat?’ above it. Becky was in the hallway, dressed as Wonder Woman. Vicky silently praised the two pairs of Spanx and the extremely good bra that she’d helped her friend procure the week before.

  ‘Oh my God, Vicky, that is HYSTERICAL.’ Becky caught sight of them coming in and immediately took a photo with her phone. ‘Laura! Laura! Come and take a look at Vicky.’

  Laura appeared from the kitchen dressed as Supergirl. ‘Oh, Vicky, what did he make you do?’ she said, leaning in to give Chris a kiss hello.

  ‘Nothing to do with me, she was the one with the ideas this year,’ Chris said, and headed for the kitchen. ‘Is Steve in here?’

  ‘Look out for Starsky. You’ll find Hutch, a.k.a. Jon, in there too, I expect,’ Becky said. ‘The boys refused to do any Lycra, so they went all seventies on us.’