STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense

by DEREK THOMPSON

  STANDPOINT

  DEREK THOMPSON

  First published 2015

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.

  Derek Thompson asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  ©Derek Thompson

  There is a glossary of British slang in the back of this book.

  Follow DEREK THOMPSON on twitter for updates on his latest books

  @DerekWriteLines

  You may also enjoy the sequel to Standpoint:

  http://www.amazon.co.uk/LINE-SIGHT-gripping-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B00XIOAOBK/

  http://www.amazon.com/LINE-SIGHT-gripping-thriller-suspense-ebook/dp/B00XIOAOBK/

  A young woman lies dead at an army base. Was it really an accident?

  Thomas Bladen works in surveillance for a shadowy unit of the British government. When Amy Johanson is killed during a weapons test, Thomas and his partner Karl are determined to get to the bottom of it. They must protect Amy's friend Jess, the only witness they have, who plays a dangerous game of seduction and lies. Meanwhile, Thomas’s girlfriend Miranda and her family are once again put in the firing line.

  Can Thomas get justice for Amy, solve the mystery of Karl’s past, and decide who he can really trust?

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Glossary of British Slang Terms

  Chapter 1

  Thomas Bladen focused his binoculars on a block of shipping containers far below the lookout. As a prolonged ferry blast carried across the port like a cry of mourning, he surveyed the slate sky, tracking a gull as it veered across and crapped on a Bentley. He smiled for the first time that day: welcome to Harwich. If he hadn’t been so far away — and on surveillance — he’d have thrown the bird some bread for a second run.

  The laptop bleeped — another image stored. He bent towards it amid the stench of damp and decay of the near-derelict room. His colleague, Karl McNeill, lightly tapped a window and made a customary grunt of approval. Thomas ignored him.

  “Hey Tommo, check out the red-head; eleven o’clock — by the blue sports. I'd do some deep cover work there, right enough. I’d even forego the overtime!”

  Thomas glanced over and grimaced. Prat. After putting the binoculars down carefully, he attended to his camera, readjusting it six inches to the right. Then he squeezed the button and watched as another square of panoramic mosaic gradually uploaded to the screen.

  “I don’t know why you bother with that old bollocks, Tommo. Overkill if you ask me, and the job’s not even on yet.”

  “I like to be thorough,” he held a finger up to keep Karl at bay. And I don’t like to be disturbed.

  “Hardly worth it though, for a Customs’ promo, unless you’re after impressing the boss?”

  Thomas paused and moved the camera again. Here it comes.

  “But then, weren’t you and Christine co-workers and playmates before she became boss?”

  “That was a long time ago.” He stared at the sequence of images before homing in on the sports car. “She’s married,” he announced with satisfaction.

  “Who? Christine Gerrard?”

  “No, your dream date in the blue sports. I see a wedding ring.”

  “I wasn’t looking at her fingers.”

  The room fell silent again; Thomas preferred it that way. Magnify the row, scroll right and . . . Something snagged his attention; he stopped on square 34, captivated by a lone figure leaning out of a four-by-four, with high-powered lenses.

  “Karl, how many spotter teams are on today?”

  “Jeez, pay attention. Customs are on the ground, Crossley’s lot are on the far side and then there’s us two, in the penthouse.”

  “’Course, yeah.” He tried to ignore square 34 and fell back into the rhythm of the job, while Karl rustled a newspaper and muttered something about tits.

  “Tommo, didya ever think, when you signed up with the SSU, that you'd one day rise to the third storey of a genuine shit-hole?”

  He smiled without turning round. “Well, I had my hopes . . .” Adjusting the magnification, he took a clear shot of the four-by-four’s number plate. As he worked, his fingers tingled, or else he imagined they did. Whoever the stranger was, he didn't appear on the duty roster, and Thomas was a man who didn’t like surprises. He photographed what he could, collecting details — an expensive shirt, an ornate wedding band and a designer watch. One thing was clear — this gate crasher wasn’t short of a few quid.

  The walkie-talkie crackled into life; mystery man would have to wait. “This is Control; we have a green light. Repeat; we have a green light.”

  Suddenly professional, Karl called in their readiness. Thomas had seen that metamorphosis many times now and it still fascinated him.

  “Thing is,” Karl mumbled, leaning towards his eyepiece, “if they gave us rifles instead of cameras, we could sort out the bloody smugglers ourselves.”

  “Thank you Rambo; maybe that’s the reason they don’t arm us?”

  At the next ferry horn, Thomas checked the time and turned to catch Karl's big performance, watching as he scrunched his face up, cartoon style.

  “Thar she blows!”

  The ferry slowly manoeuvred into port and they watched from their vantage point, primed like racing dogs in their traps. Thomas tried to concentrate, but that tingling feeling kept pulling him back to the lone spotter — still there and focused in the same direction.

  The slow tally of vehicles and pedestrians snaked out into a warm Essex afternoon; a dark blue Customs van inched forward to greet the traffic. After three cars passed, the van doors slid back and four uniformed officers fanned out. The lone spotter tensed up; Thomas could see his binoculars twitch to attention.

  A white Transit was diverted to one side. The driver brandished paperwork, but it made no difference. A Customs Officer took his keys and unlocked the back doors.

  “Got ya, you bastard!” Karl hissed triumphantly.

  The Customs team removed several boxes and the Transit’s suspension lifted. Thomas focused in on the driver. He'd be making his excuses now, trying
to bullshit his way through by talking about a party or a restaurant or stocking up for Christmas — in June. But he looked more nervous than he ought to be.

  “Nicked!” Karl growled with relish, and popped open a celebratory can.

  Thomas laughed. Typical Karl: enthusiasm of a Labrador and the loyalty of a Premier League footballer on the make. Last assignment, he’d been Benefits Fraud team, through and through. Now it was HM Customs, providing fly-on-the-wall footage for in-house use. Karl seemed to love it all, but as far as Thomas was concerned, the Surveillance Support Unit was just a cheap labour source for any government department in need.

  Other vehicles slowed, as if to enjoy the spectacle. One, a red Astra estate, held back the queue for a few seconds, prompting a chorus of car horns. Thomas rattled off a couple of shots then switched over to binoculars, picking up his walkie-talkie.

  “Control, from Team 3; the red Astra exiting — worth investigating? Over.”

  “Control, from Team 2 — suggest we ignore that,” Ann Crossley over-ruled him. “It’s just a family. The driver must have porn stashed under his seat!”

  Thomas wasn't convinced, but he knew when to hold his tongue and kept the Astra in sight. As it jolted forward, a rear window lowered a few centimetres. It drew level with the Transit, and a short piece of pipe poked out. On instinct, Thomas panned left, framing the Transit driver’s face; the man looked like he’d seen a ghost. It was over in seconds. Even after the driver slumped to the ground and the red car had dissolved into the traffic, no one else seemed to react. But it had burned into Thomas’s brain, in slow-mo. He tasted the fear and helplessness, and swallowed it down.

  The walkie-talkie blared into life. “A passenger’s collapsed. Ambulance required immediately.”

  Something clicked at the back of Thomas’s mind. Square 34! He shifted the camera along; there was only one empty car space — the four-by-four was gone, but the ferry was still unloading. He darted from square to square, tracking along the car lanes until he found it. He clicked frantically, no time to focus, hoping he’d get something useful.

  Karl jammed an earpiece to his face and embarked on a running commentary. “Jesus, they think the poor bastard’s been shot. He’s still breathing; not much blood loss — can’t have been much of a weapon.”

  Thomas shuddered. Karl made it all sound matter of fact but then, he reasoned, for someone with Karl’s military background, it probably was. “So,” Thomas felt the sweat trickle down the sides of his face, “when do you start your new job as a Samaritan?”

  Soon, the view was choked with blue lights and sirens, as an ambulance and the police put in an appearance. Thomas watched through the window, without magnification; he no longer felt like taking a ringside seat.

  “What about that, Tommo?” Karl spluttered gleefully. “I can’t work out where there's a clear line of sight — unless it was at close quarters — like maybe a zip-gun? Hey, it could have been your family from the red estate! Crossley’s going to look pretty stupid at debrief. What a shot though, if it was, I mean — moving vehicle and all; even I couldn’t have done that, in my day.”

  “Your compassion’s overwhelming.”

  “Still,” Karl pondered aloud, “it’s not much of a hit if he’s still alive.”

  Unless that was the intention? Thomas recalled the haunted look on the driver’s face. “Well, anyway, it’s not our problem,” Karl picked up the walkie-talkie and called for authority to stand down. “Right Tommo, are you coming for a late lunch before we head back? This will be the worst promotional content ever made. What’s the betting it all gets mysteriously lost in the editing process?”

  And even as Karl said it, Thomas decided that some of his own footage, especially the four-by-four, wouldn’t make it into the report. Rule number one: Don’t get involved. Rule number two: If you have to get involved, get involved alone.

  “You coming?” Karl insisted.

  “Nah, you go ahead. I’ll be here a little longer.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll see you back at base.”

  Or, as they both knew better, The Railway Tavern in Liverpool Street.

  * * *

  Thomas sat perfectly still for a couple of minutes and breathed in the silence. Out the window, he could see things returning to normal down there.

  He took new shots of the area around square 34 and lined up the rows above and below. Half an hour later, Photoshop had smoothed out any inconsistencies. It was like Spot the Difference for idiots, with the four-by-four missing. And only the new version would be available for public viewing. As soon as he’d finished, he pulled out his mobile and hit the redial button.

  “Miranda Wright,” she sang.

  “Hi, it’s Thomas.”

  “What can I do for you, my darling?”

  He savoured her voice like a warm cognac. “I'm after something,” he said, opening a file on his laptop.

  She gave a filthy laugh and he drew the phone in closer.

  “I need a number plate checked . . .”

  “Well, it’ll cost you — dinner tonight.”

  “Done; and listen, make sure this is kept anonymous.” He read the letters out phonetically, emphasising each number, the remnants of his Yorkshire tones lost in cool precision.

  “Eight o’clock it is then — you can pick me up at work.”

  “Thanks, Miranda.”

  “Don’t thank me till you see where we’re eating. And dress up for a change!”

  Chapter 2

  Karl performed a slow handclap as Thomas shouldered the door to the office, a bag in each hand.

  “You took your time — I waited a good hour for you.”

  “I‘m sure you managed to prop up the bar without me," Thomas said, "I had to do something with my laptop.”

  Karl grinned. “Maybe it’s all those weekend wedding shoots, clogging your hard-drive.”

  Thomas nodded wearily and eased past him to his desk — Karl, on another fishing expedition. “What time does the boss want us in?”

  “Five o’clock, amigo.”

  He sighed; it was still weird sometimes, thinking of Christine as the boss. Cutting it fine though — Miranda would go spare if he was late again.

  “Fancy a pint later, Tommo? The rest of the gang are going, but they never stay long . . .”

  “Sorry,” he cut him off. “I have plans.”

  Karl baulked. “Normal people don’t have plans. They eat, date, drink themselves stupid; but you have plans. Do you know, it’s been a year since we started working together and I still don’t know you.”

  Thomas nodded, half-listening. Something was bugging him, besides Karl's attempts at camaraderie. Real tip of the tongue stuff. He’d seen something familiar today — only he didn’t know quite what it was. “We’ll do it sometime soon, Karl; Scout’s honour.”

  “That’s more like it!” Karl sounded almost convinced.

  Thomas unpacked his laptop, loaded the report template and made a start.

  * * *

  At 5 pm prompt the office door at the far end of the open-plan room swung open. Karl waited at a respectful distance, while Thomas set his screensaver password then led the way. Karl followed closely behind, muttering paranoid in a pretend cough.

  The rest of the team were already in Christine’s office — they had been there for nearly half an hour. Thomas shared a who-knew glance with Karl. Then he nodded to Christine with the briefest of smiles, taking in the sight of her. She looked every inch the professional. And two years on, he could still recall every one of the inches beneath that tailored suit.

  Christine broke eye contact and cleared her throat. “I’ll make this brief. As you know, we’ve lacked a permanent Senior Officer for months now. I’m delighted to tell you that Bob Peterson will be our new SIO from next week.”

  Thomas felt her words like a fist to the guts. This would be the same Bob Peterson who had taken Christine under his wing — coincidentally, a short while before the big break-up. And Bob
had most likely helped himself to a whole lot more besides.

  It took a moment or two to realise that Christine was still talking. “—Bob’s a good man; I served under him about eighteen months ago.”

  He narrowed his eyes. That was a new way of putting it. He cleared his throat; Karl’s eyebrows nearly scraped the ceiling.

  Christine blushed, but stuck to the script. “Bob wants to do individual reviews as soon as poss, to get to know you all. Right; I gather we had some drama at Harwich today — Karl?”

  Karl gave a concise account, leaving out the redhead and the lager.

  Christine made notes as she listened, avoiding Thomas’s glances. “Okay everyone, thanks for your time. Karl, Thomas — reports by ten, tomorrow. And thanks to everyone else for completing them today. That’s all.”

  Thomas blew a breath from one side of his mouth. Creeps. Trust the brown-noses to get their reports in early. Strange though that no one had mentioned the red Astra. He dismissed the thought and focused on the way the strip-light glistened off Christine’s lipstick, sensing the moisture gather on his own lips. Funny, it wasn’t like him to play happy memories in the workplace. Christine opened her mouth to speak again, but he was through the door before she’d got a word out; nothing like paperwork to take the sting out of bad news.

  Karl sidled over to his desk. “Sure you won’t join us now?” There was an edge to the voice as if he was really saying: ‘I see your pain and I want us to understand each other better.’

  Thomas considered. Maybe. More likely, it was a case of: ‘Please don’t leave me with these tossers.’ Either way, Thomas sat and watched them go. He had nothing against Karl personally; he actually liked the bloke. They were different to the others in their Surveillance Support Unit team; everyone else around them had a degree and a career-path, using the SSU as a way of picking up contacts and experience. Karl had transferred in from the Army — glory days that he never tired of talking about. Which was still a step up from Thomas’s own route — via a humble Civil Service desk job and a love of photography.