STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense

by DEREK THOMPSON

  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.

  Chapter 11

  Thomas got waylaid by traffic on the way to Battersea Technology College. He left the bag in a padded envelope at reception, with a note suggesting she be more careful in future.

  In the office, Karl was already sifting his junk mail for gold. “Tommo, come and see this. Why would any man want to increase his sperm by 500%? Hey, unless he was a donor and paid by volume!” Ann Crossley looked over without saying anything. Karl called Thomas to one side. “When are you telling Christine that you won’t require the key to the executive wash room?”

  “No time like the present,” he glanced at her door. “May as well get it over with.”

  “Don’t be too long — I’ll get the coffees in,” Karl stood up and wandered towards Ann Crossley. “Can you imagine a man with five times the sperm? Where would he keep it all?”

  Christine was on the phone. She saw Thomas approach and waved him in. “Okay Bob, leave it with me and thanks again for your time.” She put the phone down and did her best to bury a smile. She used to do that with him, when they were exchanging glances at work, back in the day.

  “I thought I’d tell you right away that I won’t be taking up the training offer.”

  Christine frowned. “I think you’re being very short-sighted. Bob went through your files very carefully — and despite your macho display — he was impressed by what he saw.”

  I’ll bet he was. Thomas pushed his tongue against his lower front teeth to make a poker face.

  “You’re making a mistake, you know.”

  And there was something about the way she said it that made him pause and sit down. The best defence might not be attack, but it was better than no defence at all. “I was in your part of the world last night — I nearly popped round.”

  Christine did a good impression of a rabbit caught in headlights. “I was busy,” she snapped, “and you shouldn’t assume I have no life of my own.”

  It all sounded a bit Jane Austen from where he was sitting, but he got the message loud and clear: stay away. Which only made him more determined.

  * * *

  At Harwich, in the afternoon, Crossley radioed in; she sounded smug. “Thomas, Christine wants you to ring immediately. You’re to report to Sir Peter Carroll, first thing tomorrow morning. Top priority.”

  Thomas relayed the news. Karl sucked a tooth. If he’d played his cards any closer to his chest, he’d have worn them as a tattoo. “Well now, Tommy Boy; looks like I just won a pound. Another two says Crossley knows more than she’s saying. Has Sir Peter ever asked for you by name before?”

  “Now and again. I’ve done the odd pick-up, up north. Maybe he thinks southerners get a nosebleed if they venture further than Watford.”

  “Yeah,” Karl stared ahead, “or maybe you’ve pissed somebody off?”

  It was the first time Thomas had visited Main Building in Whitehall. He’d seen Sir Peter in a few buildings since State House in High Holborn. It was as if the old man couldn’t settle. And every time, including at Whitehall, Sir Peter kept his distance from the various offices of the SSU.

  The security guard eyed Thomas up and down. In most governmental buildings, Thomas knew, security had been contracted out to agency staff — the engines of bureaucracy made safe on minimum wages. Main Building was not one of those places. Glancing left to right, he counted five people in the reception area who stood or sat ramrod straight and took their duties very seriously; no skiving with the television on here. Most, if not all, would be armed.

  “Thomas Bladen?”

  He nodded and held up his ID. Despite the twenty or so years since the SSU had existed, there was still a hard core of resentment and mistrust from the real security and armed services. Chummy here, sneering back through the reinforced glass, was clearly not a member of the SSU fan club.

  “Hand please.” Fingerprint checks had already been introduced, last time he’d attended Sir Peter. And even though he had nothing to hide — nothing that would show on a hand scan, anyway — he still twitched a little as the scanner went about its business.

  An escort appeared, to take him up to the top floor. No conversation in the lift, not even a gripe at the weather. And above them the cameras silently filmed every nuance; despite working in surveillance, Thomas could never get used to that.

  The lift rose to the top floor, which made him smile; some things never changed. A grey carpet extended before him, complemented by grey walls and a series of identical navy blue doors. The only way to tell them part was by the acronyms — ATFA, SA2A and NORAD Liaison. This was need-to-know taken to extremes. They rounded a corridor, he and the silent wonder, along the dog-leg, past FRD, CIA — surely not — and then finally a door labelled SSU. The escort knocked curtly then opened the door for him. “I’ll be back to collect you.”

  100% pure charm.

  Sir Peter Carroll was sat behind his desk in a navy blazer and tie; he had a look of the Cheshire Cat about him. “Thomas, good to see you!” he stood and extended his hand, but that was as much as he moved. Behind him, the familiar portrait of Sir Winston Churchill adorned the wall, with a great cigar in his mouth and a paperweight of a spitfire by his hand. There’s no place like home.

  Thomas had seen that painting maybe a dozen times, most of them at State House when he’d been showing off his photographic prowess. “How can I help you, sir?” He knew the old man would like that.

  “Thomas!” Sir Peter elongated the name in mock disapproval. “Will you join me in a whisky?”

  He nodded, happy to accommodate his benefactor. They sat for a minute or two, savouring their drinks. Thomas had never been sure how far the informality thing stretched; it had all been pretty loose before he’d joined the SSU but he’d never pushed it since he joined the payroll.

  “I’d like you to collect a package for me; from Leeds.”

  A Yorkshire pick-up. Coincidence? Thomas didn’t subscribe to them. “Where do you want it delivered?”

  “To me, here in Whitehall — Highly Classified.”

  He nodded; if Sir Peter were studying his face for a response he’d find none.

  “You’ll leave for York from St Pancras station, Friday morning. I thought you’d appreciate the chance to spend time with your family up there.”

  Terrific. Must remember to book the street parade.

  “Retrieve the item from an office in Leeds on Monday morning. Then straight back here — understand?” Sir Peter lifted an A5 brown envelope from an in-tray and picked up a telephone to summon the escort. “So . . . what do you make of Bob Peterson?”

  “Don’t know much about him,” he played dumb. “I gather he’s been working out of Southampton.” Give or take the odd bit of moonlighting.

  Sir Peter laced his fingers together, like a judge about to pass sentence. “Not really your sort, eh, Thomas?”

  Thomas shrugged and stuck with his glass.

  “I’m sorry you turned down the training — Bob was very keen.”

  Blimey; good news certainly travels fast.

  “It’s sensible to get Bob on side,” Sir Peter leaned across his desk. “Winning a war is easy — that just takes superior forces. But winning the peace . . . ah, that takes superior intelligence. Do you follow?”

&nb
sp; “I think so, sir.” It all added up to a cryptic pitch for be nice to Bob. Three raps on the door brought the conversation to an end.

  “Monday,” Sir Peter said as the guard closed the door behind him.

  Outside, Thomas felt for the envelope; he knew better than to open it on the street. Even though, on past experience, it would only contain travel times, an address and a named contact. It was still before eleven. He rang Christine to check what she wanted him to do next; back to base it was then. On the way over he called Karl.

  “Ah, the happy wanderer! How did it go?”

  “Fine thanks. Listen, turns out I’ll be away this weekend — when do you fancy meeting at the club?”

  “Well now, let me check my packed social calendar . . .” Karl paused for about three seconds. “Yep, this week’s good — pick a day.”

  “How about tonight? — I know it’s short notice . . .”

  Karl backtracked like a Lamborghini slammed into reverse. “The thing is, Tommo, there’s this senorita.”

  “It wouldn’t be Teresa by any chance, would it?”

  “A gentleman never tells. Why don’t we make it Thursday night?”

  “Done.”

  * * *

  The office seemed deserted when Thomas arrived. The team would still be at Harwich. And Peterson, with any luck he’d be under a bus.

  “Hi there,” Christine poked her head out of her door, “fancy a bite to eat?”

  He blinked a couple of times; did a comedic search behind him.

  “Come on, you must be hungry?”

  “Sure, why not — I’ve just got to make a call.”

  “Great! I’ll power down and get my bag.”

  It had been a long time since they’d strolled along the Thames together. The water shimmered in the sunlight; slow lazy bow waves brushing the banks as the tourists motored up and down. Given the choice he would have lingered awhile to watch how the shadow lines sliced across the concrete. But it was Christine’s gig so he kept quiet and played follow my leader.