STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense

by DEREK THOMPSON

  He remembered the bistro, a spit away from the Tate Modern. It had been the site of that first try-out lunch with Mummy and Daddy. No surprise then that Christine made small talk about her parents; people who wouldn’t make space in a lifeboat for him if the ship went down in flames — in shark-infested waters.

  “Anyway, enough about me; how are your family, Thomas?”

  The coincidence bell rang so loud in his head he could hardly hear himself think. He muddled through with a mixture of old news and half-truths, grateful when Christine claimed them a table.

  “Here, this is good. A great view of the North Bank.”

  They agreed to share a bottle of wine — her treat. He quickly got into the rhythm of their non-date. There was nothing at risk here since not only had she no interest in him romantically, he still had Bob Peterson marked down as her bedtime companion. On those terms, he could afford to relax and enjoy himself.

  “I really do wish you’d think about the training, Thomas,” she had a certain way of saying his name that could still set his teeth on edge. The tone dragged him back in time, just before the ice age had set in. He avoided a skirmish by drawing on the healing power of wine. “I know Bob’s appointment was a shock . . . but that shouldn’t stand in the way of your future. Hmm?”

  He smiled. As the early afternoon sunshine picked out her auburn highlights, it was easy to recall what he’d first seen in her, two years before. By dessert he’d noticed her legs again. Best stop now, Thomas, before your tongue runs away with you. Christine, oblivious to his gaze — or used to it — was enthusing about her parents’ stables, where she still kept a horse.

  He replayed the first time he’d met her mother, when she’d inquired pointedly: “Do you ride at all?” And the killer line he’d never delivered: Only your daughter. Cue canned laughter. Not for nothing had Mrs Gerrard later described him as coarse, behind his back of course. Guilty as charged.

  His mobile went off. He made that stock face that all people do, suggesting they’re irritated by a call even when they’re secretly delighted.

  “Hi babe. I’ve hit a problem with that number. Sorry about last night . . .”

  He cut across her. “Sorry, you’ve caught me at a bad time. Can I ring you later? Great — speak to you then.” Touché Miranda. He switched the phone off, pre-empting an abusive text.

  Christine ran a fingertip around her wine glass. “Girlfriend trouble?” she lifted her head square to his.

  He leaned out of the sun. “There is no girlfriend. How about you?” He said it casually and glanced to one side to give her space to respond.

  “Me? No, no girlfriend either. My lesbian phase ended at boarding school.” She kicked him playfully under the table, tapping her handmade Italian shoes against his brogues. “This is fun, isn’t it? We should do this more often; we are friends after all.”

  He adjusted his crotch under the tablecloth and then raised a glass. They clinked a toast, friends forever. Or for the time being, anyway.

  * * *

  He didn’t ring Miranda back until the evening. Either she couldn’t or wouldn’t pick up, so it was at least an hour before she returned the call. Another hour, in which he cooked or worked or went to the toilet, with the mobile at his side.

  “Hey babe, how’s it going?”

  He kept it low key. “Yeah, fine; sorry about this afternoon, I was involved in a work thing.”

  “No problem,” she managed to make it sound just the opposite. “That number you gave me doesn’t exist. Hello? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here, Miranda.”

  “I’ll read it back to you in case I got it wrong.”

  He checked on his computer as she spoke. “No, that’s the one. Not to worry.” Except that now, he was really starting to worry.

  “Listen, fancy coming over for Sunday lunch? Just me this time!”

  “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 u
ntil 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.