He swallowed hard and hoped that the boy didn’t start screaming. “This way,” he all but scooped her up.
“Where is Petrov?” she whimpered.
“I’ll find him in a minute. Come on,” he pulled her arm roughly. They swam against the tide of returning hotel guests until Thomas caught sight of Karl’s old banger in the middle of the street. His heart skipped a beat; he had to steady himself against Alexandra as he led her to the car. She stared at Karl; he stared right back.
“It’s okay, really,” Thomas insisted, craning the door wide and nudging her towards it. “I’ll go and get Petrov.”
He spotted his own jacket heading back into the hotel and elbowed his way through. Other guests had made for the complimentary drinks; Petrov was rooted to the spot, standing in the bar like the ugly one at a Valentine’s disco.
Thomas zeroed in. “Alexandra and Lukas are already in the car — we’ll take you somewhere safe.” The way he said it, he was barely selling it to himself.
Petrov’s face was as blank as the décor. Thomas eased him outside. Karl pulled up and Thomas shouldered him to the car like he was an invalid. “I’ll sort your cases out later.”
Petrov opened his mouth, but he didn’t speak. Thomas reached for the front passenger door.
“That’s okay Tommo — I’ll see you back in the hotel bar for a wee chat.”
As Thomas sat down in the bar, he felt the damp patch cold on his back, clinging like a dirty secret. He shifted forward and glanced around the room. For all he knew Yorgi could be any one of them — no saying he had to look like Petrov. Yeah, he argued with himself, but Yorgi was a professional. Ergo, he’d have seen Karl driving off — he’d hardly be hanging around now. Ergo? For an instant he thought of Christine, all lips and Latin. He squished against the chair again and felt a droplet trickle down his spine to rest in the crack of his arse. He grimaced and pulled his top away. Sod this for a game of soldiers, he’d nip out to his car and get the sweatshirt from the boot. On the way out, he grabbed an empty beer bottle for comfort.
After all the commotion, the streets outside seemed unnaturally quiet. There was still traffic — this was London after all — but it was reduced to glaring lights and shrouded shapes. The side street was jam-packed with parked cars. He stuck to the shadows, avoiding the sickly orange glow of street lamps where he could. He moved quickly, keeping his wits about him.
He paused three vehicles from his car, and gripped the beer bottle more tightly. It might have once held extra strong lager but it wasn’t strong enough to take on a bullet. He smiled in the gloom; knowing exactly what he was doing: gallows humour. He took a breath, sucking it down like a smoker getting a fix.
Despite the bollocking awaiting him, he wished Karl were there. As if on cue, his arm throbbed through its dressing. Enough stalling. He took a final glance around then stepped smartly to the rear of his car. The boot catch gave way with a sigh; he reached in without bending his head, feeling his way around for the sweatshirt. For a split second he was going to change in the street, but he suddenly felt more vulnerable than ever. He didn’t want to let go of the bottle so he did a bit of a juggling act and slammed the boot down hard. Good one Thomas; Mr Psycho might be out there but that ought to scare him off. He jogged back to the hotel, kidding himself that his panting was due to being out of condition, not blind terror.
* * *
Yorgi watched closely as the stranger fumbled about in his car then ran back towards the hotel. This was a new factor, an unknown quantity. Killing him now would achieve nothing. No, this man had chaperoned Alexandra and Lukas out of the hotel; and he would be the best way of reaching them again. He might need a little encouragement, but he would cooperate. As for Petrov, well, he could be persuaded to do anything. Yorgi leered in the darkness, remembering how he’d forced Petrov to shoot a rat on the farm. Petrov had shaken and bawled; how he had pleaded! He had done it in the end though. They always did what he wanted in the end.
He pressed his watch close. Sometimes, when he felt the glass against his ear in the night, he fancied he could still hear the American screaming. He lowered his hand and moved the battered copy of Sun Tzu’s Art of War from his lap. A phrase was underlined: ‘A man who knows when he can fight and when he cannot, will be victorious.’
The traffic was a distant hum through the glass. He reached for the device and left the car, walking along the street with the transmitter nestling in his palm. The gun remained in his pocket, in case anyone was foolish enough to disturb him. He found the place, underneath the chassis near the driver’s door. He pushed the apparatus up against the metal, making sure it was secure. Then he disappeared into the night to await victory.
Chapter 24
Thomas returned from the gents with his old clothes knotted together. The bar was still busy as he threaded through, holding the bundle down like a secret shame. He stuffed it under the chair, bought drinks and crisps and left them untouched on the table, feeling like a kid waiting outside the headmaster’s office.
Karl arrived ten minutes later; Thomas figured he’d passed Petrov on to someone more senior — Teresa perhaps? Karl spotted him at the door, but didn’t acknowledge him. This did not look good. He sat down and took his time about it, sipping at his pint of shandy before he spoke. “We’re in the shit. Yorgi wasn’t picked up; he’s gone to ground.”
Thomas opened a packet of crisps methodically. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
Karl glared; wrong answer. “Grow up, Tommo; he’s a fucking killer. We’ve no way of knowing when he’s going to pop up again. Meantime his brother and that lovely wee family of his are looking at relocation and a new identity; and all because you fucked up.”
Thomas jerked back as if he’d been sucker punched. “Hey, if it wasn’t for me, Petrov might still have been at the house when . . .”
Karl was having none of it. “First, do you really think he’d have stayed there waiting if you hadn’t agreed to pick him up? And second, what the fuck were you thinking of, not informing me? We’re supposed to be a team!”
Thomas clenched his fists, under the table. “We’re a team, Karl? Then who are we working for, huh? Who did you hand Petrov over to? We’re a team when it suits you.”
Karl closed in on him. “For two pins, I’d knock you down where you stand.”
“I’m sitting down though.” Not a flicker from Karl. All Thomas felt from him was a heat-haze of anger.
Karl kneaded his forehead, as if he was trying to massage the words into place. “Look, you’re plainly out of your depth in all this. You’re a liability.”
Ouch. Thomas gulped back the shock along with the lager. There was nothing else to be said. He put his glass down — definitely half empty tonight — and started to stand.
Karl pulled at his arm. “Hey,” he snarled, “we’re not done yet! Petrov thinks you’re some kind of saint so you’ll be in on the interrogation — we’re giving him a day or so to soften up. In the meantime we need to get a few things straight, once and for all.” He pointed a finger dagger at Thomas’s chest. “You need my help; Yorgi getting away like that looks worryingly suspicious from a certain angle.”
Thomas launched himself to standing. The glasses rocked on the table, their contents swirling like miniature tempests.
“Calm yourself, Tommy Boy,” Karl lifted his drink and took another sip. “This fiasco has put us both in a difficult position. I suggest you take a day off tomorrow — ring in sick — and have a serious think about your position.” Karl sat back and looked away: class dismissed.
Thomas grabbed his clothes from the floor and made for the door. His arm was stinging again, but there was a kind of comfort in that. He was on the phone to Miranda before he’d reached the car.
“Thomas — it’s late; what’s up?” Straight to the point. He played vague. Wrong move; more questions were the last thing he wanted, and Miranda knew him too well. “Bad day at work?”
Four little words which translated neat
ly as ‘serves you fucking right.’ Before he had time to think, they were bickering down memory lane; trudging through the past in the search for survivors — his possessiveness, his secretiveness, that footballer she’d been banging — a word he knew would exocet through her defences. She told him to grow up and sort his life out. Sort it out? He didn’t even know what his life was anymore.
He cut the mobile off mid-sentence. His arm was screaming now; he popped a pill and wondered how he’d ended up like this — Miranda, Christine and Karl, all blocking him like chess pieces. Shit, there was only Ajit left, and he was on the other side of the thin blue line.
The worst part of it was that he blamed himself. Oh sure, he’d make his peace with Miranda somehow and get back on side with Karl. Petrov and his family though, that was something he couldn’t fix — didn’t even know where to start. It was Big Boys’ stuff. And there was something else too.
Yorgi was the first person he’d been afraid of since leaving Leeds. Okay, maybe Miranda’s dad to a point, but Yorgi was a killer. The word made the blood slow at the back of his neck. What if . . . no, he didn’t dare think that way. He’d move carefully on this now; phone in sick tomorrow, like Karl had suggested, and get his head together. He breathed a little easier and put the car radio on to drown out his thoughts.
* * *
Ask most Londoners and they’ll tell you that driving is a necessary evil; a means to an end, but not a pleasure. Thomas loved it though; for him a car brought freedom. Even if he wasn’t out working or taking his own photographs, sometimes it felt good to just get in the car and lose himself in the maze of London streets. A full tank of petrol and a bag of crisps, and he was a happy man. And after the day’s shenanigans, what better way of winding down?
He left Paddington and turned up through Maida Vale, breezing through Kilburn. Irish Town, as Karl had christened it — and he ought to know. Kilburn High Road ran into Shoot-up Hill, worth the journey for the irony value alone. He sang to the radio, laughing at the realisation that his rendition of ‘Eye of the Tiger’ was as murderous as anything Karl could produce.
And okay, maybe he hadn’t planned it consciously, but when the first sign for Highgate appeared, it all seemed to make sense. If he could just straighten out the whole Christine and Bob Peterson thing, it would be a start. Then maybe he could recover some credibility with Karl. At the very least he’d unsettle the happy couple and that could only be a good thing.
The closer he got to Christine’s flat, the more malicious he felt. After all, hadn’t Bob Peterson’s appearance at Harwich been the detonator? The defining event that had bollocksed everything up? So this could be payback time.
He parked, switched off the ignition and made himself comfortable. He wouldn’t bother to check for Peterson’s vehicle — no point: guilty as charged. He punched in Christine’s number and paused for a second on the send button. Game on. He held the phone lightly to his ear and crossed his feet. At the fourth ring he suddenly remembered the time. Oops.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Thomas; hope I’m not disturbing you,” he winced — about as subtle as a hammer at an osteopath’s.
“Thomas? Er, what can I do for you?” the curtain flicked back, silhouetting Christine against an orange glow. She looked good, even at a distance in a five second show.
“I just fancied a chat. Listen, I know it’s late, but how about I come over?”
The line went silent for a moment; the kind of silence that a hand over the receiver makes. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, do you?”
It was too much to ask that Bob Peterson would put in an appearance at the window. He’d settle for something less tangible, like an admission.
“Are you out there somewhere, Thomas?”
Shit. Peterson was probably right next to her, might even be listening for his reply. A large plate of ‘backfire’ to table four. He swallowed and stared up at the window, which showed a silhouette of Christine and Bob.
“I’m waiting, Thomas.”
“I just needed to talk with you tonight. There have been developments.” Jesus, what was he saying? But the idea had already formed. “I think something is going on with the department.”
For an instant he thought he heard Christine gasp. Or maybe it was static.
“Look, I’m not far from your place; I could drop over — I won’t stay long.”
“No!” she yelped, “we’ve been through this before, Thomas. If you’ve got anything to say to me you can say it now or it’ll have to keep until tomorrow.”
Fuck it: in for a penny, in for a pound. “It’s about Bob Peterson.”
No reaction; she was good. If he knew her like he thought he did, the next words would be brief and measured.
“What about him?”
“I’d rather tell you face to face.”
“Thomas, don’t piss me about. I could have your mobile trigged before you got half a mile away. If you’ve something to say . . .”
“You do know he’s married with two kids?” He winced.
“Grow up Thomas, and keep your nose out of my personal affairs.”
He bit his tongue. “I’m just looking out for you, Chrissie.”
“I can look after myself. And don’t ring me here again, Thomas — I mean it. The next time you call me at home it goes on your report — do you understand? It’s been a long day; I’m going back to bed.”
“Is that alone?”
“Last warning, Thomas. Whatever you think you know, you’d best forget it. This ends here, but you are all out of favours now.” The line went dead.
He hung up and exhaled deeply into his hands. Stupid bastard; what was he doing? He grabbed up the mobile again and speed-dialled number 1. “Hi Miranda, it’s me again. Can I come over? It’s been a lousy night.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Late?”
She laughed. “Get some sleep, Thomas; it’ll all be better in the morning.”
“But your bed is so much more comfortable than mine . . .”
“Suit yourself.”
He sat there for a minute, trying to think straight. Was she toying with him? She’d done that once before, and he’d arrived to find the lights out and the door locked. “Well,” he told himself in the dark, “there’s only one way to find out.”
Chapter 25
Thomas rang the bell in shrill, insistent bursts.
“Alright!”
He squinted as light erupted, framing her blurred outline through the glass.
Miranda peered back at him, her face pressed against the frosted pane.
“Do you know what time it is?” she opened the door a degree, and instinctively he strained to see where the frayed silk dressing gown ended and her thigh began. “I wasn’t sure if you were serious about coming over, when you rang.”
“Well, here I am,” he waited awkwardly, leaning against the door, matching her resistance. Then, as if he’d finally decided what he really wanted to happen, he pushed a little more until he felt her hand relent and the door swung in.
“Lock up, will you?” she walked off to the bedroom without looking back.
He brushed against the coat hooks; there was a man’s jacket there. He slammed the door and flicked the switch. The only light now was the pink glow at the end of the hall.
“I see you’ve had a visitor,” he called out from the shadow, tasting the venom of his thoughts.
“It’s my brother’s — Terry left it here. Jesus, still as paranoid as ever! Now get your arse in here; I’ve got stuff to do tomorrow morning.”
He slipped off his shoes. “What’s Terry up to these days?” His voice wavered, caught between relief and shame. She was right, still the same demons; if anything, he was worse since Christine. Something else to blame her for.
Miranda was still undressing in the bedroom. He pressed up close behind her, watched her smile and tried to fathom that look as he spread his fingers across her breasts. He touched his
lips to her neck, traced a circle of kisses behind her ear. She smelt of expensive soap and perfume.
What sort of a person wears perfume on the strength of a phone call? The same kind who turns up at one-thirty in the morning, with nothing but a hard-on.
“You could’ve shaved.”
He sighed, no arguments tonight. Besides, actions spoke louder than words. His hand travelled down between her thighs. Miranda gasped and pushed her buttocks against his groin. She leaned back, draping over him and her hair fell across his face. He studied their reflection: it looked like a still from a low-budget porn flick.
She laughed as she turned to face him and he was startled by a momentary wave of contempt. This was so easy for her. ‘Sex is sex,’ she’d said in the past. ‘Don’t confuse it with something more complicated.’
He discarded his clothes methodically, and joined her on the bed. He wondered how much activity the bed had seen since he’d last been there. Then he reached for the lamp and snapped it off, shutting out his thoughts.
He was greedy for her, eager to wrap himself in desire. But he wanted her to want him, really yearn for him; he needed that tonight. He tasted her skin, ingested the perfume’s acrid undercurrent and let his tongue travel the length of her body, slowly and tentatively, as if it was a forbidden journey. Soon they moved together rhythmically as only familiar lovers can. Yet the closer they became the more he felt like an outsider.
“You’re hurting my arms.”
He relaxed his grip, jarred back into the moment. He was rough with her, knew that he wanted a reaction. A sudden image of Christine and Peterson, together, rose up to taunt him and he pushed hard into Miranda as if he could drive away his demons. He heard her breathing change and synchronised his body to hers, matching the frenzied thrusts to the rhythmic rocking of her hips.
“Not yet,” he heard her whisper breathlessly, as she arched her back.
His mind detached itself from the scene; he became a voyeur while instinct took the lead. And then, when he felt her whole body meld around his and her low moans built to fever pitch, he tilted upwards and burst inside her.
STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense Page 19