They remained still, a tide of release and tenderness washing between them, until he slumped on top of her with a heavy sigh. She held him close and he lay there, still panting, his dry lips savouring the sweat on her breast. He felt a tear forming in his eye and lay motionless, as if he could deny its existence.
“That was epic!” she congratulated him, stroking his hair affectionately.
He knew she’d expect some salacious compliment in return, but he wasn’t in the mood tonight.
“Would you rather have been somewhere else?” she read him like a book.
“Sorry,” he conceded and untangled himself from her.
“Is it still about Christine — do you wanna talk about it?”
He rolled carefully on to one side and traced Miranda’s face in the dark — that knowing, beautiful face. Then he kissed her; a long, tender kiss, as if to pour himself into her lips and escape his own identity. A lesser man would have called it love. But it was more than that. “I’ll tell you in the morning,” he promised, pulling her towards him as he closed his eyes.
Chapter 26
Thomas yawned in the gloom. He stared, bleary eyed, trying to make sense of his watch without disturbing the thick curtains. It was either five to eight or twenty to eleven. He leaned across and stroked behind her ear, certain that Miranda was awake and ignoring him.
She wriggled free from his fingers. “Listen, any chance you could drop me off at the club on your way into work? I left my car there last night and I’m picking Terry up from the airport today. I can give him his coat back too, if you like?”
“Very droll. Just take my car — I’m calling in a sickie.”
“Wow. Hold the front page. Do you wanna come with me, then?”
“Nah, I’ll just hang around here for a bit and meet you later at the club.”
She paused, as if in mid-thought. “Well, lock up after you and no going through my underwear drawer when I’m gone.”
“You know me so well.”
“Indeed I do, Mr Bladen. Speaking of which, what brought you to my door last night — welcome as it was.” She slipped out from the duvet and into a dressing gown. “Something about Christine wasn’t it?”
She knew bloody well it was. He sighed and tapped at the bedside table with his index finger.
“If that’s Morse code, I never went to Spy School.” She was still smiling.
“Christine’s involved with this married bloke; and he’s bad news.”
“Brave Sir Knight to the rescue?” she raised an eyebrow.
“Not quite.”
“Can’t Karl help you out?”
He felt her studying his face. He shook his head.
“Lovers’ tiff?”
“Something like that,” he braced himself for some righteous piss-taking, but it never came. That was Miranda, full of surprises.
“Well, I’m here if you need an ear. And don’t forget,” she gazed in the general direction of his groin, “I keep all your secrets.”
He waited until Miranda was in the shower before ringing in. Christine’s office phone was diverted to her mobile. She sounded relieved; it was a short call. Karl had been spot-on — a little breathing space would do everyone a favour. After he’d rung off, he tried the bathroom door — locked. He felt peeved; no reason to be but there it was.
* * *
Sir Peter Carroll took the call in his limo. “I’ve seen the picture — it’s definitely our man. Yes, indeed, very delicate. I’m certainly not aware of any affiliations. No, Yorgi, best you remain where you are — I’ll handle things from here.”
The call ended. Trevor, the driver, glanced up in the mirror and read his employer’s mood well enough to say nothing. Another number was dialled.
“Nicholas, I have an opportunity for you to redeem yourself. I want you to supervise a collection — Thomas Bladen.” Sir Peter could almost hear Nicholas salivating over the phone.
“Thank you, Sir Peter, we’ll pick him up before he gets to Harwich.”
“Excellent. I’m relying on you Nicholas — don’t let me down again.”
* * *
Miranda waited patiently at the lights, studying the pedestrians as they herded past the front of the car. Ever since Thomas had come out of the spy closet, she’d practised extra vigilance. Still, with a family background like hers, she was pretty vigilant anyway, especially where men were concerned. As a teenager, having boyfriends had been a dangerous pastime — for them. Back then, secret assignations and sneaking about were second nature. If anything, Thomas’s cloak-and-dagger act had brought on a touch of nostalgia.
A young mother pushed a stroller out just as the lights started to change. Miranda sat, primed, ready to flip the finger behind her if anyone dared beep. Mother and child; it made you think. Her biological clock wasn’t even building up to a tick, but that hadn’t always been the way. Once . . . well, one day when she’d come to terms with what might have been, she’d give it all some thought.
The second the mother reached the kerb, Miranda put her foot down, narrowly beating the change back to amber. She stole a final glance in the mirror then powered through the traffic. Eager for distraction, she flicked on the radio and re-tuned it to something closer to the last twenty years.
The green Peugeot she’d kept tabs on had been two cars back for a good five minutes now. Probably nothing in it, but she pulled in and watched as it passed without slowing down. Better safe than sorry. Back when Dad was first under suspicion, when he was being fitted up, the Wright family had sat down together and drawn up a set of rules.
Simple stuff: mistrust everyone; say nothing; if at all concerned, go to a public place — preferably with lots of CCTV and people. Thomas had said similar things that morning, like an echo of her dad. Although he did play poker better.
* * *
Nicholas arrived promptly at Great Portland Street. He’d prepared a briefing, but it was very clear, from the moment he opened the conference room door and laid eyes on them, that he was more passenger than leader. No round of introductions here. Everyone knew their place — and their distance.
“Shall we?” he headed for the stairs, crossing his fingers that they followed him. He took the front passenger seat in the people carrier and said nothing until they were on the move. The GPS tracker showed that the car was southbound, corresponding to the map onscreen. His job, he now realised, was to relay the data and coordinate the team. So why was the blue dot travelling further and further away from Harwich?
He considered ringing Sir Peter to check. No, he could manage things. Besides, how hard could it be to pick up one SSU man? He touched lightly at his cheek and felt the last vestige of bruising from where he’d taken a beating in Thomas Bladen’s flat. He blushed at the memory of waking up in the undergrowth of a roundabout, stripped to his underwear. Shameful, but he’d weathered that storm. Whereas his accomplice had never been seen again. “Get a move on; I think he’s giving us the run around.”
The driver obeyed him and he felt his silent companions behind him twitch to attention. “I’m Nicholas, if you didn’t already know.” Now he was in his stride, captain of the team.
“Alice.”
He looked round at her and stared, as if to say ‘really’? She didn’t flinch. Alice, it was then. Jack declared himself, but the driver — a much older man — said nothing. No matter, Nicholas was used to dealing with servants. No one ventured any further information, which didn’t surprise him. Scratch the surface of most departments and the protocol was the same.
They were making progress against the target vehicle and it didn’t take a science degree to pinpoint the destination: Gatwick. They still had the element of surprise and the advantage of numbers, if it came to that. So what was Bladen up to? Sir Peter evidently didn’t know; this could be the coup he’d been looking for.
He swapped hands with the tracker unit and felt the clamminess between his palms. “Good luck everyone; we’re nearly there.” He saw Jack and Alice sh
are a glance of disdain — so much the better. He wasn’t there to be liked; he had a job to do. The numbers on screen whittled down as they approached the short stay car park. He already had the number plate and gestured as he saw the vehicle parking up; gestured because he was too wired to speak.
* * *
A people carrier with blacked-out windows drew in front of Miranda’s car. She heard the doors as she delved into her handbag for her mobile to ring Thomas and let him know she’d arrived. As she rifled through her things, she ran through a shortlist of opening lines and settled on: ‘Are you still inside?’
Before she could dial, her driver’s door opened. She turned to see a youngish man in an expensive suit. “Yeah, what do you want?”
He looked lost for an answer. She reached over to pull the handle in, but the light began to fade. Behind her, someone was blocking the passenger door. Panic time.
Posh Bloke had stepped back, allowing a woman to crank the door wider and start pulling on her arm. “Where is he?”
As Miranda felt herself being dragged out of the car, she went limp to conserve her strength. Then she grabbed the edge of her seat and pulled herself down towards the gear-stick. As soon as she was close enough, she kicked hard against the passenger window, right at the chink in the pane that Thomas had never got round to fixing, driving her boot heel into the glass with a roar. The window splintered on the third kick; a pity that light block had the sense to move in time. Now she rolled on to her stomach and let the woman pull her out, waiting until she was past the steering wheel to swing, left-handed. Not her finest work, but three years of kickboxing — and running a bar — did the job.
“Wait!” Posh Bloke held up his hand, like a teacher intervening in a playground brawl. “We’re here to help you. Thomas sent us. He’s in trouble.”
Miranda ceased struggling and the woman let go. They ushered her into the people carrier. If this was the cavalry, they had a funny way of showing it. As everyone climbed aboard, she copped the driver sending a text. No one else seemed to have noticed.
“What about my car?”
Posh Bloke seemed subdued again. “It’ll be taken care of.”
Next question. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?”
Either they were stonewalling her or something was amiss here. Eyes darted back and forth, but nobody answered. Posh Bloke seemed to be the one in charge; she’d have to work on him. She played the game of pluses and minuses in her head, as much to organise her thoughts as to try and stay calm. Pluses: they hadn’t hurt her, they’d mentioned Thomas and they didn’t seem like hardened criminals — and she knew what they looked like. Minuses: Thomas must have sent them to her and she didn’t know what the deal was.
Nobody spoke to her as the people carrier sped clockwise around the M25. She wasn’t bothered; she had plenty to think about. How did they know how to find her, especially as she’d been driving Thomas’s car? A shame about the window though — she’d better let Thomas know she was safe. “I need to make a phone call.”
“Later.”
Well, that was brief and to the point. She toyed with the idea of just opening her mobile, but something told her to stay submissive and bide her time. The woman beside her winced as she practiced opening and closing her eye. Yeah, as Sheryl at the club would say, in her native Brooklyneese: ‘suck it up.’
Eyeball — no one had introduced themselves, bar the merest sniff of an ID card, so she had given them her name — Eyeball’s face changed. She seemed more focused and detached. Miranda almost felt bad for punching her — sisterhood and all that.
“How well do you know Thomas Bladen?”
Miranda smiled inwardly. Outwardly she stayed as blank as a new canvas. All Thomas’s paranoia was finally bearing fruit. “We go way back.”
“And what do you know about his work?”
This was like painting by numbers. “He’s a government photographer — and he delivers packages.” Too much information maybe? She glanced ahead and read the A road as they turned off. Eyeball leaned over and touched her leg.
“I know this must all seem strange to you.”
That was a first; good cop and bad cop all rolled together, making: average cop. Miranda nodded and bit at her fingernail. Dad had said he used to do that in police interrogations, to accompany whatever crap he was feeding them.
Eyeball continued. “It’s just a precaution, you understand. Thomas’s cover is at risk and he wanted you kept safe until we have things under control.”
Miranda dug her nail hard into her hand, to stifle a response. They were lying, and badly. Firstly, Thomas didn’t have any cover. Secondly, he was intensely private, so how would they know about her? And thirdly, if Thomas had been in any kind of trouble, he’d have contacted the family first.
But here she was, in the company of strangers, and he did have that bandage on his arm the previous night, so something didn’t sit right. “Does Thomas know I’m with you?”
Eyeball swallowed and took a breath then swapped glances with Posh Bloke. “We’ll contact him once you’re at a secure location.”
Miranda narrowed her gaze and dug her nail into her palm again: jackpot. She sat back and took stock; she was sandwiched between two of them — no chance of getting out. Best play the dumb blonde for now and try and hold it together. “Yeah, that makes sense. Do you think I could just leave him a message? Only I was supposed to feed the dog later and he might worry if he gets back and Butch . . .”
Eyeball leaned forward and Posh Bloke mumbled approval. “Alright, but keep it short — you can use my mobile.” Eyeball opened her phone, punched in the digits from a piece of paper and passed the phone over.
It went straight to his office voicemail. “Hi Tom, it’s Miranda. Erm, something’s come up so you’ll have to sort Butch out yourself today. Sorry.” She returned the phone with a smile; it was up to him now.
Eyeball gave her a funny look. “I need your handbag, as a precaution.”
The silent wonder on her left wriggled in his seat; no, he squirmed. Even he didn’t fall for that line.
“Okay,” Miranda handed her bag over.
Posh Bloke signalled to the driver and they pulled in at the next lay-by. He seemed quietly agitated. When they stopped he got out, walked a few yards ahead and got on his mobile. Whatever he was saying, he didn’t look happy.
Eyeball leaned in close again. “We need to find Thomas urgently — do you know where he is, Miranda?”
“He wasn’t working today so he lent me his car.” Then she thought of something else. Oh bollocks, Terry would be waiting at the airport.
Eyeball seemed satisfied with the explanation, unlike the Silent Wonder. From the look on his face, he had less of a clue than she did.
After five minutes or so, Posh Bloke stormed back to the vehicle. His face was a picture — a portrait depicting ‘pissed off.’
“We’re to go here,” he announced to the driver, passing him a note. The driver seemed unperturbed, switching on classical music as he rejoined the traffic. Posh Bloke said nothing more, but his face spoke volumes.
Chapter 27
“Anything I can get you, Thomas?”
If Sheryl leaned any further over the bar, her breasts would tumble out to greet him. “That’s okay,” he flustered.
Caliban’s was practically empty. He felt like a teenager on a blind date, trying not to look conspicuous as he watched the minute hand inch its way round for the umpteenth time. He thought about ringing Miranda, but she’d probably be driving. He turned the mobile over and pretended he was fiddling with the casing instead.
“Wanna shoot some pool?”
“Sure,” he’d never sounded less sure of anything in his life.
“Relax, Thomas. I don’t bite.”
No, he thought as he followed her, but you do look capable of nibbling.
“You and Miranda go way back, don’t you?”
He smiled; that was the phrase they always used.
“So how come you two never quite got it together?”
He made a dumb face in the absence of a convincing explanation, and racked up the balls. The first two games went to Sheryl with ease — he barely got a look in. He turned the third game around and somehow snuck in the black, more by luck than judgement.
Sometimes when she looked at him, he wanted to ask her things — about Miranda, about herself; about why a girl from Brooklyn should wind up managing a bar in East London. But he let it go, same as always. For a while, he kidded himself that he was capable of winning, but Sheryl’s soon shattered any lasting illusions.
“Did you grow up in a Pool Hall?”
“Pretty much! You’re not too bad though.”
He chose to take it as a compliment. As he bent down to take a shot, his mobile trilled into life — it was Karl.
“Thomas, are you free to talk? It’s urgent.”
“Sure,” He felt the blood run cold up his neck. He shouldered the phone and moved to the main bar for better reception.
“Where have you been today?”
“Nowhere. I was out last night and I’m at Caliban’s now.”
“Tommo, your car’s been picked up at Gatwick airport. There’s damage to one of the windows, keys still in the ignition. Were you there?” It sounded like an accusation.
“No, I lent the car to . . . to a friend.”
The line went silent. “Stay right where you are and I’ll come get you.”
The room seemed to spin; he grabbed at a chair and it shrieked. Sheryl rushed over and the shock on his face reflected on hers. He sat down before his legs buckled under him.
Sheryl quickly rejoined him with two whiskies. “Talk to me.”
He shook his head.
“Is it Miranda?”
“They found my car . . . abandoned . . .”
Sheryl put a hand to her mouth. “I’ll ring Diane.”
“No!” he barked. “Let me take care of this. Karl’s on his way.” He downed most of the whisky in one go and felt the bile swirling inside him. Sheryl looked at him, as if she could see the turmoil inside. He realised that he didn’t even know what to tell her.
STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense Page 20