“You hurt her badly, but you weren’t to know.” She drew a breath with difficulty. “The thing is, there were complications and now she may not be able . . .” Diane looked like a broken woman.
He smudged a finger against one eye. “What do I do?”
Diane seemed not to have heard him. “Maybe some good has come out of this.” She stared at her hands. “Miranda doesn’t want any more secrets; only she couldn’t face telling you. So now you know.”
“Okay.” He faltered. “I’ll talk to her tonight. I dunno; we’ll see a counsellor or something. I’ll find some way to make it up to her.”
She stared at him and reached out a hand. “You don’t get it — it wasn’t your baby.”
Everything moved into slow motion, like the time he’d been shot. He was aware of standing up and walking, but it wasn’t really him. Diane said something about staying, only the words rushed past him. It took all his concentration to put one foot in front of the other, get into the car and drive away. He had nowhere to go.
“Karl, are you busy?”
“Twice in one day — people will start to talk.” He cut the comedy routine when he got the measure of the situation. “I’ll meet you at Holloway Road Tube station. You’ve got your passport?”
* * *
What he felt was a heavy grief, about everything, now that the covers had come off. Miranda must have been seeing the footballer before they’d broken up, during her sex embargo. There was anger too — at the world — especially people like Sir Peter Carroll and Jack Langton. Tonight he’d settle for targets and guns.
Karl chose Browning 9mm pistols. It had been a while since Thomas had faced down static targets but the body remembered. Muscles tensed and then settled in that curious way Karl had told him about. The ear defenders entombed him with his thoughts and he lined them up like targets to take them out one at a time. It was all he could cope with. By the time he reeled in his handiwork, the burden had lifted a little.
Karl waited until Thomas had emptied two full magazines and then signalled that their session was over. It wasn’t quite therapy, but it came close. He set the pistol down and wondered: was this who he was now — the kind of man who needed a gun to feel in control of his own life?
“Do you, er, want to try some other equipment?” Karl carefully closed the lid on the Brownings.
He shrugged; he didn’t know what he wanted, other than to not go home. Karl returned with a pair of SIG Sauers.
“I’ll tell you this, Tommo, you’ve got an edge about you tonight. Whatever’s bugging you, it’s doing wonders for your hand-eye coordination.”
“You have a fair idea what it’s about.”
“Let me just annihilate your score and then we’ll get us a beverage.”
It still amused him that a private shooting club offered drinks and snacks. He watched as Karl sauntered back to their table with the goodies, silently acknowledging persons unknown.
Thomas picked at his pastry. “Incidentally, what happened to Jack Langton’s post that I lifted from Janey’s?”
Karl’s face pinched in. “Oh, right. It was mostly nonsense, apart from one interesting item. It’s in code, so we’ve been busy having a crack at it.”
“Oh?” He gave him his full attention, intrigued to hear there was something Karl and his cronies couldn’t do. “Tell me more.”
Karl’s eyes seemed to glint. “It’s a piece of brilliance — both simple and complicated – like a Vigenère code. It requires a key word; but we haven’t figured it out yet. We’ve tried variations on names — wife, Jack himself, their kids, even Jacob. Basically, anything we could associate with him. No dice.”
“What about ‘scumbag’?”
Karl laughed, raising his coffee in a toast. “That was one of my first choices.”
Thomas swallowed. “Try ‘Sheryl.’”
Karl took out his mobile and made the call in front of him — that was a first. He spelt out Sheryl’s name and waited a minute or so, with the phone at his ear. Finally, Karl nodded and ended the call. “I’m impressed. Honest to God, Tommo, you ought to be in intelligence.” Karl was all smiles but he wasn’t laughing.
Disparate details were aligning in Thomas’s brain and a disturbing picture was emerging. “Let’s play a game.” He dug out a pen and paper. “I’m going to write three statements down. You don’t have to add anything, just tell me if I’m right. Deal?”
Karl nodded; he didn’t look happy about it. Thomas gave every sentence careful consideration, adding to Karl’s discomfort. He could see Karl reading the words from across the table.
1. Jack Langton is at the end of a Shadow State supply line.
2. The merchandise at Janey’s flat belongs to the Shadow State.
3. Both Jack and Charlie Stokes were already persons of interest to your people.
Karl took the list and re-read it. “I wouldn’t contradict any of your conclusions.” The façade slipped a little. “Look Thomas, you have to understand . . .”
He cut Karl off. “How could I do that without the information?”
* * *
Back at his flat, Thomas searched Vigenère ciphers on the Internet and gave himself a headache. He flicked on the TV to fill the void and fixed a microwave meal from the freezer. Hunched over the table and shovelling shepherd’s pie into his mouth, he replayed the events of a shitty day. Did anyone tell him the truth anymore?
‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone . . .’ his mother used to say. He thought about the times he’d driven past Christine Gerrard’s flat once they’d split up, coincidentally around the same time Miranda returned from Bermuda. Or that evening, working late with Christine, when a friendly drink nearly became something more.
Just after eleven pm he switched his mobile back on. There was a text waiting, all in caps: GEENA HAD A BOY. 8-3. SEND FLOWERS. AJIT & GEENA X.
He got in the car without a destination in mind. London seemed emptier because Miranda wasn’t out there somewhere. About the only thing he knew was that he’d be keeping well clear of Christine’s Hampstead flat. If Bob Peterson were there tonight, he’d be getting a free pass.
He couldn’t deny himself a drive past Caliban’s and, as he gave a sad salute to the neon sign, an idea struck him. Maybe Karl was doing his own surveillance on Janey and Greg tonight. The thought took hold, gnawing away, leading to only one conclusion. As he drove into Janey’s housing estate he spotted someone weaving along the pavement, obviously pissed. Greg’s idea of supporting Janey and their boy was by getting bladdered. No sign of her; she’d probably be at home waiting by the phone.
He pulled in and backtracked, twenty yards or so behind him. He figured the least he could do was make sure Greg made it home in one piece. The trouble was, other people had a different plan. At first it was just two shapes, up ahead, moving out of the shadows. Greg stopped, his carrier bag clinking as he stood there. It was only going to go one way and Thomas had to make a split second decision. He started running towards them.
Greg went down and by the time Thomas got there they were kicking seven bells out of him from opposite sides and yelling that he should have kept his trap shut. Greg was hardly moving — not a good sign.
Thomas ran into the first one at full pelt, knocking him flying. The second lad — they looked about early twenties — put up two fists and wanted to make a night of it. Whatever else they were, they weren’t fighters. He sidestepped a half-hearted punch and returned the favour with interest. He felt his knuckles connect with a satisfying crack.
The lad may not have been a boxer but he knew how to take a punch; he recovered, charging back for a second wave. Thomas dodged a first punch that never came, unlike the second that winded him. He doubled over and pulled back, furious with himself for being fooled so easily.
The first one was up on his feet now and spoiling for revenge. Greg was no use whatsoever; Thomas saw him out the corner of his eye checking his bag for damages.
“You’re
gonna be sorry . . .” They advanced towards him.
He straightened and faced them down, crushing his fists in. Not as sorry as you. The would-be boxer was around five feet nine, giving Thomas a two inch height advantage and a better reach. The guy flinched back when he launched himself towards him, but the other one, bigger and broader, made a wide circle round.
Thomas turned and retreated to keep them both in his field of vision, forming an unholy triangle. That’s when he heard the unmistakeable shikk of a flick knife tasting the air. The shitty day had just got worse.
The boxer held out a hand to stay stab-boy, but things had gone too far. Thomas felt the inside of his mouth turn to sand. Chances were that they’d only cut him, as a warning. But warning or not he would make it his personal business to really fuck them up. He watched knife boy’s eyes, waiting for him to make the first move, having already decided on a throat punch or a kick in the bollocks.
A bottle smashed somewhere behind him and, to his immense relief, Karl McNeill came forward.
“Put it down, son or you might hurt someone.”
Knife boy didn’t look convinced although he edged back a little, still sizing up his chances. “This is nothing to do with you.”
“I’m making it my business.” Karl waved the broken bottle back and forth.
Thomas turned back to the boxer, surprised — and a teensy bit impressed — that he hadn’t run off. One look in those eyes told him that they were both packing some sort of weapon.
“He said put it down.”
They all turned to see Ann Crossley, facing them, arms extended with a pistol at the end. Knife boy dropped his weapon as if it was molten and started walking away. His accomplice followed suit. Karl was quick to pick up the knife but he didn’t try to stop them.
“I’ll leave you boys to have a chat — I’ll be in the car.” Ann holstered her weapon and zipped up her jacket, cucumber cool.
Thomas stared at Karl, aware that his mouth was open.
“What just happened here?”
“Come on, Tommo, we better get him home. We’ll talk about this another time.”
Chapter 20
He stared at the alarm in disbelief — six fifteen — and made the best of it by dragging his weary arse out of bed to order flowers online for the new Mummy and Daddy. He skipped breakfast and was out the door before seven, beating the rush into the capital. Too restless to take photographs, he walked around St Paul’s Cathedral and gave a fiver to a beggar to make himself feel better.
Karl arrived for the pick-up at eight fifteen, in high spirits judging by his whistling. Paulette Villers was first on the day’s Benefits’ hit list and Karl opted for their previous vantage point. Thomas was determined not to mention the previous night.
He blew across the camera buttons for dust, paused, and then removed the lens cap. “What’s put you in such a good mood?”
“Irony and information. Guess who manufactures the SSU’s ID cards now?”
He shrugged; he couldn’t give a shit. Doubtless, Karl would regale him with a tale of corporate conspiracy if he waited long enough.
“Give up?” Karl lasted ten seconds. “Engamel, that’s who!”
Thomas sneered at the news.
“Yeah.” Karl huffed a breath and folded his arms. “I thought that’d give you something to think about.”
Engamel — manufacturers of the Urban Ballistics UB40, also known as The Scavenger. The weapon a woman had died for needlessly, a few months back — when, for once, Sir Peter Carroll had done the honourable thing and stood up to the Euro-Cartel.
Thomas bit at a thumbnail, cradling his camera with his other hand. “Anything more from your army mate, Ken?” He waited for an update, which never came.
When Paulette Villers arrived with her partner, she was limping. Karl picked up his camera.
“See.” Karl pressed into the eyepiece. “That’s what I don’t get about domestics. The other lass gives her a beating and then helps her into work — her illegal work. The mind boggles.”
They captured the footage, mapping every step and glance. Thomas focused on Paulette’s companion. Once the target had entered the building, the other woman waited a few seconds, flapping her arms against her coat to stay warm. His camera picked out her anxiety and the uneven stance.
Thomas lowered his lens. “Listen, do you fancy doing a sandwich and coffee run? I didn’t have breakfast and I’m famished.”
Karl held out his hand for cash. “I’ll give it back to you later, scouts’ honour.”
He watched him leave and returned to his vigil. Something didn’t sit right; that familiar tension was creeping over him, subtle as seduction — instinct. Paulette’s other half was still there, checking both directions from the corner. Paulette Villers rushed back out of the laundry, grabbed the woman’s arm and they cautiously made their way up the side street.
He was out of the car before he really registered what he was doing. There was no plan; only a sense that something was wrong and he might be able to help. But even that was an afterthought.
“Paulette, wait . . .” He was only a few paces behind them now.
Both women turned and then pulled closer together, shuffling up the street like wounded animals.
“Look, I wanna help.” He stopped moving.
“Leave us alone. He’ll see you and then we’ll all be in trouble.”
He? That threw him. “I’ll be here on Monday, early — if you want to talk.” He didn’t wait for an answer. A silver Saab cut into the side street. He sized up the driver effortlessly; well-built with cropped, greying hair — a geezer who’d use an old-fashioned gym and wouldn’t be seen dead in a leisure centre. A mastiff of a man; the sort of bloke you didn’t fuck with.
Thomas turned his head away slowly, so that he could get a look at the number plate sideways on — one for Karl to check out later. He told himself it was probably nothing, until the Saab stopped in the road. He crossed over to get a better look and saw the two women, now parallel with the car, slowly get inside.
Karl was waiting by Thomas’s locked car, without breakfast. “There was a queue at the café, so I didn’t bother.” He didn’t speak again until they were moving. “I’m waiting, Tommo. This had better be good.”
Thomas passed over the number plate and assembled his thoughts aloud. “I know it’s a stretch, but I’ve been right about stuff in the past, haven’t I? You set the ball rolling with your comment about ‘domestics’ and when Paulette left the laundry and they both started walking . . .”
Karl closed his eyes, as if asking for intercession. “Where is this going?”
“If you can check out the Saab’s owner.”
Karl smiled, cat-like. “You used to do that kind of thing privately.”
“Yeah, well, I think you proved conclusively last night that we’re a team. And besides, your contacts will be quicker.”
Karl made the call at their next observation session. By the time a Nigerian family — based on the clothing and the notes — exited number 43 and locked the front door behind them, proving fairly conclusively that Mr Liang was subletting, he had his reply.
“Well, well,” Karl lowered his mobile. “Looks like you were on to something. You had a close encounter with Mr Charlie Stokes.”
That was two hits on the radar; it was definitely time to speak with Jack Langton again.
* * *
Ninety per cent of surveillance was sitting around waiting for something to happen, but it wasn’t the worst part of the job. Every assignment demanded some interaction with their hosts and that could only mean one thing: meetings.
The review was scheduled for three thirty — a crap time by anyone’s estimation. Karl checked through the paperwork en route. They agreed a ‘no questions’ pact to get out by four-thirty, so they could visit the SSU office at Liverpool Street.
Karl must have been working a night shift again; he’d taken dressing down to new depths and could have passed for a benefit clai
mant himself, like the one they’d just followed to a doctor’s surgery. Despite that, Karl was relentlessly upbeat.
“Don’t you get a thrill from it? With each assignment we become someone else.”
Thomas shrugged. “Same shit, different department.”
Undeterred, Karl hummed a Disney tune on their way through the turnstile. Second floor, sharp left, and along the corridor to the glass-walled meeting room. Welcome to the goldfish bowl.
Not the last in, but close. Someone muttered, “Floaters,” as they took their seats. Karl retaliated by coughing, “Wankers.” At three thirty on the dot Dawn Yeates rose from her chair and hushed everyone. As she turned towards the whiteboard, the beads in her hair clattered together.
“Let’s make a start. Karl?” She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Perhaps you’d like to kick off?”
Thomas glanced at Karl, who was smiling back. Was this some kind of magic moment? He gave a succinct progress update, highlighting their successes and the gaps. This was Benefits Investigation Karl, who spoke the language of the locals — claimants, suspected and benefits, recipients. Thomas sat back to enjoy the show.
Dawn Yeates lapped it up, showering him with praise and suggesting tactics. Karl took notes. After that, feedback Friday went round the table like a Mexican wave. Some of them sounded like big game hunters reflecting on their kills, while one pair — clearly ex-coppers, lamented that they no longer had the power of arrest.
The latecomers put in an appearance close to the end — another SSU team, based over in West London. Thomas had never really spoken with them; he only knew them by their surnames — Malone and Iqbal. They sounded like injury lawyers. Malone always seemed buttoned-up, her skirts safely below the knee, while Iqbal’s smart suit belied his position. Thomas suspected that he’d been assigned on the grounds of ethnicity and language skills. Or maybe the pair of them weren’t in favour with the SSU.
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