Shadow State

by DEREK THOMPSON

  “Don’t come back!”

  She stumbled inside, glass in hand. Thomas’s phone started ringing.

  “Tommo. Time to move.” Karl spoke in staccato.

  “Relax, Karl. I’m walking round now.”

  “Well, start running, someone’s breaking into your flat.”

  * * *

  Karl shuffled across to the passenger seat. “You drive. I need to call someone.”

  Thomas over-revved the engine and spun the wheels as the car screeched away. Karl kept his voice low. Thomas picked out his address and the word ‘urgent’ — that was as much as he needed. Hard to tell what pissed him off more — that Karl had been personally monitoring the security system he’d helped set up in the flat, that Thomas’s own mobile had been second on the contact list, or that Moretti had the sheer bloody arrogance to invade his personal space. This was worse than the incident at Caliban’s — another line crossed that could not go unpunished. Twenty minutes at the wheel seemed like a lifetime, but finally a road sign read Welcome to Walthamstow. He parked up a few doors away.

  “I’ll take the back.” He threw Karl his keys and didn’t wait for an answer. He jogged round to the alley behind the flats, conserving his energy for whatever — and whoever — lay ahead. He slowed at the alleyway, scouring the ground for anything to use as a weapon. The best he could find was half a house brick, which nestled comfortably in one hand.

  Moretti was obviously behind the burglary, and equally obviously he’d have sent a lackey to do the job. Thomas curled his fingers tighter around the brick at the thought, scraping his nails on the surface.

  He crept up the metal steps, noting the damaged window frame. A good forced entry, had it not been for his hidden security system. About the time he realised the folly of handing Karl all his keys, he heard the inside bolt on the door drawing back. He froze and tensed his brick arm.

  The door opened and he made a split-second decision, settling for a fist in the face. No point risking a charge of Actual Bodily Harm when a surprise punch in the mouth ought to do the job.

  The burglar went down without a word, his head smacking against the kitchen linoleum with a satisfying thwack. No blood by the looks of things, fortunately. No bags, either. Thomas stared at the prone body until he heard Karl’s voice in the distance.

  “You okay, Tommo?” Karl appeared at the other end of the kitchen. “Jesus, will you put that down!”

  Thomas dropped the brick behind him, and it bounced away, the thuds reverberating at each step. He dragged the body inside a little so he could close the door. A quick search of the mystery man’s pockets revealed a car key and some money, a few small tools, and the remnants of some electrical wire.

  “What do we do with my visitor?”

  Karl did his sphinx impression. “Transport’s on its way.”

  Thomas didn’t ask.

  Chapter 18

  After minutes spent staring down at the unconscious man, Karl’s mobile trilled into life. Now came the tricky part, carrying a dead weight, figuratively speaking, down the steps. A van with blacked out windows backed down the alleyway to receive the patient. A woman exited from the rear.

  “Hello again, Thomas.”

  “Teresa.” He nodded curtly and avoided looking at Karl. Hadn’t the two of them once been involved, or was that another assumption encouraged by Karl? Whatever the case, she and Karl had little to say to one another. Once the patient was on board the van didn’t hang around.

  Thomas and Karl stood in the alley, watching the dust settle.

  “Fancy a cuppa?”

  Thomas was halfway up the stairs when he smelled burning. By the time he reached the kitchen he heard something popping and the air was acrid. Running through to the living room he confronted a column of flame from the plug socket up to his beloved photographs.

  Karl was a step behind him. “You deal with this and I’ll check the other rooms.”

  Thomas quickly flicked the socket switch and then grabbed a towel to smother the flames on the wall. It didn’t take a genius to see that the intruder had rigged up a plug-in air freshener as a fire-starter. Now he wished he’d bounced him down the stairs instead.

  “Tommo! There’s more of them. You better cut the power. Fuck, this thing’s hot.”

  He tripped the mains circuit breaker and returned to the wall, staring up at the damaged frames in the dimness. Heat throbbed in his fingertips. Karl’s pocket torch flickered at the edge of his peripheral vision.

  “I found two more IEDs.” Karl’s voice grew louder. “That’s Improvised Explosive—”

  “Devices,” Thomas beat him to the punchline. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the wall.

  Karl knelt down and extracted the charred unit from the plug socket. “Cunning bastard. These would have gone off at different times. Not lethal, but they make a hell of a mess.”

  “Psychological warfare.” Thomas lifted off a photo of Miranda, feeling the warmth in his palms. He wiped the smudged glass, felt the crack, and peered through time at a younger Miranda, languid in sunlight, on a summer’s day at Golden Acre Park in Leeds.

  “Picture frames can be replaced, Thomas.”

  He carried the frame through to the kitchen and then switched the power back on. Moretti would know by his phone that he was back home. Anger brought clarity.

  “I’d better stay here tonight. When he realises his messenger has disappeared he might think about sending someone else.”

  Karl sat down. “I’ll stick around as well. Two fists are better than one. What’s for dinner then, Chinese or Indian?”

  Thomas cracked a one-second smile for effort. Good to know Karl had his back, and all for the price of a balti. He passed Karl a twenty and told him to let himself back in. He’d started dialling before the door slammed.

  “Sir Peter Carroll, please. Yes, I know what the time is. Thomas Bladen — would you like my ID number?” Apparently not.

  Sir Peter took his time picking up. Thomas hit the ground running.

  “Where will I find Moretti? He tried to burn my home down. I know about you and Heick, and I also know the name of Heick’s contact in the Shadow State. The one who’s moving up their ranks.”

  He imagined Sir Peter sitting up straight in his chair like a general. “I’ll have the information for you tomorrow — by noon.”

  The old man had sounded jittery. Maybe Moretti was harder to trace than expected, even for the head of the Surveillance Support Unit.

  Thomas rang Jack Langton next.

  “It’s Thomas. The bloke responsible is called Moretti and I’ll have his address tomorrow.” Jack gave him a mobile number to add to his collection.

  Heick was last on his call list. Thomas kept to the golden rule of only telling people what you needed them to know — that he knew who had ordered the shooting and that he planned to take care of it. He deliberately faltered and Heick grabbed the bait like a shark.

  “If you need assistance, let me know. How is Karl?”

  He pictured Karl shaking his head slowly. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Karl returned with the balti bounty. Thomas reassured himself there wouldn’t have been enough time to collect the food and make himself a spare set of keys, and in any case Karl could have done that after a previous break-in, when he’d had the door replaced.

  He dished out the calls with the food. Karl didn’t ask what the plan was — no need. Moretti had threatened Thomas’s life and Miranda’s, and now that threat had to be neutralised.

  “What else?” Karl shovelled in his food with all the gusto a former squaddie could muster.

  Thomas reached for a notepad. “Right.” He scribbled some shapes and drew arrows to the centre of the page where he wrote Moretti — underlined. “I want Mrs Leibowicz to call Moretti on whatever number she has for him and I want that number tracked. Can you get that sorted?”

  “Consider it done. I still have her cheque. I’ll ring her now.”

  “I need her to . . .” Th
omas stared across the room to where he’d rehung Miranda’s picture. “Tell her to convince Moretti she’s had a rethink and now she wants to sign the papers.”

  “What’s your logic?”

  Thomas clattered his fork against the plate. “Element of surprise. First I want to deplete Moretti’s manpower and then I’ll send in Jack. Okay, one last call to make.”

  Karl took the hint and cleared the plates away to the kitchen.

  “Alright, Terry? It’s Thomas. Are you busy for the next couple of days? I need a massive favour.”

  Chapter 19

  Thomas reached Kings Cross St Pancras station by seven-thirty. True to his word, Karl had not only rustled up breakfast he’d also managed to get a repair team in early, to make the flat secure again. Thomas had left them all to it.

  The station concourse was wall-to-wall commuters and that dull vibrating hum of hundreds of people living within their own heads like rebellious ants. Terry met him behind the information kiosk. He needed a shave. Thomas reckoned Terry wasn’t a morning person.

  “I’ll just get my ticket and then we’ll talk.”

  Terry stood with him in the queue, chaperoning him to the ticket counter.

  “Open return to York please.” Thomas tried not to wince when he heard the price. Now he understood what Karl meant by expenses. Money extorted and ticket extracted, he returned to the melee of passengers, well-wishers and pickpockets.

  “Okay, Terry, here’s everything you need to know.” He passed over a jiffy bag. “Thanks a million. If you run into trouble, ring me — day or night — and me or Karl will sort it out.”

  Terry took out what he needed and then added the jiffy bag to his rucksack. For once, the fast train to York left on time. Thomas hoped it was a good omen.

  * * *

  Right around the time the York train cleared Peterborough a text winged its way to Moretti like a bullet.

  ‘You made your point in Walthamstow. Let me make mine. Your man won’t be returning.’

  Even Moretti’s fastest response would leave an hour’s gap to clear York and head for Pickering. Maybe Moretti had people on the inside. It was one of Karl’s pet theories, given how DI Ferguson had been so keen to place Moretti beyond the scope of the current investigation.

  Karl provided a DIY update by phone. “The back door and window would stop an elephant. I’m on my way to the police station. When will I see you?”

  Thomas allowed himself the luxury of a smile. “In about forty-five minutes, once Terry is clear of Peterborough. I’d better ring Ajit now.”

  For some reason, Thomas always found it hard to lie to Ajit. Even withholding the truth, which his mother had assured him was not a sin, somehow violated their friendship. Despite being a solid fifteen stone two of North Yorkshire police sergeant there was a touch of the innocent about Ajit. He’d had that rarest of things — a normal upbringing. And now he was settled with Geena and the baby. Ajit represented that other road Thomas might have travelled down, had he not got into a conversation about photography with Sir Peter Carroll in a civil service lift. Yep, considering everything since then, lifts ought to carry a safety warning.

  “Aj? All right, mate? You free to talk?”

  “Bloody ’ell, Thomas Bladen! I thought you’d changed your identity and gone into hiding.”

  He gave Ajit a moment to laugh at his own joke. Fair enough, it had been a while.

  “Are you coming up to see us, like?”

  Time to close the door on the puppy’s cage. “Not exactly.”

  Ajit took it all in without comment.

  “It’s only for tonight, so Terry can sleep safe.”

  “He could stay over at ours, I suppose.” Ajit didn’t sound too convinced.

  He let him off the hook. “Nah, it’s fine. Just leave the phone he’ll give you in your locker at the police station overnight. He’ll call you when he’s in Pickering. Thanks, Aj.”

  He cut the call and turned the cogs in his brain another notch. So far so good.

  Karl had coffee and muffins on standby in the information room. Stewed caffeine had never tasted so good.

  “Operation Takedown is on track then?”

  He sampled a muffin. “I think so. When is Mrs L ringing Moretti?”

  “Once I get word that the trace is set up. In the meantime, let’s gather some information for our hosts!”

  * * *

  DS Edwards came to check on their progress around eleven-thirty. Thomas could sense her wariness around them now. Maybe the coppers had all decided to close ranks, what with Professional Standards sniffing around. He could hardly blame Edwards, even if she had happily taken the credit for the child rescue escapade. The last Thomas had heard on the subject, Mrs L had admitted contacting Moretti from the first safe house, in a moment of panic. Edwards hadn’t seemed entirely convinced but a written statement was on its way, keeping Professional Standards at bay and putting everyone else in the clear. The only fly in the ointment was Edwards’s unwillingness to let the matter rest.

  She helped herself to a muffin from the bag. “What I don’t get is why she waited until now to say something about it. And then there’s the mystery of how someone managed to trace the call.”

  She meant Moretti of course, but his name didn’t feature in the paperwork. In the developing case file an oblique reference cited him as ‘a person of interest.’

  Thomas stopped listening to Edwards and Karl bonding over carbohydrates. It all played out in his head like stepping stones, each one leading him inevitably to the next, while he tried not to think of the final destination. Moretti would send people up to Yorkshire after the phone, so Terry would have to box clever until Ajit took it into protective custody. Meanwhile, Jack Langton had been primed to slip his chain, eager to deal with Moretti in order to demonstrate that prison hadn’t diminished him. Quite the opposite — he was expanding his business and protecting his interests. Jesus, this had become complicated. The stepping stones ended at Arlo Moretti. Two men had died at Moretti’s command and he’d indirectly threatened Miranda. Thomas couldn’t decide which was the greater crime.

  “You okay there, Thomas? You went very quiet.” DS Edwards shared Karl’s habit of talking and eating at the same time — never an attractive feature in mixed company.

  He looked up, blinking at the neon strip light.

  “I was just saying to Karl, you two seem to have a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Anyway, I’ll be seeing you.”

  Karl saw her to the door.

  “Tommo, I know what you're going through. A decision like this can weigh heavily on your conscience. My advice? See it as a form of natural selection.”

  He found that strangely comforting.

  Sir Peter played it to the wire, ringing in at ten to twelve. He relayed an address in London’s Docklands — a palatial apartment overlooking the past. It didn’t impress Thomas. Like he told Karl, nouveau riche, new developments, new respectability, same old shit.

  Karl’s people confirmed the active trace on Moretti’s mobile. Now it was all a question of timing.

  Chapter 20

  By five p.m. all the pieces were in place. Jack Langton picked Thomas up outside Mile End Underground station. Close enough to Caliban’s to make Jack think he’d just come from there, and far away enough for Jack not to have visited.

  Jack arrived in the back of a Merc — he must have liked the chauffeur idea. He’d taken on some new muscle too, judging by the bad-ass brothers in the front. They looked like Jack’s steroid buddies — the black guy gestured to the rear door, while the white guy beside him amused himself by cracking knuckles. When it came to savagery, Jack Langton was an equal opportunity employer.

  Thomas was no expert, but if he were to guess, he’d say live wire Jack had been sampling his own cocaine.

  “No one fucks with me — nobody.” Jack faced up to Thomas, close enough for him to spot flecks of residue. He drummed out a rhythm on the leather seating. “After
tonight I’ll be taking on new business. Sure you don’t want to join me, Tommy? You’re practically part of the firm as it is!” Jack rocked with laughter and the thug duo up front seemed to enjoy it too.

  Not for the first time, Thomas wondered if this really was the best way of solving the problem. He felt his phone buzz against his leg, cut out and then start buzzing again: Terry had passed on the phone to Ajit. Thank God for that.

  When they got out of the car, Jack was still breathing like a racehorse. If Mrs Leibowicz had followed the script, Arlo Moretti would be expecting a courier. Karl had passed on a business card for SCS Couriers. Thomas knew it tied into Mrs Leibowicz’s call to Moretti. Clever Karl.

  Thomas led the way with Jack behind him and the steroid twins bringing up the rear. He pushed the button and held up the card to the camera, playing himself — a reluctant messenger. On the way in he turned, had a pretend conversation and held the door for the three amigos, who were all dressed immaculately. Thomas took the lift alone to the third floor and produced a DL sized envelope from his pocket with Moretti’s address handwritten. The pages inside were blank, but by the time Moretti realised that he’d have something else to think about.

  The lift was slow and quiet — perfect for too much thinking. He could still back out now and leave Jack and his goons to pummel the door down. Would that make him any less complicit? He withheld judgement. The lift came to a slow halt and the door swished open. Showtime. He exited the lift, counting the steps to Moretti’s pad.

  He heard rousing classical music as he reached the front door. It sounded celebratory. All things considered, The Surprise Symphony might have been more appropriate. The doorbell was stiff, as though Moretti received few visitors. Maybe he didn’t have many friends. Enemies? That was a different matter, they were forming a line — and about to make a house call.

  Moretti opened the door wearing an apron. Something smelled delicious, probably like every other last supper. There wasn’t a hint of recognition on his face and that made it easier.