Line of Sight

by DEREK THOMPSON

  Of course they knew. He must have looked like a pious schoolteacher.

  Schaefer grinned. The slimy bastard actually grinned at him. “Like I always say, Tommy, you gotta live for the moment.”

  Clarity pouted, Monroe style, and picked up a cigarette from God knows where. “Hey, Tommy, ain’t you gonna light my fire?” And the way she looked at him, barely holding it together without laughing, he knew she’d been the bait for the whole evening — the innocent American act.

  “Some other time.” He wished he’d been wearing a hidden camera as well, not for the flesh, but to capture that smug look on their faces. Although he doubted he’d forget it.

  He turned around with all the dignity he could muster and left them to it. As he reached the front door, he called back in a loud and clear voice, “I’ll see you at the funeral.” But the only reply was the sound of splashing water.

  Out along the corridor to the lift. No one else was around. He stabbed the lift button and squeezed his hands, as if that could somehow drain the adrenaline screaming through his veins. He cleared his throat for the microphone. “I don’t know where you’re hiding, just get me the fuck out of here. As soon as I’m downstairs, I start walking.”

  The thought of Amy — that twisted carnage of her body — seemed to fade in and out before him as the light flickered through the lift door window; a memory stark and real. He wondered what the Yanks thought of him now — probably pissing themselves about the uptight Brit. Well, bollocks to them.

  On the ground floor, the lift door swept open. The stillness and quiet cut through him after the night he’d just had. A receptionist stared from across the desk, bright-eyed and attentive. She smiled and he found the composure to return it and wish her a good night. His mum would have been proud.

  * * *

  Central London was still buzzing. The combination of neon, lost souls and broken dreams gave the city a poetry all its own. As he walked back to Leicester Square, he distracted himself by selecting lenses and subjects. The way the traffic headlights rolled across the surface of a tree, the jagged slices of light behind an office window blind. It wasn’t long before he was in photographer mode, back on home ground.

  It wasn’t even midnight yet. He could still ring Miranda and meet her at a nightclub. Then again, he didn’t really feel like company now. He managed twenty paces into Leicester Square — because he’d started counting them — and then he saw the suit zero in on him.

  “Mr Bladen.”

  It came as a statement. For a moment he flinched; the man looked like police of some description. He flashed his SSU ID. and the suit acknowledged it, calmly leading him away.

  “We have a car waiting.” The suit walked beside him, not speaking, until they rounded a one-way street where a grey van was parked up. As they approached, the passenger door opened and a familiar face stepped out to greet him.

  Teresa. He’d met her two or three times before. He used to think that she was Karl’s squeeze, or his boss in the other cloak-and-dagger stuff. He wasn’t sure what to believe anymore

  “It’s been a while, Thomas,” she smiled; it carried a whiff of apology.

  For the last few months, Karl had drawn an invisible line around his clandestine activities to give Thomas some breathing space. The bitter truth was that he rather missed it. He’d peeked behind the magic mirror and could never properly rejoin the audience.

  Teresa waited. He cleared his throat, blinked to show that he was paying attention.

  “Anything else I should know, Thomas?”

  “Nothing spectacular. Engamel seems to have a very open policy on drugs and team-building.”

  She didn’t push it. Perhaps, like him, she was filing it away somewhere, in case it could be useful in the future. The rest of the debrief, if you could call it that, took place in the van as they drove him home. He said little, not because he had a problem with them; it was just that although he’d worked in surveillance for a couple of years now, the kind of stuff she and Karl were involved in was in a different league.

  As the van pulled up, a street away from his flat, Teresa turned to him in the semi-darkness. “I never thanked you for what you did before . . .” She left the sentence hanging.

  He didn’t insult them both by telling her it was nothing, when it had basically fucked his whole life up. And his head. So he just reached for the door handle.

  She leant across and tapped his arm. “Until the next time . . .”

  * * *

  He shut the door behind him and cut her off. Walthamstow was deathly still. He took in a breath and held it, tuning his senses to the street. For weeks after Yorgi’s death, he’d looked into the shadows, trying to make out human forms. Totally illogical, as no one comes back from a point blank shot to the head, but when did fear have anything to do with logic? He was past that now, by and large, but he threaded his keys through his fingers again for that secure feeling.

  Nothing stirred except the muffled growl of traffic, a block away on Forest Road. He rolled his feet as he walked, dulling the sound of shoes against pavement. A few paces on and he began to breathe again; he was buzzing, ideas spinning like plates. He put his keys away as he rounded the corner and caught sight of the flat. Karl’s car was outside, soothing him like a nightlight — the kind his dad had never let him have as a child.

  He could see that Karl was reading Private Eye. As he drew closer the window wound down. “Special delivery for Mr Bladen,” Karl reached into his inside pocket and waved some paperwork.

  “You coming in then?” he ambled past and up the steps to his front door.

  Karl cut the light and locked up the car. “Tell you what, Tommo, you get the kettle on and we’ll swap stories.”

  * * *

  He dished out tea and biscuits, and then went to get changed.

  Karl started crooning. “Love letters straight from your heart . . .”

  He ignored him, ditched the suit for civvies and made a beeline for the sheets of paper Karl had left on the table. They made interesting reading.

  Major Eldridge had poured out his heart in print, while weaselling out of the eternal ‘when are you going to tell your wife about us’ conundrum. The opening line, My dearest Angel, cut no ice with him. Thomas couldn’t put his finger on it, but something didn’t sit right. He flicked through the pages like a vexed cat. As he looked up, Karl was watching over the top of his mug.

  “Come on now, figure it out! I’ll give you a clue,” Karl put down his mug and cupped his hands like a megaphone, “Something’s missing.”

  He redoubled his efforts, scanning the four pages for anything that wasn’t there. No sale. He accepted defeat gracelessly and sat down with his tea.

  “No address, Dr Watson,” Karl sucked at an imaginary Sherlock Holmes pipe.

  He checked again. So what? Still, knowing Karl’s fixation on details, where was the copy of the envelope? And then Schaefer’s comments about Jess’s memory and propensity for bullshitting joined hands to form a chain. He smiled back at Karl and prepared to drop his bombshell.

  “Bingo. Jess isn’t the major’s squeeze, but Amy was. Schaefer said Jess had a fantastic memory and called her eidetic.”

  It seemed to be the starting pistol Karl had been waiting for. “So she gets the letters somehow, commits them to memory and regurgitates them for everyone’s benefit like a proper little show-off. So what does she want from Major Eldridge?”

  “Dunno. Maybe she wants justice for Amy? Can’t see it from her behaviour so far though . . .” He clicked his fingers. “Of course, if she’s as twisted as Schaefer suggested, she might be hoping to replace Amy.”

  Karl took his imaginary pipe out of his mouth. “Let’s say you’re right, hypothetically. That explains the letters but not the papers. Why would Schaefer give a shit about love letters? There’s nothing classified in there,” he snorted, “unless it’s a cunning code.”

  Thomas bit at a nail as he narrowed his eyes. “Alright,” he lowered his thu
mb, cupping a loose fist. “Let’s speculate. What if Jess realises that Amy has mixed random ammo — maybe to speed up the testing, I dunno. Anyway, after it all goes pear-shaped, Jess takes the test sheets or whatever they use, to help cover it up. Major Eldridge showed me some report suggesting it was a factor in the accident.”

  Karl took a swig of tea, his eyes still on Thomas. “Makes sense. Of course, Jess could also be implicated in the whole mixed ammo thing, so she removes the evidence. And, I know I’m really flying by the seat of my pants here, maybe she’s memorised all the data and made a copy.”

  There was a certain logic to it. “So Engamel wants the data back and the major needs his private letters. And all roads lead to Jess — because, let’s face it, she craves the attention and the control.”

  “She’d be playing with fire though. With all the finance tied up in the development of the Scavenger, Jess would soon become expendable.”

  “Just like Amy?”

  Thomas got a fresh piece of paper and wrote it all down, for his own sanity. The major has an affair with Amy. Amy confides in Jess — or maybe Jess just finds out and gets hold of the letters. Once Amy’s gone, she ditches the envelope and the letters become part of her mental wonderland. She also destroys the data sheets from the tests — for whatever reason. And suddenly everyone is looking for her — or looking out for her.

  “So who hid the Scavenger parts under our Land Rover? And who took it?”

  Karl took a deep breath and sighed. “The major’s got to be involved. He knows what we do and he knows me. So he must expect I’ll take some sort of action.”

  Thomas left it there and filled Karl in on the after-dinner entertainment. Karl roared with laughter at Thomas’s depiction of the Engamel water-sports team.

  “So come on now, weren’t you just the teensiest bit tempted?”

  “Nah, chlorine plays havoc with my highlights.”

  Karl took the hint and changed topic. “How do you want to play the memorial service tomorrow?” That was a novelty — Karl sounding unsure of himself. “You know I can’t be there, so I thought you might need back-up — people you could trust . . .” Karl seemed to shrink away a little. “I made a couple of calls today.” He was blushing. “Miranda will accompany you. As well as Sam and Terry.”

  Thomas flinched; Karl said their names so comfortably now.

  Karl bided his time and didn’t speak until Thomas had pulled himself together.

  “And what is the master plan they’re all working to?”

  “It’s very simple. If anything kicks off, you’ll have a half-decent chance of getting Jess out of there in one piece.”

  Now he saw red. “Get her away to where? What gives you the right to drag Miranda and her family into this? She was right — this is your mess, you and your army pals.”

  Karl didn’t stay much longer. He left Thomas the copied letters for a little night reading and said he’d catch up some time after the service.

  Thomas sat there for a long time afterwards, mulling things over. He was glad he hadn’t mentioned John Wright being on the case to help get Karl back to Belfast. And was that any better than what Karl had done? He gave up the ghost and lay in bed, pawing through the letters.

  It was all there in black and white. Jess was word perfect on the details. Too perfect. He dropped the papers on the floor and turned out the light. He knew he wouldn’t sleep for a while, too wound up by Karl’s wheeler-dealing.

  When the phone went off he pounced on it, snatched the receiver up.

  “Hey you, it’s me. What are you wearing?” Only Miranda could get a laugh out of that line, every time. She brought him up to speed, on the plan he hadn’t been party to. She’d be accompanying Jess on the big day. Sam and Terry would wait at the back — their job was to stop anyone other than Thomas or Miranda taking Jess out of there. God help them, Sam had even asked whether they ought to be tooled up.

  “One other thing, Dad rang me — reckons he might have a way forward for Karl’s problem with the Irish blokes.”

  He cupped the phone closer.

  “He’s putting something together, but he’s gonna need Karl’s full support.”

  The sweat was running down his face now. This was all wrong. Miranda’s family were too exposed, and it was his fault.

  “You alright? You’re very quiet. If it wasn’t for the heavy breathing, I’d have thought you’d fallen asleep on me.” More innuendo, even if it was a lovely way to send him off to sleep.

  “Sorry, Miranda, I’m gonna turn in — I’m whacked. I’ll see you tomorrow. And remember, it’s a funeral so nothing too sexy.” He knew she’d like that.

  “Tell you what,” she whispered huskily, “I could come round first thing in the morning and try on some outfits, for your personal approval.”

  It sounded like the best plan he’d heard all day.

  Chapter 21

  Sex and death; they went together like bacon and eggs. Miranda let herself into the flat around seven o’clock; he’d drawn back the deadbolt at six.

  She tiptoed into the bedroom, and eased back the duvet. Somewhere along the route she must have discarded her clothes, because she was as naked as the good Lord had made her. And right now, he felt a touch of old-time religion coming on.

  They played the games that lovers play, teasing, testing, letting the ebb and flow of tension and pleasure carry them away with the tide. And when he lay there afterwards and felt the warm comfort of her on top of him, as the pulses of ecstasy faded like an echo, he wondered how they’d ever managed to screw up such a brilliant relationship. And whether, as Sheryl had inquired, there was still hope.

  “Right then, Mr Sticky, you get the tea on and I’ll wash the sweat off.” She could ruin a magic moment in the blink of an eye.

  Once Miranda had returned, he showered and pulled on some joggies and a T-shirt. It was barely seven thirty and he felt pleasantly tired, like after a gym workout but with the best exercise regime imaginable.

  She nibbled at her toast and gazed around the room, as if she were looking for something. “Karl suggested we pack a bag in case we need to take Jess on somewhere.”

  “Not to me he didn’t.” He tried not to sound put out, and failed. Even so, it made sense, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  By eight thirty, Miranda was out the door. The meet-up was eleven thirty — she’d left him the address of the place. He figured Jess had got the details from the good Major, and didn’t push the point. One way or another, today was going to be very strange. Might as well take it slowly, in stages.

  Once he’d packed an overnight bag, he dug out his darkest suit and put on some Otis Redding to accompany the ironing. He went to town on the tie as well, deriving great satisfaction from smoothing the material. Ironing done, he rang Sam and Terry, to confirm that he knew they were on the team. It was a short call, just long enough to agree a plan to get Jess back to Caliban’s in the event of trouble. For one thing, his flat was too small and for another, the bar had at least three exits. Relax, he told himself, how much trouble could a funeral be?

  * * *

  Ten thirty, he was parking up. Couldn’t help noticing the plane trees lining the roads: here was life in abundance. He cut the car radio and sat for a while, eyes closed, listening to the crows high above him and the awkward chatter as people came and went between the cars. And he thought about Amy, a stranger who had left America to seek her fortune, only to wind up dead, for reasons still undetermined.

  He felt the hot swelling in his chest, same as when Karl had asked for extra footage on that day in the test lab. His hands were sweating, moist against the steering wheel. He pressed them against his face and breathed in and out through his fingers. What justice would there be for Amy and her family? The only answer was the cackle of crows.

  He shouldered the driver’s door wide, as if it were a way out of his thoughts. It was still early — all to the good. A chance to check out who else had turned up. As he crunched acro
ss the gravel to the waiting area, a car slid past him. He glanced left and saw the side of Sir Peter Carroll’s Daimler gliding by. Great. Another member of the fan club.

  If Miranda were on schedule, she’d be bringing Jess in as close to kick-off as possible. Less chance of a confrontation before the service. So there was no sense waiting outside, best get in and mingle with the other mourners. He hadn’t known Amy, but he’d never felt closer to her — they were both pawns to circumstance.

  Major Eldridge was right inside the door, wearing a fixed expression that suggested he had nailed a lid on everything. But Thomas wasn’t buying it. Judging by the letters, if last night’s assumptions were correct, Eldridge was here to see off the woman he loved. Schaefer and the rest of his American trio were there too, making small talk amongst themselves. As he set eyes on Schaefer, the three of them fell silent and turned away. Fine by him.

  He exchanged a handshake with the major and struggled for a follow-up line. They stood there, arms at their sides, avoiding eye contact. Now that Thomas knew about Amy and the major — or thought he knew — it complicated things.

  The major picked up a folded A4 sheet from a pile and handed it to him. There was another picture of Amy on the front, smiling in the hazy sunshine. It looked to Thomas like the kind of impulsive, short exposure that he loved to take of Miranda. Inside the sheet was a bio — where she’d grown up and how much she’d been admired and respected by her colleagues — followed by a brief explanation of the music and hymns chosen for the service. He nodded as he read through the sequence and caught the major watching him. “Good choices,” he said — just to see if it got a reaction; it did.

  An usher appeared and invited everyone to go through. Major Eldridge led the way and Thomas fell in step behind him. Then he saw Miranda and Jess out of the corner of his eye and held back. Schaefer rushed towards Jess, grabbing for her shoulder, but Thomas blocked him. “Not here,” he snarled, “Have some fucking respect.”

  Miranda flashed him a grin. Schaefer dropped his arm and swept in with his two groupies. There was no sign of Terry or Sam — typical. It was a mistake to have got them involved.