Line of Sight

by DEREK THOMPSON

  “How about a drink?” Thomas greeted him. No sense condemning the bloke out of hand. What evidence did he have, anyway?

  “Scotch and soda, thank you.”

  Thomas took the hint, and adopted the role of butler. They managed to find a table away from the bar and not too close to the doors that opened automatically for no reason at all.

  “Shall I go first?” Thomas didn’t waste any time; the major tasted his drink and sat there. Time to go fishing. “You were involved with Amy, not Jess. And you’ve been trying to get back some personal letters that Jess took from her. That’s your business. But removing Jess from a secure location puts her at risk and the family.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, to keep the emotion out of his voice.

  “You don’t understand.”

  Thomas rolled his eyes. “Please spare me the two lonely people bollocks — I’m not interested. You chose to drag Karl and me into this. And now you’ve put Jess out in the open again, just to get some love letters back.”

  The major smiled, but it was a tired smile, tinged with self-pity. “Look, Thomas, I’m not perfect and whatever you might think, we were in love. I know, a man of my age with Amy — it sounds preposterous.”

  Thomas nodded; at least he’d confirmed the lucky winner of the major’s affections.

  “I would have given it all up for her, you know — wife, career. But, with the way things have turned out . . .” he throttled the glass and took a sip, “. . . what sense is there in sacrificing anything now?”

  What sense indeed? Thomas gulped at his shandy and said nothing.

  “You really don’t get it, do you?” Pity had hardened to scorn. “Michael Schaefer would like Jess’s head on a plate — I’m trying to broker a compromise.”

  “Out of the goodness of your heart, I suppose?”

  The major shook his head and sneered. “I have my letters now — it’s in everyone’s interests if the test data can be properly analysed.”

  Thomas put his glass down. “The data Jess keeps in her head.”

  The major tilted his head. “Karl said you were sharp.”

  When was that? “So, what, you arrange a deal for Jess in return for the data and she walks off into the sunset?”

  “My dear Thomas, you’re miles from the truth. Jess wants to provide the missing data in return for safe passage . . .” he stroked his neck, “. . . to America, working for one of Engamel’s consortium partners. Someone like Jess has a bright future over there.”

  Thomas blinked a couple of times. He felt like he’d bought a cinema ticket and walked in on the wrong screening. “What about the cause of the accident?”

  The major seemed to gaze across the lobby, lost in thought. “That’s what we need the data for. Schaefer has most of it and Jess has the rest.”

  Thomas still wasn’t getting it. “And you expect Schaefer to share nicely with you once he’s got what he wants?”

  “It’s that or I use the footage you and Karl took — my extra copy, I mean.”

  Thomas swallowed. “You bastard — you’ll implicate the SSU, especially me and Karl.”

  “Collateral damage, Thomas — unavoidable.”

  Now he understood why Sir Peter Carroll was prepared to bug the major’s phone — no one could trust anybody. He felt like doing a little collateral damage himself and then he remembered Jess upstairs. “And what if the cause of the accident wasn’t purely mechanical?” he glanced to the lift.

  “Then I’ll make sure everyone responsible pays the price.”

  * * *

  The major seemed content to stay there. In any case, Thomas was in no mood for a debate. He stood in the lift, as the doors closed, watching the major head off towards the bar.

  The muzak to the sixth floor seemed the perfect accompaniment to his mood — something that appeared to be one thing, but was actually nothing of the kind. He half expected Jess to be at the lifts, but the doors opened to nobody at all, just a disused ashtray beneath a No Smoking sign, as if it was a dare.

  He swung the double doors, High Noon style, and counted the room numbers along to room 685. There was no light visible beneath the door. He rapped hard and called out his name. Jess mumbled something and he went inside.

  The bedside lamp was on, and Jess was in bed. He stayed by the door and stared, lost for words. Did she really think he was still buying her and the major as a double act? Jess began to ease out of the sheets, to reach for her underwear near the bed. She paused, to check he was still watching her.

  “Get dressed,” he turned to leave. “I’ll be by the lift.” Un-fucking-believable. Literally, in this case.

  The minutes ticked by, as he waited. He found he was gripping his gun and entertaining dark flights of fantasy. Consistent to the last, Jess put on an Oscar-winning performance as she arrived, her eyes bloodshot as if she’d been crying. Then again, maybe she had: out of shame.

  They rode the lift down with only the muzak between them. It seemed to him that Jess had the kind of issues that even Miranda’s magazines would refer to a specialist. Had Jess wanted to become Amy? He tossed the idea around in his head. And was that reason enough to kill her?

  The major had settled himself with his two new friends, Mr Soda and Mr Scotch. He looked comfortably maudlin. Jess’s appearance didn’t seem to lighten his mood any. Thomas took a fresh order for drinks and left the two of them alone.

  As he waited at the bar to be served, briefly mesmerised by a mid-week European match, he tried to plan his next move. What was his objective here?

  Prevent Karl and him from being set up as the fall guys.

  Find out why Amy died.

  End this bloody assignment ASAP.

  So, basically, he needed to get onside with Major Eldridge, while remaining onside with Engamel. As for Jess, the sooner she made it to the US of A, the better for everyone.

  A bartender dawdled across to him. She had a face that suggested her name badge, Bonnie, had been an ironic afterthought. That, or the weight of it was dragging down the corners of her mouth. Once she’d registered eye contact, she flashed a smile as plastic as the décor and set her training in motion. She filled a tray with three glasses and a packet of crisps; he added a tip out of sympathy — for the customers to follow him. Then it was back to the other two musketeers.

  The three of them drank quietly. Thomas didn’t share the crisps — he felt they didn’t deserve them.

  “When are you seeing Michael Schaefer?” he looked the major in the face — no sense beating around the bush anymore.

  “Tomorrow morning. Until I get his agreement, Jess will stay here, out of harm’s way. You’re the only other person who knows she’s here, Thomas.”

  That sounded like a loaded statement. He thought about Ann Crossley knowing, and probably Miranda and Karl before the night was out, and mustered his best poker face.

  Jess came to life. “Maybe Thomas should stay here with me, just in case?”

  Her still-moist eyes reminded him of an anime cartoon. For a moment he thought he could hear the opening bars to The Twilight Zone, playing in the distance.

  “That’s not going to happen.” He didn’t bother to look in Jess’s direction, but he figured she was pouting.

  The major walked Jess back up to her room. Thomas was still finding gaps to fill. Why Amy was testing part of the weapon’s mechanism on her own, if that wasn’t the normal procedure? And where had Jess been when the accident occurred? Too many questions and now he was down to the crispy crumbs.

  The major looked much more relaxed when he returned to finish his drink.

  “Do you think she’s a killer, Major?” In terms of subtlety, it was right up there with: ‘Shall I take my Viagra now?’ But Thomas was past caring. He figured he and the major were both on the same fishing trip.

  “I think it unlikely that she’s responsible, but she’s very evasive.”

  Thomas squeezed the last dregs of shandy from his glass. “Do you want me to come with you tomorrow, t
o see Schaefer at Engamel?”

  The major paused to consider the offer, probably out of politeness. “No, that won’t be necessary. But thank you.”

  Drinks over, conversation exhausted, time for beddy-byes. He walked to the sliding doors. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?” Like maybe home to your wife?

  A shake of the head was enough to send him on his way. It could be that the major planned to double back and have one last chat with Jess. Not his problem, Thomas decided; he had other matters to attend to.

  * * *

  As he stepped back onto Euston Road, a bus trundled past — a portable oasis in a desert of squalor. For all his love of the city, Thomas wasn’t a nightbird — not unless he had a camera in his hand. A camera made you look at things differently. Sometimes you saw beauty there, fleeting, captivating. Mostly you saw the ugliness, stark and unveiled. Either way, you saw photographs in the making.

  The two young bucks diagonally opposite fell into the latter category. Thomas felt the crosshatch handle of the Makarov pistol tight against his palm. Not tonight, boys. And he walked confidently on.

  Ten to eleven, time to check his mobile. He remembered now that he’d put it on silent, while playing detective. He rang Ann Crossley first, a combination of professional courtesy and curiosity to see whether she was still on duty. She was, of course; she had the same stilted tone, her gentle Welsh inflections struggling to be heard over the whitewash of an English education. She received his update, asked little and wished him a good night. Fat chance of that, unless . . .

  Miranda picked up on the third ring. “Hi, Thomas, I was going to call you. Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

  Just what he didn’t need, late night riddles. “Hit me.”

  She laughed at his piss poor attempt to be cool. “It’s sorted. The Irish geezers have agreed to let Karl back in for twenty-four hours,” her voice tailed off, as if she was rounding for the counterpunch.

  “Go on, then . . .”

  “We’re down about twenty grand.” She took a breath. “And it’s gonna cost another ten grand as a goodwill gesture, allowing Karl to act as a courier for Jack Langton.”

  At first, he was lost for words. “Miranda, I’m so sorry.” Her money, even if she had refused to touch it when he’d extorted it out of Sir Peter Carroll on her behalf.

  “It’s fine,” she sounded superficially breezy. “Besides, what would I want with thirty grand?”

  He clenched his teeth to force down the lump in his throat. “So, were these two blokes scary then?”

  “Not compared to Jack Langton — did you know I’m his god-daughter?”

  “His what?” he nearly dropped the phone.

  “Only kidding, sort of. Listen, if you haven’t already, you better ring Karl tonight. He’d probably appreciate a lift to the airport tomorrow morning. And after that, perhaps you’d like to meet me at my place — or I could wait for you here?”

  “Caliban’s is good for me. See you as soon as. Bye.” He looked at the phone again and hesitated. It must be hard for Karl, finally allowed home just in time to see his mum before . . . He bit at a nail, and fretted over his opening line.

  “Karl? It’s Thomas. How’re you doing, mate?”

  “Well, it’ll be a while before I want to watch another card game. And I’m thinking of changing my name to Faust!”

  “When do you want to be picked up tomorrow?”

  “You’re a star, Tommo — eight will be fine. It’ll give me time to buy you breakfast at the airport.”

  “What, with your winnings from the table?”

  There was a moment’s silence. “You don’t think I was playing tonight? I’m down as John Wright’s man, so I am — I spent the night looking attentive and keeping schtum. Jack Langton wants me to make a delivery on my little trip — I’ll tell you all tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Thomas wasn’t thrilled to be arriving at Miranda’s club, gun in hand. But it’d be safer than leaving it in the car — what a crime report that’d make.

  He pulled into the car park and automatically checked out the other cars. Miranda’s and Sheryl’s sat side by side; the rest of the clan must have left. A pity; he’d wanted to thank them.

  He yawned as he jabbed the intercom and waved half-heartedly at the CCTV. The sound of heels clacked down the steps and then the bolt was drawn back.

  “Hi, honey, how was your day?” Sheryl widened the door without waiting for an answer, and locked up after him.

  “I gather it all went well,” he called behind him as he climbed the steps.

  “Yeah, pretty much. I’d say Karl scraped a pass; it was all a bit tense at first, but Jack Langton has a way of setting the tone.”

  Thomas held the door at the top of the steps. “Have you met him before?”

  “Met him? I, er, used to run bar for him.”

  Miranda was sat at the card table, drink in hand, like a survivor surveying the damage. She pushed out the chair beside her with her foot.

  “Tea or coffee, Thomas?” Sheryl had already started to veer off.

  “Tea, thanks,” he joined Miranda at the table. “Tough night?”

  Miranda found a smile even though it seemed like it was a long time coming. “So so. And you?”

  “Not my best day.” He lifted the Makarov out of his pocket and laid it on the table. “Any chance you could stash this somewhere safe for a while? I don’t think it would go down well at the airport.”

  “Sure,” she didn’t bat an eyelid. “Does this make me your moll now?”

  He squeezed her arm. Sheryl took her seat and passed the tea across to him.

  “Nice weapon — a little small, but very stylish.”

  “Yeah, I inherited it from my dad.”

  He watched as Sheryl and Miranda made eye contact. Maybe Miranda had already told her how he’d pulled a gun on Yorgi, on the moors. It would explain the sudden drop in temperature.

  Chapter 26

  “You didn’t have to bring me tea in bed,” he peered up at Miranda, bleary-eyed. The clock read something evil past six.

  She smiled and rubbed his shoulder as she put the mug down beside him. There was still an edge to her, had been since the previous night. In bed, she’d lain close to him and he, able to read her signals after years of trial and error, just held her close until they fell asleep.

  “I don’t want you to get involved in Mum and Dad’s business.”

  Bit late for that, he mused, but he kept the thought to himself. He nodded a couple of times and left the airwaves open.

  “Only, the card game reminded me of some things; you know, from when I was a kid.” She didn’t elaborate. “Best you keep out of it.”

  “Sheryl mentioned last night that she used to work for Jack Langton. Is that how she got the job here?” He leaned over for his tea and yawned, feigning disinterest.

  Miranda didn’t answer. “Are you coming back tonight?”

  “Well,” he sat up. “That sounds like an invitation if ever there was one.”

  She still wasn’t playing though. “I don’t want your gun here.”

  Not the declaration of affection he was hoping for. “Fair enough.” He read the clock again and wondered how quickly he could get out without it seeming personal.

  * * *

  It was bin day in Kilburn and it seemed like every cat in the neighbourhood was on patrol for scraps. Thomas sat in his car — seven fifty — and watched as a scraggy ginger specimen prowled around the black bags. Maybe it was the short tufts of reddish brown hair, but it reminded him of Karl. Karl McNeill, alley cat; it had a certain ring to it.

  The man himself emerged from his door at a minute to eight, and then triple-locked it. Knowing Karl, it was probably booby-trapped on the other side as well. He raised a hand in greeting and strolled up with a laptop case at his side and a sports bag over his shoulder.

  Thomas got out and opened the boot. “You okay?” Best to see how Karl played it first, before committing
himself.

  “Aye, Tommo,” Karl sighed. “Big day today.”

  “What’s with the laptop bag — is that for the Duty Free?”

  Karl got in and pulled the door closed. He didn’t speak until Thomas had started up the car. “You really wanna know?” his voice said one thing and his face said the opposite.

  “How about telling me now and getting it over with, and then you can pick the music.”

  “Deal.”

  Over the ten years or so that Thomas had known Miranda and her family, he’d occasionally speculated about what her family’s business involved. Sure, there were the usual tax returns and accountant’s fees, but lurking beneath that veneer was a flow of trade and money that came and went like a night tide: you knew it was happening, but you never got to see it. So when Karl mentioned the magic word coins, Thomas didn’t know at first if he was taking the piss. And Karl, as the bagman, knew very few details, beyond his lap top battery being very expensive, pound for pound.

  “And someone just arrives at your hotel and swaps batteries with you?”

  “That’s the plan. In fact, that’s all the plan there is.”

  It was hard to know how to respond. “And you’re okay with that?”

  “Truth? It’s not the way I’d prefer to work. Remember, I’ll be a civilian there. No protection beyond Martin and Francis-Andrew’s word.” He didn’t sound too convinced. “It could be an elaborate set up, for all I know. The hotel has been arranged, along with my flight times, so anything’s possible.”

  “And what about seeing your mum in hospital?”

  “It’s a grey area. Martin has stipulated that I don’t contact anyone else in the family, so God help us if there are any other visitors. I think they’ll let me have an hour with her.”

  Thomas tried to relax his grip on the wheel. “And you trust them?”

  “What choice do I have, eh, Tommy Boy?”