Chapter 29
Thomas paced up and down, outside the Brize Norton arrival doors, toughing it out. At least Karl had been released — Christine had phoned him just before picking Karl up — but that was all he knew. He watched through the glass as the thread of people crossed the barrier
Christine emerged with Karl at her side. Karl appeared shell-shocked and Christine wasn’t looking at him at all. The three of them converged and Thomas automatically reached for Karl’s bag, as if he’d just been on holiday. He didn’t go near the laptop and led the way out to the car.
Christine commandeered the front seat and gave directions, presumably towards a bollocking. No one else spoke. Thomas searched Karl’s face via the mirror, as if to read his thoughts. Nothing doing. As the road wore on, a left here and a right there, it became clear that Christine had her own agenda. You didn’t get to Bicester along any back roads. As they parked up, he clocked a familiar car on the way in, and decided not to mention it. Christine had obviously planned some sort of summit.
* * *
He let Christine take the lead and fell in line beside Karl. He nudged him, but all lines still appeared to be down. The pub was called The Angel, a bitter reminder of Amy.
Ann Crossley was waiting at a table, four chairs gathered, ready for the feast. He could imagine her guarding them fiercely and whipping out her government ID as last ditch crowd control. She got to her feet, generously offering to get in a round, crisps and all. The rest of them took a chair. It felt like the prelude to a séance. Then he remembered Karl’s mum and didn’t feel quite so amused.
Christine folded her arms and waited. Karl looked like he was waiting for an explanation as well. Thomas waited for Ann Crossley to return, and tried to think of something credible to say that would satisfy everyone.
“Right,” Christine received her glass, “who’d like to tell me what’s going on?”
Thomas opened his mouth to bite the bullet, but Ann Crossley clunked her G & T against the table. “Well,” she paused, looking in Thomas’s direction as if seeking inspiration. “Karl has been visiting his mother on compassionate leave. However, Thomas became aware of a potential threat to him, which could have been connected to the support being given to Major Eldridge . . .”
He nodded emphatically. Could have been connected — only by a surrealist.
“. . . Thomas took appropriate action and alerted the major. Unfortunately, by then, matters had become somewhat complicated.” She stopped talking, as if unwilling to go that final step and tie everything up neatly in a ribbon.
Christine looked to Karl. “Anything to say?”
“No, ma’am,” he stared ahead, as if he had something better to do.
“And how about you?” Christine asked Thomas, third time lucky.
He flicked a glance to Ann Crossley in the vain hope that she had some more gems up her sleeve. Turned out she did.
“Did anyone see a sign for the Ladies?”
“I’ll show you,” Christine pushed against the table dramatically and headed off, Ann trailing in her wake.
Karl let out a deep sigh as they watched their colleagues disappearing. “Well,” he turned to Thomas, “I don’t reckon much to yours.” He moulded a smile, which Thomas reflected like desperate semaphore.
“How was it out there then?”
Karl shifted in his seat. “Like seven shades of terrible. Honest to God, Tommo, you’re never really prepared for death. Except maybe your own.” He took another weighted breath. “I’ll not be back there in the foreseeable future.”
Thomas stared at the table. “I should have checked Jack Langton out properly myself first — then I’d have known that he’s had business dealings in Belfast for years.”
Karl’s face tightened. “Imagine if you hadn’t intervened. There was me, arrested by Special Branch, with Semtex residue on my hand. Quite a tip-off.”
“Yeah,” Thomas blushed again, “Thing is, Special Branch were already watching you. They knew you were coming before you landed. As soon as I’d filled in the blanks about Jack Langton, I went to Major Eldridge and he pulled some favours in.”
Karl raised his glass. “Well, that explains the look of shock on Martin’s face. He probably thought I was setting him up. I’m very grateful to you, Tommo. I reckon Martin had someone waiting for me at Gatwick.” He nodded and they both took a gulp of amber liquid. “Hey, heads up, Mr Bladen, here come our dates again. Remember, don’t be too forward.”
Thomas was still laughing as the women sat down. The frostiness between Christine and Ann Crossley had lifted; he reckoned they’d had a private team talk. He pondered the wider ramifications as Karl grazed on the crisps. Then he came to a decision: these people were supposed to be allies. “Anyone got a piece of paper?”
Karl obliged. Thomas took out his trusty pen and drew three separate circles. Everything could be reduced to a diagram — he’d read that somewhere. He labelled the three rings: Army Base, Engamel and Secrets, and prepared for a deep dive.
A mobile trilled into life. “Mine,” Karl confessed, reaching into his jacket. He turned to one side, but didn’t leave the table. “Yeah? Ah, Fraser, good man — how d’ya get on?” There was a pause; Karl sat deathly still. I see, thank you for telling me. Okay, I’ll speak to you tomorrow about the residue. No, it’s fine. The family will make all the arrangements — I was never there today.”
Thomas felt the blood draining from his face. Karl cut the phone and carefully placed it back inside his jacket. “As you’ve probably surmised, my mother died a short while ago.”
Christine reached over and touched Karl’s hand; he tolerated it. “I think I’d like to go now, Tommo, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Sure.” He looked to Christine, who muttered something about getting a lift back with Ann.
* * *
“You don’t have to baby-sit me; I’ll be fine . . .”
“I know,” Thomas pulled into the supermarket car park. “But I’d prefer it this way — think of it as Yorkshire hospitality.”
“Suit yourself. In that case, grab something you like drinking, while you’re in there. I think we need to get royally hammered tonight.”
That was the thing about Karl; because everything seemed like a joke to him, you never really knew when he was being serious. So Thomas grabbed a bottle of Southern Comfort, along with some food, just to be on the safe side.
* * *
Back at the flat, Karl kicked off his shoes and wiggled his toes. “What do we know, then, Tommo?”
He refilled their glasses — a small measure, following several previous large ones. Karl shifted forward and hunched over the same three-circled page, gazing at details they’d added between them.
“So, the major’s willing to make a deal with Michael Schaefer? You do know what he is?”
Thomas grinned, enjoying the sensation of heat stampeding across his face. Oh yeah, he knew what Schaefer was all right.
“Project Director, my man. Research projects . . .”
Thomas pressed his eyebrows in, concentrating to think. “The Scavenger — UB40, or whatever you want to call it — that’s probably one of his then.” He took another sip of Southern Comfort and rolled the sweet goodness around in his mouth, pressing his lips together as it slid down. “Do you think Jess really has all that data stashed in her head?”
Karl waved his glass to and fro, like a conductor’s baton. “It’s not unheard of. From what you said, she’s a bit of a mimic, so why not figures as well? She’s also a conniving minx if she’s destroyed the original records.”
Two hours down the line and all the drink was gone, along with most of Thomas’s deductive reasoning. He lay back in the armchair, lolling his head to one side to hear Karl better.
“. . . I’ll not let it go; I’m telling you that. But I’m not stupid, oh no; I’ll not go see Jack Langton all guns blazing.” He grinned for a moment and then his face hardened. “I’ll sort him out, good and proper, that’s a pr
omise. And then I’ll sort out Martin and Francis-Andrew — I’ve nothing to lose now.”
Chapter 30
The last thing Thomas remembered was Karl swearing vengeance like some Mafia Don. Only, where Karl was concerned, he knew it wasn’t just a drink-fuelled rant. It worried him so much that it almost distracted from the killer hangover.
As he sprinkled the painkillers out on his hand and winced as the water gurgled into a glass, he realised that he’d slept right through till morning. No nightmares, no early morning wake-ups. Although it had been a drunk sleep, which was a contradiction in itself.
He stumbled out of the bathroom, praying for the paracetamol to kick in. Karl was still dead to the world on the sofa. It was seven thirty and there was only one thing to do: real coffee, hot and strong. On the way through, he grabbed the piece of paper that had made so much sense the previous night. Most of it was just scrawl, but one question — written down early — stood out: Why had Amy tested the mixed ammunition alone? He nodded to the page — good point — and eased his head back up again.
Karl surfaced just as the coffee mug landed on the table. He rolled over, tried to uncrumple his face and stretched an arm beyond the duvet. “You know, I can’t even send flowers; not unless one of the family informs me about the funeral in time.” It was as if Karl had kept the conversation from the previous night on pause.
“Do they have your address?”
“Not exactly,” he craned the coffee in, took a gulp and then returned for the two tablets waiting on the table. “They have a PO box number.”
Thomas stared at him: You’re kidding? But Karl clearly wasn’t.
“What’s on the agenda today then, Mr Bladen?”
Thomas teetered on a bow wave of incredulity.
“What do you expect me to do — sit at home? I’ve been in mourning for twenty years, Tommo. And there’ll be time enough for that again in the future. Now, where are my trousers?”
That sounded like an opportune moment to leave him to it and hit the shower.
* * *
Karl gazed around as Thomas pulled into a parking space. “I used to share a flat not far from here.”
Thomas recognised the familiar memory-lane theme tune and said nothing.
“On the other side of Euston Road, mind; quite bohemian it was. The neighbour had this big, beige Persian cat — it never went outside; used to sleep in her bedroom.” He smiled; a hook line for Thomas to clamber on board.
“Would you like to be alone with your memories?”
Karl opened the door. “No thanks. What I want to do today is break some eggs — are you with me? Listen, if we hurry, we might even snaggle some breakfast in the hotel — we could try charging it to Jess’s room.”
Thomas’s stomach twitched in sympathy; the coffee was definitely wearing off. “Let me do the talking, okay?”
The glass doors slid back silently; the reception staff didn’t react. Thomas left Karl at the sofa and ambled over to the desk.
“Hi there,” he got the greeting in first. “Can you call Room 635? Thanks.”
“What name please?” The last of the caffeine percolated through his brain. “Jess . . . Sanders.” Fingers crossed she hadn’t gone in under an assumed name. He looked over his shoulder; Karl had buried himself in a complimentary newspaper.
“I’m sorry, sir. Miss Sanders checked out early this morning.”
Thomas blinked slowly, taking it in. He kept it together, nodded his thanks and walked back to Karl. “She’s gone,” he flopped down beside him. “Any suggestions?”
“Yeah, first we see if the restaurant will serve us and then we’ll check Jess’s room out.”
Two teas and muffins later, they were riding the lift, Karl pretending to tap along to Beethoven on a synthesiser.
“What are we looking for?” Thomas watched the light flickering through the floors.
“Dunno, Tommo. But a fiver says we find a pair of shoes.” He started whistling, proving that there was something even worse than synthesised Beethoven. The flute strangling continued as they exited the lift, but the tune changed — something folky. Karl led on past Room 635 — closed — and along the corridor. As they spied a gaggle of cleaners at the far end, Karl stepped up the pace.
“Excuse me, please, I need to get into Room 635.”
At least, that’s what Thomas assumed he was saying, in a language he surmised was Eastern European. His brain made the link with Yorgi and the corridor seemed to become narrower. He breathed rhythmically through his nose, standing his ground against the past, and hoped Karl would stop gabbling.
One cleaner, who was strikingly beautiful, began to follow Karl as he walked back to the room. Thomas decided that two men going with a woman on her own was a bit suspect, so he stayed put and tried to smile. The other two women began a private conversation, undeterred by his gooseberry act. Come on Karl, shift your arse.
“Tommo!” Karl called melodically behind him. The cleaners broke off conversation and started laughing.
As he turned, he saw Karl waving a pair of shoes, as if he were playing hunt the bride. Thomas passed the cleaner and saw the very top of a rolled banknote, crushed in her hand.
“Right then, that’s us outta here. And you owe me a fiver.”
* * *
“Next?” Thomas unlocked the car.
“Tell you what, why don’t I meet you at the office — I’ll get the tube. I need to ring my new friend in Special Branch.”
Thomas watched him go and took out the piece of paper they’d scribbled on. The question about Amy had been pretty damn important the night before, but now he couldn’t quite figure out why. Time to make a call of his own.
Miranda only picked up on the fourth ring: never a good sign. His brain had already started doing somersaults. Was she with someone, was Jack Langton nearby — the usual mixture of paranoia and confusion.
“I enjoyed your text last night. Touchingly romantic, but piss-poor spelling — were you drunk by any chance?”
Shit. So drunk that he didn’t even remember sending it. “Er, yeah, sorry about that. Karl stayed over and . . . you know. Didn’t I ring you earlier?”
“Uh-huh. How is he taking it?”
He took a big breath. “Well, he seems okay, but I know him better than that. And he’s determined to settle some scores.” He stopped there.
“Anyway,” she sounded particularly chipper. “I’m glad you rang, especially after last night’s text proposal. Because there’s something I need to say to you.”
What?
“Your thing is still here, in my safe; I want it out of here today.”
He pulled into traffic; it was like floating, nudging along with the other bubbles, drifting up Euston Road and beyond. That part of him that always seemed to be thinking, and assessing, went to work on the major and all the other players. A spiral of conflicting ideas turned slowly in his head, all centred on Amy. Somehow, if he could understand why she died, he could impose some sort of order. Euston Road gave way to Pentonville Road, but it didn’t come with any answers.
It was like photography; change the lens or the filter and the same composition looked completely different. It evoked a different response from the viewer. Well, he was the one viewing this now — so what was he looking at? Where could Jess have gone? She must have been somewhere on the base, else why would the major have needed to get her out? Could she and the major have been seeing each other after all? He tried it on for size; it didn’t fit. Nah, nothing in the major’s behaviour so far supported that. His best hope was confronting Jess in front of the major.
* * *
When Karl put in an appearance in the office, Thomas was still puzzling. Ann Crossley looked over at the door, acknowledged him and then went back to her work — whatever that actually was right now. On balance, Thomas preferred it when the two of them were at loggerheads; this new entente cordiale was doing his head in.
Karl made a beeline for him and patted him on the shou
lder. “I need another favour — not right now, but in the next week or so.”
“Fire away.”
“Funny you should say that. I need visual surveillance on Jack Langton. All photos with cross-hairs superimposed. At home, family, business — the full package. Think you can handle that? I’ll pay you . . .”
Thomas gazed into his eyes. “I can handle it. You can fill me in at the club, later this week.”
Karl sat down and started dialling. “Major Eldridge, it’s Karl McNeill here. I take it Jess is with you? Yeah, I know. I’m fine, thank you.” He kept everything matter-of-fact. “I agree — where? Just like old times then; we’ll see you both at noon.”
Thomas watched from the vending machine, straining to pick up the gist as he navigated through the selection options. When he’d collected a third ‘delicious’ beverage — for Ann Crossley — he manhandled them back, detouring by her first. Karl rose up from his desk.
“Better drink that quick, we’re heading out.”
* * *
“Is this for real?” Thomas took a step back and tilted his head. Karl looked right at home, standing between the twin guns at the top of the steps that led into the Imperial War Museum.
“It’s worse than you think, Tommo. This is the site of Bethlem Hospital — the original Bedlam. The major and I used to meet here, in the old days.”
It didn’t sound like an invitation to further discussion. “And what’s today’s objective?”
“Find out what the hell is going on, that’s what.” Karl clutched a carrier bag in one fist, raising it aloft as if it held week-old fish. “The shoes were left behind because someone didn’t want us to know where she’d been this morning. A simple sweep would have picked up the bug in her heel.”
“Well, it’s twelve o’clock so where are they?”
Karl turned to the great doors, from where the major emerged, Jess close at hand. Her face lit up at the sight of Thomas; a sentiment he didn’t share. Karl waited for the happy couple and led the party of four away, to the Peace Gardens next door.
“I never had you pegged as a man of peace, Karl.” the major looked decidedly uncomfortable among the white pillars and stones.
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