She tilted her head and smiled. It was the sort of smile that used to wind him up. “It took me years of practice, Thomas; years of practice. Is there something specific I can help you with, in Karl’s absence?”
It happened again, that blurring of accents. Whenever Ann Crossley got a little too interested in something, those Cardiff high notes became audible, like a poker tell.
“No, I’ll figure it out — thanks anyway.” He jerked the chair away, pondering the twist of fate that had partnered him with Karl. Another day and another detail, and he’d have been swapping secrets with Ann Crossley across the desk, as the civilian help for . . . Naval Intelligence, wasn’t it?
In the end, he cobbled together the reports as best he could and decided he’d talk it through with Christine. No point giving her more information than she needed, and no point in wasting too much energy on it beforehand. He smiled, that could have been Karl talking.
He was halfway through making a to-do list for that evening’s jaunt to the Wrights when the balloon finally went up. Wary of being watched, he reached across for the mobile calmly, tasting the inside of his mouth.
“Your information has been acted upon, with a satisfactory conclusion. We will call you again.”
“Thank you.” He gazed around the room, grinning as if he’d just won first prize in a phone-in.
Ann Crossley looked over and just nodded at him. He felt like yelling to release the pounding in his chest, but he didn’t. He took some slow, deep breaths — just as the counsellor had taught him — and moved on to his next call.
Sheryl sounded years younger. “Hello?”
“It’s Thomas — it’s done.”
She burst into tears and he squeezed his jaw tight as he listened. He knew what it felt when the tide had finally shifted in your favour. That first morning after the moors, when he’d woken up in Pickering, knowing Miranda was safe and Yorgi was lying on a slab somewhere, he’d wept out of sheer relief.
“Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at Caliban’s sometime.”
“Yeah,” she sucked in a breath. “What will happen . . .?”
“I don’t know. I can try and find out, if you want?”
“No, better you don’t. I couldn’t face being disappointed right now.” She snorted a laugh. “Anyway, thanks again, Thomas. You don’t know what this means to me.”
“Don’t mention it.” He blushed and thanked one of his mother’s saints as Sheryl put the phone down. A call to Karl’s mobile went straight through to voicemail. He did his best to hide his excitement, relaying the message word for word.
Chapter 38
It was fast becoming a day of surprises. Ann Crossley had invited him to lunch — a first. They settled for a pub that Karl would have approved of — the décor anyway, if not the clientele. The features looked original, but the drinkers were mostly a bunch of bankers.
Crossley did the honours, fetching back a couple of soft drinks and the promise of hot food. She smiled a lot, which didn't suit her. It was on the cards they’d be playing question time so he made a pre-emptive strike.
“What got you into this line of work, then?”
She sipped her juice and paused, mid-air. “I did languages and politics at university. It was a logical step.” She shrugged, as if to say it was something that just happened.
He didn’t buy it. From the little he’d seen, just about no one ended up in the SSU by chance. She looked at him, waiting. He’d already trotted this routine out to Karl, no qualms about it because it was the truth.
“I worked in Central London, at a civil service desk. But I’d always done photography. And one day Sir Peter Carroll and me were in a lift after work. . .”
She laughed, the way people usually did. As if to say: ‘Is that what really happened?’ But it was. He hadn’t even considered it as a permanent option until after the second weekend job. And even then there wasn’t much to tell. Turn up, use a better camera, sit on his arse all day not talking to the people around him, take some long lens footage, and then hand in his camera and go home. Of course, he knew he was good. He knew he could impress them without trying too hard.
The food arrived. He broke off from his thrilling monologue and made short work of the gammon. They flipped a coin, best of three — she paid and he’d owe her for next time. This was turning out to be a brilliant day. All it needed now was Karl to burst in with a box of chocolates. Speaking of which . . .
“You, er, seem to be getting on better with Karl these days.”
“Ah, the elusive Mr McNeill. I was wondering how long it would be before he joined the conversation.” The laughter sounded genuine. “We haven’t always hit it off — let’s call it professional rivalry. But I’ve always respected him, in the main.”
He was itching to probe deeper and find out whether there was more to it. But hey, what was she going to do — sign a confession?
“The thing is, Thomas,” she did it again, bending the second syllable of his name. “Someone like you is in a strong position to get his career going — from this point on. I mean, you don’t want to be doing this for the rest of your life, do you?”
It could almost have been one of Christine’s old scripts — or her mother’s.
“It’ll do for now. I’m afraid I don’t have any great ambitions — they didn’t teach us that at my school.” Not if you weren’t paying attention, anyway.
“I used to have all that working-class pride in my veins too. Then I got a scholarship and saw my potential. It’s never too late, you know.”
He put down a chip, firm and golden against the rim of the plate. “This is starting to sound like a recruitment speech.”
She was all smiles again. “Would that be such a bad thing?” she said, finishing her drink.
* * *
At three thirty, Karl put in an appearance at work. “Any more news?”
“Nah. All quiet on the Western Front. Where have you been?”
Karl sauntered over, waving to Ann Crossley who returned the favour and pretended not to watch him. He made sure he stood with his back to her and bent forward over Thomas’s desk. “I was getting this sorted.” He produced a ring box.
Thomas clicked back the lid. Inside was a bullet, polished and gleaming, and engraved with a harp.” He tilted it so the ceiling light ran along the surface. It looked like a work of art. “For Jack?” he hissed. “You are kidding?” Judging by Karl’s face, clearly not.
“Too subtle, do you think? I was going to go for a shamrock, but I thought this said it better.”
Thomas strained his eyes to try and fathom out the point. “Why?”
“Because, Tommy Boy, someone would only do this if they didn’t care what Jack thought about it. It’s a ‘fuck you’ message — loud and clear.”
“Fine. I get it. He’ll link it with the Belfast firm. But how are you going to get it to him, especially now he’s inside?”
“That’s where you come in. Fancy a little unpaid overtime tonight?”
He made a face. “I’m supposed to be meeting Miranda.”
Karl nodded, tongue between his teeth, as if he were tasting the air. “Not a problem; I won’t be needing you until late. I’ll call you on the magic phone.”
As soon as Karl went off in search of chocolate, Thomas cranked out an email to him. Stupid really, sending an email to the desk behind him, but it was liberating to have control over a conversation with Karl, at least at the start.
Crossley took me to the pub for lunch. I think she wants me to join her gang. Care to top that?
Karl shuffled back to his desk and an email pinged in. Thomas heard his laughter, and the sound of him scuttling away again. And then the grinding of the vending machine. More footsteps, and a chocolate delight landed on his desk.
An email followed soon after. Dessert beats the main course — I win! Three lines below he’d added, like an afterthought: Of course, you’re a free agent. In this office, you’re the only one of us who is.
>
* * *
He left the office early, to get a bag together at home. Mindful that Clarity’s call was overdue, he packed the Makarov pistol, as well as a black balaclava and face paint.
At the flat, he checked both bugs on the major’s phone lines once more. Funny that Major Eldridge hadn’t contacted him lately, despite acquiring the missing data from Jess. So why had the major gone to ground since then? Something else to obsess about in traffic.
* * *
The cut-through, avoiding Forest Road, was as treacherous as a politician. Snarled up, bumper-to-bumper, he went over the day’s events aloud. More pluses than minuses, for sure, but fewer answers than questions.
One thing bothered him unreasonably; something he’d always let pass before — who exactly did Karl work for in the evening job? He’d figured it was connected to Karl’s army days, so maybe Army Intelligence? And was that the same as MI5? And what was all that stuff about Code Five? He drummed the steering wheel as the lights changed. That settled it; he’d grab a few minutes on John Wright’s computer and do a little sleuthing.
Might he not be better off though, remaining in the dark while Karl, Ann and Christine performed in their three-ring circus? He chewed that over as some stupid bastard in a plumber’s van tried to play ‘pick a lane.’ Did he really want to know about Karl? Of course he bloody did. Knowledge was power. And power was control.
* * *
Diane Wright was outside the front door when he pulled up — must have been waiting.
“Sorry I’m late — traffic was a ‘mare.”
She laughed at his attempt at a cockney accent. The lingo still sounded wrong coming from his lips.
“There’s one extra at the table tonight,” she looked hard at him, as if he were supposed to know something.
He grabbed his lucky bag and followed her inside. The front room door yawned open so he poked his head in. Everyone turned towards him. The full family were there, Miranda, sitting seductively at one end of the settee, gave him a little wave. So did the person next to her: Sheryl.
Diane squeezed his shoulder as she passed through to the kitchen. The warmth in her fingers thawed him a little, but not much. He set his bag down and checked it was zipped up. Right then, best foot forward. “Everything all right?” he asked the room in general, trying to play it cool.
“We’re celebrating,” Miranda nodded to two champagne magnums, one already opened. “Help yourself to a glass.”
The weight of their attention made every step across the room drag. “Just a small one. I’m working later on.” Best to get the bad news out of the way early on. He braved a look at Miranda — she wasn’t pouting. That was a first. All eyes followed him as he measured out a small glass.
“How d’ya do it, Thomas?” Sam broke the silence.
“Sam!” John barked. “What did we agree?”
“Sorry, Dad, it just slipped out.”
He turned to face them, sipping at the champagne to cool his face down. Sheryl and Miranda parted company on the settee, leaving him the middle space.
“Sit your arse down,” John tipped back his lager.
He sat, a thorn between two roses, and sipped his drink. Everyone seemed to be looking at nowhere in particular, like at a wake.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, someone say something.” Miranda ended the deadlock with her usual light touch.
Sheryl leaned forward and pressed Thomas’s arm. “I told them about Jack Langton being my dad.”
John Wright lowered his glass. “I did wonder sometimes, but it’s not the sort of thing you ask — not of Jack anyway.”
“I’m gonna look in on the kitchen.” Thomas got up, trying to ignore the fevered whispers behind him.
“Alright, love?” Diane was counting out the plates. She smiled; she didn’t seem to need an answer. “This must be your worst nightmare — stuck in the limelight.”
He leant against the breakfast bar, empty glass in his hand.
“Never you mind, Thomas. You did a good thing. Give ’em a few minutes and they’ll find someone else to pick on.”
As if by magic, an expensive lace-up boot was tapping on the floor tiles. “Not sure I like the idea of my bloke preferring my mum’s company to mine.”
“Well maybe you should try treating him better.” Diane grinned.
“Bloody cheek. Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen — that’s what you taught me.”
Even over dinner — shepherd’s pie, coincidentally, one of Thomas’s favourites — Sam and Terry were still eyeing his every move.
“Thing is, Thomas,” Terry spoke through a mouthful of churning potato, “this makes you an even darker horse than we thought. Which is saying something.”
“Let the man eat in peace.” John had the final say, but he looked as proud as a season ticket holder when the Hammers won the FA Cup.
Thomas stole a glance at Sheryl, wondering just how much of her soul she’d unburdened before he arrived.
Sheryl peered back, uncharacteristically quiet, with the same expression she had worn at her flat. The tension was breaking him out in a sweat. “Sorry,” she mouthed, “I had to tell them.”
By the time they'd finished dessert, the atmosphere had lifted. Diane fetched out two packs of cards from the special cupboard, opened one and confounded the menfolk with Find the Lady. Both Miranda and Sheryl were immune to the trick.
Poker was the big event. The solemn appearance of the box of casino chips seemed to cast an invisible shadow over the frivolity. The Wright children watched the box as it proceeded to the table, now covered with green baize. The whole thing was almost a religious experience.
There were no family allegiances when it came to poker, and very little talking unless someone was trying to soften you up or psych you out. Thomas had long since decided that Karl would be a natural poker player. Maybe he’d wangle him an invite for Christmas.
Thomas played cautiously, studying his opponents as chips piled up in the middle of the table. Miranda ran her tongue along her lip for his benefit. He took that as a sign she was bluffing and upped the bet. It was a short-lived strategy.
As he folded, out of chips and out of luck, a call he’d been waiting for finally came through. No one commented. He took it outside the room.
“Tommo, are you available?”
“Give me ten minutes — you picking me up?”
“Yeah, better to have just the one vehicle. I’ll be outside.”
He made his excuses, grabbed the bag in the hall and went off to change in Miranda’s room. Dressed head to toe in black, he kept the balaclava and face paint in his pocket and called a goodbye to his hosts. Miranda muttered something about waiting up for him, and that was that.
Karl was already parked up, similarly attired. “Good to see ya. Hope I didn’t spoil your evening any?”
He smiled. He didn’t know exactly what he was getting into, but the mere fact he was doing it with Karl made him feel safe. Like a teenager who trusts his mates implicitly. “So what’s the plan?”
“Simple really. The Langton household have another vehicle. I want to do to them what they did to your car. Then I put this . . .” he tapped the ring with his gloved finger, “. . . through his letterbox as a message.”
“His wife will be terrified — seems a bit unfair.”
Karl looked across as the streetlights blurred by. “Tell that to my mother.”
There was no talking on the rest of the journey, and little to discuss. Thomas would act as the lookout while Karl neutered the car alarm and punched the windows.
“Thomas, are you armed?”
“Jesus, no. What do you take me for?” He stopped then because he remembered the Makarov waiting for him back in Miranda’s room.
“Only asking.”
“Why, are you?” Mrs Langton was hardly public enemy number one. Not her fault she’d married a thug.
“Not armed as such but I’m equipped to defend myself.”
“From what?” Now he
was starting to worry.
“Just a precaution, Tommy Boy. Jack Langton isn’t an idiot. He’ll probably think he’s been set up — hopefully by Martin and Francis-Andrew. By the time he gets home, he’ll be sure of it. Anyway, could be he’ll have someone staying over at the house to protect his wife.”
* * *
Karl parked on a corner, offering a good vantage point in three directions — one of them facing the road where Jack’s house stood. “Right, here’s yours,” he passed Thomas a walkie-talkie. “Very simple. You see anyone, and it’s one tone. Anyone you think is suspect and it’s two tones. Anyone suspect heading my way and you drive towards me and beep the horn. Smooth, mind — no amateur dramatics. I get in the car and away we go — got it?”
Thomas watched the darkness, glad that he’d opted to leave out the balaclava and face paint — tricky to explain if someone passed by. It was close on midnight now, nothing to see but curtained lights blinking off.
He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something satisfying about this. He’d missed. His senses strained against the glass, rigid with tension and also loving it.
Then his walkie-talkie two-toned. That wasn’t part of Karl’s pre-flight safety sequence. He started up the car and pulled out, crossing the side street. He cut the lights and let it move slowly forward. Half way down the road, a figure walked out, waving an arm to slow him down. As he drew level, Karl got into the back of the car, behind him.
“Slow as you can and don’t over-rev. I’ll tell you when to stop.” He lowered the rear window, letting in the cool night air. “Steady now, pull alongside the people carrier, on the right.”
At first the vehicle looked undamaged, until Thomas noticed four flat tyres.
“Get ready, I’ve posted the bullet. So it’s two strikes and then we’re out of here.” Karl leaned out of the window and swung back with what looked like a hatchet, smashing through the windscreen then swinging the other way for the driver’s window.
Thomas didn’t hang about, pulling away smartly to the sound of a ferocious dog barking somewhere behind them. He couldn’t speak, could only focus on resurrecting the headlights and creating some distance. Karl wound the window up and sat back with a contented sigh.
Line of Sight Page 28