CAUSE & EFFECT (12 page)

The London bound traffic was as sluggish as his thinking. Nothing made any sense. He had no idea who Bob Peterson was with, or why Christine cared. Then there was Peterson warning him off from Christine. And lastly, what was so important about the package in the boot? He toyed with the idea of ringing Christine, so he could deliver the package, and then thought better of it. Whatever it was could wait.

Miranda hadn’t rung him back so his first call was to the answering machine at home. Geena had got there first.

“You’re forgiven for being a dickhead. Now, go make your peace with Miranda — if she’ll let you. You really hurt her, you know.”

Yeah, he knew. He dialled Miranda’s mobile; judging by the background noise she was at Caliban’s.

“Hiya, it’s me. I just got back from . . . work.”

“Do you fancy a bite?”

There wasn’t a hint of innuendo and he missed it.

“I’ll come over now if that’s okay?” He waited to hear whether the thin ice would bear his weight.

“Yeah, okay.”

It was a short drive over from his phone stop. He thought about picking up chocolates, but nothing quite said ‘sorry for abandoning you in your worst nightmare.’ He decided to pay for lunch instead.

Caliban’s felt like enemy territory as he threaded his way through the jungle of people to the bar. Sheryl, Miranda’s manager and confidante, was the greeting party.

“You made it then.” She’d clearly cancelled her fan club membership. “Look after her, Thomas — she’s been through a lot.”

“I know,” he muttered, already on the defensive.

“No,” she shook her head, “you don’t. But I do. I was there in Bermuda when it happened. She stayed with me afterwards.”

He went upstairs and knocked on the office door.

“It’s open.” Her voice wavered.

He saw the picnic she’d set up on the desk and wished he’d brought chocolates or flowers. The plastic gingham tablecloth was a nice touch.

“I thought you might prefer somewhere private.” She gave a tiny smile and swept her hand towards the empty seat.

But there was a third, unwelcome guest: the past. They met as opposing armies, advancing and retreating sporadically. Until, finally, all the effort to
not
say something drowned out the conversation.

“So where are we?” He broached another silence.

“You know where we are.”

He gazed in all directions, like a hapless tourist, eliciting a smile. It lasted until his mobile started buzzing. She shot him a killer look of disappointment and shrugged. He checked the number, purposefully setting his mobile on the edge of the desk. Typical — it was Christine.

“No, really,” she insisted. “Take the call. I mean it.”

“Hello?” He looked away.

“Thomas? It’s Christine. I need to see you.”

“Can it wait?”

“Would you drop by the office, say in about an hour?”

His eyes drifted across to Miranda, weighing up the odds.

“Okay, I’ll see you then.”

All things considered, Miranda was pretty good about everything. She didn’t fly off the handle; she even backtracked a little, which caught him off guard.

“I’m not trying to change you. Well . . .” She smiled for a millisecond, “I’ve given up on that. Oh Christ, Tommy, have we made a mess of everything?”

It was his turn to smile now. “We’re still talking — and lunching.”

She offered more wine, but he waved away the bottle.

“Better not; I’ve got some work to take care of.”

“For Jack Langton?”

“No, I’ve got some work stuff to deliver for Christine — from this morning.”

“Without Karl?” Now she was fishing with depth charges.

“Yeah, just me this time.”

“You watch your back. While you’re busy trying to save the world, who’s looking out for Thomas?”

“Well, you — I hope!”

Her face reassured him he’d come up with the right answer. She reached across and forced the rim of the cork into the wine bottle.

“Hadn’t you better get going? Duty calls and all that.”

“I’ve a few minutes yet.” And he gazed at her earnestly.

By the time he got into his car the landscape had shifted. They hadn’t shagged; they hadn’t even kissed — not properly, but there had definitely been electricity in the room. That, and hope.

* * *

The Liverpool Street underground car park was practically deserted. All the high performance cars were nestled in an area designated for the Security Service — his MI5 neighbours on the first floor. Nearby was one space, hardly ever claimed, for M16 that read:
Secret Intelligence Service
. Karl had taken a picture once. Christine’s Merc looked lonely so he parked next to it.

His trusty rucksack held the spoils of the day — camera, mobile phone footage and Bob Peterson’s package. He could hear it rattling a little as he walked and felt the box inside nudging against his back.

He took the stairs two at a time, letting his steps act like a metronome to his thoughts. On the second floor, the office was eerily quiet. Karl’s desk looked bereft without him, despite the mess he’d left behind. Out of habit, Thomas scooped up the vending machine cups and chocolate wrappers, dumping them in the bin. A notepad page lay next to the keyboard with GVA and a set of numbers next to it.

He took his time getting to Christine’s office, weighed down by the sinking feeling that he’d just been paid overtime to do some domestic gumshoeing.

“Thanks for coming, Thomas.” She didn’t look up from her laptop.

“I was stopped by the police — something about a database marker?”

She swallowed. “I don’t think Bob has ever forgiven you for . . . the altercation.”

A smile stretched his face when he recalled landing a couple of punches on Bob Peterson — both beauties — back when the inner workings of the SSU were still a mystery. Well,
more
of a mystery. So Bob still held a grudge — good.

“Anyway . . .” He brought his rucksack forward and noted the sparkle in her eyes. “Bob turned up and gave me this for you.”

Now she stirred, one eye on his hand as it reached into the rucksack.

“Would you like my report now?”

He moved around the desk so they could both see the screen, and connected up his camera.

“Wife and kids.” He provided the narrative and watched her reactions.

“I can see what you’re doing,” she insisted.

It didn’t deter him. “Big shop at the supermarket — going in and coming out.”

“What about inside?”

He hadn’t thought about that. “Too much risk of exposure,” he lied. “It would help if I knew what I’m looking for.”

“You’re a surveillance officer,” she snapped. “I don’t pay you to ask questions.”

Touchy. He changed tack and told her about the vehicle tracker on Peterson’s car and how the signal had died.

“I think he was expecting me. Maybe the police tipped him off before they stopped me.” He waited for another dressing down but it didn’t come.

Christine turned her attention back to the screen.

“I went looking for him in the shopping centre, near where he parked.” He noticed she was barely breathing now. “I found him in a café . . . with a woman.”

“Oh?” She coughed a little.

“Yeah, I had to improvise. The quality’s not great. Do you want to see it?”

“Can you upload it to my laptop?”

“Sure.” He reached into his rucksack for the cable.

They watched the camera connect to the computer and he looked away as she authorised the security override. The film was amateurish, barely in focus for the café window and hampered by some passers-by with remarkably large heads. The woman’s face was obscured but not the profile. He looked at Christine again and figured it out.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

Her silence told him plenty. She’d needed someone to film her there with Peterson — maybe it was emotional blackmail, or something to send to his wife. The dots connected a circuit and a light bulb came on. She was still involved with Bob Peterson, or wanted to be.

“Oh, Chrissie.” He heard the ragged edge to his voice.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles or to save me from myself.”

No, he thought, only to do your dirty work.

“So Bob has no idea?” He sighed; of course he bloody didn’t. “And you’ve done what . . . told him that I’m the jealous ex, following you around?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Disappointment decayed to pity. “I’m
concerned
for you, is what I am.”

“Save your breath, I’m a big girl now and I can look after myself.”

He pulled the camera lead free. “I’ll get prints to you. Is that it now?”

“No. I want the surveillance job in Southampton completed.”

He wondered if she were simply playing Bob Peterson for information. That somehow this was legitimate surveillance on an authorised target. But something in her eyes, some trace of the obstinacy he remembered from their own ill-fated relationship, assured him this was also personal.

“Okay then, you’re the boss.”

Her lips drew tight, as if to remind him that was never in any doubt. The package stayed on the desk, unopened. “Thank you, Thomas.” She opened her office door and stood aside so he could leave.

Back home, having shrugged the chip from his shoulder, he researched GVA on his laptop. Karl didn’t usually leave notes on his desk, however badly scrawled. The search took less than three minutes, allowing time for the kettle to boil. GVA was the airport code for Geneva. As was the norm with Karl, a new piece of information only created more questions. Still, lucky sod — it was a better gig than
spot the boyfriend
in Southampton.

While he was busy pondering a choice of takeaways the phone rang.

“It’s John. Natalie Langton wants to discuss the missing half kilo with you.”

“When?” His finger strayed across the menu to Jalfrezi.

“Tonight. Watch your back, Thomas. Jack Langton may be the one pulling the strings, but take it from me — his wife is an expert at pushing people’s buttons.”

* * *

He dressed up for the appointment and put himself on best behaviour. Logically, he had nothing to fear; all he’d done was deliver the case. Even so, his guts were churning on the drive over.

Ray’s car — the one Natalie had got into with the case — was nowhere to be seen. He was glad of that, until he rang the doorbell and she appeared in a low-cut number.

“Come in — Thomas, wasn’t it?”

He faked a smile; she knew damn well. She made it through to the kitchen before he’d had a chance to close the front door.

“What can I get you?” Her voice echoed along the passageway, a little on the shrill side now he thought about it.

“Nothing for me, thanks — I’m driving.” He felt like adding, ‘and you’re married,’ but he let it pass.

She returned from the kitchen, hips swaying, and pointed him through to the lounge. A massive white leather three-piece filled the room, which was quite an achievement. A flick of a switch and
Sade
poured from the speakers, sweet as honey.

“So, Thomas.” She moved the glass away from her face. “How much do you know about Jack’s business?” Her lips parted to receive his answer.

“Me? Nothing. I’m just helping him out — a favour for a mutual friend.” He didn’t elaborate about John Wright; he was more interested in what she wanted him to know. People always wanted you to know
something
, especially if they were selling a lie.

“A smart man like you — aren’t you just a little bit curious?”

“Killed the cat.” He smiled again, forcing it up into his eyes.

She looked like she was waiting for more, so he moved the Bladen charm up a notch as she sipped her drink.

“I can see Jack likes the finer things in life.” He paused, waiting for that coy smile to dance across her face.

“Look.” She leaned towards the edge of the sofa. “The missing half kilo is making problems for everyone.”

He nodded. “I can imagine. What do you want me to do?” Simple and direct; he reckoned she’d appreciate that.

She swung her legs up and stretched out. “It’d be best for everyone if we had a full case again. I’ll pay out for it if I have to but I’d rather not, and I don’t care how you get it — do you understand?”

“I think so.” His stomach flipped again. Oh bollocks, this was all heading in the wrong direction. Best to play the part all the way to the curtain. “What’s in it for me?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “My gratitude. You’ll find I can be very grateful.”

He blinked a couple of times as she faced him with a warm smile and cold eyes. Maybe Jack Langton was safer in prison.

She smoothed her top needlessly; from where he sat there were no imperfections. “Just get the half kilo back before word gets around and I’ll make it worth your while. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking they can take advantage,” she rearranged her window display again, “just because Jack’s inside.”

He was out the door in less than twenty minutes.
Sade
was still waxing soulful and somewhere, he surmised, Ray Daniels was eyeing up Jack’s throne — among other things.

Karl telephoned at close to midnight.

“Any chance of a Sunday meet up?”

“Could be tricky.” He wiped an eye with the heel of one hand. “I’ve, er, got a job on tomorrow.” He took the plunge. “Surveillance on Bob Peterson in Southampton. You remember Bob?”

“Does Christine think he’s still active for
them
?”

Karl never named his enemy. Thomas had heard him call it a cartel, a Shadow State and even Shadow Europe, but there was never a clear definition. Smoke and mirrors every time.

Another pause so Thomas went for broke. “Are you in?”

“Of course I’m bloody well in. We’re partners, aren’t we?” There was a warmth to his voice now.

“Okay then, partner, where have you been in the last twenty-four hours?”

“Geneva, as you probably worked out. I realise it can’t compare with the glamour of Southampton, but someone had to make that sacrifice. Anyhow, call me when you’re leaving tomorrow and pick me up.”

* * *

Thomas had the dream again — the one where he caught Christine Gerrard and Bob Peterson together at a hotel. The one where he lamped Peterson and kept on pummelling him until he was a crimson pulp. Only this time Karl was there too, taking photographs.