CAUSE & EFFECT (21 page)

She smiled. “I never knew you were the jealous type.”

Of course you did, he thought. “Seriously.”

She adjusted a cushion. “He wanted to know if Mum and Dad could get a cash card cloned and he asked for a favour, if it came to it — a bed for Ken, for one night.”

“He’s got a bloody nerve . . .”

“You know Mum and Dad are happy to help him. He’s helping you with Jack Langton. That’s what friends do. Or didn’t they teach you that in Pickering?” Her face grew serious. “Out with it, Thomas. I can always tell.”

He let go of her. “Would you have felt differently about me, well, about us, if I’d killed Yorgi on the moors?”

“Oh, let’s not go back over old ground.”

“No, this is important. You wanted to know what’s bothering me.”

“You were trying to protect me — and anyway you didn’t kill him.”

“But what if I had? What sort of man would that make me?”

“Is this because Karl and Ken were in the army together?”

So he told you that at least
. “No, listen.” He swung her legs off him and sat up to face her. “Supposing I had killed Yorgi — like I wanted to?”

“What do you want me to say? I’m glad he’s dead. He deserved to die.” She pulled her knees up under her chin and then brushed at her fringe. “Let the past go. No more talk about guns and monsters tonight. Karl can deal with all that stuff.”

He followed her to the bedroom, wishing she were right.

Karl picked him up from Bethnal Green Tube, an hour later than usual, a sandwich in foil waiting on the passenger seat. Thomas didn’t bother to question the change of rendezvous. Karl always had his reasons.

“Fried egg, not ten minutes old. We’re celebrating. I’ve had mine already.”

The crumpled tin foil on the floor was proof of that. He busied himself with the celebratory sarnie and let Karl turn evangelist.

“So . . .” Karl yawned out the word. “We’re on track for Ken’s disappearing act.”

“When?” Thomas licked lukewarm egg yolk from his fingers. “Because once Ken’s safely out the way there should be nothing stopping us talking to Sir Peter Carroll.”

He finished his sarnie and folded the foil neatly into a square, placing it in the door pocket.

“That wouldn’t be my preferred course of action, Thomas.”

“Easy for you to say — you weren’t the dumb bastard who transported the murder weapon.” He stopped speaking and waited for his brain to catch up. “Ken said someone collected the rifle. How did he kill the second bloke?”

Karl turned a defensive shade of red. “All I did was give him the rifle when we recovered it.”

Thomas smiled at the bluff. “That wasn’t what I asked you. Answer the question.”

Karl fidgeted a little in his seat. The engine was still running but they hadn’t gone anywhere. He glanced skyward, huffed and turned off the ignition.

“I wanted to do this later.”

“Let’s not fuck about, Karl. Miranda’s family have gone beyond the call for your army mate. From where I’m sitting you owe me big time.”

Karl folded his arms and stared at his knees.

“Glove compartment. I was gonna show you later once we had a coffee break.”

Thomas clicked the button slowly and deliberately. The flap lowered like a mouth that wanted to say something. He smiled; a brown envelope — how could it be anything else? The first image was a long lens of a front door, part way along a balcony — Ken’s, presumably. The next showed someone standing at the door with his back to the camera. The third, of someone handing over a small package to the stranger, had part of Ken’s face in shot. Thomas paused to look at it, sensing Karl looking at him.

“They told Ken when to be ready, so he beeped me before he opened the door.”

Thomas noticed the shadows under Karl’s eyes.

“When did you last get a decent night’s sleep?”

“Honestly? The day before Ken showed up in my life again. You’d better go on.”

Happy snap number four was Ken receiving a package in return. Thomas figured it was the replacement weapon. He was about to flick to the next photograph when Karl grabbed his wrist.

“You need to know that I had absolutely no idea about this.”

Thomas wrenched his hand free and revealed the last picture. It was Bob Peterson. Now he remembered Ken muttering about a visitor in a 4x4. The power of speech momentarily deserted him. Only momentarily.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Karl started the car. “I don’t know. Truly. Now do you see why I want Ken out of the picture?”

Thomas breathed into his hands, slow and steady. “I think we have to assume the worst. Peterson’s not an idiot — and he’s well connected.” He knew Karl would be insulted by that. “I’ll need to talk to him.”

Karl reared back in his seat. “Hang on a minute; let’s not be hasty.”

Thomas put the photos back in the envelope. “I take it you have copies?”

“Yep.”

“Good, then I’ll keep these. Maybe I can use them as leverage with Bob.”

“Or collateral.”

“Come again?”

“I hate to break the bad news to you, Tommo, but he may well have a set with you in them.”

“Jesus, Karl. I need coffee.”

Thomas was developing a fascination with the news, searching the bulletins and Karl’s tabloids with grim determination.

He wondered why Karl permitted the nightmare to continue, but that presumed Karl controlled anything anymore.

He took Miranda’s advice and they went back to Andrea Harrison to agree to her proposal — two artworks in private ownership, on loan to the gallery, with a discreet sale should they ever require it. He had no intention of collecting on the deal, but Miranda had done an Internet search and the maths so they were able to talk numbers to her. It all added to the illusion that they were on the make.

RT’s relief that night had led to an evening of Anis-fuelled revelations. Miranda made the ultimate sacrifice with her liver, saving Thomas’s head as the designated driver. Once Andrea had practically passed out, RT couldn’t stop talking. Not quite a distribution timetable, but a couple of names and entry ports, and some ingenious methods of concealment and transportation. Now Thomas understood why RT was so valuable to Jack Langton. The Spanish climate was great for cannabis plantations.

* * *

Karl disappeared for a day. He’d warned Thomas the previous night that he’d be phoning in sick and suggested they meet after work. Work that was now down to Johnny No-Mates. At least, it would have been had Christine not instructed Thomas to swing by the office and pick up Ann. It was starting to feel like musical chairs.

The East London traffic was unforgiving, every hesitation punished by some cunning bastard trying to edge him out of the lane. Ah, those chirpy cockneys. Like Barry Manilow he ‘made it through the rain’ and parked up underground.

He got into the lift and hit the button for the second floor, watching as the door closed with precision and counting the six seconds in his head. No sooner had the lift started than it began to slow. First floor: MI5.

The lift door slid open and an Asian woman in a smart suit got in.

“It’s Thomas, isn’t it?” She delivered the line so casually that it was clear she knew who he was.

Just as he recognised she was British-born, educated, and knew where to shop. Then again, maybe MI5 gave out a clothing allowance. His eyes drifted down to her belt and he read the ID card hanging there: Rupindra Tagore. He nearly said, ‘Like the poet,’ but no one likes a smart-arse. Besides, his brain was already preparing for a forward roll. In two years he’d never seen someone travel up from the first floor. Maybe she was lost on her first day.

They smiled with their eyes, saying nothing, playing the diplomacy game. He was first out of the lift and then it was follow the leader. Past the vending machine and sharp right. He swiped her in; since it was obvious she wasn’t there by accident. She headed towards Christine’s office and Ann raised her head from her desk like a meerkat.

“Hi, Rupee! How are you?”

He held back to watch their brief exchange before Rupee
took a seat at Christine’s desk.

“Right then.” Ann watched him, watching her. “I’m all yours.” She locked her desk with a theatrical flourish and picked up her bag. “I do hope Karl feels better soon.”

* * *

At first, being out in the car with Ann Crossley was like sitting an extended driving test. He went through the assignment sheets, brought her up to speed on progress and actions outstanding, and then suggested a takeaway coffee before they took another crack at the Dolans.

She seemed amenable, but he could never quite make her out. Karl was Mister Cloak and Dagger, no question about it. Ms Crossley, on the other hand, didn’t even leave a shadow. Here was a woman who created spread sheets voluntarily. From the way she conducted herself, she evidently thought she was destined for better things. Maybe she was already laying the groundwork for a move to MI5. He gave her the benefit of the doubt. She had saved his arse when Greg took a kicking — an event that Karl had never really explained.
Quelle surprise
. It was the not knowing about Ann that really bothered him: gay, straight, politics, lifestyle? Nothing.

Subject Dolan came into view on his pizza moped. Ann waited for Thomas to finish taking a batch of pictures.

“Don’t you ever want more than this?”

He pondered that. Did she mean working in the SSU or working with Karl?

“I’m not sure what else I’m good for.” He chose the words deliberately — good
for
, not good at.

“Someone with your abilities, Thomas?” The first syllable of his name betrayed her Welsh roots. “I’m sure an opportunity could be found.”

He shrugged off the compliment. Sir Peter Carroll had said much the same thing, several months ago. And look how that was working out for him.

“Karl won’t be here forever. Europe may be calling for him.”

Interesting, given Karl’s recent trip to Geneva.

“I meant to ask,” he ricocheted the conversation. “How did you get on with the Southampton job?”

She blushed — a fleeting flare of conscience. “I’d rather not talk about that . . .”

“We’re on the same team, aren’t we? Besides, we both know Bob Peterson has already met with a contact from . . . what would you like me to call them?”

She smiled. “You really are relentless. That’s why I know you could do more.”

“RAF Intelligence? It’s not quite my style.”

“No, I agree, not yet. But with the right mentoring . . .”

“Dolan’s on the move.”
Saved by the bell.

Thomas followed the same course as before, assuming that Dolan had a regular delivery route. Sure enough, the moped took an identical turn and Thomas slotted in behind a bread van. He figured it would be the same address as last time, so he veered right and put his foot down in search of a parking spot. He didn’t say anything and neither did Ann, as they waited ten doors away on the opposite side of the road. The moped’s rasping engine grew louder until it pulled up by the same olive-coloured front door.

He dropped the window enough to allow the lens to breathe, racking up shots while Ann checked through his paperwork. He gave her a running commentary.

“Dolan is off the moped, pannier unlocked, pizza box extracted, knocking on the door now . . . same bloke as last time — skinny, shirt and tie, head like a pencil rubber.”

Crossley didn’t laugh; she coughed a little instead. Stick to the job at hand.

“Delivery being made, money changing hands.”

He cut the soundtrack once he realised what was actually going on. The man at the olive door took delivery of
something
but it wasn’t pizza. And it looked like he’d put something back inside the box before returning it. This was what Karl called a game changer. And frankly, he should have seen it before. Whatever young Dolan was delivering, he was also collecting merchandise for Charlie Stokes.

“Did you get everything on film, Thomas?”

He smiled at the word ‘film.’

“Yeah, everything I need.”
Not that you’ll see all of it.

He was itching to ring Karl, but not under supervision. Off they went to the next job for more of the same. It wasn’t Ann’s fault. She wasn’t terrible company; she just wasn’t
good
company.

They had lunch on the move, although she did spring for sandwiches from a deli. It was odd being around her outside the usual four walls. She didn’t do informality.

“I’m not really your cup of tea.” She broke into their silent sandwich time in the car.

He blinked a couple of times, hoping she’d pick up on his personal Morse code for, ‘do we really need to do this now?’

“We all work in the same department, but you stick to Karl like he’s some sort of
player
.”

He pursed his lips. 180 degrees off target. Karl wasn’t that at all, which was exactly why he trusted him . . . most of the time.

She cleared her throat. “All I’m saying is, Karl doesn’t have all the answers.”

He couldn’t resist taking the piss while he was finishing his sandwich. “When did I become such a valuable asset?”

“Ah, you were always that, Thomas. Only Christine missed her chance and Karl got to you first.” She proffered an open bar of chocolate and he snapped off a couple of pieces.

* * *

At four p.m., when Thomas had started wondering if the car clock was on a go-slow, Karl rang his mobile. The first thing he said was, “Can you put Ann on?” so he passed the phone over.

Thomas waited, mute, while Ann nodded and uh-huhed. Finally, she passed his phone back, still on.

“Are you running on schedule, Tommo? If so, I’ll know where to find you. I have a copy of the timetable about my person.”

“Of course you do.”

He wasn’t surprised when Karl turned up not long afterwards. Ann accepted a lift to Mile End underground, to make her own way back to Liverpool Street, leaving the air easier to breathe.

“Okay . . .” Karl took a deep breath. “Here’s the fruit of my labours.”

Inside a padded envelope was a collection of white plastic cards, indistinguishable from one another, each with a magnetic strip along the length.

“And these will work?” He did a quick count: nine cards altogether.

“They should do. Realistically, even two plus the original would be plenty to give Ken enough of a smokescreen for a head start.”

“How do you plan to distribute them?”

Karl’s silence gave him his answer.

“I don’t have that many friends.”

“You don’t need to, Tommo. How do you fancy an all-expenses paid trip to Birmingham? Even better, I’ll make it a freebie trip to Yorkshire, as long as you spend an hour in Brum on the way.”

“Because?”

“It’s pretty central — ideal for distributing a few cards.”

“And what about the others?”

“I was coming to that.”

Karl had been busy. There were seven mobile numbers on the list. The last number stuck out like a sore thumb — it was John Wright’s.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Like you said, Thomas, you don’t have a lot of friends. And neither do I — not like this. People we can trust: no questions asked.

Thomas went through the list again. “Anything else I should know?”

“Now you mention it, there is one other challenge.”

Karl reached into his bag. Clearly he was doing this by degrees. Knowing Karl, he was saving the best – or worst — until last.

“How will people know which cashpoints are safe to use — without cameras?”

Karl cleared his throat. “That is indeed the challenge. The information is best guess, I’m afraid. See page two.”

Thomas flicked over the page where cashpoints were listed in groups of five. No longer the self-assured espionage agent, Karl was adrift, planning on the hoof.

“So I gather John and Diane got the cards cloned for you.”

“I couldn’t very well use my own people, under the circumstances.”

“No, but you bloody well used mine.”

* * *

Thomas got back to the flat and decided he’d give himself half an hour for a shower, a change of clothes and then out again. The flashing light on his answering machine had other ideas.

“Thomas, it’s Christine. I’m at the office. Call me whenever you get this.”

He checked the time, took her at her word and went for a shower first. Afterwards, he set the stopwatch on his mobile and dialled in, his hair still wet and a towel around his shoulders. She cut to the chase.

“I wanted to apologise for Southampton. There’s more going on than I’m able to discuss.”

“It’s fine; you don’t owe me any explanations.”

“I know.” Her voice regained its edge; she was the boss again. “Even so, I wouldn’t want you to misjudge the situation.”

Here it comes.

“The surveillance on Bob Peterson was sanctioned by Sir Peter Carroll.”

Like that was any kind of recommendation.

“So why are we talking now?”

“I wanted to say something. If you do what
we
do, there’s always a price. Back when I met Bob—”

He cut in, mindful of the time. “When we were still together, you mean?”

“Bob was the price I paid.”

She’d sidestepped his point, but he wasn’t finished with it.

“I think you’ll find I paid a price too.”

“We were hardly a perfect match and if we’d still been together when Miranda reappeared in your life, we both know what would have happened.”

The timer was running low and so was his patience.

“I’m sorry, Christine — I need to be somewhere.”

“Okay. All I’m saying is think carefully and stay your side of the line.”

It sounded halfway between a warning and concern. He put the receiver down. That was ten minutes of his life he was never going to get back again. He hung the towel on the rail, making sure the line was level, and then got on the road.

* * *

Miranda’s car was already outside the Wrights’ place in Dagenham. He rang the bell and the door gave a little, on the latch. He went inside.