Authors: DEREK THOMPSON
Keeping Bob Peterson at arm’s length proved easy. Peterson called him, first thing, and explained that he intended to stay in Southampton and have Thomas be his eyes and ears in London. To buy himself some time Thomas promised to visit Ken’s flat after work.
He hadn’t slept well and the train ride into work was gruelling. It was never a good sign when he needed chocolate to keep body and soul together before he’d even made it back above ground. Everywhere he looked people wore earpieces to cocoon them from their commute, the wires trailing discreetly inside a coat, making it harder to identify if it was a genuine iPod — or worth stealing. The train rocked side to side, crashing his brain against the same thought: Miranda and Ray.
Today was a repeat list of benefits claimants — a mop-up of those they’d missed altogether, and a continuation of surveillance on some of the others.
“Trouble sleeping?” Karl edged into the conversation with more care than he applied to the traffic.
“I thought Jack was intimidating, but Charlie — he’s in another league.”
“He’s smarter too. No criminal record — implicated, but nothing that sticks.”
“I dunno how you do it, Karl. It’s day and night for you. When did you last take a holiday?”
“Apart from my European break in Geneva, you mean?”
The welcoming sight of the café ended the conversation. Still time for breakfast before Paulette Villers was due at the laundry.
The door had an old-fashioned bell above it. Thomas headed to the counter and grabbed the newspaper. Two fried egg sandwiches and teas ordered, he took the seat with his back to the window so Karl could keep watch on the world.
“Even the news is spoiled,” Thomas lamented. “Thanks to you I’m forever reading between the lines now.”
Karl fiddled with the salt cellar. “All I did was open your eyes to what was already going on — and you asked me to, remember?”
“I know.” He cheered up a little when the tea arrived and started flicking through the paper. There was no mention of a killer on the run, or a European conspiracy, but he knew they were facts of life.
The sandwiches weren’t long in coming and the magical hit of bread and butter, egg, and sweet sauce were balm to an otherwise shitty day. Thomas was going back over the Bob Peterson situation, in between bites, when Karl’s face brightened.
“Don’t look now, Tommo — I think our luck is changing.”
He waited for Karl to elaborate — which he didn’t. The door pinged and Paulette Villers stood over them.
“I’m ready to talk — tomorrow, at two pm. You know our address. Only . . . can you leave me alone today? I’ve got things to do — private things.” She didn’t hang around.
“What do you reckon?” Thomas squeezed his bread against the plate, smearing yellow and brown together.
“Yeah, I’m up for that.”
“No, I mean the part about leaving her alone today. What is she doing?”
Karl was already reaching for his mobile. “Hello, Ann? How would you like to make an Irishman very happy?” He got up and took the call outside.
The carousel of claimants — Karl’s phrase of the day — gradually thinned out as the hours slipped away. It was Thomas’s turn as the lookout, so Karl practised surveillance on the insides of his eyelids.
“Karl?” Thomas stretched his name out like a yawn.
“I’m not asleep.”
“I wanna ask you something. A straight question without further discussion?”
“Uh-huh.” Karl hadn’t moved.
“Miranda and Ray Daniels . . .”
“Oh, that.” Karl shifted a little in his seat. “Let sleeping dogs lie, Thomas. The past is the past.”
“Any other clichés in your bag?”
“I thought we weren’t discussing this?”
“We’re not. But Charlie Stokes also knew I was a photographer, so I’m wondering where he got that from?”
“I told you he was smart. And as for Ray Daniels, you and Miranda had enough going on and it wasn’t my place to say anything.”
“That’s never stopped you before.” He arced his camera along the horizon. “I’ll be glad when this business with Jack Langton is over.”
Karl didn’t reply. The subject appeared in the frame, so Thomas dropped the subject and got to work.
* * *
Dinner at
Caliban’s
hadn’t been part of the plan but Karl had a point — it was local and they deserved some sort of reward for a hard day’s surveillance. The bar was a tourist magnet again, only this time the coach outside had French number plates.
Thomas followed Karl across the car park. “This’ll be perfect for you. They speak French in Geneva.”
Karl made a pretence of holding his ribs. “Look, I should have told you about Miranda. I know you’ve done a lot for me lately — for Ken. So I’m gonna repay your trust a little because I know how much you love secrets. I won’t repeat myself. Ready? I went to a NATO building in Geneva.”
“Holy shit!”
“The very same. Now, by my reckoning I owe the two of you dinner.”
Inside, Miranda sauntered over and directed them to one of the three reserved tables. At Miranda’s minimal sign language Sheryl brought the menus. “Nice to see a friendly face for a change, guys.” She dealt them out like cards. “Any progress on Janey’s kid?”
Thomas tapped Karl’s boot under the table. “You know her?”
“I know
of
her. By the way, when are you seeing Jack again?”
“Soon. I’m gonna go on my own again.”
They settled for ‘poulet et croustilles,’ as the menu put it, mainly because Miranda admitted she had over-ordered. And, like Karl said, you couldn’t really get chicken and chips wrong as long as it was actually cooked.
Karl hung around longer than Thomas expected. Miranda and Sheryl alternated their company with helping out at the bar. Thomas liked it that way — no space to talk over anything work-related. The weight across his shoulders lifted as the evening went on. Even when Karl went outside to make a call it didn’t disturb him.
“I suppose we should see Ajit and Geena at some point . . .” He tested the water with Miranda.
“Maybe once Jack’s out of your hair?”
He made a face.
“No progress with Jacob then.”
He shook his head and sought solace in his shandy.
“Eliminate the impossible . . .” She leaned in and kissed him.
Sherlock Holmes had never felt so sexy.
Karl returned with a flourish. “Remind me to buy Ann Crossley some flowers.” He glanced at Miranda and carried on regardless. “Our boy Dolan . . .”
“Roland,” Thomas corrected him.
“ . . . Went to the same olive-coloured door address, collected something and delivered it to . . .” He drummed on the table and then stopped for the punch line.
“Paulette Villers!” Thomas stole his glory.
“Very good, Tommo. Maybe she’s gonna hand over some evidence tomorrow.”
Miranda squeezed in close to whisper in Thomas’s ear. “Shall we go back to yours?”
The morning’s work was just a prelude to the main event of the day. They broke for lunch at twelve-thirty to talk tactics. Thomas was all for bugging Paulette’s home, but Karl thought they’d be pushing their luck.
“Domestic surveillance is always more risky. People behave erratically at home — things get moved and knocked about.”
That meant relying on naked charm. Thomas laughed at the thought — another title for RT. He wondered how Karl would make use of the information he and Miranda had gleaned about Jack’s Spanish operation. Karl had talked in a general way about ‘turning’ Jack to use him against the Shadow State, but had left out the details.
“How long do you think we’ll be there, Karl?”
“In and out in half an hour, tops.”
* * *
Thomas parked around the corner with five minutes to go. There was a metallic tang in his mouth and moistness under his arms, and he loved it. They were finally making headway against the monsters. Maybe, by some miracle, Paulette had something that would link Charlie to the attack on Jacob. Yeah, and maybe Bob Peterson would emigrate to New Zealand.
“Remember, Tommo, let me do the talking. And do whatever you can to make her feel at ease.”
Thomas immediately took his SSU ID off and thrust it in his pocket.
Paulette was at the door as soon as they knocked — obviously waiting. It looked like a small place for a couple, although someone was big on interior design. Smooth lines and muted lilac tones contrasted with burgundy — not what he’d expected of a potential benefit fraudster.
“Rachel’s upstairs. She’ll be down soon — she’s a bit uncomfortable about all this.”
Karl nodded. “We appreciate you inviting us here. It’s just a chat, nothing official.”
Thomas cleared his throat, but Karl ignored him.
“Okay . . .” Paulette took a deep breath, which didn’t stop her trembling. “I’m not working in the laundry — honest.”
Karl opened his hands wide, just like the textbooks said to do — non-threatening and inclusive. “We have seen you going there regularly.”
“I have to be out of the house at certain times. It’s somewhere to go. Sometimes I help out a little bit, that’s all. Charlie makes me leave.” She looked to the far wall. “A couple of times I came back early and . . .” There was a
thump
upstairs. “It’s only Rachel.” But she flinched. “You said you’d help us . . . I’ll make some tea — kettle’s not long boiled.”
Karl waited until she was out of the door. “I need to put some pressure on her — don’t contradict me,” he growled.
Thomas felt himself withdrawing into the role of observer. This was another, ugly side to Karl. Paulette was vulnerable, and Rachel so scared she wouldn’t even come downstairs.
The kitchen door opened and Paulette brought through a silver tray, holding it close by the handles, as the mugs of tea slopped on to its shiny surface. Thomas had a flashback to the café after his first prison visit with Jack.
He muttered to Karl, “Ask her about Jacob.”
Paulette put the tray at one edge of a coffee table and doled out the mugs. Tea oozed out from the base of each one across the dark wood. It struck Thomas as strange that she’d gone to the trouble of a tea tray but hadn’t cared about the table.
“Who’s Jacob? Drink up.”
Thomas stared at his milky tea — southerners rarely made a decent brew. Karl drained the cup without pausing for breath, a man on a mission and a dog with a bone.
“Tell us about the times you came home too soon.”
Thomas looked at his watch; they’d need to get back to work soon. The Benefits Investigation Team had its agenda too. He took a gulp of sweet, sickly tea, detecting the unmistakeable tang of sterilised milk. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to take it down, like when he was a child at his Gran’s house; Sunday teas as torture.
Within seconds Karl began to sway in his seat. His face was dappled with sweat. “I don’t feel so good.”
Thomas stared at his half empty mug. “What have you done?”
“You’ve got to finish all of it.”
Karl lurched out of his chair and stumbled over the edge of the coffee table, careering into a lamp. Thomas reacted instinctively, letting go of the mug as he rushed to Karl’s aid. He heard the smash of ceramic against wood but it didn’t slow him down any. Karl was groaning now, struggling to get to the door.
A door opened upstairs and someone rushed down, only it wasn’t Rachel. It was one of the toe-rags who’d given Greg a kicking. Thomas dragged the front door open but there were already two men waiting for them.
“It’s not my fault — he made me do it!” Paulette screamed behind him.
Thomas felt the fist jar against his back and fell headlong into Karl and out on to the street. He felt woozy but conscious enough to know they were screwed. He closed his eyes and let it happen.
* * *
Play dead.
He felt like he was flying, arms dangling in the air. Then he hit the ground and rolled into a cave. Someone sealed the cave up. Maybe it was Joseph of Arimathea. The ground lurched beneath him, only it wasn’t ground. His hands touched a smooth wooden surface.
Think, Thomas — think.
He forced his eyes open and recognised the dark belly of a van. His brain stalled as he tried to work out how he’d got there. The body beside him was Karl’s; insensible, rasping.
Thomas dug a nail into his own palm. The pain felt dull, far away, but it was something to cling on to. He chased the pain and found it, added a key scrape across his knuckles to bring it home.
What did he know? There had been three blokes and that bitch had set them up. He heard muffled voices behind his head. And a radio. He couldn’t make out the words so he eased forward and pressed an ear against the metal panel. All he got for his trouble was a pounding vibration through his skull, so he retreated. There wouldn’t be much time. He could only think of two things to do.
He put his hand in his pocket and the raw skin scraped against the seam. Once he’d separated the ID card from the holder he put the card between his teeth and carefully took his boot off. He wanted to sleep now, but he couldn’t, not yet, not until he’d finished. The card went in his sock and he put the boot back on, feeling the rounded plastic edges pressing against his sole. He slid along the floor and his boot tapped something hard. Manoeuvring 180 degrees he felt his way around the spare wheel and dipped into his pocket again for the holder. Down it went, out of sight. He scratched his initials and Karl’s into the wooden floor and dragged the spare wheel over a little to cover it. Under the circumstances, it was the best he could do.