CAUSE & EFFECT (4 page)

Liverpool Street station was bustling; a swarm of people pouring from the escalators at street level. It would have been a great picture. Christine made a beeline for a carbon copy coffee house — matching decor at every turn and staff who all looked like they deserved something better.

“My treat.” She reached across him in the queue to pick out pastries and a hint of French perfume grazed his memory.

“Cappuccino, please,” he said to the pierced lovely behind the counter, who beamed at him when Christine turned her head.

He carried the tray over to a table, which she brushed with an extra napkin. “So how are you? We haven’t caught up in ages.” She glanced down at her iPhone, resting on the table with her keys.

“We never
catch up
? Why are we here?”

She adjusted the tray to line up with the table edge. “I’ve been asked . . . that is . . . Sir Peter Carroll has requested I make you available as a courier. Ordinarily I’d assign anyone from the team . . .”

Logic kicked in. “Only, you want something from him — or your
people
do?” He wondered why Christine’s friends in the Foreign Office might be taking an interest in the Director General of the SSU.

She blushed and he warmed to that. The lady still had her scruples.

“You’re free to say no, of course, after . . . everything.”

He sipped his coffee and the foam tickled his lips. Everything. The reality had been a lot messier. Six months ago he’d been just another name on the surveillance team. Now he knew that Christine, Ann and Karl had additional allegiances and all were engaged in an intelligence tug-of-war that surfaced from time to time. And as for the great leader himself . . .

He licked the sprinkles from the rim of the cup. “Tell him I’ll do it,” he promised, because he didn’t have a good enough reason not to. And this way she’d hopefully back off from his prison visits.

“Thank you, Thomas; I appreciate it. Can you head straight over to Whitehall? He needs you there today.”

“What about the Benefits Investigation Team and Karl?”

“This takes priority. It’s an urgent collection and delivery. And let’s keep this between ourselves — just like your personal appointment today.”

There was a time when he’d enjoyed attending Sir Peter Carroll at Whitehall. Those occasional summonses, from the Director General himself, used to make him feel valued.

Things were different now. Ever since Karl and circumstance had opened his eyes, he viewed the interaction more as an audience, albeit complicated by Sir Peter now answering to Karl’s people, whoever they were. It didn’t pay to think too much about it.

He jumped the Tube at Liverpool Street and threaded through the underground network to surface at Westminster. This time, as he approached Main Building, he felt something different: a sense of foreboding. Could he really trust the DG anymore? He smiled to himself — answers on a postcard.

The guard at the front door eyed him up as he entered the foyer — nothing new there. A sign showed the building’s alert status as black, which matched his mood. The security desk received his ID card with thinly veiled contempt — this was another place where
floaters
weren’t welcomed with open arms. He’d never quite figured that one out. Was it because the SSU only came into being at the time of The Falklands War, twenty years or so ago, lacking the pedigree of the other departments? Or maybe it was the belief that the SSU was a dumping ground for anyone who couldn’t hack it anywhere else in the service.

A quick phone call and a scan of his hand, and then it was the familiar stand-and-wait routine while an escort came to fetch him. Meantime, he counted the seconds. To think he used to be impressed with all this. The seat of power — what a joke! In the last few months Karl had educated him about a power struggle across Europe that had nothing to do with governments. A
Shadow State
whose tendrils reached into the military, multinationals and so-called democracies. Even though he didn’t subscribe to a ‘United States of Europe’ conspiracy, unlike the nutcase websites Karl had directed him to for fun, there was definitely something to it. Everything always came down to money and power.

His escort arrived and she chaperoned him to the lift for the top floor. Sir Peter Carroll, always the man at the top.

“I’ve not seen you before, Mr Bladen?”

Her voice startled him and he smiled. She was from the northeast — a Geordie by the sounds of it.

“I’m not a regular here. This is more of a command performance.”

She let loose a three-second smile and visibly relaxed.

“Congratulations, by the way.” He nodded to her engagement ring.

“Well-spotted. Aye, only a couple of months to go now,” she confided. “Best day of a girl’s life, apparently.”

“Your other half must be bricking it.”

“I reckon he is!”

Out of the lift it was back to business. He led the way, noting that the CIA liaison office had moved three rooms along since his last appearance. He stood aside to let her knock on Sir Peter’s door, already ajar.

Sir Peter looked up from his desk, large as life and twice as ugly. “Ah, Thomas! Do come in; I’ve been expecting you.”

He smiled to himself. Same old shit. He took the empty seat.

“I’ve rung for coffee.”

Thomas didn’t have much to say; the history between them filled the silence. “You sent for me?” It came out a bit chippier than he’d intended.

Sir Peter flustered a little. “Yes, Thomas. I need someone I can rely on to obey instructions implicitly.” Subtext: know your place.

He nodded, a reflex action, and let his attention drift to the familiar painting of Churchill on the wall behind the desk. If that piece of art could talk.

“ . . . So, as I say, it is a small matter and I need it done today.”

A brown envelope slid across the desk. “Collect the package from room 402 on your way out.”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Thomas instinctively grabbed the envelope and folded it in his pocket. Engagement girl brought in a tray with two coffees then closed the door behind her without a word.

“You’ll also be needing this.” Sir Peter snapped a key down on the desk. “Follow the instructions.”

He could see that it had been newly cut; the edges gleamed under the office strip lights. He dragged it across the hardened skin on his thumb and gulped his coffee down.

Sir Peter set his cup down. “Well, I won’t keep you. Ring me when the job is complete.”

Once he was out in the corridor, he slit open the envelope and read the contents. On paper this looked like the easiest job in Christendom; he’d fallen for that one before. As he waited for the lift he played mental somersaults, pondering why the Old Man had insisted on him for such a routine job.

The fourth floor was a hotchpotch of government offices. He found room 402 without difficulty and rapped on the door. A muffled voice called him in by name. More head games, more subterfuge and more bollocks. Room 402 was little bigger than a cupboard.

“Sign here, please.”

He gave his autograph and studied the man opposite, noting how the sweat dappled the redness of his bald head. The stranger adjusted his glasses and peered back.

“You have your instructions?”

He nodded curtly.

Evidently satisfied with the paperwork and sphinx impression, the man went through a door behind him and promptly returned with a bulky parcel. Thomas was still putting his gloves on.

He was surprised by the size and weight of it, feeling the hard plastic case through the packaging. The authentic looking stickers and travel stamps were a nice touch. The guy behind the desk didn’t get the joke.

Having got what he came for, he headed straight out the building. If he was carrying currency again, they’d put in more effort than the ripped bag on the Leeds retrieval six months before. Maybe that was progress.

He took a short walk to Victoria Station and wandered through the complex to find a weighing machine, where he carefully weighed the package. Next, he tracked down a hardware shop in nearby Ecclestone Street and bought a tape measure. He detailed the dimensions in his notebook and then visited the gents in the station. In a cubicle he took photos of the package from all angles.

He also took a couple of close-ups of the key before sealing it in a small padded envelope, adding the PO box number and address from the label to his notebook. According to his instructions, the key had to be posted off after that day’s collection. All that was left was a short trip over to Charing Cross Station to deposit the goods at Left Luggage. By the time he called Sir Peter back, it was only three thirty.

“I’ll come down to meet you and then why don’t you consider your work finished for the day?”

Thomas wasn’t fooled by the sudden attack of generosity, but he wasn’t going to argue either. Especially when he had inquiries to make on Jack Langton’s behalf.

Sir Peter was waiting as he neared the building. It seemed strange to find the Old Man outside in daylight on London’s busy streets. He seemed diminished without his desk or his Daimler.

Thomas slipped him the receipt in an awkward handshake. He was mindful that Karl’s people still had the Old Man under surveillance. Sir Peter muttered a few words of thanks and then scurried back inside.

Karl picked up on the second ring. “Jaysus, Tommo, I was beginning to think they’d kept you in prison.”

“Sorry, there were one or two complications. Not much point coming out to you now. I’m going to head over to . . .” He stalled, distracted by the little padded envelope. “ . . . Janey’s and see what I can find out. Do you wanna meet at Caliban’s?”

“Miranda’s place?”

“Unless you know another one. Hopefully I’ll have an update for you.”

“Good, and you can tell me what Jack Langton said.”

“Chapter and verse.”

“I’d expect nothing less. Listen, why don’t you see if Jack Langton has any post at Janey’s flat? It might give us more insight into his world. Catch you later.”

Janey’s maisonette on the housing estate wasn’t hard to find. The front garden was littered with the ghosts of toys past and fresh bouquets of flowers left by the door. He shuddered as he pushed the gate. Last he’d heard the little boy was still in hospital.

He rang the doorbell and strained to catch what was on the radio. The sound cut and a silhouette gradually appeared against the frosted glass. He gave out his name as she closed on the handle and opened the door. He figured Janey must be in her early twenties, but the last few days had not been kind to her. She glanced at him and blinked a couple of times, as if to recollect why he was there. Then she bent down to scoop up the flowers and went inside, leaving the door open for him.

“The solicitor said you’d be visiting.”

That pissed him off, given that he hadn’t spoken to the solicitor yet — something else to discuss with John Wright. He trailed her into the kitchen, where she put the kettle on and went to fill a vase. As she turned back, she must have read the look on his face because she shook her head.

“No, it’s okay — Jacob’s still in hospital. It’s just people’s way of showing respect. A week or two ago they couldn’t give a shit about me and now it’s ‘alright Janey’ and ‘hope your son’s okay.’ If I had a quid for every miserable bastard round here who’s complained about my kid or me, I’d be off to Majorca for a fortnight.” She laughed at her own joke.

The tea was average. He declined a biscuit as there were only two left in the packet.

“So, you know why I’m here. Jack wants to find out who did this to Jacob.”

“You’re not one of his usual boys.” She smirked. “He’s always
Mr Langton
to them.”

He blushed; he hadn’t even thought about it. “Like I said, I’m here to help.” He took out a notepad and told her he wanted to chat for a bit and make some notes as they went along. It was ten minutes before he got anything useful.

“Jack’s little Jacob’s godfather. Funny, innit? The godfather! I don’t see Jack that often now — before he went inside, I mean. Maybe once a month. He picks up the odd bit of post and keeps a change of clothes here.”

Thomas’s pen quivered. She cupped her mug with both hands and rocked slowly.

“Look, Natalie’s a nice woman and all that, but I gather it ain’t all hearts and flowers at home so I don’t ask. Here, how’s all this gonna lead to the bastard who hurt my boy?”

“I’m not sure.” He picked up his underwhelming tea. “You said Jack keeps clothes here?”

“In a little suitcase, on top of the wardrobe in the spare room. I don’t go near it — Jack wouldn’t like it.”

At his insistence she showed him the room, although she wouldn’t take the case down. He decided to call it a day and was heading out the front door when the toilet flushed.

“Jack said you lived alone.”

“Yeah, well, I do.” She squirmed. “Only Greg
is
Jacob’s dad and he’s been supporting me — well, both of us — through all this. You won’t tell Jack, will you?” Her eyes reached out to him. “Only since Greg left Jack said he’s not really . . . you know . . . supposed to stay over.”

“I’m just here to look into the attack on Jacob. How is he by the way?”

She sniffed and pulled the front door closed behind her. “He’s in Moorfields Eye Hospital. Jack arranged for private care there. They’re still not sure if there’ll be any lasting damage.”

It was too much for her and she fell forward in a flood of tears. He caught and held her as she sobbed in spasms.

“I know I haven’t been the best mum in the world to him, but I swear it’s gonna be different when I get him home.”

“I’m sure you do your best,” he soothed her. “It can’t be easy being a single parent on the breadline.”

She eased herself away, wiping her nose on her hand. “Specially when his dad is such a waste of space.”

He paused at the end of the garden, one hand on the gate, aware that she seemed very keen to have him off the property. “I nearly forgot; does Jack have any post to be collected?”

It was a knife-edge moment where it looked like she could jump either way. After a few seconds she slipped around the door and returned with a bunch of envelopes held together by a rubber band.

She held them out to him and he passed back a fiver as he took them. “Buy something for Jacob.” She took the cash and slid back inside. Even from the gate he could hear the shouting match that followed.