Read STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense Online
Authors: DEREK THOMPSON
He left Whitehall with a mixture of feelings. For all his bravado, he was really no further forward. There was too much going on. It was like playing several games of chess simultaneously — and losing them all.
Christine Gerrard had surprised him when he’d telephoned in, offering to drive him over to Harwich as soon as he was free. She’d gone on site for jobs in the past, but the timing was suspect to say the least.
Her Mercedes looked conspicuous by the underground station. He reached for the car door and breathed in a heady mixture of French perfume and the sound of Grieg. She smiled at him, but kept her sunglasses on.
He caught his perplexed look reflected in her face: Grieg. He wasn’t big on classical music; it just wasn’t something that floated his boat. But he’d always had a soft spot for Grieg; well, maybe not
soft
exactly. Grieg had been the musical accompaniment to a backwoods romp with Christine in this very car. He brushed the leather seat for an instant, lost in the memory of flesh against hide.
She drove off before his seatbelt was on and he waited for his underwear to settle before he spoke. “Thanks for the lift.” Hardly repartee of the decade. Funny thing about Christine; it took him time to thaw around her. Partly the whole ‘my boss is my ex’ thing and partly because they both knew he’d been an absolute dickhead when they’d split up. It was as if she held a silent moral victory over him.
Eventually Christine removed her glasses; she looked tired.
“Everything alright, Chrissie?”
She shrugged. “Let’s talk about something else.”
He steered the conversation to safer waters, encouraging talk about her parents, their fancy horses and their fancy house. Then he listened as she recited the genealogy of their prize nags, with bloodlines going back a hundred years. It was the only topic where Christine ever really seemed to come alive, and by Harwich he felt he knew every horse personally.
A text from Miranda came through as they neared the port; she’d got him the new details for the red car’s owner, based on the tax disc. He shut the mobile off afterwards.
“Secret admirer?” Christine looked piqued.
He mustered a hangdog expression. “No, more’s the pity. Unless Karl counts?” He pressed his hand into the upholstery.
“I had it professionally cleaned,” she shot him down in flames.
Yeah, but for whose benefit?
She parked the Merc at Harwich and they sat for a while, windows down, saying nothing. Christine seemed on the brink of speaking a couple of times, but somehow never crossed the line. He watched the gulls at play and wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t been so attentive that first day. He knew the answer already — everything would still have happened, just without him knowing.
“Did you turn down the training because of me, Thomas?”
What?
“No,” he yawned and stretched in the seat. “It’s just not my style.”
She crinkled her nose. “Surely you don’t want to do this your whole life?”
He felt the smile rise across his face. “It’ll do for now. Time I was getting back to work.” He led and she followed, which almost made him nostalgic. The stairwell harboured old packing material and a fire extinguisher that had seen better days. Good for Christine to see where they’d ended up. They climbed the stairs and he found himself whistling Grieg. As they rounded the last corner she gave him a quick jab in the back and he stopped.
“Ah, so you’ve brought my boy home!” Karl set down the remains of a baguette.
Thomas braced himself for her reaction to the mess, but she wrong-footed him and went over to Karl. “Thomas has been given additional clearance . . .”
Since when?
“. . . He’ll be accompanying you on the next out-of-hours pick-up. See that he’s briefed when the time comes.”
“Will do,” Karl’s tone bordered on reverential.
She touched Thomas on the shoulder as she left. “And Karl, clean this place up; it looks like a pigsty.”
“Ma’am,” Karl replied.
They both played statues until Christine’s footsteps faded from earshot.
“What the hell was that about?” Thomas almost tripped on the words.
“It’s called playing the game, Tommo.”
* * *
“Is it a pint for you, Tommy Boy?” Karl hadn’t come to life until the evening.
“Uh-huh.” His brain ached with the effort of thinking; competing thoughts echoed back and forth.
Karl returned with beer and crisps. Karl loved crisps; maybe it was his Irish genes — Thomas had been afraid to suggest. “Right then,” Karl ripped open two crisp bags and spread them on the table, “now we can talk!”
Best start off with an easy one.
“So, is Christine in the know?”
Karl crammed a handful of cheese and onion into his mouth and filled the gaps with beer. He sat for a moment, a look of contentment on his face. Then he chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “Is she bollocks! But she thinks she is, which has its uses. Of course, you’ll know about her family — rather well connected. Confidentially,” he snatched another clutch of crisps, “I think she finds the idea of all the cloak-and-dagger stuff a bit of a turn-on.”
Thomas hurriedly dived into his drink.
“But never forget, Tommo, there
is
a dagger. My advice? Tell Christine nothing; she’ll follow orders. Whereas we, amigo, we’re the cloak within a cloak.”
Now seemed like a good time to share the red car’s true registration, seeing as how they were amigos and all.
“I’ll look into it,” Karl promised.
“No need; I’ve got the details here,” he passed over a beer mat with small, neat handwriting on it.
“My, my, private sleuthing — how very enterprising. How about we check it out this weekend — if you’re free?”
Thomas smiled; Karl was very good at this. In only a few words, Karl had acknowledged that he had his own sources, decided the next step and sniffed around his weekend plans. “Fine by me, Karl.” He put down his pint. “Now, tell me more about who ruined my door and how you managed to stay one step ahead of all this.”
Karl bowed at the table. “You see, you’re a bit of an odd fish, Mr Bladen. You’re not ex-forces, but you’re secretive and
wonderfully
unambitious. As you’ll recall, I originally had you down as a mole for another outfit. Like as not, other people think the same. So when Ms Crossley said you were wanted by the big cheese, and you said you’d got a free ticket up north, I put two and two together. I’m guessing there was a ripped DSB waiting for you?”
Thomas raised a glass to him, recalling the comedy of errors in Leeds.
“It’s standard MO from what I can tell. Not sure how Sir Peter slots into all this. Anyhow, the difference in my case was that Crossley found out I’d taken the £2000 — I still don’t know how.”
“And my visitors?”
“Well, they weren’t selling
The Watchtower
. The newbie was sent in and the seasoned pro was waiting outside, across the street.” Karl’s voice dropped away as if he were considering how to continue the sentence.
“How did you . . .?”
“Let’s just say I try to prepare for all eventualities. I won’t kid you, Tommo, they meant business; they had
guns
.”
Thomas touched his hand to his mouth then felt stupid about it.
Karl raised an index finger. “Of course, they don’t have them anymore — I have them safely in my box, with the others!” He winked and took another gulp from his glass. “If you’d feel more comfortable I can let you have a piece of equipment for home.”
Thomas blinked twice very slowly, as if that would somehow refocus the picture. But it was already becoming horribly clear.
Thomas flicked another page of the novel and glanced out the windscreen; there was still nothing to see. Just an ordinary street — typical Saturday morning tedium. Every breath drew in the stench of orange combined with petrol. But at least he was past the gagging stage. Karl had his feet on the dashboard and a tabloid open across his legs with a bag of crisps in his lap — quite the multitasker.
Thomas shut his paperback. “So why are we staking this house out?”
Karl interrupted the pen moustache he was lovingly adding to a topless model. “It goes like this,” he held up a loose fist in preparation.
Thomas mentally rehearsed a suitably impressed face.
“Thinking this through logically, all we know about the car is two things. One,” Karl’s index finger shot up like a nose-picker, “the red car probably held the shooter at Harwich. And two,” his middle finger rose up to join it, “Ann Crossley had the victim’s van taken away — now why would she do a thing like that?”
Thomas shrugged; it sounded like Karl had it all figured out anyway.
“Before we go in with our size nines, we need to know a little bit about the car and its owner. So we require a plausible reason to go knocking on their door.”
Thomas nodded. “Seems reasonable.”
Karl shifted his crisps and folded the newspaper. “But you know what seems
unreasonable
, Tommo? Why wouldn’t you report the number plate to your superiors? And check this — surely the false number plate will eventually flag up somewhere on CCTV and be checked?”
Thomas felt his mouth drying out, like a lazy dog in the heat. “Then why exactly are we here now, Karl?”
“We,” Karl stared at him intently, “are a team within a team. Which means what we’re doing today doesn’t get back to Christine — strictly off the record. And you, my mystery man, need to tell me what I’m missing. Because I know there's something.”
Thomas pushed back into the passenger seat, increasing the scent of oranges. “Right . . .” he drew out the word to epic proportions, making it sound like three separate words, “time to come clean. Remember on the day of the shooting, when I asked you how many spotter teams were on?”
“Aye, so I do.”
“Well, I saw someone with field binoculars, down in the car park. He was watching the ferry; and as soon as the shooting went off, he scarpered, pronto.”
“Interesting,” Karl tried to refold his newspaper, gave up and then scrunched it behind him to the back seat. He went back into stare mode.
“I managed to take pictures of the car number-plate and the driver. But there’s a complication.”
Karl opened one hand flat as if demanding the pay-off.
“The watcher was Bob Peterson, no question.” The inside of the car reverberated with sighs.
“Well, you’re obviously in the right job; you’re a one-man secret service, so you are.”
“Wait; you haven’t heard the complication. I doctored the watcher out of my mosaic photo for my report — before I was certain who it was. I wanted to check it out on the quiet. Christine wouldn’t have known any different but . . .”
Karl grinned and waved a hand up like a zealous schoolboy. “But Bob Peterson must have shat a brick when he heard that you took mosaic shots. Especially when he saw the mosaic from that morning and found he wasn’t in it!”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
When Karl set it all out before him, he didn’t feel quite so impressive.
“So, what then? Uncle Bob tries some damage limitation? Offers you executive training, but you don’t bite. Then you get sent to Leeds for the Cashback Challenge.”
He considered that. “I wasn’t sent by Bob though; Sir Peter Carroll. . . so it must follow that Bob Peterson spoke to the old man.”
“Hang on, Tommy; if Ann Crossley was on the ground with a spotter team, then why does Uncle Bob need to be there at all?”
Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but Karl silenced him with two more raised fingers. “Because, Dr Watson, either something different was due to go down that day
or
the shooting was planned and Peterson was supposed to report back afterwards.”
Thomas ran a thumbnail between his teeth. “Dr Watson?”
“Come on, Tommo, give me some credit. I’ve seen a battered copy of Sherlock Holmes poking out of your coat on at least two occasions — I’m no stranger to the great man myself, I might add. It should be recommended reading for the spy about town.”
Thomas felt a chill. “And is that what you are, Karl — a spy?”
“Now, you know as well as I do that the Surveillance Support Unit merely assists the work of government agencies, including the security services.” Karl raised an eyebrow. It’s been documented in Prime Minister’s Question Time.”
Round and round in circles. Thomas was fast acquiring the mother of all headaches. “So now what?”
“Now, we give the good people at number 129 a wake-up and shake-up call. If you’ll excuse me . . .” Karl rescued his mobile from a collection of old car park tickets and chocolate wrappers. Then he pulled out a photocopy of a car magazine classifieds page, with one ad circled and several others crossed out. Thomas gave it the once over; he’d never heard of the title. Karl looked extra pleased with himself. “All my own handiwork — see, I can use computers too! This was my back-up plan; and as sod all has happened in the last hour and a half, we might as well go with that.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Watch and learn, Tommy Boy. Read me the phone number off the ad, will you? If no one answers, we’ll have to pay the house a visit.” Karl dialled and his voice morphed into leafy Sussex. “Ah yes, hello, I’m ringing about the hatchback — is it still available?” He nodded to Thomas at the reply. “Really? Are you sure — I have the ad here in front of me. Well, that
is
very strange. What a pity; I was planning to pay cash.”
Thomas watched the lines furrow on Karl’s face like a well-ploughed field. It seemed all might not be going to plan.
“Yes, I was in South London anyway. Erm, well, that . . . er . . . might be interesting. I certainly appreciate the offer. Well, naturally, what the tax man doesn’t know!” Karl faked a laugh that would have been at home in Uckfield. Let’s say, what, ten thirty? I’ll just get a pen. One moment . . .”
Karl held a hand loosely above the mouthpiece and looked away, out the window. “. . . Jessica, Daddy’s on the telephone. Go and join Mummy by the till.” He lifted his hand free. “Sorry about that. Right, fire away.”
Thomas winced — poor choice of words. He watched Karl cradle the mobile under his neck and jot down the address he already knew, on a space near the fake ad.
“That’s lovely. Ten thirty it is then. Oh, yes of course: it’s . . . Bob Jefferson.” Karl went to drop the mobile back into its nest then thought better of it and dialled a number from memory. “It’s Karl. I need some money — a couple of grand should suffice. Okay, make it three; and a smart jumper, and a pair of driving gloves. Looks like I’m buying the car. No, I understand. Yes, he’s here with me now.”
Thomas blanched.
“I’ll be at the café on Jerome Street — call me when you’re ready. Quick as you can, please.” Karl cut the call. “Well, Mr Bladen, seems like you’re my lucky charm — that’s a turn up for the books. You’ll have to drive this back yourself.” He beamed like a cherub who’d just won a card game. “Café time — and the apprentice spy always pays.”
Thomas watched as Karl tucked into his all-in-one breakfast with gusto. It looked like three breakfasts, all in one. Not that the portion size seemed to slow Karl any. Thomas, on the other hand, was finding that a conscience wreaked havoc on his appetite so he played safe with a large mug of tea and a meagre two eggs on toast. He jabbed at the eggs so that they bled yellow and swept the plate with toast, sluicing the yellow into ketchup. “What about the family with the car?”
Karl managed to cram sausage, bacon and beans into his mouth, and still talk. “The car may give us something useful, but the family is our best lead, so we’ll keep a watchful eye.”
Thomas set his mug down. “That’s not what I meant.”
Karl’s mobile rang, breaking the deadlock. He checked the number, didn’t pick up. “That’s me away — I’ll not be long. Don’t let them take my plate.”
Thomas was speed-dialling Miranda before the glass door had finished rattling. He gazed past a window sticker featuring a dancing sandwich, out to a grey Saturday morning. “It’s Thomas. Listen, what are you up to this weekend?”
Miranda ran through her schedule at Caliban’s, running on into a visit to the gym and a DVD at home. He didn’t interrupt; he was happy just to hear some normality. “I might have a date Sunday evening, but we can meet during the day if you like?”
Ouch.
He rubbed a thumb across his chest, as if testing a wound. Served him right for making assumptions. “Right, yeah,” he smarted. “Tomorrow daytime it is, then.” He felt his face tightening. No one spoke for a good ten seconds.
“You’re such a dick. Of course I’m free — unless I get a decent offer
today
at Caliban’s?”
He blew a breath down the phone: stand-down from DEFCON 3. His jaw unwound into a smile. “So I’ll maybe see you later — or tomorrow.” They both laughed at how crap he still was at all this. He felt like a fish that’s hooked and reeled, thrown back after a few panicky gasps, but unable to resist the lure again.
“Goodbye, Thomas!”
He parked his breakfast and acted as Lord Protector when the waitress made a play for Karl’s leftovers. Could you even call yourself a waitress turned out in headphones and ripped jeans that showed your underwear?
The café door pinged; in walked Karl nouveau — V-neck sweater and driving gloves. “Ta da!”
Thomas gawped, couldn’t help it. “What are you supposed to be?”
Tonight,” Karl slid back on to his vinyl chair, “I’m going to be . . .”
Thomas didn’t give him the satisfaction. “So,” he reached for his second mug of tea, “did you get the other thing?”
“All safely on board,” Karl reassured him, squeezing his jacket pocket as he folded it by his feet. “Anyways, let’s saddle up. I want to put them on the back foot when I’m there, so you ring me on the mobile — family emergency — in say, six minutes.” Karl winked and Thomas narrowed his eyes as he sipped his tea. Karl looked affronted; his fork stalled above his plate. “What?”
The tea didn’t help Thomas’s mood. “You’re very good at this.”
Karl swooped down a fork, scraping the plate. “This,” Karl whispered like a gas leak, “from the man who takes secret photos and does his own background checks on Bob Peterson. You’re pretty good yourself,” he took a bite, “. . . for an amateur.”
Thomas raised his mug: touché. He left Karl to his washing-machine impression and went to find the gents. The waitress lip-read his request and flicked her finger towards a door with a hazard sign on it.
Number one for customer service.
He nodded his thanks and tried not to stare at her t-shirt, emblazoned with: ‘Don’t even think about it.’
Karl walked up to the house, glancing at the red estate in the drive, which he noted had been cleaned. A pity, but the forensics team were on standby so there was always hope. He rang the doorbell and straightened his jacket, making sure his sweater was proudly on display. If you could be proud of a golfer’s reject.
He heard a brief exchange on the other side of the glass, aware he was a good fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Then silence, and the door opened about a foot wide. “Bob Jefferson, we spoke on the phone — I managed to get away sooner. Jessica’s being difficult so my wife dropped me off a little early. I hope that’s okay?”
The woman smiled faintly. She looked tired. “Here’s the ad I mentioned,” he showed her the photocopy and waited while she studied it, right down to the shopping list he’d added at the bottom in blue felt tip.
She passed it back and nodded. “Won’t you come in?” He clocked the accent — not a native South Londoner. Probably an incomer, the sort who called Streatham
St Reatham
or described Balham as ‘just off the Kings Road.’
* * *
A man came down the stairs. It had to be a man, judging by the heavy footfalls. “Hello.”
Karl’s trained ear registered the slight twang on the second syllable.
The woman tensed, turning to her husband. He led from there. “We are keen for a quick sale. You mentioned cash on the phone? Let me show you the car and we can discuss the price.”
Brief and to the point. The wife — she had the ring on — picked up her child and opened the door again. Karl played for time and went into a long spiel about his niece looking for a car to drive across France with friends from Uni. And how the friend with the car had dropped out and they were looking for a hatchback, but a car like this was really far more practical. He loved this part, getting into character, spinning a yarn and seeing where it took him, always with one eye on the bigger picture.
He let the seller see that he knew nothing about cars, asked a nonsense question about transverse engines and checked whether it took diesel or lead-free. The seller warmed to him, or his ignorance — same thing really. It was a classic con: let the victim think they’re conning you; it rarely failed.