STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (25 page)

Karl’s face was blanker than usual.

“I was pissed off with you and myself, after our discussion in the hotel bar. So I took it out on Christine. I rang up and slated Bob Peterson, reminded her that he was married. Less than bright; I think he was in the flat at the time.”

“You don’t think Peterson is anything to do with . . .”

“Miranda? No, and I’m pretty sure Christine’s clean. She came here to smooth the waters. And if I really thought Bob was responsible, I wouldn’t be standing here now.”

Karl stated the obvious. “Not Christine or Uncle Bob — the list grows shorter.”

“Maybe Petrov will have some suggestions when we speak to him.”

Karl feigned disinterest, but his body language screamed ‘fuck off.’

* * *

At four o’clock on the dot, Karl was packing his equipment away, having got Ann Crossley to cover for them. “Here’s how we play this,” Karl sounded masterful. “First we drive back to your gaff because that’s where you’re supposed to be. Then you transfer to my car and we go talk to Petrov.”

Thomas brightened a little. He was in the game, though God knows what they expected him to get from Petrov. Still, anything was better than sitting in that flat alone.

He parked down by Lloyd Park, on the opposite side of the road, to avoid scraping bird shit off the roof later on. He moved his stuff into Karl’s car — quicker than taking it into the flat.

Karl welcomed him into the dry passenger seat, inviting him to check out the glove compartment. No guns this time but there was a choice of albums. Thomas opted for something reflective — ACDC’s ‘Let There Be Rock,’ which Karl seemed to appreciate.

Karl swung out to the North Circular, picking up the A10 north.

“What do you want me to say to Petrov?” Cut to the chase; always the best way of dealing with Karl. Even if it meant shouting over ‘Whole Lotta Rosie’ as it fried the speakers.

“There’s no subterfuge here,” Karl notched the volume down. “We need to know everything about Yorgi; where the red car was before Harwich, past haunts, anything.”

Thomas nodded and twisted the volume back up. What
he
really wanted to know was whether Yorgi was capable of kidnapping Miranda. That question made him shudder.

Chapter 30

Thomas zoned out for the rest of the journey; Karl left him to it. Somewhere, between drifting off and Karl nudging him awake, he remembered Sir Peter Carroll’s very first pep talk about loyalty and confidentiality.

“We’re here,” Karl sounded apologetic.

Thomas soon saw why. It was one of the ugliest buildings he’d ever laid eyes on. The sign at the front — next to ‘cars parked illegally will be clamped’ — read ‘Conference Facilities.’ It all looked like a very bad joke.

“It’s a converted telephone exchange.”

“Shame they never converted the outside — it looks like a prison.”

Karl nodded. “Or a fortress.”

“And Petrov’s family have been living here?”

Karl waved a scolding finger. “Uh-uh. More than you need to know.”

Thomas tried not to stare at the CCTV cameras. They reminded him too much of being at Caliban’s.

Teresa met them at the front steps. Thomas took it as read that she already knew all about Miranda; he wasn’t about to confide in her in any case. They threaded past a series of doors to one with a sign that read ‘occupied.’ She gestured to Thomas to go in first.

Petrov leapt up from his chair, with a look of rapture. Alexandra was there at his side and Lukas was in the corner, playing with some toys on a rug. It looked like a Social Services training film. “Tomas! It is so good to see you!”

They shook hands enthusiastically; Alexandra kissed him on the cheek. All hail the conquering hero. Teresa and the quiet one on her side of the desk seemed to relax.

“You are well, yes?”

There was a question. He swallowed and let out a breath. Then replied, “Yes, I am well,” with all the enthusiasm he could conjure.

They all sat down and the silent wonder — Thomas labelled him the Handler — took orders for drinks and left the room. Teresa started recording, assuring Petrov and Alexandra that they were assisting of their own free will and were not obliged to answer. Nonetheless, it was clear where this was going; they may as well have had a tick list.

How did Yorgi contact them? Why did he contact them? What were they doing in Europe? Where did they meet him? Where was he likely to be now? Teresa’s formidable line of questioning didn’t take long to put Petrov on edge. Several times he shot glances at Thomas, a searching look as if to say, ‘Why are you allowing this?’

By the time they reached a comfort break — Teresa did a neat line in irony — Thomas had just about reached the end of his tether. Petrov was in danger of clamming up and that didn’t suit his needs at all.

The tape was switched off; he had nothing to lose. He put his mug down and leaned across the table. “How dangerous is Yorgi?”

Teresa made a mad scramble for the ‘on’ button and glared at him. Tough shit.

“Very dangerous. Tomas, I tell you the truth; Yorgi fears
nothing
.” Petrov sat back a little, as if to consider his own words. “Well, except snakes. One time I saw him scream at the sight of a snake on the farm and when I laughed, he nearly broke my arm.”

Thomas wasn’t sure how you could nearly break an arm, but then he recalled that he’d nearly been shot. Karl nudged him to carry on.

“Have you ever met anyone with Yorgi? Or maybe you spoke to them on the phone?” He almost said ‘at the house’ then he remembered that they didn’t have a house any more

Petrov nodded. “On the phone; maybe twice. An older man — British, not foreign.”

“What kind of British?” Karl pitched in. “Like me?” He sounded like he was trying to prove his own innocence.

Alexandra searched the ceiling for recall. “He was English, well-spoken; and he called from a mobile.”

Thomas smiled at her. Less use than nothing, but it was a step in the right direction. “Why would Yorgi still want you — want to see you, I mean? You told me before, that you sometimes didn’t hear from him for months.”

Petrov and Alexandra shared a none-too-subtle glance and neither responded.

Thomas took a sip of tea, felt the warm liquid swirl around his mouth yet still leave it parched. He knew he would have to be quick and concise before they bundled him out of the room. He felt a cold numbness at the base of his skull, spreading down his body. There was only one question he was interested in now.

He turned his head away slightly, certain that if Karl saw his face clearly he’d spot something was amiss. He cleared his throat and took in a great gulp of air. “I think Yorgi may be holding a hostage, someone important to me . . .”

Alexandra covered her face. Petrov gaped at him, and Thomas remembered showing them Miranda’s photo at the house.

“No!” Alexandra called aloud and little Lukas stopped to look up at her.

Karl leaned his arm across Thomas’s chest, as if that would somehow stop him speaking. Petrov and Alexandra launched into an argument, in a language Thomas didn’t understand. Now Alexandra was crying, shrieking at Petrov who kept waving his arms to shush her. Thomas flitted from Petrov to Alexandra, waiting for them to revert to English. When they did, he wished they hadn’t.

Petrov made a last comment in his native tongue and wiped a tear from his face with a handkerchief. His face was red and sweaty. “Yorgi would not take hostages. I am sorry — if Yorgi took your friend, she is dead.”

Thomas felt his whole body convulsing; there were voices around him, but they all blended into one chaotic chorus. His breathing went into overdrive. He pushed against the table and propelled himself up, lunging for the door. His stomach congealed as he ran along the corridor, snaking back to the main door. He only just made it outside when the wave of nausea and abject terror hit him, like a force ten gale; he retched and retched, until his stomach seared, until the tears were dripping off his face.

When he was done, he staggered away from the pool of vomit and sank to his knees, closing his eyes against the world. He’d never felt so alone, his life so utterly devoid of meaning. He’d fucked up the one beautiful thing in his life, and he’d lost her.

It was futile, but the next thing he decided to do, as he choked back the despair, was to send a text to Miranda’s mobile. Maybe her killer would read it, maybe no one ever would; but his last act to her would be one of contrition.

He fumbled the security code on his mobile first time and had to try again. As the screen lit up the text icon appeared. He gulped again and wiped the blur from his eyes. Was this the final text they’d let her send,
made
her send? Oh God, anything but that. His hand trembled as he thumbed the button — he had a voicemail.

His first instinct was to switch the phone off, shield himself from any more pain. But that was just cowardice. He owed her more than that, so much more. He input the code with a cold resolve and braced himself for the worst.

“Thomas, it’s Diane. Miranda called me earlier about Butch.”

He dropped the mobile. Miranda had phoned today — she was still alive! It couldn’t have been Yorgi. He started laughing — at himself, at the absurdity of a second chance, at all the stuff his mother used to tell him as a child about God’s mercy. He fingered his neck where the crucifix used to be and felt the sweat, sodden against his armpit. She was alive; Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.

He texted Diane straight back, in no fit state to speak to her:
I can’t talk now — I’ll come straight over.
It was weak, but it was honest. He glanced at the mud and puke and snot all down himself — Diane would understand.

His mind was racing as he walked back. Whoever had taken Miranda was the enemy — and enemies had to be dealt with. It may not have been Yorgi who did this, but it had to be connected with him.

Karl opened the door; Thomas pushed past him. He felt like a man redeemed — a man on a mission. He returned to the interview room and shoved the door. Everyone turned; Petrov stared up at him as if he’d never expected to see him again.

Thomas stood over the table and faced them down, slamming his palms against the wood. “I’m only going to ask you this once — what does Yorgi still want with you?”

Petrov shrank back. “He gave me a package to look after; I should have left it for him at the house.”

Chairs scraped behind him, but Thomas didn’t react. He glared at Petrov as if he could incinerate him by force of will. And Petrov evaporated. “It is in my case. I never meant to keep it. I thought it would be something to bargain with, if we needed such a thing.”

Thomas gazed around the room with a look of contempt. It seemed like everyone was holding out on him. As he made for the door, Karl stood aside.

“Tommo, I’m so sorry; I didn’t know . . .”

“I need your car — now.”

As he pulled into the Wrights’ drive, the first thing Thomas noticed was the lack of cars. The doorbell only managed three chords before Diane was standing there.

“Jesus, Thomas, you look like shit.”

“Where is everyone?” he was starting to feel mildly freaked.

“I sent them out for a while; said I wanted time to myself. By my reckoning, you’ve got a couple of hours to get your story straight, right after you tell me what’s
really
going on.”

She walked off, letting the door swing in; he followed her inside. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Thomas,” Diane was already pouring herself something strong. “I know all about Butch and your little code — Miranda told me what happened a long time ago.”

He turned a shade of scarlet.

“Something’s up — I get that. So where’s my daughter and what’s going on?” Diane pushed a drink across the table to him.

The sudden heat in his stomach brought him to his senses. He told her what he knew, which wasn’t much. It was work related — his work — 100% personal. And he was going to sort it. He’d made another decision on the way over. Fuck Karl and his cloak-and-dagger antics; he would go and see Sir Peter Carroll, do things properly through official channels.

She took it surprisingly well, listened attentively until he’d finished then got up to go to the kitchen. He heard a kettle switch and followed her in.

“Look Diane, I never meant for this to happen . . .”

She span round and slapped him hard across the face, sending him flying. “Don’t you
dare
make excuses to me; you should have come to us at the beginning. We’re your family, Thomas — don’t you ever forget that. Now, you better take care of this and deliver Miranda back to me, or we will deal with them and you.”

He got up from the floor and tried to regain some dignity; he didn’t know whether to stay or go. Diane had frozen him out; the way she looked at him, he was nothing to her. That was even worse than the shame. “You know where the door is.”

He wanted to apologise again, to extract an ounce of forgiveness from her. But who was he kidding, he couldn’t forgive himself so why should she? He got to the front door and went to open it, but she blocked him with her arm.

“If anyone has threatened her or hurt her, they’re never going to hurt anyone again. I want your word — swear it.”

He felt his jaw harden. “You have my word.” As the door slammed behind him he thought, just for a second, that he heard her sobbing.