Read STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense Online
Authors: DEREK THOMPSON
“I’ll just sweep the other rooms, starting with the bathroom.”
“Sure,” he nodded, waving a hand behind him. “It’s just off . . .”
“I know where it is, Thomas; I remember from the last time I was here.”
The wow expanded into a cavern. Of course, Karl had saved his bacon before, at the flat, when he’d had the good sense not to be there. Teresa must have been involved.
He made the tea. “So what’s the deal with you and Karl?” his voice seemed to echo through the flat. There was no answer, but he felt sure that she’d heard him.
* * *
It was strange, eating dinner with another woman. Having another woman in the flat at all, come to that. Christine Gerrard, in her time, had never been a fan. She always seemed to treat the east of London like some sort of infection.
The food settled him, helped his thoughts to fall into place. “Has the DSB been opened?” he hovered, mid-fork, waiting for her answer.
“No, not yet. It’s sealed and there’s no tag inside — we X-rayed it.”
He swallowed. “Have you made a decision — do I get it?”
She made a smacking sound with her lips; he doubted it was the quality of the food. “It may contain vital information about the cartel . . .”
He nearly countered that but he could see, by the way her eyes flickered, that she was still thinking it over.
“. . . And can you afford to trust Sir Peter Carroll?”
The room went very cold. Any optimism he’d been nurturing, including the comforting notion that a simple trade-off could be made, was dangling by a thread. Teresa was right of course. How could he trust these bastards, when he knew what they were capable of — two corpses at the hospital, Petrov’s house torched, and counting.
“I’m sorry, Thomas; it could be too valuable to lose,” she sounded like a bank manager, turning him down for a loan.
Desperation wrote its own scripts. “What if we copied it first? You’d keep a copy and I return the original.” Okay, it was feeble, but at least it
was
a plan. It wasn’t as if they’d come up with a better option.
“We know it’s a document box,” she backtracked, softening her voice. “The paper may be heat and light sensitive. Photocopying or scanning is just too risky.”
“What about photography?”
“I don’t know Thomas,” she flicked the hair from her face. “I don’t know. And besides, once we open the DSB, the seal is broken.”
He tapped his chin. “I might be able to solve your problem.”
Your problem, good one: reverse psychology for beginners.
Teresa listened as he told her about the DSB he’d kept from Leeds. Maybe it wouldn’t be an identical match, but if it meant having something to exchange for Miranda and not, he’d take that gamble.
“Now,” he gathered up the plates; “I’ve also got a couple of ideas about special paper.” No sense losing momentum while she was still malleable. “How about doing the photography in a darkroom?” He gestured out towards the hallway. “Or I can try one of my Internet buddies, see if they know anyone with a
Starlight
camera.”
Buddies — that was stretching it a bit — a bunch of ultra-competitive snappers and geeks, who would tell you where to find equipment, as long as you knew what you wanted in the first place.
He dumped the plates in the sink and fired up his laptop, waiting until he’d cleared the minefield of password and security protection before he brought Teresa screen-side.
“Great for night shots,” he pulled up a couple of images from a folder. She didn’t respond, but that was fine — he was impressed enough for both of them. “Someone hired one for me once; back when I thought I’d be the next Andy Rouse.”
She stared at him blankly and he sighed, appalled.
“I’m supposed to contact Sir Peter tomorrow so I need an answer.”
She was quiet for so long that he thought he’d finally met his match in the silence game. He studied her as she stared off into space. The way her hair fell, just above the collar-line; the slightly muscular legs and that cluster ring on her right hand. If she noticed him watching her, she didn’t seem at all perturbed. He wasn’t perving or anything, he told himself. He just wanted to weigh up what sort of person he was investing with his last few ounces of faith.
Teresa turned suddenly, catching him off guard. He felt a pang in his heart — Miranda used to do the same thing. Whoa,
used to
? He swallowed hard, deciding at the last minute not to punch himself.
“I’ll tell you what,” Teresa narrowed her eyes, “Why don’t you give me a few minutes and I’ll make a couple of calls?”
He headed for the kitchen, pausing along the way to lock his laptop. He turned the radio on and did his domestic thing to the soothing sounds of Seventies Soul, courtesy of Dobie Gray and others. Except, tonight, they weren’t so soothing. Suddenly, for no reason at all, he recalled the first time he saw Miranda naked. How she’d made him close his eyes. And then, for the only time in his life, all the clichés had been true. So beautiful; the sort of enchantment that made him want to cry, then and now. He looked skyward and closed his eyes.
* * *
Teresa returned after a handful of songs; long enough for him to pull it together again. “My people have agreed to let you take the DSB to Sir Peter Carroll, once the document is copied to our satisfaction. After that we’ll monitor the situation closely.”
Very generous of them.
With Sir Peter firmly in the frame and copies of the papers safely tucked away, they had very little to lose. Whereas . . .
He thanked her and tried to warm it up. Things were improving. He had allies now, although the odds were still stacked against them. He stopped mid-thought. “I need a car tonight.”
“I’ll arrange something, and I’ll be back tomorrow with the package.”
Teresa had given her assurance that the car wouldn’t be tracked. He wasn’t sure if he believed her, but he was in no position to be fussy. The Wrights knew to expect him. On the drive over, he ran through different versions of what he wanted to say, but in the end he decided to let them take the lead.
When he arrived, the driveway was full of cars — a packed house tonight. He stood outside for a moment, trying to get a grip on his fear and his bowels. He took another breath as he held his hand over the bell. This was going to be rough. He pressed the button lightly, reminding himself that they were the ones really suffering here.
“It’s open,” Diane’s voice wavered from behind the door.
He gave it a tiny shove and it released inwards, drawing the light from the kitchen through the open inner door.
“We’re in here.”
It took all his courage to step across the threshold, knowing as he did that he was turning his back on everything he had selfishly tried to preserve.
Well, best not keep the family waiting. He pushed the living room door and went in. Sam and Terry looked up from their armchairs; neither spoke or acknowledged him. Diane was sat on the settee with Sheryl next to her, holding hands as if it was the only thing keeping each of them together. Miranda’s dad, John, was nowhere to be seen.
“Come sit down,” there was kindness in Diane’s voice and he felt wretched at that; it was something he hadn’t earned and didn’t deserve. Sheryl wouldn’t look at him, but if he was honest with himself it was one less face to deal with.
There was no point beating around the bush so he told them what he planned to do. To get a package which
someone else
— he stressed that — had kept secret from him and deliver it in exchange for Miranda.
It was less an interrogation than a series of silences, speckled with short exchanges. Mostly, they wanted answers he couldn’t give. What was it all about? Why Miranda, or him? Why couldn’t he let the family deal with it? Someone — Sam or Terry, it all got lost in the stillness and the unspoken fears — passed him a drink. As if he’d won it on merit by his responses. He gripped the glass so tight he thought it might break, wanted it to break and pierce his skin so he could feel something as acute as the pain on their faces.
“I’m so sorry,” he hung his head and waited for the room to swallow him. The tension wrapped around him like a physical pressure. It was harder to breathe now. He felt tears forming. Not now, Jesus; they’d think it was staged. He took a gulp from the glass and pinched the tears back, rubbing his eyes clear. He kept his head down, not wanting to read their expectations.
“Thomas,” Diane spoke his name and she sounded like a stranger. “John wants to see you in his office.” She didn’t say
now
but that’s what she meant.
He finished his glass and set it on the floor; last drink for a condemned man. His limbs dragged like dead weight as he walked through to the other side of the house. It was quieter there, and devoid of comfort. There was a line of light under the closed door. He knocked twice and went in.
* * *
John Wright was hunched over his desk, hands crushed together. Thomas felt his shoulders sink, almost smelt those Saturday dinners again when his dad had come home, spoiling for a fight.
The main light was off and the desk lamp shone away from John, casting him in shards of shadow. The hands on the desk didn’t move at all. Thomas stood in no man’s land, waiting for sentence to be passed.
“Close the door,” John managed to convey resolve without menace. The room shrank around him.
Thomas waited for John to speak again — he had little to say, himself, other than repeat what he’d said to the others. In the semi-darkness, he could still make out the photographs on the wall — small comfort.
John’s hands moved to his face and he blew his next breath through his fingers; the breath was long and laboured. “You found Miranda in Leeds, kept her safe and brought her back to us.” He nodded for Thomas to sit opposite him. “Diane tells me that Miranda is in trouble because of you.” It wasn’t a question because they both already knew the answer. “When you came to London and we set you up in a home together, you made us a promise. Do you remember?”
Of course he remembered. One simple sentence: he’d never let her down. No matter what happened between them in the future — and God, how prophetic that clause had turned out to be — he’d never let her down. “I know.”
John took a sharp intake of breath. “You’ve always been a man of your word, Thomas, and I look upon you as one of us.” John was struggling with the words, raw emotion choking every syllable.
Any moment now, Thomas thought, that fist would come flying across the small space between them.
“Diane says this has to be handled a certain way — and it has to be done by you.” He took another long breath. “Miranda is our little girl, Thomas; she’s precious. So I expect you to do what’s necessary.”
Thomas tensed up, half closing his eyes against the light and whatever was to come. He heard a drawer being opened and then a thud on the desk. He looked down to see a pistol, light gleaming along its edge. John nudged the gun over to him with the heel of his hand.
Holy shit. John was stone-cold serious. Thomas reached forward and touched the barrel, felt the metallic chill seeping into his skin.
“Do you know how to use it?”
Thomas took the gun, slipped out the magazine and checked the chamber was clear. He also noticed that the mag was empty. As he looked up, there was a thin smile on John’s lips. He swallowed and let the gun rest in his hand; he had just crossed the line, on a one-way ticket.
John leaned down and lifted a carrier bag onto the desk. Inside was a shoulder holster and ammunition. Thomas weighed the gun in his hand and, as if demonstrating his side of the pact, loaded the weapon. This was a moment that would live with him forever, like scar tissue that appears healed. But it’s always there, beneath the surface.
Not long after Thomas returned home, Teresa was at his door. He checked through the curtain first — she was alone, though logically she must have come with someone to take back the Audi.
She watched him as he gazed forlornly out of the window at her, as he looked past her in the vain hope that Karl was around. Nothing doing. He opened the front door, car keys in hand. She edged forward and he stood aside.
“I won’t stay long,” she seemed almost cheery. “I’ve got good news.”
Yeah, Thomas thought; maybe she’d found some affordable body armour to go with his new gun. He put the kettle on and joined her in the lounge. She perched on the edge of the sofa arm, hands together.
“I’ll bring the DSB over to you tomorrow evening.” There was a ‘but’ coming. “. . . But we’ll need some extra time before you give it back to them.”
He felt his jaw dragging down. The kettle clicked; he ignored it. “You want me to put Miranda at further risk?” He felt his shoulders hardening.
“If the information is useful, we’ll have to act before the cartel gets it back.”
He made a break to the kitchen. Teresa followed him.
“Look Thomas, I know this is all—”
Thomas rounded on her. “You don’t know shit. This is business as usual to you people, but for me, it’s personal.”
Her next move was textbook — the reassuring hand on the arm. “If you tell Sir Peter you can get the DSB in a couple of days, and that it’s still unopened, he’ll accept that. Why wouldn’t he? He’ll still get exactly what he wants.”
She negotiated the cups and spoons through trial and error as he sat and watched her. Maybe she could tell he wasn’t convinced, still not a card-carrying member of their gang. “Let me put this another way,” her voice moulded into concrete. “We need two more days, with or without your cooperation.”
He blinked a couple of times, waited for the heat across his face to subside before he spoke. She beat him to it.
“This isn’t a game, Thomas; this is life and death to our operatives. The contents of that DSB could save lives.”
He nodded without saying a word.
“I’ll be back here tomorrow, around six.”
All he could do was sit there like a statue and listen to the door closing behind her.
* * *
The dream returned that night — the arguing downstairs, him and Pat cowering under the covers together and that terrible silence when their mother capitulated. As if the world had ended. Pat, crying and shaking under the sheets, as the heavy
thud thud
grew closer on the stairs. He was holding her tightly again, so that she couldn’t feel his own trembling.
The hollow
catch
as Dad gripped the door handle. And even though it hadn’t moved, you knew he was there because his legs stole the light from underneath the door. The handle turning, the light switch driving out the comfort of shadows, and then the footfalls to the side of the bed. Pat’s nails, digging into his skin so hard that he wanted to cry out, only Dad would just call him soft and take a swipe at him. He could smell the hand on the sheets, stinking of shame and self-loathing
But when the covers were snatched away, it was Miranda at his side, warm and sensuous. And Dad wasn’t there in the room this time: it was Sir Peter Carroll. He was speaking, whispering as his hand stretched towards Miranda.
And Thomas couldn’t move; he was paralysed until somehow he remembered the gun. The sweet, silver pistol with the magic star on the handle; the one that meant he was the sheriff. He reached under the pillow and as soon as he felt it, he drew out the gun and thrust it into Sir Peter’s face.
Sir Peter took a step back in the dream, standing there, daring Thomas to ‘be a man.’ His eyes blurred, but he wiped them one-handed, the gun still at arm’s length to ward off evil. Then his fingers slowly closed together and
pow,
the gun went off.
* * *
Thomas shocked awake, rigid against the bed with tears spread across his face. Slowly, he regained movement in his limbs, felt the muscles in his shoulders and back release. It was a little after five in the morning; he flipped the mobile on, in case there’d been word from either Miranda or Karl. Then he ran for a shower to avoid the disappointment.
After toasting the last of the bread, he took John Wright’s pistol from where he’d hidden it in the kitchen and re-examined it — no serial numbers or distinguishing marks. It might never have been used before, but he doubted that. He tried on the shoulder holster, adjusted it a couple of times and nested the gun. He must have stood in the middle of the kitchen for a minute or more, no quick draw bullshit or confronting the mirror. No, the only thought going through his brain was whether John had started like this himself; whether one unfortunate situation had turned an honest man into . . . into someone like
him
.
He ditched the holster in a drawer and stowed the gun away carefully. The mobile phone had nothing for him. Only six o’clock now; way too early for Whitehall.
So many times in the past he’d worked his way through London, cursing the traffic as he inched ahead, bumper to bumper. But today, when he wanted the drive to take forever, nothing doing. He parked at the work compound, just to keep his car handy, and went walkabout. He’d brought along a Pentax Optio to kill some time.
London, before the rush, was a different place altogether. The city breathed softly before the hordes invaded; the haze lifted off the Thames in the first light of morning. Walking beside the Embankment, lulled by the lapping water, it was easy to forget just how much shit he was in and how deep.
The police launch prowled along the Thames as he watched, lens poised; the sun burst through the mesh of steel and brick and glass behind it to light up the skyline. He drank it all in — better than espresso. When did he last do this? When did he last feel such a connection to London? He couldn’t remember. It was Miranda’s city, but it was also his.
By the time he’d had his fill and grabbed a coffee at St James’s Park, it was just after eight. He felt limbered up after all the walking and, thanks to the coffee, as sharp as a blade. Grateful too, that he hadn’t followed his gut and brought the gun along.
A few miles on foot had given him time to reflect a little. No one had suggested that Thomas was anything more than an innocent in all this; and basically that’s what he was. As long as he played it that way and didn’t come across too cocky or clever, why wouldn’t they give him a couple of extra days?
At first glance, Main Building looked closed for business, but the door gave way and the security staff squared up to him from across the polished marble flooring. He moved to the glass screen, stated his name and flipped them his ID.
A receptionist directed him to the hand-scanner and checked a list of names. Yep, there he was, all present and correct. Sir Peter wasn’t in his office yet, so he waited in the foyer, with an early morning broadsheet for company.
Coming from Yorkshire, Thomas was no stranger to the class struggle, but never was the divide more clearly defined than in the newspapers — insightful information for the movers and shakers, and tits and celebrities for the plebs. Oh, he liked a tabloid as much as the next man, but it didn’t equip you for understanding the bigger picture. Take today — a Benelux corporation was holding strategic talks with a French business partner, ahead of a meeting with representatives from the EU Commission.
Jesus
. The more he read, the more it seemed like Karl’s mythical Superstate was already in place.
After fifteen minutes of isolation therapy, a guard came over: Sir Peter would be ready for him shortly. Okay, final run through of what he was going to say. The DSB was unopened; no, he hadn’t seen it and yes, he would bring it to them in a day or so. As to anything else, he knew nothing: if in doubt, say nowt.
He stood and stretched. Sir Peter might have him on CCTV that very minute, just watching him sweat. Not a very comforting thought. He heard boots on marble and turned to face them; it was show time.
The journey to the lift took place in customary silence. He thought maybe he’d seen this guard before. As they exited the lift, he realised where — at the gun club. He nodded and smiled as they entered the last leg of the corridor. The guard paused and looked him up and down, as if trying to place him. “Are you ex-mob?”
Fortunately, Thomas had had the benefit of Karl’s education: mob, for military. He tilted his hand noncommittally:
could be
.
Three raps and away, leaving Thomas standing there like the last virgin in a nightclub. Sir Peter took his time about answering; he probably thought he was piling on the pressure. This was Pickering all over again, but now the bullies were grown up and infinitely more savage. It would be harder to get away with it this time; a shove into the pavement wouldn’t quite cover it.
Thomas knew the score. For the terrorised, it went one of three ways. You resigned yourself to it, withdrew as much as you could and survived, day to day. Or else you crumbled, lost hope; gave up on yourself. But if there was still some part of you that they hadn’t got to, hadn’t chewed up and spat out, you bided your time and then you struck back, hard.
He heard Sir Peter’s voice and meekly entered the office. Meek: that was the watchword. And no need to fake the unease; he already had that in spades.
Sir Peter offered him a chair, all very civilised. It was bloody obvious that he didn’t have the DSB with him, but they went through the master and servant formalities. He delivered the agreed message and then asked if there was news about Miranda.
It seemed to throw the old man. Even though he’d been listening attentively before, that one small question upset the apple cart. “I’ll see what I can find out for you, Thomas.” He looked at him differently after that, like Thomas was a simpleton.
Thomas thanked him, said how grateful he was and shook his hand. It sealed the deal. Two days’ grace and the promise of a telephone call later that day — quite a result. At this rate, he decided, he might even let him live, when it was all over.
* * *
Two days to put together a plan; afterwards, there would be no going back. That was fine — it meant he had nothing to lose. He made straight for the Victoria line and waited on the platform, fantasising about earning a crust as a freelance photographer —
every snapper’s fantasy
. Maybe he and Miranda . . . The soundtrack in his head stopped abruptly. She’d probably never want to lay eyes on him again. Like he said . . . nothing to lose.
He made it to the office just after nine. Hopefully, Christine would be in and he could set the record straight, come clean about Miranda and everything. There was even an outside chance that Christine could help him, somehow. Because, now that he thought about it, there
was
something he needed. First though, he had to fetch something from the car, something he’d bottled out of at Whitehall.
Christine’s office light was a lone beacon. He glanced around at the empty desks, shrouded in shadow; he’d miss this place, even the crap coffee from the machine. He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and opened the box one-handed, positioning the bug ready for attachment. Christine’s door was closed; he knocked, tentatively. But the voice that answered was Bob Peterson’s.
Always have a Plan B, and preferably a Plan C as well. Karl called it The Dorman Rule, after a bloke he’d met in a pub once. Plan B was to proceed as planned. There was no Plan C, short of walking away.
He opened the door with his left hand and tried to play nicely.
“You’re the last person I expected to see, Thomas. What do you want?”
Count to ten. This was too important to screw up for the sake of scoring a few points. “Bob, can I sit down, please? I need to discuss something.”
Bob Peterson gestured to a chair opposite, ever the genial host. Thomas drew close and slipped out the bug under the table, leaning forward earnestly as he applied it to the underside of the desk.
“Christine isn’t here!” Peterson sounded triumphant.
“When’s she back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look, it’s really important that I speak with her.”
Peterson laced his fingers back behind his head and breathed in deeply. “Anything you’ve got to say, you can say it to me. I run this team, remember? Christine’s been temporarily transferred.”
Thomas gave the bug one last touch for safety’s sake and brought his hands to his face, like a poor impression of
The Scream
. “Bob, I need your help . . .” Now he was totally winging it, leaping from word to word at twenty thousand feet. “They’ve got Miranda and they want the documents from Harwich.”
Pure bloody guesswork, but Peterson twitched at the ‘H’ word.
Shit or bust.
“On the day you were there, Bob, the day I photographed you.”
Now, just rest a minute and see what happens.
Peterson’s face turned a sickly shade; he folded like a bad poker player. “If you’ve got something they want, just give it to them — for all our sakes.”
“I need to know Miranda’s okay — can you get a message to her?” Subtext: are you involved, you bastard?