CAUSE & EFFECT (10 page)

Karl met him at Euston Station. “Jaysus, Tommo — you look like shit. Is everything okay?”

Thomas threw him a sardonic smile and followed him to the car. Karl rattled off a relentless briefing while he drove.

“. . . I acquired a photo of a cartridge the police recovered from the scene, found in a drainage channel. Ken must have missed it — sloppy. It matches the ones from our test firing. You realise what this means?”

“Yeah, I’m definitely an accessory to murder.” When Thomas closed his eyes he saw the bullet holes that had penetrated wood and metal in the scrap yard. He opened the window to escape the faded scent of spilt orange juice from the back seat.

“Stop the car – I’m going to be sick.” He was true to his word.

Karl sluiced off the kerbstone with drinking water while Thomas sat there, head in his hands.

“You wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t know where to start.” He held out his hands and rubbed some water across his face before taking a swig.

“That’s all right, Tommo — you keep it. Listen, if you don’t feel like going home, do you fancy a drink?”

It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go. “Sure. Where does the police report leave you with Ken?”

“Treading carefully. He’s clearly implicated although I’m still waiting for his version. But I think what you’re really asking is whether I’d turn him in?” Karl looked him right between the eyes. “Not a chance. I hope I haven’t offended your moral compass.”

He didn’t bother responding.

* * *

It didn’t take a detective to predict the choice of watering hole. He wondered if Karl was secretly hoping to run into Ken again. He doubted it — life was rarely that tidy. As they entered the regimental bar the manager called Karl over. Thomas fell in step.

“Mr McNeill!” He stiffened a little, as if passing sentence. “This was left for you — hand delivered. Please don’t make a habit of it.”

Karl reached for the envelope and ordered two shandies. Over at the table, he checked it for signs of tampering and then slit the top with his car key. He extracted a single page from the ragged edge and folded it flat on the table so they could both read it: SORRY TO DRAG YOU INTO THIS. NO ONE ELSE I COULD TRUST — KEN.

Half an hour and one game of darts later, Thomas felt brave enough to put his mobile back on. Ajit’s text read: How could you? There was no word from Miranda, which was about what he figured he deserved. He was still reliving the scene in the hospital when Karl returned from the gents.

“No good news, I take it?”

He snapped back into work mode. “We need to get the buggy back to Janey. You can explain the science again to me on the way.”

“Not much to tell. The paint colour is obsolete according to some database, and the chemical analysis of the flakes on the buggy confirms the paint was manufactured before 2000.”

“So how does that sit with Jack Langton’s theory that it was a premeditated attack?”

“It’s an anomaly, I grant you. And we still don’t know it
was
about Jack. Greg owed money to Charlie Stokes — he as good as said so. Something to discuss next time you see Jack in prison?”

Heading across London, he turned down
Deep Purple
and reached for his phone again. No voice messages but one new text: I need to see you tonight — Diane. That was unexpected — a summons from Miranda’s mum.

“Listen, could you drop me off at my place first and deal with the buggy on your own? I just received an invitation I can’t turn down.”

* * *

When he went inside for his car keys he spotted the answering machine flashing. He hit the button and stood in the shadows, waiting. Pat didn’t pull any punches this time — Miranda deserved better, he was totally selfish, and the topper: she was ashamed of him. Join the queue.

It stood to reason that Diane Wright had heard from Miranda. They were close. Not like her to get involved though. She usually stayed well clear of their chaos. He was either in line for the mother of all bollockings or something else was going on. He got in the car and put his foot down.

His palms tingled as the sweat met the dank air outside, each step from the car talking him further from safety. Diane was quick to answer the door, solemn faced and drawn.

“Come in, Thomas.”

He followed her to an empty living room. Diane noticed he was looking around.

“John’s in his office. We agreed this was better coming from me. Sit down. Coffee all right?” Her voice trailed behind her.

He leapt up after her; he thought he might as well get it over with.

“Look, Diane, I’m really sorry about leaving Miranda in Yorkshire. There was stuff I needed to do for Jack Langton and it couldn’t wait.”

She faced him down, saying nothing, and pulled out a couple of chairs. The kitchen it would be then. She seemed lost in thought, or maybe she was waiting for the right moment. Either way, it was killing him.

“I know I fucked up.” He felt his voice go brittle.

She yielded a long sigh, put down her coffee, and cupped one hand over the other as though she were shielding something fragile.

“Miranda’s been under a lot of strain lately.” She raised a finger when he lifted his head to speak. “It’s been hard keeping you in the dark, but Miranda talked with Geena and then she rang me.”

A wave of dread hit him. “Is Miranda ill?” His breath caught in his throat.

“No . . .” She stalled. “Not
ill
.” The way she said it hinted at bad news. It wasn’t long in coming. “You remember when she went to Bermuda?”

How could he forget? They’d parted company — again — and she’d been seeing some up-and-coming footballer, apparently. What was it with her and footballers? And then, almost out of the blue, that was all over and she announced — in a phone call, mind — that she was off to Bermuda on a modelling job.

“Yeah.” He felt his shoulders locking. “I remember.”

“Well . . .” Diane swallowed hard and pressed her hand flat over the coffee mug. “Around that time she found out she was pregnant.”

His brain went into slip gear. “Why didn’t she say something? I didn’t know . . .” He started conjuring with the implications.

“No, she wanted to think about it and make her own decisions. As it turned out,” her knuckle whitened, “events ran their own course and she had a miscarriage. Early stages, that can happen.”

His mouth dried. “I’m so sorry.” The pieces fell horribly into place. How volatile she’d been about Ajit and Geena, and then, God help him, he’d insisted she go with him to Pickering. He pressed a hand to his mouth. They’d made her a godparent and he’d left her there with them, about to go into the delivery room. And she’d never said a word. “Christ, I’ve been such an idiot.”

“You hurt her badly, but you weren’t to know.” She drew a breath with difficulty. “The thing is, there were
complications
and now she may not be able . . .” Diane looked like a broken woman.

He smudged a finger against one eye. “What do I do?”

Diane seemed not to have heard him. “Maybe some good has come out of this.” She stared at her hands. “Miranda doesn’t want any more secrets; only she couldn’t face telling you. So now you know.”

“Okay.” He faltered. “I’ll talk to her tonight. I dunno; we’ll see a counsellor or something. I’ll find some way to make it up to her.”

She stared at him and reached out a hand. “You don’t get it — it wasn’t your baby.”

Everything moved into slow motion, like the time he’d been shot. He was aware of standing up and walking, but it wasn’t really him. Diane said something about staying, only the words rushed past him. It took all his concentration to put one foot in front of the other, get into the car and drive away. He had nowhere to go.

“Karl, are you busy?”

“Twice in one day — people will start to talk.” He cut the comedy routine when he got the measure of the situation. “I’ll meet you at Holloway Road Tube station. You’ve got your passport?”

* * *

What he felt was a heavy grief, about everything, now that the covers had come off. Miranda must have been seeing the footballer before they’d broken up, during her sex embargo. There was anger too — at the world — especially people like Sir Peter Carroll and Jack Langton. Tonight he’d settle for targets and guns.

Karl chose Browning 9mm pistols. It had been a while since Thomas had faced down static targets but the body remembered. Muscles tensed and then settled in that curious way Karl had told him about. The ear defenders entombed him with his thoughts and he lined them up like targets to take them out one at a time. It was all he could cope with. By the time he reeled in his handiwork, the burden had lifted a little.

Karl waited until Thomas had emptied two full magazines and then signalled that their session was over. It wasn’t quite therapy, but it came close. He set the pistol down and wondered: was this who he was now — the kind of man who needed a gun to feel in control of his own life?

“Do you, er, want to try some other equipment?” Karl carefully closed the lid on the Brownings.

He shrugged; he didn’t know what he wanted, other than to not go home. Karl returned with a pair of SIG Sauers.

“I’ll tell you this, Tommo, you’ve got an edge about you tonight. Whatever’s bugging you, it’s doing wonders for your hand-eye coordination.”

“You have a fair idea what it’s about.”

“Let me just annihilate your score and then we’ll get us a beverage.”

It still amused him that a private shooting club offered drinks and snacks. He watched as Karl sauntered back to their table with the goodies, silently acknowledging persons unknown.

Thomas picked at his pastry. “Incidentally, what happened to Jack Langton’s post that I lifted from Janey’s?”

Karl’s face pinched in. “Oh, right. It was mostly nonsense, apart from one interesting item. It’s in code, so we’ve been busy having a crack at it.”

“Oh?” He gave him his full attention, intrigued to hear there was something Karl and his cronies couldn’t do. “Tell me more.”

Karl’s eyes seemed to glint. “It’s a piece of brilliance — both simple and complicated – like a Vigenère code. It requires a key word; but we haven’t figured it out yet. We’ve tried variations on names — wife, Jack himself, their kids, even Jacob. Basically, anything we could associate with him. No dice.”

“What about ‘scumbag’?”

Karl laughed, raising his coffee in a toast. “That was one of my first choices.”

Thomas swallowed. “Try ‘Sheryl.’”

Karl took out his mobile and made the call in front of him — that was a first. He spelt out Sheryl’s name and waited a minute or so, with the phone at his ear. Finally, Karl nodded and ended the call. “I’m impressed. Honest to God, Tommo, you ought to be in intelligence.” Karl was all smiles but he wasn’t laughing.

Disparate details were aligning in Thomas’s brain and a disturbing picture was emerging. “Let’s play a game.” He dug out a pen and paper. “I’m going to write three statements down. You don’t have to add anything, just tell me if I’m right. Deal?”

Karl nodded; he didn’t look happy about it. Thomas gave every sentence careful consideration, adding to Karl’s discomfort. He could see Karl reading the words from across the table.

1. Jack Langton is at the end of a Shadow State supply line.

2. The merchandise at Janey’s flat belongs to the Shadow State.

3. Both Jack and Charlie Stokes were already persons of interest to your people.

Karl took the list and re-read it. “I wouldn’t contradict any of your conclusions.” The façade slipped a little. “Look Thomas, you have to understand . . .”

He cut Karl off. “How could I do that without the information?”

* * *

Back at his flat, Thomas searched Vigenère ciphers on the Internet and gave himself a headache. He flicked on the TV to fill the void and fixed a microwave meal from the freezer. Hunched over the table and shovelling shepherd’s pie into his mouth, he replayed the events of a shitty day. Did anyone tell him the truth anymore?

‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone . . .’ his mother used to say. He thought about the times he’d driven past Christine Gerrard’s flat once they’d split up, coincidentally around the same time Miranda returned from Bermuda. Or that evening, working late with Christine, when a friendly drink nearly became something more.

Just after eleven pm he switched his mobile back on. There was a text waiting, all in caps: GEENA HAD A BOY. 8-3. SEND FLOWERS. AJIT & GEENA X.

He got in the car without a destination in mind. London seemed emptier because Miranda wasn’t out there somewhere. About the only thing he knew was that he’d be keeping well clear of Christine’s Hampstead flat. If Bob Peterson were there tonight, he’d be getting a free pass.

He couldn’t deny himself a drive past Caliban’s and, as he gave a sad salute to the neon sign, an idea struck him. Maybe Karl was doing his own surveillance on Janey and Greg tonight. The thought took hold, gnawing away, leading to only one conclusion. As he drove into Janey’s housing estate he spotted someone weaving along the pavement, obviously pissed. Greg’s idea of supporting Janey and their boy was by getting bladdered. No sign of her; she’d probably be at home waiting by the phone.

He pulled in and backtracked, twenty yards or so behind him. He figured the least he could do was make sure Greg made it home in one piece. The trouble was, other people had a different plan. At first it was just two shapes, up ahead, moving out of the shadows. Greg stopped, his carrier bag clinking as he stood there. It was only going to go one way and Thomas had to make a split second decision. He started running towards them.

Greg went down and by the time Thomas got there they were kicking seven bells out of him from opposite sides and yelling that he should have kept his trap shut. Greg was hardly moving — not a good sign.

Thomas ran into the first one at full pelt, knocking him flying. The second lad — they looked about early twenties — put up two fists and wanted to make a night of it. Whatever else they were, they weren’t fighters. He sidestepped a half-hearted punch and returned the favour with interest. He felt his knuckles connect with a satisfying crack.

The lad may not have been a boxer but he knew how to take a punch; he recovered, charging back for a second wave. Thomas dodged a first punch that never came, unlike the second that winded him. He doubled over and pulled back, furious with himself for being fooled so easily.

The first one was up on his feet now and spoiling for revenge. Greg was no use whatsoever; Thomas saw him out the corner of his eye checking his bag for damages.

“You’re gonna be sorry . . .” They advanced towards him.

He straightened and faced them down, crushing his fists in.
Not as sorry as you.
The would-be boxer was around five feet nine, giving Thomas a two inch height advantage and a better reach. The guy flinched back when he launched himself towards him, but the other one, bigger and broader, made a wide circle round.

Thomas turned and retreated to keep them both in his field of vision, forming an unholy triangle. That’s when he heard the unmistakeable
shikk
of a flick knife tasting the air. The shitty day had just got worse.

The boxer held out a hand to stay stab-boy, but things had gone too far. Thomas felt the inside of his mouth turn to sand. Chances were that they’d only cut him, as a warning. But warning or not he would make it his personal business to really fuck them up. He watched knife boy’s eyes, waiting for him to make the first move, having already decided on a throat punch or a kick in the bollocks.

A bottle smashed somewhere behind him and, to his immense relief, Karl McNeill came forward.

“Put it down, son or you might hurt someone.”

Knife boy didn’t look convinced although he edged back a little, still sizing up his chances. “This is nothing to do with you.”

“I’m making it my business.” Karl waved the broken bottle back and forth.

Thomas turned back to the boxer, surprised — and a teensy bit impressed — that he hadn’t run off. One look in those eyes told him that they were both packing some sort of weapon.

“He said put it down.”

They all turned to see Ann Crossley, facing them, arms extended with a pistol at the end. Knife boy dropped his weapon as if it was molten and started walking away. His accomplice followed suit. Karl was quick to pick up the knife but he didn’t try to stop them.

“I’ll leave you boys to have a chat — I’ll be in the car.” Ann holstered her weapon and zipped up her jacket, cucumber cool.

Thomas stared at Karl, aware that his mouth was open.

“What just happened here?”

“Come on, Tommo, we better get him home. We’ll talk about this another time.”