CAUSE & EFFECT (24 page)

Thomas got to the Daimler before the chauffeur had time to get out.

“I’ll sit in the front if it’s all the same to you?”

Phillip started the engine.

“Would you like the radio on, Mr . . . ?”

“Thomas.” He cringed. “Just Thomas.”

Phillip was a classical music man. Rachmaninov formed the backdrop to their departure from London, the sombre tones and sweeping piano lending the south of the city more grandeur than it deserved.

There were questions on Thomas’s mind, mostly about loyalties; but to ask them would reveal his own. He settled for, “have you worked for Sir Peter long?”

Phillip smiled, the way people do when they’re remembering something. “You could say that — I served with him in the Royal Navy. You?”

“Two years or so in the SSU. You could say he recruited me.”

Phillip lowered his window. “You can relax. I’m just the driver.”

Spending time with Karl had taught Thomas that nobody was
just
anything. Conversation didn’t resume properly until the signs for Southampton.

“We met before, Thomas.” Phillip followed the sat-nav, spiralling in towards Bob Peterson’s building. “About six months ago.”

The penny dropped. It was that fateful day Thomas went to see Sir Peter to deliver his ultimatum. Reflecting on it now he couldn’t help wondering how much had changed.

“I’ll give you my number. Call me when you’re ready to be picked up, or if you decide to stop overnight.”

Phillip passed over a laminated card, bearing the crest of the Surveillance Support Unit. Thomas tapped a corner against his palm.

“Perhaps you know my friend, Karl McNeill?”

“Perhaps I do.” That was it; nothing more. “We’re here now.”

Thomas took a moment outside the building, running through his options. Playing it straight would be easiest — show Peterson the photos and find out what
he
knew. If they could just get over hating one another’s guts.

He buzzed up and some underling promised to come down and collect him. Thomas turned from the camera — force of habit — and wondered if there was another, less obvious one hidden in the brickwork. This was the SSU after all.

* * *

The office was bigger than Liverpool Street’s, with twenty-six desks — he counted them. Bob Peterson was cordial, that was the word, meeting him in the open plan office. A light handshake, a dismal offer of machine coffee and then Thomas was whisked away along the corridor, coffee in hand.

Peterson’s domain had an air of headmaster’s office about it. A map of the British Isles covered part of one wall, the thick green line encompassing a chunk of the southeast. Thomas figured the team was a regional hub and everything inside the line was Bob’s. He always was the territorial kind. Another map covered Southampton in detail. Peterson caught him looking at it and gestured to a round table where a notepad was already waiting.

Thomas took a seat and thudded his rucksack on the chair next to him, ready to produce the photographs of Ken’s flat. Peterson sat opposite and the two of them clutched their coffees, ready to draw.

“I’ll start, shall I?” Peterson flipped open his notepad. “I don’t like you and the feeling’s mutual. But whatever our differences — personal and professional — Sir Peter Carroll has
requested
that we coordinate our efforts.”

“I still don’t know what the job is.”

“Don’t you?” Peterson took a large gulp of coffee, which Thomas hoped was still piping hot, and wrote down a name on the page: Ken Treavey. “Our task is to locate him. Anything you want to say about that?”

Several things actually.
He thought about protesting his ignorance, or querying why this was an SSU job. But all that was bullshit. Besides, he had a better plan — find out if Peterson had any photos, goad him into ending the meeting, and get the hell out of there. He took the photos from his rucksack and laid them on the table, face up.

If Peterson was surprised he did an excellent job of not showing it. Much as expected, he got up and retrieved some photos of his own from a desk drawer. “Now we’re on a level playing field.” He passed them across.

There were three photos; probably the best of the bunch, Thomas surmised. Him, close to Main Building carrying the package and two in Victoria Station. He could see Peterson studying Karl’s handiwork.

Thomas drained his coffee. “This is a set-up. We were the couriers and now it’s our problem to locate . . . what was his name?”

Peterson laughed. “You must take me for a fool, Thomas. But like I’ve already told you, I’m three steps ahead of you.”

“And your wife too?”

“Watch yourself, Thomas. Christine’s not here to protect you now.”

He took a breath and tried to let the red mist clear. “The day I need protecting from you . . .” He couldn’t think of a punchline, other than punching him. Tempting, but unproductive. “Let’s cut to the chase.” He placed Peterson’s photos carefully into his rucksack. “I have no idea where Ken Treavey is, and maybe it’s better for both of us that way.”

Peterson folded his arms. “I’m listening.”

“Why you and me, Bob?” He took delight in using the name. Now he’d asked the question aloud, the ideas came thick and fast. “Sir Peter knows you’ll follow orders to the letter, and he knows I don’t trust him an inch. This is a fool’s errand.”

“Then what’s the point?” Peterson eased back a little and picked up a pen.

“Maybe there is no point, other than that Sir Peter’s seen to be doing something while we’re at one another’s throats.”

“Can you make some inquiries?” Peterson’s voice sounded plaintive.

Thomas pitied him; it must be a bitter pill to swallow that
he
was the solution to Peterson’s problems. He nodded and stood up to leave.

“Give my best to Karl. I gather he knew Treavey once upon a time.” Peterson couldn’t resist a parting shot.

“I’ll be in touch. Give my best to Christine — if you see her before I do.”

Peterson flinched in his chair. For one sweet moment Thomas thought Peterson was coming up to meet his fist. Sadly, it wasn’t to be. He was on the phone to Phillip before he got to the end of the corridor.

After Phillip dropped him off at Liverpool Street the first thing Thomas did was access his mobile messages. Miranda had checked in twice to make sure he was okay and her dad had managed ‘call me’ sometime on the drive back. He rang him first.

“Where have you been?”

“Southampton.”

“Are you still down there? I need you in London — Natalie’s been in touch.”

It was beginning to get chilly. He let John do the talking.

“Natalie wants you to meet with Charlie Stokes to discuss the goods. And she said Ray Daniels will act as a sort of go-between.”

“When?” He looked over at a taxi.

“Tonight?” John didn’t sound convinced.

“Let me speak to Karl first and I’ll ring you back.”

He took a chance and walked round to the car park, using his ID card to release the side gate. Karl’s car was there, taking up space, and the bonnet was still cooling off. Christine’s car sat nearby, as cold as his opinion of her now he’d seen Bob Peterson.

It wasn’t a huge surprise to find Karl, Ann and Christine deep in conversation as he approached the office door, but it still smarted. Now he knew how the young, skinny Ajit had felt at junior rugby practice — always the last to be picked.

The meeting broke up abruptly as he entered the room, or maybe it just seemed that way. Christine was last to acknowledge him, which made him wonder if Peterson had been on the phone. He decided to call her bluff.

“Can I have a word?”

“Of course.” She led the way to her office.

He gestured for Karl to wait for him.

“How is everything?” She sounded concerned.

“You tell me. Sir Peter rang me this morning. He sent me to see Bob Peterson about finding a missing person.”

“Really?” Her brow dipped. “I thought you were on compassionate leave?”

“Yeah, so did I.” He blinked a couple of times, making space for her to say something. When he realised silence was the only answer on offer he knew it was time to leave. “You know what? It’s been a really long day and I could do without the subterfuge this time. Don’t you trust me yet?”

Her lips parted and she looked away. “It’s not that. I want to keep you safe.”

“I can look after myself.” He wrenched the door open.

“Not against these people. Karl agrees with me.”

* * *

Karl took him to The Swan and somehow managed to find them a table.

“I’ll get these, Tommo. Shandy and crisps?”

“Ah, you remembered!”

Even though Karl played it cool when Thomas mentioned meeting up with Charlie Stokes, he could see he was guarded.

“Come on; out with it.”

Karl hunched in over a pile of crisps. “Our man Charlie is a cut above Jack Langton. Keep your wits about you. Anything you notice might be useful.”

“Then you think I should go tonight?”

Karl hadn’t moved. “It could . . . erm . . . be really useful if you met him — and the sooner the better.”

Thomas sat back and laced his fingers together, waiting. It occurred to him that John Wright was waiting too, but that was
his
problem. “Well?”

“Charlie acquiring some of Jack’s drugs will cause ripples. The franchises are not supposed to compete and that instability is a golden opportunity for us. Our problem has always been getting close to Charlie to gain any intelligence. He’s shrewd.”

“So are we. I’ve still got the bug you gave me, at home. I can ring John on the way.”

Karl didn’t need a lot of convincing.

* * *

Thomas changed his clothes while Karl got the coffee on.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?”

He opened his hand to show Karl the device. Subject closed.

“I’ll be on standby. I can come in heavy if need be.” Karl sounded spooked.

“It’ll be fine. Ray will be with me . . .” He smirked.
Good old Ray — Mark Antony to Jack Langton’s Caesar
.

“Don’t underestimate Charlie Stokes.” Karl moistened his lips, despite the coffee, “His profile isn’t pretty. He’s psychopath material.”

“Thanks for that. I’d better get going before I change my mind.”

For all his concern, Karl didn’t try to stop him.

* * *

He arrived at
Xanadu
shortly after eight pm. Ray came to the door, in a rush, and corralled him into his BMW.

“Mr Stokes doesn’t like to be kept waiting. You keep your mouth shut unless he speaks to you, and it’s
always
Mr Stokes — got it?”

“Understood.”

Ray Daniels was agitated, no question about it. And he didn’t look the small talk type. But everyone had their soft spots.

“Nice car.”

“Yeah, benefit of the job.” Ray upped the speed. “Jack Langton says presentation is everything. Incidentally, you did a good thing, looking after Andrea during the break-in.” He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out pristine banknotes. “Three ’undred quid there — ought to buy you a new coat.”

Thomas grabbed the money, pretending to marvel at it.

“Thanks . . . Ray.”

Ray perked up a bit.

“We’ll be there soon. Just follow my lead and do like I told you. Remember, fifteen K and that’s it.”

The car left civilisation behind, bumping over a dead-end to bounce across wasteland. Up ahead, Thomas noted at least three buildings — remnants of some sort of factory. It hadn’t escaped his attention that Ray seemed to know his way around without the help of sat-nav, but he did like the man asked and kept his mouth shut.

The car pulled under cover, losing the comfort of moonlight. A train rumbled past in the distance, wheels screeching against the rails. Ray got out and stretched. Thomas joined him and they stood there while Ray had a smoke.

Thomas wondered if he was armed — whether that was the way these people behaved. He figured Ray was about five feet ten; shorter than him anyway, but broader. Another gym fanatic. What was it with the East End boys and their pecs?

“Let’s get on with it.” Ray flicked his cigarette and Thomas watched the orange glow as it arced into the shadows. “You coming, or what?”

The main building was a ruined shell and it led out to two more substantial structures. Thomas kept his hands together, like a prisoner, and counted his steps. It helped to have something to focus on. Right turn, flash of moon, left turn, into the building and then a change of footing, broken glass and cobwebs. And that smell? Grease, or engine oil; something industrial.

“Is that you, Ray?”

The voice reached them before the doorway. Charlie Stokes appeared to be alone. It looked like a supervisor’s office, frozen in time from the 1970s; a semi-nude stared down from the wall to remind everyone it had once been April. Thomas tried not to stare back.

“Wait here.” Ray elbowed him in the ribs, making him flinch, and walked over to chat in private.

After a couple of minutes, Ray called out. “Come through, Thomas.”

Ray was seated at a large metal table. Charlie was pouring three slivers of scotch.

“Sit yourself down.”

Charlie waited and then loomed over him. “I know what you’re thinking. Why am I in a dump like this?” He laughed and Ray laughed with him. “They used to make all sorts here. Lathes and drills, then it was parts for conveyor belts — proper machinery. Now, what’s left is potential — posh homes, a casino . . . the works. I’ve had this place for years.”

Thomas pulled his chair in close and felt in his pocket. He waited until Charlie took his place at the table and then slipped out the bug and pushed it until he felt the magnet attach. A piece of piss, until he gripped the scotch and saw that his hand was shaking a little. Ray saw it too and seemed amused. Charlie had emptied his glass and was heading back to the bottle. Thomas covered his glass and shook his head.

“No thank you, Mr Stokes.”

Thomas caught the look they shared and stared blankly past. His heart pounded in his chest. These two blokes weren’t strangers.

Charlie rejoined them. “Right. Let’s get down to business.”

Thomas sipped what was left to steady his nerves and delivered the message from Natalie, except he had to say it was from Jack: fifteen K for the return of the drugs and to cover any inconvenience.

Charlie smiled. “Let me show you something.”

Ray shifted his chair back, but Charlie shook his head slowly.

“Just Thomas. We won’t be long.”

He forced himself out of the chair, shooting a glance at Ray, who didn’t meet his gaze.

“It’s this way.”

Charlie led him through two more dilapidated rooms, into what must have been the production area. Wooden benches, caked in grease, stood idle. A neon strip light blinked desperately like a cry for attention. Charlie kept on walking.

“Through here.”

Thomas heard a rattle of keys then the shriek of metal as bolts scraped back. Charlie went straight in so he followed him. In front of them were half a dozen plastic kegs, sealed tight, on pallets.

“You know what this is?”

Thomas shook his head, although his instincts told him this was more cartel merchandise held in storage. He stared at his feet, noticing how the cement on one section of the floor seemed newer than the rest. About six feet by three feet — big enough for a coffin.

“I think you do know. Look at it.”

As Thomas lifted his head he felt the sweat gathering at the top of his neck.

“I don’t need Jack Langton’s poxy half kilo, but why would I sell it back for below the market value? Do you think I’m stupid?”

Thomas felt Charlie’s grey eyes reaching into his psyche in search of an answer.

“No,” he yelped. “But Jack will owe you and maybe that’ll be useful someday.”

Charlie stared him down; the light went out of his eyes.

“I’m only kidding!” He slapped Thomas on the shoulder. “How did you get mixed up with Jack anyway?”

They left the compound and Thomas stood back while Charlie locked his treasures away.

“I’m a friend of John and Diane Wright’s.”

Charlie leered at him. “Ah, are you Miranda Wright’s bloke? You and Ray have got something in common then.” Charlie’s laughter bounced off the walls. “Come on, I feel like another drink.”

He wasn’t the only one.

Ray had made himself scarce so Charlie poured two drinks and carried them through to the office.

“You’re a photographer, right?”

He nodded dumbly, shocked that Charlie had done his homework.

“Yeah, that’s what I heard. Anyway, cheers.” The glasses collided and Charlie’s — twice the volume — emptied in seconds. “You tell Natalie I’ll accept the fifteen K this time and — like you said — Jack owes me. Word for word?”

“Yes, Mr Stokes.”

“I’ll be keeping my eye on you, Thomas. Mind how you go — you can find your own way out.” Charlie turned his back and the bulky frame stole most of the light.

Thomas walked slowly and deliberately, half expecting Charlie to have a change of heart and come charging after him. He found Ray outside, smoking.

“What did he say?” Ray’s lips pulled on the cigarette.

“He agreed to the price.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Jack owes him.”

“Jack won’t like that one little bit.” Ray’s grin turned orange.

In the car Thomas noticed his legs shaking. Ray noticed it too.

“He’s a scary fucker, is Charlie Stokes. Natalie thought I ought to come along to look after you, and as a mark of respect, on behalf of Jack.”

Yeah, Thomas thought, but you knew your way around.

Natalie Langton was delighted with the news. Jack owing Charlie didn’t seem to bother her at all. Thomas left them to it, grateful to leave their troubled world behind him.

* * *

He stood in the shower a long time when he got home, trying to rinse away the fear. Later, he rang Miranda just to hear her voice. He didn’t talk for long because Charlie’s comment about Ray and Miranda was running through his veins like a poison. After a quick update to John Wright, Karl was the final call of the night. He came right to the point.

“I get it now — why you leave me on the periphery.”