CAUSE & EFFECT (23 page)

He left a vague message at Christine’s work number before seven am, promising to ring her later. After that he checked in with Karl to get the green light for Operation Bank Fraud. He didn’t ask about Ken. That was beyond his remit now and on reflection, maybe Karl had done him a favour.

Cards retrieved, list secured, bags already packed, they were out the door by eight, travelling the Tube with the rest of the cattle. Miranda had a steely calm about her that was both unnerving and alluring. There was no talking in the Underground crush, and even above ground at Euston she didn’t have a lot to say. He watched as a new mobile phone — probably from Karl — emerged from her pocket while she checked the departures board.

He left her to her calls; no doubt arranging the pick-ups at Birmingham. It was a little early for coffees, but he got them anyway, along with muffins. If she were standing in for Karl she might as well go the whole hog.

* * *

They grabbed a table on the train and were soon joined by a suit with designer glasses and a laptop full of spread sheets, and then a woman whose choice of book — judging by the cover — suggested she wasn’t keen on thinking. Mr Laptop sodded off at Milton Keynes so Thomas spread himself out a little.

Seated opposite Miranda, sipping their coffees in silence, he thought they looked like a couple at war, or strangers. And yet, he mused with a smile, they couldn’t have been more in sync — not clothed, anyway.

Once Chick lit Queen had taken the hint and moved somewhere else, he asked the question that had been eating away at him all morning.

“What happened to the other two grand?”

“You can’t expect people to pay for their own travel when they’re helping
us
.”

He knew that she meant
him
, but let it pass.

“But if there’s any left . . .” She second-guessed him. “I’ll treat you.”

If? Blimey, were they all travelling first class?

They reached Birmingham New Street and jumped ship. He’d forgotten how much he hated the station; the platforms looked as if a committee of muggers had designed them. They squeezed up the narrow stairs and surfaced onto the main concourse, sidestepping travellers clustered under a screen in search of their late-running train.

Miranda took her mobile out and walked on a few paces. She glanced over her shoulder and signalled for him to follow her.

“No offence, but leave some distance. These are people from Mum and Dad’s world.”

She went back to her phone and he trailed her out of the station. It wasn’t difficult to stay on the periphery; it was what he did on every other working day, which was why he couldn’t help noticing details.

The first contact was a black guy in his early fifties. Somehow that surprised him; he wasn’t proud of it but there it was. Judging by her body language, Miranda already knew him. Thomas enjoyed her sleight of hand as she deposited the card in the bloke’s coat pocket. The two of them walked up the street to a café, where Miranda gave him a hug before they parted company.

Thomas had followed on the opposite side of the street, so there was nowhere to go when the bloke walked past.

“Alright, mate?” The bloke winked at him.

Thomas clocked the London accent and crossed over to rejoin her.

“You could always show me today’s itinerary.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Besides, it’s better like this: ‘need to know’ and all that.” She was quoting from the Karl McNeill rulebook.

He let her make all the running, and she led him a merry dance through the Bullring to a café on Edgbaston Street, where he managed to grab a coffee with her, albeit at separate tables. From there they looped round to the Odeon, dropped another card off and wandered back towards New Street Station. Five strangers came and went and he realised she didn’t want them to see one another either.

Miranda started fiddling with her mobile phone again.

“Problem?”

“Nothing I can’t handle . . .” Her face suggested otherwise.

“Anything I can do?”

She cast around a final time for the no-show.

“With one condition. You don’t check up on this afterwards — ever.”

“Deal.”

“Someone’s supposed to be flying into Birmingham International, but their flight’s been delayed.”

“So we’ll head over there?”

She started walking back into the station.

* * *

He did the decent thing at Domestic Arrivals and made himself scarce — but not invisible, and avoided the screens, even though it was killing him. Instead, he rang Karl to pass the time.

“Only me checking in. How’s work?”

“Same old bollocks. I plan to stalk the mystery Dolan again later. Roland or Donald: that is the question.”

“Sorry, forgot to tell you — it’s Roland.”

“Oh?”

“Prison talk.”

“Well, thank the Lord for incarceration. How are you finding playing second fiddle to the capable Ms Wright?”

“Yeah.” Thomas evaded the question. “Listen, this will work, won’t it?”

“Don’t see why not.” Karl’s voice trailed off, a sure sign he was focused on something else. “Right, must dash. The scales of justice won’t tip themselves.”

He considered buying Miranda an ‘I love Birmingham International’ key ring, clocked the price and thought better of it. There was an art to surveillance and it was a hard thing to switch off when there was so much of interest going on around him: bored children, anxious parents and the solo travellers who were always harder to interpret and more intriguing as a consequence.

Miranda and another woman crossed his line of vision. They looked comfortable together. The woman was suited and booted, her vivid auburn hair a striking contrast to Miranda’s blonde. They stopped abruptly at Miranda’s prompt and turned in his direction. He assumed it was an invitation.

“This is . . .” Miranda paused and blinked, “. . . my cousin, Philippa.”

Both women found this hilarious. He sighed, waiting for
Philippa
to say something.

“Well.” Miranda stirred, “I won’t keep you. Thanks again and have a safe trip.”

“You must come up some time and do bring . . ?”

“Thomas.” His lips barely moved.

She tilted her head slightly, still looking at him.

“Not bad at all, Miranda.”

He watched her leave and moved closer to Miranda, while his brain whirred on. Maybe a solicitor; Scottish, probably. She didn’t sound like Karl, anyway.

“Reet then . . .” Miranda was taking the piss out of Yorkshire. “’Ow d’you fancy a trip oop north?”

They caught a train back to New Street Station and then on to York. There was only one bank card left in the set and Miranda handed it to him. He’d picked York because it would be teeming with people. Leeds would have done, but York was also easier for travelling on to see Ajit, Geena and the sproglet.

* * *

The Connaught Hotel was a decent, middle-of-the-road establishment; not dissimilar to places he’d stayed at on assignments outside London — clean, welcoming and not too up itself. The bloke on reception didn’t blink an eye at their casual appearance — this was Tourist Town after all. He offered them a map of the city and some discount vouchers, which Miranda seized upon. The only thing that almost took the smile off his face was Thomas asking if he could pay in cash. A more up-market establishment might have insisted on a deposit by card, but the Connaught clearly had more trust, or fewer scruples. Thomas paid in advance and bunged the bloke a fiver for his trouble.

They went in under Miranda’s name — her first name, anyway — which made him feel like a trophy boyfriend. After the day’s excitement it was a fun game to play, and it helped take his mind off the final hand to be played that evening. Upstairs, the flowery wallpaper extended right along the corridor in a flourish of chintz. He couldn’t work out if it was intentionally retro or whether the place was long overdue for a makeover.

Miranda opened the room door, dropped her bags and flopped down on the bed.

“Pretty good timing.” She checked her wristwatch.

A Christmas present from him, three years back — nice touch.

“When do you want to eat?” He walked around her carefully, placing his bag down on the floor at his side of the bed. “Only I don’t want to wait until after . . .”

“Give me a few minutes to freshen up and then we can go.”

She raised her arms so he could pull her up. It felt like an invitation and he had to fight both gravity and desire.

* * *

Dinner was a pub special. He figured it would draw less attention to nip out from there to a nearby cashpoint than interrupting a meal in the hotel. The place was heaving and they blended in nicely, just one more couple on a leisure break. Miranda had added to the effect by bringing the hotel leaflets with her.

“Fancy doing the tourist trail tomorrow before we go to Pickering? What time did you tell Geena and Ajit to expect us?”

He sipped his half-pint of shandy quietly.

“You did ring Ajit?’

“Not exactly.”

“Great. So what happens if no one’s home tomorrow?”

He faked a smile. “We’ll catch a bus to Scarborough instead.”

“And they say romance is dead.”

He checked his watch — seven-twenty: around half an hour to go. The food arrived quickly and that was a bonus. You couldn’t really go wrong with fish and chips, and more to the point neither could a chef.

Miranda seemed to relax a little with food on the table.

“Where do you think Ken will go?”

He listened for the satisfying crunch of knife against batter and inhaled a waft of steamy vinegar. Bliss.

“Well, he’s Scottish; maybe he’ll find some quiet glen and lie low for a bit, and then disappear abroad with a new identity.”

Miranda lifted her glass of Malbec.

“Where would you go, if you were in his predicament?”

He gazed at his chips for a second or two. “Canada. Halifax or Winnipeg.”

“Bloody ’ell, I like how you’ve already thought about it. Talk about be prepared — you must have made a brilliant scout.”

“Never joined; Mam couldn’t afford the uniform.”

At ten to eight he was getting restless. There were two cashpoints likely to be camera-free, according to Karl. The man had more contacts than a discount optician.

He lifted his chair back and play-acted for an imaginary audience.

“Just popping out for a sec.”

“Okay.”

Outside, a group of students in rugby shirts jostled along the street and launched into a rendition of
Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer
, starting at forty-one; presumably where they’d left off.

He waited until they had moved on, and chose the cash machine on the right. It was two minutes to eight. Now came the moment of truth. He took the card out of his pocket, blank as Ken’s future, and made a show of looking for something in his jacket. At eight pm he inserted the card, tapped the number in carefully and waited. The main display appeared on cue; he selected £30 cash and held his breath, counting in his head as the machine went through its routine. Finally, it returned his card and spat out the money. There now, that wasn’t so bad. He planned to cut the card up later and spread the parts in three different locations.

His food was waiting for him with a plate on top, and he turned to the last of his chips.

“All sorted.”

“Then let’s go back to the hotel, rent a movie and celebrate.”

Thomas woke in the early hours and tiptoed across to the window. York was still sleeping off the previous night and he watched as a police car wove through the maze of streets. His mind drifted through the previous day’s events and he wondered about Ken. How long would it take Sir Peter and his cronies to realise that something suspicious was going on with the bank account? It stood to reason that it was already being monitored. According to Karl, banks across Europe acted with impunity and did things that would make your hair curl.

He stayed behind the curtain and checked his mobiles — work and personal. Both were stony silent so he went back to bed. As he lay there, softly serenaded by Miranda wheezing in her sleep, he tried something his counsellor had once recommended.

‘When you’re overwhelmed by too much thinking, imagine each thought as a brightly coloured ball. Instead of trying to keep them all in the air at the same time, mentally throw them up and catch just one. Focus on that and let the others go.’

He smiled at himself, remembering the look of incredulity he’d given her when she’d offered him fantasy juggling. He closed his eyes now and up they went. The thought that landed in his lap was Jacob. He got up again, dressed and grabbed a handful of change.

Downstairs he took a seat at the public Internet computer, wiped the child-sized fingerprints from the keyboard and readied a small pile of coins. The pages crawled but eventually he was able to access his most recent email address. Thurston Leon, the private investigator he’d paid to snoop on Natalie Langton’s mum, had emailed a reply. Apart from some ultra-right wing tendencies, she was spotless. At least it was someone he could cross off the list.

When he returned to the bedroom Miranda was busy checking her mobile.

“Your phone rang while you were out. Don’t worry, I didn’t touch it.”

“Which one?”

“Search me!” She slipped her t-shirt off her shoulder.

Tempting, but some other time. Karl had sent a text: Tried ringing but you must be busy — the eagle has flown the nest. Thanks again — K.

He took first turn in the shower and Miranda was still messing with her phone when he exited from the steam.

“Updates on the cards,” she explained. “One failed, but I can’t tell you where or I’d have to kill you.”

It would have been funny if it hadn’t conjured up the image of a white plastic bag filled with bloodied clothes. He changed the subject.

“You’re sure you’re okay about seeing Ajit and Geena again?” He left the ‘b’ word out of the equation and watched her fateful sigh.

“Yeah, I should be.”

* * *

His mobile phone gate-crashed breakfast. This time it was the work mobile who wanted to be his friend.

“Thomas Bladen.” He spoke softly, easing back his chair to make an exit.

“Ah, Thomas, it’s Sir Peter. Are you free to talk?”

“Yes, sir; just give me a second.”

He gagged the phone, gestured to the door and mouthed ‘duty calls’ to Miranda. She looked unimpressed. The clock near the front desk read eight fifteen — the Old Man must be on overtime; this was never going to be a social call.

“How soon can you be at my office?”

He glanced back to the glass doors, where he could just about see Miranda.

“I have some things to tie up — would eleven-thirty be okay?”

“Very good — and come alone.”

He turned off the phone and made the condemned man’s walk back to the restaurant.

“Everything all right?” Miranda seemed extra bright and breezy.

He sat down and took a gulp of orange juice before he answered.

“Do you believe in déjà vu?”

* * *

Miranda was better about it than he had a right to expect. He figured she was probably relieved too. They were packed and out of the hotel in fifteen minutes without a cross word spoken. Or almost any other kind.

York station was awash with end of season holidaymakers and students with more luggage than sense. He ducked past an idiot carrying a surfboard, found a corner away from the noise and rang Karl.

“Missing me already?”

“We have a problem . . .”

Karl was the voice of reason. “It was only a matter of time, although they’re pretty quick off the mark. Then again, it may not be connected with yesterday.”

“Yeah, he probably wants to promote me.”

“Actually, it might be something
I
did.”

Thomas started sweating. “Text me on M’s phone.”

“Will do.”

A series of messages arrived as the train sailed through Doncaster. It seemed Karl had been creative by using the genuine bank card in Southampton, as close to Bob Peterson’s home as possible. It felt good to know Karl was fighting his corner.

Thomas decanted the essentials into his rucksack, including Karl’s photos that he’d taken along for safekeeping. If Karl was right, he had a feeling he’d be needing them soon.

Miranda’s generosity continued when they reached London. She took his bag and left him the rucksack. “You can come over tonight and collect it — ring me.”

He waved her off, reflecting that life always seemed complicated in London — on a bigger canvas. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

* * *

This time there was no waiting at the front desk of Main Building. ID, hand scan and welcome to the citadel. His escort was the Geordie lass from before.

“Mr Bladen — I never expected to see you back so soon.”

She remembered; how sweet.

“Me neither.”

Sir Peter’s door was closed. He rapped staccato and went in. The Old Man smiled, but he’d done that in the past so it cut no ice with him. Thomas waited; he was good at that — better than most.

“ I expect you’re wondering why I asked to see you so urgently?”

He decided to box clever. “I assumed you need something else couriered. I’ve got an overnight bag.” He lifted the rucksack for effect and noted the lack of coffee on offer. More waiting.

“Thomas, I’d like your assistance with a problem. I want you to support Bob Peterson and meet with him today in Southampton. I’m pleased at your initiative.”

That read one of two ways. Thomas pressed his tongue against his lower teeth so hard it made his jaw ache.

“I’ll book a pool car from Liverpool Street then and take my instructions from Bob when I get there.”

“No need.” Sir Peter clapped his hands together once, as if he’d just thought of something. “My driver, Phillip, will take you. He’s expecting you. The sooner you’re down in Southampton the sooner you can get started.”