CAUSE & EFFECT (3 page)

The days fell in line like the names on their assignment sheets as they made their way through the different locations. Guilt or innocence? He kept his thoughts to himself, unlike Karl, and let his camera make the judgement.

Even though Karl had insisted he was happy to cover on his own during the prison visit, it didn’t sit easily with Thomas. The whole set-up had crossed a line for him. He kept his distance from the Wrights — Miranda included — in the run-up to the appointed day.

Karl provided two evenings of low-level surveillance work, to pass the time he said — a basic ‘point and shoot’ affair. Thomas was glad of it. He could have done background checks if he’d wanted — a call to the restaurant and then run a couple of number plates past Miranda’s police contact. But he had enough to think about.

He swapped texts with John Wright the night before their trip to Wormwood Scrubs prison, arranging to meet him outside. None of this was John’s fault; objectively, he could see that. No, the more he thought about it — and he had thought about it, a lot — Jack Langton was pulling the strings and everyone was dancing. Even Karl.

He travelled in early to check out the local area. As well as a prison Wormwood Scrubs was also the name of 200 acres of nearby common land. He’d read up about it online, amused to discover it had once been London’s duelling ground. Maybe it was a sign of things to come. The other thing he’d noted was that the prison was originally built by convicts, which tallied with his opinion that people were often the creators of their own misfortune.

The Scrubs Park didn’t compare with the Yorkshire moors, but the undulating warble of a skylark high above him was a welcome reminder. He faced the distant line of trees that pushed back against the skyline, holding the city at bay, closed his eyes and took a breath, steeping himself in the sounds of nature. It was all going to be fine. He was just doing a favour for a friend, visiting some bloke in prison. End of story.

He opened his eyes and changed direction and the prison building marred the view. A German Shepherd dog came bounding towards him and stopped about ten feet away, ears alert, staring intently. He stared back, wishing he’d brought a camera along — maybe the Canon with the USM lens. Then again, he couldn’t see that going down too well at the prison gates.

The dog wagged its tail slowly and he tried to remember whether that was a good thing. Ajit would probably know. All those years in the North Yorkshire Police must have taught him something. Maybe he’d ask when he next got round to phoning him.

A high-pitched whistle caught the dog’s attention and it abandoned him to his thoughts. He wondered if Jack Langton had any inkling of how it was he’d ended up behind bars. All it had taken was a little evidence gathering and one phone call. Like Karl had said, ‘In life as in comedy — timing is everything.’

* * *

John Wright was already waiting on the street outside the main gates. He looked like he was there under duress. “Morning, Thomas. I hope you’ve got your paperwork with you.” A nervous smile undercut the humour.

Thomas patted his pocket then shook hands, and listened as John prattled on about the weather and the trains. Other people started arriving so they followed them around the barrier, through the arch, and into the imposing Victorian stronghold. He stepped in behind John and showed the staff his passport and a phone bill as proof of identity. It was only when someone noticed his Surveillance Support Unit ID around his neck that they decided to ‘randomly’ search him.

You could tell a lot about the people queuing to visit a prison: the anxious mothers, the cagey partners, and especially the children. They were the easiest to read and fell into two groups: the ones with fear in their eyes, who didn’t really know what was going on, and that other category. Judging by their faces those poor bastards had seen it all before and took it in their stride; this was normal for them.

Successive doors were unlocked and then locked behind them, drawing them deeper into the belly of the prison. John hadn’t made eye contact since his search, and when Thomas tapped him on the shoulder he looked haunted. Well, well — another item to file in the Bladen archives. He knew about John’s ambiguous relationship with the Tax Office, but his behaviour today suggested there was a side to John he knew nothing about. On balance, he preferred it that way.

The corridor led into a locked room with glass walls, like a long holding cell. A prison officer stared blankly, scanning the line for anything untoward. Thomas gazed back and their eyes met briefly, trading indifference.

They were ushered forward just as the kids started getting restless, through the barred doorway towards Jack Langton. The visiting area was cavernous and neglected, tainted by the tang of bleach and boot polish. As he followed John, who clearly knew the drill, his eyes were drawn to flaking paintwork and clumps of dead flies that blotted out patches of the neon strip lights.

They waited opposite an empty chair for a couple of minutes, without explanation — no one else seemed bothered so he didn’t ask. Then at some unspoken signal a door was unlocked and the prisoners flowed in under the watchful eyes of the prison staff.

Jack Langton would have been easy to identify even if he hadn’t seen him before. He looked as though he took full advantage of the prison gym and swaggered a little as he made his way to the table, cocky bastard. All around them chairs were scraping back for happy families and lovers’ reunions. Jack looked like he was about to open a business meeting.

Thomas offered to shake hands, but Jack tilted back and folded his arms.

“Best not — I can do without a strip search today.” He laughed and Thomas couldn’t figure out whether he was kidding or not. “Appreciate you both coming . . .”

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Thomas.”

A chill raced down his spine.
I fucking hope not
. He put on his best poker face and sat there, listening to Jack and John getting pally, concentrating. He paid close attention because every few sentences a clue floated by amid the shorthand of familiarity — people they’d known from years back.

“Thing is, John, she’s a good kid and she knows not to touch it. But sometimes people get curious. Maybe Thomas here could sort it for me?”

Thomas took a breath and leaned in. “Sort what?”

“Ah, some stuff at Janey’s.” Jack rubbed at his nose with a thumb. “It might need taking to my house for Ray — he’ll know what to do with it.”

Thomas felt around his collar. The room had suddenly become a couple of degrees warmer. “You understand I’m clean, Mr Langton? I can’t be involved in anything . . .” he left the sentence there.

Jack raised a soothing palm. “Course not. And call me Jack. Just some things of mine she’s holding for safekeeping. Paperwork and stuff.”

“Is that alright with you, Thomas?” John’s voice wavered a little.

“Yeah, as long as we’re all clear.” The bullshit alarm in his head was clanging.

“Right then.” Jack Langton thudded his arms on the table. “Let’s talk about Jacob. There are some people I want you to talk to.”

And John was playing secretary, counting on his fingers, bobbing his head as each name was mentioned. . . John Wright — the man Miranda had terrified him with, back in Leeds when they were first getting acquainted.

“He’s not some sort of hard case, is he?” Thomas had asked, when he’d convinced her to return to London with him.

“Nah, not like that. He’s the real deal though.”

Well, he seemed pretty fake now.

“Like I say, John. Write the details down when you get out. My brief, Elizabeth Locke, will be happy to help if he needs more information. You know Janey’s address — you always send Jacob something for his birthday.”

As they stood up to leave, Jack thanked them for coming. Like they had a choice. “One more thing, John.” Jack made it sound like a throwaway comment, but Thomas knew better than that. “Tell Sheryl to get in touch.”

Thomas turned away to shield his face. Sheryl — Miranda’s bar manager and Jack’s daughter that no one was supposed to know about. She’d given him the attack of conscience that led to Jack’s conviction.

Away from the prison gates, John Wright was a humbled man. As soon as they were back on the street he brushed the dust off his coat sleeves.

“Those bloody places give me the willies.”

Thomas laughed and shook his head. “Fancy a coffee, John — or a pint?”

“Yeah, a coffee sounds good.”

It didn’t take long to find a proper café. Not that he had a problem with the corporate chains. As long as the coffee was good, he didn’t give a tinker’s where it came from. This place was a
real
Italian café. The blackboard menu looked authentically retro, although the prices had kept up with the times. He approached the chrome counter and let John find a table.

Balancing two strong coffees and a couple of cheese rolls on a tray that wasn’t up to the job was no easy task. He wasn’t trying to impress John exactly — his own dad was a perfectly serviceable parent, only John was like the best bits without the crap. Right from that first day, when he’d brought Miranda back to them, John had treated him as one of the family. No ‘keep your hands off my daughter’ threats. Just a polite word about what he expected of him and nothing more was said.

He finished reminiscing and settled the tray. “How do you think it went?”

John sniffed his coffee and then grimaced. “Hard to say. I don’t like poking around in Jack’s business — the less I know, the better. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you drew a blank on what happened to Jacob.”

Thomas squeezed his roll for a bite. “Isn’t it better that we get a result and then you’re all square with him?”

“Yeah, until the next time,” John took a gulp of coffee and poured in more sugar. “Sorry for dragging you into all this.”

“It’s okay, John; it’s done now. And Karl’s there to back me up.”

John nodded, stirring his mug mechanically.

“And besides, it’s not as if . . .” He felt his phone buzzing and picked up, turning away towards the window.

Christine Gerrard, his boss, was on the warpath. “My office in one hour.” She sounded less than thrilled.

“I’ve got to go, John.” He downed the rest of his coffee and grabbed the roll.

“Let me give you Janey’s address and we can talk later about Jack’s solicitor.”

* * *

He left John in the café and hotfooted it to East Acton station, wondering why Christine sounded so pissed off. Once he made it on to a Central Line train, he looked at John’s piece of paper. One side had Janey’s address scrawled across it and the other, written in advance judging by John’s neater handwriting, was a short list of names: Janey, Greg, Andrea Harrison, Natalie Langton and Charlie Stokes — who’d earned two question marks. Although now he thought about it, Jack Langton hadn’t mentioned anyone called Charlie.

He made the journey over to Liverpool Street ahead of schedule, not that he expected any prizes. On his way into the building, he brushed shoulders with two colleagues from the first floor. He’d seen the MI5 bods around. They waited until he’d passed and muttered, ‘floaters’ when they thought he was out of earshot. Nice.

Karl was still out on the road, flying solo with the Benefits Investigation Team. The only person in the main office was Ann Crossley, now the official number two — a detail that kept Karl constantly amused. She managed an indifferent wave from behind her laptop.

Christine’s office door at the far end of the room was open. He went over and played nicely by knocking first. She invited him in and gestured for him to close the door.

“Care to tell me what you were doing at Wormwood Scrubs this morning?”

He kept his paranoia in check and tried to reason it out. Mobile phone footprint? Nope — switched off until they were back outside. He hadn’t used a car either. He completed his thinking aloud. “Those new ID cards we got a month ago.”

She said nothing, but he read her like a book, always had done — between the covers once upon a time.

“Thomas, I give you a certain latitude with your private life.”

Judging by her face it was his turn to say something.

“We all have our secrets.” He didn’t say ‘Bob Peterson’; he didn’t have to.

She huffed. “Look, if it’s something that might reflect on the team — or the Unit — then I need to know about it.”

“It doesn’t.”

She peered over her reading glasses. “Is it connected with Miranda, or Karl?”

He yielded what he hoped was an inscrutable smile.

“Thomas,” she said wearily. “I can only protect you if I know what’s going on.”

An interesting turn of phrase. Protect him from what?

She took off her glasses and folded them carefully on the desk. “I’ve said what I need to and let’s leave it at that. Fancy a coffee outside?”

“Sure.” Only right then he wasn’t sure at all.

They strolled out under the watchful gaze of Ann Crossley. Sometimes he marvelled at how civilised they were together. Christine was an ex, even if it was ancient history. The last interest he’d shown had been purely professional, when he’d found out about her and the very married Bob Peterson. It still made him smile to think how Bob had been transferred from London, with Christine promoted in his place. A good day’s work. Last he heard ‘Uncle’ Bob was back in Southampton with his unsuspecting wife.