Line of Sight Page 4

  “The weapon is your business now, Tommo. And you’ll need back-up — people you can rely on.”

  When Karl put it like that, the Wrights were the natural choice. “Then what are we doing out here?”

  “Me, I’m looking for a replacement bumper for my car — mine’s cracked. And you happened to know someone who could get me one at short notice.”

  Typical Karl — always one step ahead.

  “What’s my next move then?”

  “Well, don’t try and assemble it or fire it. And don’t leave any prints.” Karl waved his hands, Al Jolson style. “You know, a scrapyard would be a great place to hide something, don’t you think?” He pointed casually to a suitable wreck, then started heading back. “From now on, Tommo, unless I tell you otherwise, I don’t want to know.”

  Thomas was still counting hubcaps when Miranda sought him out.

  “All sorted?”

  “Champion,” he used the exaggerated Yorkshire accent that always made her laugh. It worked like a charm and he threw a loose arm around her.

  “Well, this is a Sunday with a difference — is Karl coming back to Mum and Dad’s for dinner.”

  “Don’t ask me, Miranda — I just work here.”

  * * *

  In the end, Karl collected his bumper, caught a ride back to his car and sodded off home to Kilburn. Thomas wasn’t sorry to see him go. Another line had been crossed, and there was no way back. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

  Chapter 6

  “More pudding?” Diane waved a dish under Thomas’s nose.

  He glanced up and concocted a smile about as substantial as a meringue. He could feel the weight of their attention fixing him to the chair. He blew out a sullen breath and leaned back.

  Miranda stared hard at him, appalled. He blinked a couple of times in the hope that she could read him better than he always claimed.

  “Why are you being such an arse?” That drew a few chuckles around the table.

  He glanced around and folded. “Look, I’m a bit weirded out by the idea of Karl on friendly terms with you all. I’ll get used to it.” Only because I reckon I’ll have to.

  “How long do you think we’re gonna have to keep the pod, Thomas?” Sam was almost quivering with excitement.

  “Dunno. But don’t go touching it, or it’ll need to be wiped again,” Thomas scolded playfully. He paused and thought for a second. What was he really worrying about? Someone had wanted him and Karl — let’s face it, Karl — to have a copy of footage from the lab accident and what looked like part of a test weapon. Okay, so it wasn’t a normal couple of days for most people, but this was the game he was in now. He found a smile. “Anyone fancy another round of cards?”

  The Wrights all cheered, as if Thomas had just returned from a dragon quest, wearing a new scaly waistcoat.

  * * *

  Thomas surveyed the IOUs ranged before him, like a happy bank teller. And now that he'd resolved to speak with Christine Gerrard the following day, about Karl’s counsellor referral, the mosaic of his life was starting to make sense again.

  He was down to a two-hander with Diane; he figured she was holding two pairs — one of them royal. All he had to do was hold his nerve . . .

  Then a mobile went off. The Wright household shot glances at one another. They took their cards very seriously. It wasn’t about the money or even the winning; it was about the playing. With them, card games were like catechism to a Sunday School teacher; you didn’t mess with it.

  “For fuck’s sake,” John huffed. Everyone settled on Thomas.

  “Don’t blame me; it’s not mine — that’s not my ring-tone.”

  Miranda didn’t stand on ceremony; she reached into Thomas’s jacket, slung over a chair, and lifted out the offending phone — Karl’s camera phone from the army base.

  It took him a moment to remember how the phone had got there. He held his hand out and she passed it over with a sneer. “Hello?” he blushed, hot under everyone’s gaze.

  “You’ve got to help me . . .” a woman’s voice trailed off, punctuated by the sound of heavy traffic. “I’ve no one else to turn to.”

  Thomas gulped. The phone bleeped. Bollocks. Almost out of battery.

  “Hold on,” he looked round frantically. “I need a charger, quickly.”

  Sam dashed over to a sideboard, scrabbling in the top drawer until he fished one out. Diane slapped her cards down and ran to the kitchen. She and Sam converged on Thomas, so the charger could be plugged into the mains.

  “You still there?” his breath caught in his throat, snared on the fear in her voice.

  “I can’t stay here — I’ll ring you.” The line went dead.

  Blood drained from his face. He checked the caller number and phoned back. The ringing echoed in his head. “Quick, check out a number for me on the Net,” he pointed to Miranda, like she was a servant.

  She did as asked, scowling all the while. The prefix was in Middlesex, west of London. Thomas put the mobile down and chewed on his lip, lost in thought. First, the photos on Karl’s mobile — superfluous, as it turned out, because Major Whatshisface had allowed them to copy the footage; then the container hidden under the Land Rover. And now some woman ringing on the mobile that Karl had suggested he hang on to. It all sounded like a set-up.

  “I’ve got to go out. Terry, you wanna play this hand — it’s a good ’un!”

  “Where are you going?” Miranda’s antenna was on full alert.

  “Not sure.” That was half true, softening her up for the rest. “I’m going to head over Middlesex way and wait for another call.”

  “On the phone you didn’t know you had?” her voice was brittle.

  “It’s Karl’s phone, okay? I forgot he’d left it with me.”

  Miranda snatched it up from the table. “So I shouldn’t expect to see any pictures of you on this?”

  Wow, that was a novelty — Miranda, the possessive one. In an instant he remembered what photos were on there. He stood back and let her get on with it.

  She scrolled through the menu options like an aggrieved wife on the prowl. He knew what was coming. She wanted him open and honest? Fine. When she got to the pictures, she gasped and stared at the phone, open-mouthed.

  “What is it?” Diane responded instinctively to Miranda’s distress.

  “It’s a dead girl,” Thomas beat her to it. “That’s what I dealt with on Friday.”

  Miranda looked up, pale as chalk. “Then who the bloody hell just rang you?”

  “I’ve no idea. That’s what I intend to find out.” He grabbed his stuff and headed for the door. Miranda was a step behind him. “You drive and I’ll navigate.”

  Chapter 7

  Thomas watched the road carefully as they sailed down the A13 towards the A406 North Circular Road. Better that than risk a row with Miranda.

  "So, she could be anywhere in Middlesex?"

  He let it pass, wishing the mystery woman would get her finger out and ring back. Karl’s mobile had been left at the house to charge up, with the calls forwarded to his; which meant Miranda was also phone monitor.

  “And why couldn't Karl locate the Middlesex number for you?”

  She had a point. But no, Karl wanted to be kept out of this and he reckoned there was a reason for it beyond some old army loyalty.

  Rain spattered against the windscreen, drowned out by the heavy rhythm of the wipers. There was a comfort to it; steady, regular, purposeful — all the things he wished he were. Instead, he felt trapped. Miranda’s being there at all was bollocks, and they both knew it. He gripped the steering wheel. Even a moron can travel the A406 unaided; it’s a fucking circle — how hard can that be? And when he got there, what use was a navigator if he was just driving around?

  “I wish you’d talk to me.”

  He glanced over, then back to the road. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Say anything — tell me why you’re doing this.”

  He opted for a soft sel
l. “You know me; I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress.”

  She was quiet for a while and he fooled himself into thinking he’d got away with it.

  “I have nightmares too, y’know, Thomas . . .”

  He didn’t; and it pained him that not only had she never said, but he’d never considered it.

  “. . . I thought Yorgi had killed you when I saw you go down. I thought it was all my fault.”

  He felt a lump in his throat, forced it down. There were tears in her eyes. He sniffed and his own eyes prickled in response. “I failed to protect you, Miranda — I don’t know how to get past that . . .”

  He changed lane and checked the road signs, letting the wave of emotion subside. Miranda put her hand against his, on the steering wheel. “Just don’t shut me out, and we’ll call it quits, okay?” She laughed through the tears.

  When she took her hand away, he craved it like an addict. There was no eye contact after that until his mobile rang. Miranda seized it without hesitation. She didn’t waste time with niceties.

  “Where are you? We’re on our way . . . right, got it . . . good idea — a public place. Try and stay calm . . . oh, it’s Miranda. Dunno; blonde hair, brown boots, jeans — I’m wearing an engagement ring . . . yeah, and the bloke? Typical scruff-bag! We’ll be there as soon as we can. Promise.”

  Before Thomas could add his own two penn’orth, she’d closed the call and pulled out her own mobile. “Dad? No, everything’s fine. Can you get Terry for me a minute? Terry? Go look up a pub on the Net — Abrook Arms, in Uxbridge. Yeah, ring me straight back.”

  Thomas blushed. It was a funny time to be proud of her.

  She looked up at him. “What?”

  “Dunno, just a different side of you, I s’pose.”

  “Different, good?” she pouted.

  He conceded a smile. When Terry rang back she was ready, pen in hand, and scribbled furiously into her address book. Now she could really navigate.

  * * *

  They pulled up outside the Abrook Arms, still in mid debate, with him losing on points.

  “All I’m saying is, you could have checked with Karl and found out why you’re doing his dirty work. Or maybe you already know something?”

  There wasn’t a lot he could say. The mystery call to the mobile could have been a set-up by someone who wanted the smart gun — or who wanted it back — and here he was, walking into the lion’s den. But for all that, he was glad to be doing something about it, especially with Miranda riding shotgun.

  The pub door squeaked open. The place wasn’t exactly heaving. In the far corner, a live band was knocking out a decent rendition of ‘Try A Little Tenderness.’ One sweep of the bar told Thomas who the Mystery Caller was. She’d be the only one sat alone, clutching her chair, mousy hair drawn back into a bun.

  Miranda clocked the woman as well. She waved her left hand in front of her, with the engagement ring transferred to its former position. Any hammier and it would have come with salad in a roll. Thomas nudged her and she pointed him towards the bar for three drinks, doing a sexy walk for his benefit. One of the band almost got his tongue caught in his guitar strings.

  The drinks came quickly, thanks to lack of competition at the bar; and by the time he arrived at the table, Miranda was finishing the introductions.

  “Wasn’t sure what to get you, but I figured you looked like a rum and coke.”

  Point of fact, she looked like a frightened child.

  They moved away from the band to another table; they stuck out as strangers anyway, so there was little point pretending they were there for the music. Plus, they had a lot to discuss.

  Mystery Caller was first to speak. “Can we just go?”

  “Finish your drink first," Thomas took control. "You look like you could do with it. And it creates less attention.”

  “He’s right, Jess,” Miranda piped up, lifting her driving licence off the table. “Have you eaten?”

  Jess didn’t answer. The pub crowd, such as they were, cheered after a few intro chords. Thomas watched as a few fans joined in with ‘Everybody Needs Somebody To Love.’ Unfortunately, some of them were vocally on a par with Karl.

  “Blimey — must be Wilson Pickett night!”

  Jess looked at him blankly and he smiled to himself at her inadequate musical education. Their rapport was non-existent so he left her with Miranda and went in search of crisps. You could never have too many crisps; he knew that because Karl had done the clinical research.

  He was still congratulating himself on how well he was handling everything as he ferried them back. Then he saw Jess crying. Not just crying, she was bawling her eyes out. Miranda was doing her best, but whatever Jess had been holding on to had reached the point of overspill.

  “It’s time to make a move,” he got up, keeping hold of the crisps and leaving Miranda to shoulder the woman out of the pub. He hung back, checking to see if anyone had taken an interest. Only the barman was looking around, most probably hoping for customers. Thomas nodded in thanks and took the glasses over.

  “Is she alright, mate?” The two women were out the door by now.

  “Yeah, just a bit of boyfriend trouble.”

  The barman murmured something and went back to staring into space.

  Although Jess had been upset in the pub, the sight of the Land Rover really made her lose it. It took all their coaxing — and most of that was down to Miranda — to convince Jess they really were there to help her.

  Miranda accepted a back seat, with all the grace of a pub brawl. Once everyone was aboard, Thomas passed out the crisps, banking on a comedy moment to lighten the load. He made straight for the North Circular.

  The crisps gave Jess something to do, which made the conversation a little easier. He wanted to start with something simple, and to avoid, ‘Why did you call me and who the hell are you?’ for as long as possible. Unfortunately, Miranda hadn’t attended that little briefing in his head.

  “So come on, Jess,” Miranda soothed her as they snacked on Salt & Vinegar together, “what made you ring us?”

  Jess paused, mid crisp. “He said, if I made it out safely, I was to ring that number and someone would take care of everything.” She stopped, gauged their faces and did a fair mime of the word terror.

  Thomas’s brain was spinning like a bicycle freewheeling downhill — lots of whirling and no control. “You did the right thing, calling us,” he insisted. “We’ll find somewhere safe for you and then we can get to the bottom of this.”

  No one seemed to feel like talking anymore, so he put the radio on and found something easy-listening; not classical — he wasn’t trying to put them to sleep — but nothing too boisterous. It also freed him up to concentrate on the driving and ponder what his next move was.

  Miranda drew in a breath, a big one; the sort of breath that could only end in a sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. As ever, she didn’t disappoint. “Jess, can you tell us what kind of trouble you’re in?”

  Jesus. Why don’t you use a loudhailer and be done with it? Part of him was appalled, but another part was fascinated, seeing Miranda in action. It was a new side to her, and though he’d never tell her, he preferred it; they were a team again.

  “I was there on the base, when it happened.”

  Oh shit; that opened a trapdoor. He caught Miranda’s eye in the mirror, aware that he could stop this right now, but Jess might not give him a second chance. “Did you see the accident?” he kept his voice low.

  “No, I was on my way back in. But as soon as I heard the explosion, I knew. I panicked and hid away; tried to pretend it wasn’t happening.”

  He could hear the way her voice fluttered as she spoke. He dug his nails into the wheel to drown out his own memories. “I need to know everything, Jess.”

  She didn’t reply and he waited it out for a while, letting the radio soundtrack fill the void. Maybe now was the time to mention he was her only option.

  “Do you have clearance for this?” Her vo
ice grated.

  God knows. “Absolutely — we both do.” He smiled reassuringly in Miranda’s direction. That winning Bladen smile; it could open locks on a good day, and today was definitely an improvement on yesterday.

  Jess took a few long breaths, as if she were rhythmically bringing details to the surface. Then she tilted her head back and began. “The prototype weapon was designed to utilise a range of ammunition without the need for modification.” It sounded like she was reading from a cue card.

  Bingo. That explained the unusually colandered target. He nodded appreciatively for her to continue.

  “The UB40 will support urban ground troops.”

  “The what?”

  “The weapon is designated the UB40 — Urban Ballistics. It was some sort of in-joke apparently.”

  She didn’t look like she’d be laughing for a long while. He snorted contemptuously; they must have pissed themselves, down at research central. UB40, like the old unemployment benefits form, because all other firearms would be out of a job.

  “Its working title is the Scavenger, but the branding hasn’t been decided yet.” She paused then added as an afterthought, “and my contract is ending soon.”

  Alarm bells rang in his head at the words brand and contract. Clearly, not your everyday MoD personnel.

  “Who do you work for, exactly?” This was starting to feel like an interrogation.

  “Engamel Solutions, of course.”

  Never heard of them. He played to his strengths and said nothing. Glancing in the rear mirror, he noticed Miranda was sat very still. Hopefully she wouldn’t feel inclined to ring her family and update them. She looked moody, probably pissed off because he and Jess were talking shop now. And it might not help that Jess wasn’t exactly hard on the eye.

  “So,” Miranda leaned towards the gap between the front seats; “How did you get off the base?”

  He smiled. Clever girl; cleverer than him, evidently.

  Jess went a funny shade of pale. “I can’t say.”

  Miranda was having none of it. “Can’t say or won’t say?” There was an edge to the voice. Even Thomas shifted a little in his seat.