Line of Sight Page 5

  “Pull over — I want to get out.” Miss Tiny Tears became Miss Belligerent.

  Miranda, he knew, did not like to be challenged, and especially not by a woman. He glanced in the mirror and Miranda was staring right at him, nodding.

  He slowed down.

  “You’re free to leave us at any time,” Miranda huffed. “But whoever got you out clearly didn’t give a shit about you . . .”

  Nice. Always try the softly-softly approach first.

  She qualified her statement, “You’ve no belongings and they dropped you off in Uxbridge, alone. You don’t have any close family nearby . . .”

  How the bloody hell did she come up with that?

  “Because if you had, you wouldn’t have rung us . . .”

  He grinned, tilting his head away so that no one else could see. The woman was a genius.

  “. . . So let’s stop pissing around, shall we? We’re here to help you, but you’ve got to trust us.”

  Jess released her grip on the door handle. “Okay,” she whispered. “I was told to ring your number and not to speak to anyone else. Am I in a lot of trouble?”

  That’s what he’d been wondering. Had she been freed for her own good or for someone else’s? Either way, it was time to intervene.

  “At this point we’re only interested in uncovering the truth.” He tried to convey a sense of authority and understanding.

  No one spoke again until the signs for Edmonton.

  “Where is she stopping tonight, Thomas — Walthamstow or Bow?”

  Good question. “My place — Walthamstow.” The next sentence leapt past his brain and out his mouth. “Jess, you can have my bed; I’ll kip on the sofa.”

  Miranda smacked her lips. “Sounds like three’s a crowd.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he retreated, catching a glimmer of a smile to his left.

  But Miranda rang ahead and secured a pick-up from her brother, Terry, telling him to bring the rogue mobile with him. Her tone was measured, in control, and Thomas could feel the shutters coming down.

  Chapter 8

  “So have a good evening, then.” Miranda swept out of the flat, slamming the door behind her.

  Thomas tried desperately to change the subject. “You must be hungry, Jess — do you want a takeaway or shall I see what’s in the freezer?”

  Jess sat hunched on the sofa, hands on knees. She lifted her head a little and managed to shrug her shoulders.

  Time to work that old Bladen magic. “Here,” he tossed the remote control over to her and then turned on the TV. “You have a play and I’ll see what’s available on the food front.” A thought popped into his head. “If you want to ring anyone . . .”

  Her eyes flashed awake from their stupor.

  “. . . I’ll get you a throwaway mobile — I’ve got one put by. Don’t use the landline while you’re here.” Which begged the question: just how long was he planning to keep her here?

  In the end, he settled for a takeaway curry, phoned in the order and took a walk. Doubtless, she’d use the throwaway mobile the second he was out the door and he was fine with that. Maybe she’d arrange her own safe house somewhere else. Given Miranda’s parting glance, that might be safer for everyone.

  The Indian takeaway was empty, if you didn’t count the fish tank and the badly tuned television on a bracket, leaning precariously out of the wall. An adolescent pushed through the beaded curtain and nodded with a flick of his head.

  “Alright, boss?”

  Inwardly, Thomas cringed. The day that he became anyone’s boss, his dad would disown him and then he’d disown himself. He reminded the lad of his order and sat down on the torn vinyl chair, flinching as his hand touched the chewing gum that some thoughtless bastard had left there.

  He rifled through a small pile of newspapers and picked up a daily, raising it in front of him, so he didn’t have to watch the youth gazing up at the TV and tutting. There was nothing about the accident in the paper.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later he was on his way, wondering what the benefit was of ringing ahead. As he got to his front door and fished for his keys, he made contact with Karl’s rogue mobile phone in his pocket. Questions floated up before him. Assuming Karl didn’t know Jess — she hadn’t actually asked for him by name — who would he have given the number to? And when? He stood on the doorstep, keys in hand, mulling it over. The only person they’d really spoken with was Major Eldridge. A light glimmered at the back of his brain. The only time he’d been away from Karl was at the motorway services, on the way home. Something definitely smelt funny and it wasn’t the Peshwari naan. Time to go indoors.

  “It’s me, Thomas,” he called out from the hallway.

  The only noise was the TV. What if . . . he grabbed the door handle and burst in, the takeaway bag swinging wildly in one hand. Jess jumped about five feet in the air — just as well she had the sofa to land on. He held up a hand by way of apology and she took the hint, dropping the TV volume.

  Dinner was a muted affair; they were strangers after all. He steered clear of alcohol in case she got the wrong idea. She said that she’d rung her family on the mobile and told them she’d be unavailable for a few days because of work. Assuming that were true, it sounded like she’d been coached, which suggested she’d made another call beforehand.

  “Does anyone know you’re here?”

  Her face was a cross between startled and indignant. He took that as a no. As he was clearing the plates, she stood and stretched, arching towards him.

  “Mind if I take a shower?”

  He blushed, told her it was fine and then remembered that he ought to change the bed linen for her. Might be better to do that later though or she could misread that as well. Jeez, no wonder he never had any female visitors apart from Miranda. He clicked his fingers. Shit, no change of clothes for her either. Well, he could spare a sweatshirt or something; maybe stretch to a pair of boxers.

  He waited until the pipes were running, dug out some spare clothes and left them in a neat pile outside the bathroom. Then he went and hid himself in the front room, closing the door.

  Left to his own devices, he slipped back into what Karl called job mode. First thing he did was check the call register on the new mobile. No one had rung her back and she had indeed made two calls, not one — ten points to the blue team. He grabbed a pen and noted down the numbers. Duplicitous, certainly, but no more so than ringing up to ask for help and then only giving him half the story.

  He heard the pipes shuddering to a halt. She must have been in there for a good fifteen minutes. The door clicked and eased in slowly. Jess had done the thing he secretly loved; she’d pulled his baggy T-shirt down to make it into a dress; well, almost. He didn’t dare wonder whether the boxers he’d left out for her were on active service.

  The DVD he’d picked out was one of Miranda’s — Sex & the City, Series Two. Before, according to her, they all became full of themselves. He repositioned his armchair so that Jess sat to one side of him — less chance of gawping at her legs, which she’d thoughtfully folded under her on the sofa.

  “Have you got anything to drink?”

  Clearly, not a request for tea or coffee. He nodded, crossed the room diagonally, like an inebriated crab, and fetched out two cans of beer and half a bottle of Southern Comfort. As he passed a can to her she leaned towards him and the top of her T-shirt hung forward suggestively.

  “Thank you for everything, Thomas.”

  Her eyes followed him back to the sanctity of the armchair, and she looked a little disappointed. He pressed play on the DVD and let the opening credits roll. It didn’t help his conscience that one of the characters in the show was called Miranda; it was like God was sending him a warning.

  “Are you and Miranda an item, then?”

  He looked up from the screen and blushed. Did anyone really talk like that? An item, like a pair of trousers? Good analogy actually, he congratulated himself with a sip of Southern Comfort. Li
ke trousers — joined at one end and apart at the other.

  “It’s complicated,” he confessed. And back to the screen.

  “Only I noticed one of your photographs,” she gestured outside, towards the bathroom. “She’s wearing the same ring, so I presume you gave it to her?”

  This was getting less fun by the minute. “Ancient history.” He coated his tongue in Southern Comfort to smother any more words at birth.

  Jess laughed out loud and nodded in agreement, in places where he merely smiled. Chick flick material, as Sheryl, Miranda’s bar manager, would say. More laughter now and even a glass raised to the TV. It was like the battle of the sexes, waged with volume control.

  He was gradually losing interest in the antics of the sassy-yet-vulnerable-yet-sexy-yet-needy women on screen. And simultaneously, he was in danger of gaining interest in his houseguest. So he excused himself to go and find pillows and a duvet for the sofa. Jess didn’t seem to mind; she was lost in the show, or maybe in an alcoholic haze. Either was fine if it kept her calm and at arm’s length.

  He stashed the bedclothes outside the bathroom, and went in to brush his teeth and have a final pee. When he emerged, Jess had set the bed up for him on the sofa and commandeered his armchair; legs folded under again, preventing a private view. The latest episode was just winding up.

  “I’m going to bed soon; busy day tomorrow,” he yawned dramatically and skirted the edges of the room to pull a Sherlock Holmes book from the bookshelf.

  “Well, if you’re sure.” She stood up in one fluid movement and leapt the gap like a gazelle. Without another word, she put her arms around him and drew him close, in a hug to write home about. As he put a supportive arm at her back he felt the absence of a bra, and quickly snatched his hand away. Her breath smelt sweet, like nectar.

  She planted an emphatic kiss on his cheek, just beside his lips — willing him to taste it, tender and ambiguous. “See you,” she said, swaying gently on her way to the bathroom.

  It took a moment to collect his wits from his underwear.

  “Er, the yellow toothbrush on the stand is a spare,” he flustered. He waited until she came out before getting under the duvet. It felt strange. A bit like waiting for Miranda to come to bed, only, he reminded himself over and over again, Jess was going to one bed and he was on the sofa for the night. Finally, the toilet flushed and the sink hissed, then the door unlocked.

  “Can I ask you one more thing?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Have you ever been in love with someone who’s married?” Her face was a mermaid’s, far from home. He shook his head. “Take my advice then, it isn’t worth it. They never leave.”

  Unable to follow that, or to fathom it, he mumbled a goodnight and turned to ‘The Adventure of the Illustrious Client.’ It seemed about right, somehow.

  At first there was just a dull sense of recognition, of something being out of place. It took maybe a moment or two to register — the door at the far end was open. He rubbed the bleariness out of his eyes and met her silhouette.

  “I couldn’t sleep. Mind if we talk? Kettle’s already on, if you want one?”

  Make yourself at home, why don’t you. He used her time in the kitchen to put on his jeans and get his act together. When she returned, he was sat up.

  “Should I ask what the time is?”

  “About three — I’m really sorry,” she said earnestly. “If it’s any consolation you weren’t exactly restful yourself — I heard you calling out in your sleep.”

  He couldn’t argue with that and didn’t want to get into it, so he shunted up to the far end of the sofa and she played bookends at the other, cradling her tea like it was holy water.

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about Amy.”

  He was all primed for a ‘Who’s she?’ when Jess added, “and how she died.” She was overwrought and tired, so it seemed only natural to move across and put a comforting arm around her. In contrast to before, her lips were tentative, innocent almost, as they found their way to his. She smelt clean and, for want of a better word, virginal. He gently guided her face away.

  That was when he saw the light glowing from his mobile. He reached over and flipped the cover. Miranda’s text was brief and to the point: Soz about earlier. Maybe I’m in need of something — chocolate! Mx. He shut the mobile and smiled at Jess, a reassuring smile that suggested they probably both felt foolish but no real harm had been done. And now that he had steered away from a whole lot of further complications, he pulled the duvet back over himself, turned away from her and tried to get back to sleep. “I'll see you in the morning.”

  Chapter 9

  Thomas’s mobile alarm kicked in at six thirty. He made a slow lunge to kill it and the events of the previous day came barrelling towards him, a close escape from his own stupidity. Sure, she had looked cute, but so what? He grabbed the cups and started out for the kitchen, almost colliding with her outside the door.

  “What did they say would happen after we picked you up?” He played dumb, but deliberately said they, to see how she responded.

  Jess furrowed her brow. “He told me . . .”

  Well, that narrowed it to half the population.

  “. . . That I had to stay hidden for a while because of the inquiry. And that the base records would show I wasn’t there that day.”

  He carried on walking and, to his surprise, she followed him.

  “Let me guess,” he was freewheeling now, but he had experience to draw upon; “an untraceable payment appears in your bank account in a few days’ time and you take a long holiday somewhere warm until this all blows over?”

  Her mouth opened but nothing came out. He took it as a subliminal hunger message and put together a breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs.

  “You wouldn’t have been taking advantage of me, you know, last night.”

  He piled the toast high and avoided eye contact. She hadn’t finished.

  “No one would have known.”

  He took a huge bite and rolled it around his mouth. It needed more brown sauce. “I’d have known.”

  Over breakfast, he ran through a comprehensive set of dos and don’ts — mostly common sense. Jess, in turn, gave him a shopping list. For a second or two he considered enlisting Miranda’s help, and then thought better of it.

  It was all getting a bit domestic for him, so he got ready for work, reminding her not to open the door or go near the curtains.

  “I’ll ring you on your mobile. Stay safe.” Not very gracious perhaps, but he’d taken the precaution of locking his bedroom and the dark room. Just in case she got through the rest of Sex & the City and needed further entertainment.

  His watch read seven thirty as he opened the front door. A chill autumn breeze sharpened his senses. Across the street, an elderly woman was pooper-scooping the strenuous efforts of a West Highland Terrier; and the poor beast was still in mid strain.

  “It’s alright, dear — I’m cleaning it up.”

  Unclaimed dog shit was the least of his problems — where the fuck was the Land Rover? Karl was his first port of call; he sounded chipper, right up until Thomas dropped his bombshell.

  “I’ll come straight over.”

  “No,” Thomas’s breath caught in his throat. “I’ll handle it — I just wanted to let you know first.”

  “Well,” Karl stretched the word out, “you’d better call it in to Services and let the boss know.”

  “Will do — I’ll see you in the office later.”

  He vaulted the steps to his door and fumbled for his keys. His heart was thumping. Why take the Land Rover? Was someone expecting to collect the canister? And what would they do when they found it wasn’t there?”

  “It’s alright, it’s Thomas — I’m alone,” he yelled along the hallway.

  Jess opened the living room door. “What’s going on?”

  Now was not the time to play twenty questions.

  “The Land Rover’s been taken. Don’t make a sound.” He
pulled out his mobile again. “Christine, it’s Thomas. I have a problem — the Land Rover’s gone.”

  She checked some details, but didn’t pass any other comment.

  “Yeah, just about to call in Services — I’ll fill out a statement when I come in. No, once I got home.”

  He ended the call on the edge of politeness; the sweat was already gathering at his neck. Jess smiled from the sofa, as if to suggest she wasn’t really a whole heap of trouble.

  “Jess, if you even feel under threat today, call the police.”

  She looked frightened. Tough — welcome to the world of consequences.

  He double-locked the door from the outside and hotfooted it to Walthamstow Central tube station. If anyone planned on following him they’d have to be bloody quick today. Even so, he changed trains twice and surfaced one stop early to walk the rest of the way to the office.

  * * *

  Karl greeted him just inside the door, vending-machine coffee in hand.

  “I listened out for your footsteps on the stairs, great heffalump that you are. We, er, need to have a little chat.”

  Thomas tried to avoid a pained expression and pushed past him. The main office was empty, not a soul around and even Karl’s laptop was off. Christine Gerrard’s office light was aglow and the door was closed. From where he was standing, it looked like she had guests.

  “We’re in here . . .” Karl led the way.

  We?

  “. . . And by the way, Tommo, you look like shit.”

  Christine got up as Karl opened the door. Ann Crossley, another member of the team, edged her chair round so they could all squeeze in. Karl grabbed a spot at the opposite side of the table — all very cosy.

  “What’s going on?” Thomas looked at them each in turn: Karl, who’d become his closest ally in the Surveillance Support Unit, protecting him to the point of risking his own life; Ann Crossley, who had once warned him when he hadn’t even known he was in danger; and Christine Gerrard, who had put aside their own tangled past and helped preserve the integrity of the SSU when things had turned ugly, out on the moors. None of which explained this little summit.