toe-rag like Kevin afford a car like that? Probably wasn’t even insured, never mind the bloody tax.
Tax — of course! He shrugged away the curtain and let it fall back into place. Thank you, Kevin. The wall-clock showed it was nearly two. He didn’t bother putting the light on; hopefully this wouldn’t take long.
He fired up his personal laptop — where he kept copies of all his photographs. Stuff for work, recent shots that had never made it into his official reports, even a set of wedding photos for Miranda’s cousin. All filed, in an orderly system. It only took a minute or so to navigate the folders and subfolders — red car, four pictures. Two of those were partials of the front, at an angle. He magnified the appropriate sections, and positioned them side by side onscreen. Together, they formed a Rosetta stone, a complete registration that differed from the number plate.
He basked in the blue-green glow of the laptop, staring at the pictures; he was getting good at this. Unlocking a drawer, he lifted out a surfboard key-ring — a Bermuda present from Miranda. He pulled the thing apart, inserted the memory stick device and uploaded the crucial files. Now he’d sleep like a charm — mystery solved.
As he crawled back to bed, checking that the alarm was still set for seven, he wondered if Kevin was back in Sharon’s good books now. He hoped so; as far as Thomas was concerned, he’d earned it.
* * *
By seven forty-five, he was out of the flat and walking up Hoe Street — that still made Karl laugh — for Walthamstow Central Underground. The walkway was littered with rubbish bags, discarded cardboard and old newspapers. He fell in step with the rest of the ants, swerved around the offer of a free newspaper and disappeared into the maze of platforms and walkways, unaware that someone else had fallen into step with him.
He surfaced at Kings Cross and headed straight to the ticket office at St Pancras. In the queue, he picked up a text from Miranda: Have a good trip. Mx.
And although he’d memorised Monday’s reporting instructions, he still pressed his hand lightly against his jacket. He could feel Karl’s magic envelope there too. The train was called early so he made the most of it, grabbing a copy of Private Eye on the way — just to see what Karl found so amusing.
Once Thomas had passed safely through the barrier, the person trailing him made a call. Sir Peter Carroll liked to be kept informed.
Chapter 12
Thomas left the train at Leeds, for a one-man nostalgia tour. It was a routine that he’d never deviated from over the years. Starting off with the Indian restaurant on Merrion Street where he’d taken Miranda for their first meal together. The place was closed; he pressed his face against the tinted glass. The décor had changed again. It was classier now; looked like there was a bigger fish tank too. He preferred it before.
Next stop Hyde Terrace, the bed-sit — sneaking in with Miranda after hours because the landlady on the premises ran a respectable property. Except when her gentleman friend came over on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Good old Christian hypocrisy — a little piece of home. He wondered if she still owned the place and if she’d recognise him as one of the teenage lovers she’d threatened to call the police on; probably not. He settled for a slow walk past.
He had a love-hate relationship with Leeds. It marked the transition between Pickering and London. Leeds was where life had begun to take shape. Being away from home, that first job with photography, meeting Miranda; the good things. But Leeds had also felt soulless; and all that grief with Miranda and Butch Steddings was like a bitter echo of school life. Yep, nothing like revisiting teenage angst for working up an appetite. He’d never tell him, but cafés without Karl just weren’t the same, so a pub lunch was the order of the day. Caliban’s aside, he wasn’t a huge fan of pubs. But the Angel Inn scraped
Tax — of course! He shrugged away the curtain and let it fall back into place. Thank you, Kevin. The wall-clock showed it was nearly two. He didn’t bother putting the light on; hopefully this wouldn’t take long.
He fired up his personal laptop — where he kept copies of all his photographs. Stuff for work, recent shots that had never made it into his official reports, even a set of wedding photos for Miranda’s cousin. All filed, in an orderly system. It only took a minute or so to navigate the folders and subfolders — red car, four pictures. Two of those were partials of the front, at an angle. He magnified the appropriate sections, and positioned them side by side onscreen. Together, they formed a Rosetta stone, a complete registration that differed from the number plate.
He basked in the blue-green glow of the laptop, staring at the pictures; he was getting good at this. Unlocking a drawer, he lifted out a surfboard key-ring — a Bermuda present from Miranda. He pulled the thing apart, inserted the memory stick device and uploaded the crucial files. Now he’d sleep like a charm — mystery solved.
As he crawled back to bed, checking that the alarm was still set for seven, he wondered if Kevin was back in Sharon’s good books now. He hoped so; as far as Thomas was concerned, he’d earned it.
* * *
By seven forty-five, he was out of the flat and walking up Hoe Street — that still made Karl laugh — for Walthamstow Central Underground. The walkway was littered with rubbish bags, discarded cardboard and old newspapers. He fell in step with the rest of the ants, swerved around the offer of a free newspaper and disappeared into the maze of platforms and walkways, unaware that someone else had fallen into step with him.
He surfaced at Kings Cross and headed straight to the ticket office at St Pancras. In the queue, he picked up a text from Miranda: Have a good trip. Mx.
And although he’d memorised Monday’s reporting instructions, he still pressed his hand lightly against his jacket. He could feel Karl’s magic envelope there too. The train was called early so he made the most of it, grabbing a copy of Private Eye on the way — just to see what Karl found so amusing.
Once Thomas had passed safely through the barrier, the person trailing him made a call. Sir Peter Carroll liked to be kept informed.
Chapter 12
Thomas left the train at Leeds, for a one-man nostalgia tour. It was a routine that he’d never deviated from over the years. Starting off with the Indian restaurant on Merrion Street where he’d taken Miranda for their first meal together. The place was closed; he pressed his face against the tinted glass. The décor had changed again. It was classier now; looked like there was a bigger fish tank too. He preferred it before.
Next stop Hyde Terrace, the bed-sit — sneaking in with Miranda after hours because the landlady on the premises ran a respectable property. Except when her gentleman friend came over on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Good old Christian hypocrisy — a little piece of home. He wondered if she still owned the place and if she’d recognise him as one of the teenage lovers she’d threatened to call the police on; probably not. He settled for a slow walk past.
He had a love-hate relationship with Leeds. It marked the transition between Pickering and London. Leeds was where life had begun to take shape. Being away from home, that first job with photography, meeting Miranda; the good things. But Leeds had also felt soulless; and all that grief with Miranda and Butch Steddings was like a bitter echo of school life. Yep, nothing like revisiting teenage angst for working up an appetite. He’d never tell him, but cafés without Karl just weren’t the same, so a pub lunch was the order of the day. Caliban’s aside, he wasn’t a huge fan of pubs. But the Angel Inn scraped
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