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Authors: Derek Thompson
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accelerated development programme and Peterson agreed to look into it. Thomas managed not to mention that Christine herself had done something similar. So far, so good.
Karl wondered aloud what had made Peterson come to their branch of the SSU. Peterson laughed it off without committing himself. Thomas had been listening through a haze of indifference, but now he saw an opening. “So Bob,” he adopted a matey tone, “how was the move up from Southampton?”
“A nightmare — still a work in progress!” Peterson grinned. “Most of our things are still in storage — I was working in Southampton right up to Saturday night. We’re still waiting to exchange on the house so I guess I’ll be commuting, unless one of you has a spare floor?”
Laughter all round. Thomas laughed too, at Peterson’s audacity — the lying bastard. Gotcha! Christine’s face was a study in marble. Then an alarm bell went off in his head. What if she and Peterson were engaged in their own little re-enactment society?
Later, Thomas sat at his desk, deep in thought. He had what he wanted — Peterson’s denial, even though the photo proved he’d been at Harwich — but he didn’t know what to do with it. ‘Bang to rights’ as Sam or Terry would put it. He smiled at himself. How ingrained the London-isms had become after years of living there. Even his accent was more East End than Yorkshire, these days. On those rare occasions when he contacted his own family, the first thing they usually said was that he gone ‘all southern.’
Karl had stayed on for a few minutes — probably a prelude to his assessment. Thomas watched as he walked out of Christine’s office, holding up the Simpson’s pad as a face. Karl, his only ally — someone he still didn’t know if he could trust.
“How did it go, then?”
Karl took a deep breath. “Fantastic, Tommo. They’re thinking of putting me up for the George Cross.”
“You’re a funny man, Karl McNeill.”
“That’s just what Bob Peterson said — now are you sure you weren’t listening at the door?”
Thomas held up a hand, Honest Injun style. His mobile bleeped; a text from Miranda: Thanks for a lovely weekend. M. x. He blushed and switched off the phone, remembering to pick up a sweeping kit from Stores, for Caliban’s and the family home.
Chapter 9
Karl drove out to the docks with Thomas riding shotgun. He didn’t say much to Karl; he was too busy thinking.
Peterson didn’t need to lie; he could have mentioned being at Harwich, now that he’d met the team. He could have explained it as an informal assessment before taking charge. But no; something smelt fishy and Peterson was a week-old prawn.
By the time they arrived at their hidey-hole, overlooking the action, Monday weather had really kicked in — a drab, half-hearted downpour that set the mood. They sat, munching on sandwiches and peering through binoculars like schoolboy birdwatchers. Matter of fact, Thomas could identify the different gulls — Herring, Common and both types of Black Headed Gulls; not that he thought Karl would be interested.
Karl soon declared he was bored of scoping for women and went back to Private Eye . Thomas took to staring out at the sky, or what was left of it, as rain sprayed the windows in rhythmic bursts. It was, to quote Karl: “Shiter than a field of slurry.” Clearly, the man had the soul of a great poet.
After a further hour of struggling together with the cryptic crossword and generally wasting taxpayers’ money, the walkie-talkie spluttered into life. “Control to all units; we’re calling it a day. Come down and get some close-ups.”
* * *
The Customs teams went about their work, with little regard for the Floaters — a moniker the SSU had never managed to shake. The filming was supposed to be impromptu sequences, but as every good photographer knew, off-the-cuff material needed a lot of preparation. A dry lens, no reflections or glare, no inadvertent staring into the
Karl wondered aloud what had made Peterson come to their branch of the SSU. Peterson laughed it off without committing himself. Thomas had been listening through a haze of indifference, but now he saw an opening. “So Bob,” he adopted a matey tone, “how was the move up from Southampton?”
“A nightmare — still a work in progress!” Peterson grinned. “Most of our things are still in storage — I was working in Southampton right up to Saturday night. We’re still waiting to exchange on the house so I guess I’ll be commuting, unless one of you has a spare floor?”
Laughter all round. Thomas laughed too, at Peterson’s audacity — the lying bastard. Gotcha! Christine’s face was a study in marble. Then an alarm bell went off in his head. What if she and Peterson were engaged in their own little re-enactment society?
Later, Thomas sat at his desk, deep in thought. He had what he wanted — Peterson’s denial, even though the photo proved he’d been at Harwich — but he didn’t know what to do with it. ‘Bang to rights’ as Sam or Terry would put it. He smiled at himself. How ingrained the London-isms had become after years of living there. Even his accent was more East End than Yorkshire, these days. On those rare occasions when he contacted his own family, the first thing they usually said was that he gone ‘all southern.’
Karl had stayed on for a few minutes — probably a prelude to his assessment. Thomas watched as he walked out of Christine’s office, holding up the Simpson’s pad as a face. Karl, his only ally — someone he still didn’t know if he could trust.
“How did it go, then?”
Karl took a deep breath. “Fantastic, Tommo. They’re thinking of putting me up for the George Cross.”
“You’re a funny man, Karl McNeill.”
“That’s just what Bob Peterson said — now are you sure you weren’t listening at the door?”
Thomas held up a hand, Honest Injun style. His mobile bleeped; a text from Miranda: Thanks for a lovely weekend. M. x. He blushed and switched off the phone, remembering to pick up a sweeping kit from Stores, for Caliban’s and the family home.
Chapter 9
Karl drove out to the docks with Thomas riding shotgun. He didn’t say much to Karl; he was too busy thinking.
Peterson didn’t need to lie; he could have mentioned being at Harwich, now that he’d met the team. He could have explained it as an informal assessment before taking charge. But no; something smelt fishy and Peterson was a week-old prawn.
By the time they arrived at their hidey-hole, overlooking the action, Monday weather had really kicked in — a drab, half-hearted downpour that set the mood. They sat, munching on sandwiches and peering through binoculars like schoolboy birdwatchers. Matter of fact, Thomas could identify the different gulls — Herring, Common and both types of Black Headed Gulls; not that he thought Karl would be interested.
Karl soon declared he was bored of scoping for women and went back to Private Eye . Thomas took to staring out at the sky, or what was left of it, as rain sprayed the windows in rhythmic bursts. It was, to quote Karl: “Shiter than a field of slurry.” Clearly, the man had the soul of a great poet.
After a further hour of struggling together with the cryptic crossword and generally wasting taxpayers’ money, the walkie-talkie spluttered into life. “Control to all units; we’re calling it a day. Come down and get some close-ups.”
* * *
The Customs teams went about their work, with little regard for the Floaters — a moniker the SSU had never managed to shake. The filming was supposed to be impromptu sequences, but as every good photographer knew, off-the-cuff material needed a lot of preparation. A dry lens, no reflections or glare, no inadvertent staring into the
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