Free STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense by Derek Thompson

Christine, which was no great hardship, and leaned back a little to keep Peterson in his peripheral vision. No doubt about it though, she was looking really good today.
    “One thing I would like to ask you,” Peterson slapped the photograph down. Thomas jolted awake. “What’s your opinion of Karl McNeill?”
    “He’s very good at what he does; seems to read people well,” Thomas played it safe and stayed vague.
    “But what about personally? I gather you two socialise from time to time.”
    Thomas concocted a cross between a laugh and a cough, each as fake as the other. “Well, we have the odd drink, now and again — I met him last weekend, as it happens. I get the impression there’s more to Karl than meets the eye. But I s’pose we all have our little secrets.”
    Christine became a study in scarlet and Peterson dropped his pen, which rolled off the desk; they both froze. Bingo, right on the money.
    Thomas decided to push his luck. “If you don’t mind, I need to be away soon; I have a date I cannot break.” Yeah, looking for bugging devices in Dagenham, followed by a takeaway curry for six.
    “Oh.” Christine looked surprised. Not disappointed, he noted; just surprised.
    “That’s fine.” Peterson extended a wet-fish handshake. “Thanks for your time and your candour. Let Christine know about the training.”
    * * *
    Miranda always said that men couldn’t multitask, but Thomas found that London traffic always afforded him time to think. So a burst water main at Burdett Road was practically a gift. By the time he’d ploughed through to take a left at Bow Common Lane, he’d found one thought that he just couldn’t shake. And it wasn’t a good one.
    Peterson would have scheduled an arrival time at Harwich that day and known precisely where he’d parked; probably the vehicles around him too. He was a pro after all. Then Thomas had given him — bloody given him, mind — a mosaic showing the whole panorama without Peterson’s four-by-four in it. As good as saying: ‘I know you were there and I’m keeping it to myself at the moment.’ Stupid, really stupid.
    And now, suddenly, he was trainee executive material when earlier in the day he’d been facing the heave-ho from the team. Peterson had him snookered; not accepting the training meant showing his hand and accepting would put him at arm’s length.
    Desperate times and all that; he swung the car into the first available space and fetched out his mobile. “Hey, Karl. Listen, any chance of a chat at the club, some time soon? Wednesday? Nice one; see you tomorrow.”
    The Wrights left him to go about his work. All except Sam, who followed him around like a lost sheep: nothing new there. When Thomas had first brought Miranda back to London, Sam had only been about thirteen. Talk about hero worship. Thomas had rescued Miranda from the clutches of doom. Or more precisely, from the paws of Butch Steddings — modelling agent and all-round scumbag. Even now, Thomas and Miranda still used the word Butch as code for something dodgy.
    By 21.30 Thomas had his feet up and John Wright was handing him a beer. All clear, no trace of Karl’s handiwork on the premises. And sadly, no sign of Miranda either. If she were playing hard to get she’d put in a cup-winning performance tonight. No reason to expect her at Caliban’s on Tuesday night either, for his next debugging booking. The only bit of good news that night was that no one had mentioned the business potential of Thomas’s new career.
    By the time he got back to the flat in Walthamstow, it was close to midnight. The answering machine light was flashing insistently. He put the electronics case down in the hall, set the two door locks and hit the magic button.
    “Hello Thomas, it’s your mother. Just ringing to see how you are and when we can expect a visit. Your sister and the kids send their love and so do me and your dad.” No names just titles — nice.
    The next message was Miranda. “Hi,