Free CAUSE & EFFECT by DEREK THOMPSON Page A

dirt and returned to his car.
    “So what is it?” Thomas waited until Karl had set the case on the ground.
    “The weapon?” Karl flexed his gloved hands. “A Winchester .300.” He fitted the weapon together, screwed the silencer on and then strode away to his mark.
    Thomas cleared off to grab a brew with Terry.
    “Thanks again, Tel.”
    He shrugged. “You’d do the same for one of us.”
    True enough. Like the time he warned them off Harwich Port when he was working with Customs & Excise.
    Karl took three shots and then came over to join them, holding the spent casings aloft in a bag. “If I’d been more organised I would have brought along ballistic gelatine to go with the biscuits.”
    Thomas delivered his most unimpressed face. Karl in the know was just about bearable, but Karl showing off was a step too far — not that Terry showed any interest. Tea break over, the three of them returned to the target. The three bullets had punched holes right through the wood and both doors, into the final block, where Karl carefully prised them out.
    “You can imagine the mess they’d make. Right-oh, Tommo, We’ve got what we came for. I’ll be in touch.”
    * * *
    Thomas fortified himself with a bacon roll and a chocolate muffin, and trudged through the benefit claimants’ list alone. By the time he reached the stalking ground he’d already missed the first few.
    He ran his tongue over his lip and tasted fat residue and salt. Was it coincidence that Ken had found Karl in the pub? Karl hadn’t seemed thrilled to see his old oppo. And why choose Ken at all? He started picking away at the chocolate chips, weary of his own thoughts. At this rate he’d be asleep before the afternoon shift.
    Radio 3 offered up Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite , which conjured up memories of Christine Gerrard and her spacious car seats. That wasn’t helping either. He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch again: eleven fifty-two. Karl would be on his way now.
    A builder’s van drove past and Thomas started the car. Nick Barrowby should be on board, suspected of working cash-in-hand. And, by suspected, the docket recorded that information had been received . A tip-off, maybe by a disgruntled recipient of sub-standard tarmac.
    The van logo matched the sheet. All he had to do was follow at a discreet distance and catch him in the act. The van stopped opposite a building site of a garden and four men got out. The youngest, sporting baggy jeans and a fake branded sweatshirt, matched the photo on the sheet.
    Thomas knew to wait it out. Arriving wasn’t evidence of illegal working, any more than being with Miranda constituted a stable relationship. He bedded in and let the camera do its work.
    Barrowby pushing a wheelbarrow. Then fetching out tools. At this stage he could still be helping out a mate and walk away. Thomas almost willed him to be that man. But the observer in him knew that the job was the job. He simply collected the data and some other schmuck made the decisions.
    After the first batch of photos, Thomas’s mobile rang. Pisser. He placed the camera down in the passenger foot well with infinite care and then picked up the call.
    “Thomas? It’s Ajit — where have you been? I’ve left messages . . .”
    “Aye, sorry Aj. I’ve been working extra hours.” He winced; that sounded lame.
    “So, are you coming up or what?”
    There was desperation in the voice. He could picture Ajit’s family crowding around him, suffocating him with kindness and tradition. They were good people, but God help Ajit as the son bringing a potential heir into the world. Particularly if Ajit’s dad had anything to do with it. Bloody hell, Ajit taking up with an anagareja mahila — English girl — was enough of an adjustment for them.
    “I’ll be there, Aj. Can Geena hold the baby in until the weekend?”
    “You do remember that Friday is the due date?”
    He didn’t, and he felt bad about it. “I’ll check with Miranda.” He gave Ajit a cast iron