Free CAUSE & EFFECT by DEREK THOMPSON Page B

guarantee, which bumped Miranda up the list.
    “Is that a tall, dark stranger?”
    “Hi, Miranda,” he flustered. “Have you got a minute?”
    “A minute? For you, I can spare five — when can you get here?” Cue background laughter, which told him that Sheryl was within earshot of at least half the call.
    “Ajit wants us up at the weekend.” There was no laughter now. “You are still coming?”
    “I said I would, didn’t I?”
    “Great, gotta go. I’ll call you with train times. Ta-ra babe.” When it came to ending their calls he often felt like a dick. They didn’t do love , but ‘laters’ hardly seemed to cover it.
    He lifted the camera again and leaned through the gap in the seats. The van was still parked, but no one was around. Nick Barrowby could have gone home. He could call it quits. Maybe a five-minute rest of the eyes would help decide . . .
    “Oi!”
    He stared up as an old codger hammered out a rhythm on the driver’s window. He took the hint and lowered it.
    “You’ve been here nearly half an hour, asleep outside my house. This is a residential area you know.”
    He blinked slowly. “Sorry mate — must have dozed off for a bit.”
    “Right, well, can’t be too careful. I’ve made a note of your car. We don’t want the neighbourhood getting a reputation.”
    He reached for his SSU ID and kept a strategic thumb over his name.
    The resident’s demeanour changed. “Oh, I see. You’re on a stakeout, are you?” He looked up and down the street. “Is it the woman along there with the kids?” He flicked his head to the left. “Different fathers, and neither of them takes an interest from what I hear.”
    Like Karl said: never let a good opportunity go by. “Listen . . .” He leaned towards the open window. “Any chance I could pop in for a few minutes?”
    It was disturbingly easy to gain access to an upstairs room. In five minutes of photography Nick Barrowby was well and truly shafted. He ticked him off the list, using Karl’s patented ‘G for Guilty’ shorthand. Once the job was complete, he thanked his host, sidestepped a cuppa because he’d seen the sterilised milk downstairs, took a leak and then went on his way. Last thing he did was remind the bloke to keep schtum and stay vigilant, and not to let any strangers into his house again. A time check showed it was nearly one p.m. With any luck, Karl would rendezvous with him at the next location.
    * * *
    Karl’s car was just pulling in as Thomas arrived, so he joined him. Mr Paul Tomlinson wasn’t hard to track; he could have been followed at a light stroll. They watched as a man, old before his years, lurched unsteadily on two sticks. Karl’s head bounced side to side, scrutinising every step.
    “He’s consistent; I’ll give you that. There’s a definite rhythm to his movements.”
    Thomas twisted in his seat. “Doesn’t this bother you? When you think of all the assignments we’ve had . . .”
    Karl considered the point for about four seconds. “Nah. They send us and we turn up to do the job. End of story.”
    Mr Tomlinson shuffled along the street and shouldered his way through a pub door.
    “You know what I’d do?” Karl carefully replaced his lens cap.
    Thomas smiled; he knew all too well because they’d both read Conan Doyle. “A Study in Scarlet — smoke bomb through the window.”
    “Right. Then see how quickly he moves.”
    “So, what, he can’t be really disabled because he likes a drink?”
    Karl stiffened. “Fancy a pint? I’m buying.” And before Thomas could answer he was halfway out the car.
    They locked their cameras in the boot, for all the good that might do, and cut across the council’s idea of a play area. Municipal irony came in concrete. He followed Karl in silence, grabbing the pub’s swing door as Karl let it go behind him. Mr Tomlinson stood out like a sore thumb, standing behind a chair with his two sticks leant against it.
    “Any news?” Thomas set the drinks down on the