When a group of armed police in an

elite unit turn maverick and start to rip

off drug dealers at gunpoint, undercover

cop Dan 'Spider' Shepherd is given his

most dangerous mission so far.

Shepherd is ordered to infiltrate the

tight-knit team, to gain their confidence

and to ultimately betray them.

Facing men with guns is nothing new

for the former SAS trooper, but it's

the first time he's had to investigate

his own. And the job couldn't have

come at a worse time for him.

As Shepherd finds

himself in the firing line, he has to decide

exactly where his

loyalties lie.

Also by Stephen Leather

Pay Off

The Fireman

Hungry Ghost

The Chinaman

The Vets

The Long Shot

The Birthday Girl

The Double Tap

The Solitary Man

The Tunnel Rats

The Bombmaker

The Stretch

Tango One

The Eyewitness

Hard Landing

You can find out more about the novels and work of

Stephen Leather through his website,

www.stephenleather.com.

STEPHEN LEATHER

Soft Target

H

HODDER pounds

STOUGHTON

I am indebted to Terry O'Connor for his help and advice on

the workings of the Metropolitan Police's SO 19 Firearms

Unit. Mick Joyce, Peter Mardle and Alistair dimming of the

British Transport Police were generous with their time and

expertise while explaining how the London Underground

would deal with a terrorist incident. Any errors of fact are

mine and not theirs.

Denis O'Donoghue, Barbara Schmeling and Matt Richards

helped me get the manuscript into shape, and I was fortunate

once again to have the benefits of Hazel Orme's editing

skills.

Producing a novel can be a long, arduous process, and having

an editor of the calibre of Carolyn Mays makes the journey

a more pleasant one. I'll always be grateful for her input and

support.

The heroin had come a long way. It had started its journey

as opium in Afghanistan, carried on the backs of donkeys to

Jalalabad where it sold for a hundred US dollars a kilo. Sealed

in polythene and wrapped in burlap sacking, it was carried

over the border into Pakistan, under the eye of former Taliban

fighters, and from there to Uzbekistan, where Chinese technicians

converted it into heroin.

Bribes were paid to Customs officers, and it was

dispatched by rail in a consignment of flour to Poland.

There, it was transferred to hidden compartments in a

containerload of tinned plums and driven to Germany.

Customs officials in the European Union were harder to

bribe than those in the former Soviet Union, but the truck

crossed without hindrance. A German truck driver took the

container to France, where a Turk drove it on to a crossChannel

ferry. He had a British passport and was a regular

on the ferry. Customs at Dover didn't give him a second

glance.

Three hours later the heroin was being driven on the M2

towards London and had increased in wholesale value to

30,000 pounds a kilo.There were two hundred kilos in the container,

six million pounds' worth. Once it had been cut, the street

value would be around fifteen million.

Twice when the truck drove under footbridges across the

motorway it was monitored by spotters, men with mobile

phones who checked that it wasn't being followed. Both were

satisfied that it was not and phoned ahead to say that everything

was as it should be.

As the Turk drove into Central London he was shadowed

by two high-powered motorcycles. Once they were certain

that the truck still wasn't being followed he was told where

to make his delivery. He went to a warehouse in North London

where the plums were unloaded, to be sold on to a legitimate

supermarket chain. Four Turkish Cypriots unbolted a

metal plate that ran the width of the rear of the container.

Behind the plate, steel trays were packed with the white

plastic parcels of brown powder, each the size of a small loaf

of bread. They checked the purity and weight of the heroin,

and sent the driver on his way.

The consignment was divided into four. The Turks took

the lion's share and, for a week or so, the street price of

heroin fell by ten per cent in North London. Forty kilos were

sold to a group of former IRA activists who took it on the

ferry to Belfast where they were arrested by the Northern

Irish police. Another thirty kilos ended up on the streets of

Liverpool. The dealers usually used milk powder to bulk out

the drug but the heroin arrived on a Sunday and their local

shop was shut. They substituted quinine but the dealer who

did the mixing used too much and twenty-seven heroin

addicts ended up in hospital. Three died.

The Turks sold ten kilos to a Yardie gang in Harlesden.

They didn't like doing business with the Jamaicans, but the

Yardies were keen to buy for cash. Customs had seized one

of their deliveries in the suitcases of a mother of three at

Heathrow Airport. Twelve kilos. She had been unlucky: she

didn't fit the profile of a mule but an officer had seen her

fumbling nervously for her mobile phone as she pushed her

trolley through the green channel. The heroin hadn't even

been well hidden - the false compartments in the bottom of

her oversized suitcases were discovered within minutes. The

woman had broken down in tears and told the officer that

a gang in Kingston had threatened to castrate her two sons

if she didn't do as they wanted, and had promised her a

thousand dollars if she did. The investigators told her she'd

get a lighter sentence if she gave evidence against the gang,

but she cried all the harder.

The handover between the Turks and the Yardies took

place on a petrol-station forecourt in Wood Lane. A Turkish

godfather owned it, so the CCTV cameras were switched

off and the Turks had three heavies with submachine pistols

hidden in the toilets in case the Yardies tried to take the drugs

for free.

The Yardies, too, were armed but they brought three

hundred thousand pounds with them, mainly in fifty-pound

notes. The Turks counted the bundles of money and examined

three closely. Satisfied, they handed over the drugs. The

Yardies had brought a chemical kit and tested two packages,

then pronounced themselves satisfied. The deal was done.

The Yardies piled into a BMW and drove into the night with

their heroin.

'I hate the Yardies,' said one of the Turks, as he watched

the BMW disappear into the distance. 'You can't trust them.

Give me the Bangladeshis every time.' He lit a small cigar

and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. 'You know where

you are with a Bangladeshi.'

'I hate the Turks,' said Delroy Moran. He was sitting in the

front passenger seat of the 7 Series BMW. Gangly, with

shoulder-length dreadlocks, he'd flown into London six

months earlier to escape a murder investigation in Jamaica.

He was wearing a tight T-shirt, and a gold medallion featuring

a cannabis plant dangled round his neck. The deal he'd just

done was his biggest to date and the adrenaline was still

flooding through his veins. He planned to cut the heroin with

milk powder and sell it in Harlesden at seventy pounds a

gram. Seventy thousand a kilo.

'Yeah, well, they hate us,' said Chas Eaton, the driver. He

didn't have a licence or insurance but he did have three

convictions for dangerous driving, under different names,

and had once run over and killed a thirteen-year-old girl at

a zebra crossing in South London. He had left the scene,

abandoned and torched the car, and hadn't suffered a

moment's guilt. 'But money's money, innit?'

'I'm just saying, given the chance they'd rob us blind.You've

gotta count your fingers every time you shake their hands,

know what I mean?'

The two heavies sat in the back of the BMW. Their knees

were wide apart but still pressed against the front seats.

'Starvin" Marvin Dexter and Lewis 'Jacko' Jackson. Both

were London born and bred of Jamaican parents, and when

they weren't riding shotgun for Delroy Moran they were in

either the gym or the boxing ring.The duffel bags were stuffed

under their legs and they were holding their guns down.

There were enough drugs in the car to ensure that they

would go down for a double-digit prison sentence so they

had no intention of going quietly if they were stopped by

the police.

Eaton brought the BMW to a halt in front of a row of

shops: a hardware store, an 'everything for a pound' shop,

a cut-price supermarket, a minicab company, a betting shop,

an off-licence - everything that was necessary for inner-city

life. There were two storeys of flats above them. The entrance

to Moran's apartment was between the betting shop and the

off-licence, both now closed for the night. Three young

women were huddled in front of the minicab office. Dyed

blondes, short skirts, cheap jewellery. If Moran hadn't been

working he'd have gone over and asked if they wanted to

party. One of the blondes, who couldn't have been more than

sixteen, smiled at him hopefully through the windscreen but

he ignored her. 'It's gonna rain, innit?' he said. 'Put the car

away, yeah?' There was a line of lock-up garages behind the

shops and he rented two. He twisted in his seat and nodded

at Dexter and Jackson. 'Swift, yeah?'

Dexter and Jackson opened the rear doors, heaved themselves

out of the car and shouldered the duffel bags, their

guns inside their jackets.

Moran hurried to the front door, jabbed at an intercom

on the wall to warn the two men inside the apartment that

they were on the way up, and opened the door. A small

CCTV camera was pointing down at the doorway and Moran

flashed it a grin, then stepped aside to let Dexter and Jackson

head up the stairs. The intercom was still buzzing, then went

silent, and the door closed before Moran could follow the

others. He cursed the two men upstairs. Probably spaced out

of their skulls. He stabbed at it again and heard a sleepy

voice: 'Yeah?'

'We're on the way up, everything okay?'

'Yeah.'

Moran glared up the CCTV camera. 'If they've been at

the crack I'm gonna do for them, innit,' said Moran. He

followed Dexter and Jackson inside, then closed the front

door. It had been reinforced with a metal sheet and the doorframe

was lined with strips of metal. It would take the police

minutes with their ram even to dent it. Moran exhaled. He

was home and dry. Three hundred thousand pounds they'd

paid the Turks. Cut and on the street, the heroin was worth

almost three-quarters of a million. Easy money.

Chas Eaton drove the BMW slowly down the road, turned

left, then left again down the alley that ran behind the shops.

The lock-up garages were brick-built with corrugated metal

roofs and most had wooden doors, but Moran's two had

metal shutters, heavy-duty padlocks and alarms. They kept

the BMW in one of the garages and four stolen high-powered

motorcycles in the other.

Eaton stopped and climbed out of the car. From where

he was standing he could see the rear of the apartments

above the shops. Most of the windows that overlooked the

alley were bathrooms and several times Eaton had glimpsed

naked flesh while he parked the car at night. The light in

Moran's bathroom was off but Eaton frowned when he saw

that the window was half open and a ladder was propped

under it against the wall. He cursed. There'd be hell to pay

if the flat had been burgled. If there had been a break-in, it

wouldn't have been a local. Delroy Moran was feared for

miles around.

As Eaton headed for the door he fished the padlock key

from his trouser pocket. He heard a muffled footstep behind

him and started to turn. 'Say goodnight, Sooty,' said a voice,

and something hard crashed into the back of Eaton's head.

He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Moran headed up the stairs, after Dexter and Jackson, to a

second door, also reinforced with metal. Above it was a second

CCTV camera. The door opened and the two men carried

the bags inside. Jackson stopped on the threshold. Moran

pushed him in the small of the back but he seemed reluctant

to move. When Moran peered over his shoulder, he saw

why.

A man wearing a rubber Alien mask with teardrop-shaped

black eyes was standing in the middle of the room, holding

a large automatic in both hands. Dexter was kneeling on the

floor, the duffel bag still on his shoulder. 'Inside!' hissed

Alien.

Moran reached for the Glock tucked into the back of his

trousers but a second masked man appeared at the side of

the gunman, wearing a Frankenstein mask and holding a

Magnum revolver. He was wearing a dark blue anorak with

the hood up over the mask, black leather gloves, dark blue

jeans and black boots. Frankenstein waved his weapon. 'Touch

that gun and you'll be one sorry nigger,' he shouted. 'Now

get inside.'

The man in the Alien mask grabbed Jackson's coat collar,

pulled him into the room and forced him to his knees.

Moran moved his hand away from the butt of the Glock.

'You don't know who you're fucking with,' he said.

'Delroy Moran, drug-dealing scumbag, molester of

underage girls and murderer of a taxi-driver in Kingston,'

said the Alien. 'I know exactly who I'm dealing with, and

nothing would make me happier than to put a bullet in your

sorry excuse for a face. Now, take three steps forward and

get down on your knees.' He was wearing identical clothing

to Frankenstein.

'This is fucked-up, man,' said Moran.

'Yeah, life's a bitch,' said Frankenstein.

'Fire that motherfucker and the cops'll be over you like a

rash,' snarled Moran.

'Oh, right, Delroy. The cops rush over to Harlesden every

time they hear a gun go off, do they? And just how are they

gonna get through the two steel doors?' He gestured with

the Magnum. 'I'll keep it simple, you being educationally

challenged and all. In. Now.'

Moran swore and stepped into the room.

Frankenstein kicked the door shut. 'Knees. Down. Now,'

he said.

Moran dropped to his knees, his eyes never leaving the

gunman's face. 'You are dead meat,' he said.

'Sticks and stones, Delroy.'

Frankenstein grabbed the duffel bag from Dexter and

ripped open the top. He examined the contents. 'Heroin,' he

7

said to Alien, then took Jackson's duffel bag and checked it.

'Ten kilos, I'd say.'

'Heading for the big time, hey, Delroy?' said Alien. 'Now,

everyone put their hands behind their heads, fingers interlinked,

nice and slowly.'

The three Yardies did as they were told. Frankenstein

took the Glock from Moran and tucked it into his belt.

'Nice gun, the Glock,' said Frankenstein. 'Never jams. But

me, I prefer the good old Colt. Can't go wrong with a Colt,

that's what I always say.'

'You've got the gear, man,' said Moran. 'Do I have to listen

to a lecture on guns?'

Alien took a step towards Moran and pointed his gun at

the man's face. 'You're a very funny nigger, Delroy. But it's

the cash we want, not your drugs.'

'There's no money. And the racial slurs are wearing thin,'

said Moran.

Alien whipped his gun across Moran's face. Blood spurted

and Moran's head spun to the left. He saw the two men he'd

left to guard his flat, lying face down with strips of tape

across their mouths, their hands bound behind them with

plastic strips.

Frankenstein stepped in front of Moran. 'When did you

get the safe?' he asked.

Moran's eyes flicked to the left, to the door that led into

the main bedroom. 'Three days ago.'

'Open it.'

'It's empty.'

'So open it and show me.'

'It's empty. We used the cash to buy the gear.'

'I'm not going to tell you again.'

'Fuck you.'

Frankenstein lashed out and whipped the gun barrel across

Moran's cheek. More blood flowed. 'Open the fucking safe.'

8

'Open it yourself.'

Frankenstein grabbed Moran by the shirt collar and pulled

him along the floor towards the bedroom.

A shot rang out, the noise deafening in the small room.

Frankenstein let go of Moran's shirt and whirled round,

cursing. Jackson was still on his knees but he was holding a

small gun in his right hand. Alien staggered against the door.

Jackson fired again and a second bullet thwacked into the

wall above Alien's head.

Moran rolled over towards a red plastic sofa. Jackson fired

again and hit Alien in the chest. Everyone was staring at the

gun in Jackson's hand. Alien straightened up, then grunted

and levelled his gun at Jackson.

'They're wearing vests!' screamed Moran. 'Shoot him in

the head, man! Shoot the fucker!'

Jackson pointed his gun at Alien's head but before his

finger could tighten on the trigger Frankenstein fired and a

bullet slammed into Jackson's chest. Jackson pitched forwards,

his face screwed up with pain.

Moran rolled again and slammed up against the sofa. He

groped underneath for the loaded submachine pistol he kept

there. An Ingram MAC 10 with a bulbous silencer and thirty

rounds in the clip. His fingers found the butt and he pulled

it out.

Frankenstein whirled round as Moran rolled on to his

back, ducked low and fired twice, hitting him in the head

both times. The Ingram fell from Moran's hand and clattered

on to the floor.

'Shit, shit, shit,' cursed Frankenstein.

Another shot rang out and a bullet thudded into the ceiling.

Bang! Another. Frankenstein flinched but it was Alien who

screamed. He dropped his automatic and clasped his hands

to his groin. 'I'm hit!' he shrieked. Jackson was lying on his

side, his .22 still pointing at Alien. He was grinning in triumph,

blood seeping between his teeth. Frankenstein fired the

Magnum again and Jackson lay still.

Blood seeped through Alien's fingers. He looked at

Frankenstein. 'I'm hit,' he said again, quieter this time. 'I'm

fucking hit.' Then his legs buckled and he fell to the ground.

Frankenstein ran over to him and crouched to examine

the wound. The bullet had gone in under the vest, missing

the Kevlar by less than an inch.

The intercom buzzed. Frankenstein hurried across the

room and answered it. 'What the hell's going on up there?'

said a voice.

'Get up here,' said Frankenstein, and pressed the button

to open the door down below. Footsteps pounded up the

stairs and a man in a werewolf mask came in, holding a gun.

'What the fuck's going on?' he said.

'Andy's been hit.'

'Shit.' Werewolf pointed his gun at Dexter. 'How do we

play it?'

Dexter held his hands high in the air. 'Don't shoot, man!'

Frankenstein looked around the room. Two men, bound

and gagged. Two dead. Another on his knees, pleading not

to be killed.

'How do we play it?' repeated Werewolf. 'It's your call.'

Frankenstein's mind raced. 'Let me think,' he said.

The driver pulled the van to the side of the road, switched

off the engine and killed the lights. The werewolf mask was

in the glove compartment, along with the short length of lead

pipe bound with masking tape that he'd used to club Eaton

unconscious. Eaton was bound and gagged, lying face down

in the lock-up. The van had been stolen: it was fitted with

false plates and had the name of an emergency plumbing

firm on the sides. Werewolf had wanted to drive to the nearest

Accident and Emergency Unit but Frankenstein had told

10

him to drive out of London. Now they sat in the darkened

lane, the nearest house half a mile away, the engine clicking

as it cooled.

'This has turned to shit,' said Werewolf.

'Yeah,' said Frankenstein, in the passenger seat. He had

taken off his mask and pulled back his anorak hood. His hair

was cropped close to his skull and he was balding on top.

He had a curving Mexican-style moustache. 'What the hell

are we going to do?' He twisted in his seat to look at Alien,

who was curled up on the floor in a foetal ball.

'You know what we have to do,' said Werewolf, drumming

his palms on the steering-wheel. 'We've got to get Andy to

a hospital.'

'And what do we tell them?' said Frankenstein.

'We leave him outside. We don't have to say anything.'

'Get real,' said Frankenstein. 'As soon as they identify him,

they'll come looking for us.'

Werewolf slammed his hands down hard on the wheel. 'So

we deny everything,' he said. 'What can they do?'

Frankenstein glared at Werewolf. 'Don't be so naive,' he

said. 'They'll dig out the bullet, and if they can match it to

any in Moran's flat that puts Andy at a murder scene - in

a gunfight with a Yardie posse.' He slapped the dashboard

with his gloved hand. 'God damn it, we should have slotted

them all.'

'Rosie, listen to yourself,' said Werewolf.

Frankenstein stared through the windscreen. 'They're

witnesses,' he said. 'They started the bloody fireworks, we

should have ended it. They know how many of us there were.

If they identify Andy, they go looking for two others. How

long do you think it'll be before they come knocking on our

doors?'

'We can alibi each other,' said Werewolf. 'What are they

gonna do? Call us liars?'

ii

'I'm not doing a twenty stretch,' said Frankenstein. 'Before

we went into this we knew what the downside was, and we

agreed to take the risk.'

'We said that if one of us got killed, the rest of us would

cover it up,' said Werewolf. 'Andy isn't dead.'

'He's got a slug in the guts,' said Frankenstein.

'But he's not dead.'

Alien groaned. Frankenstein had given him an anorak to

clutch against the wound but blood was pooling around him.

'Let's take this outside,' said Frankenstein. He climbed out

of the van and waited for Werewolf to join him. Their breath

feathered from their mouths in the cold night air. Somewhere

in the distance an owl hooted and high overhead the green

and red lights of an airliner were heading for Heathrow.

'Let's look at this logically,' said Frankenstein, his voice

just above a whisper. 'The way I see it, Andy's a goner

anyway. It was a bloody .22 so the slug'll have spun round

in his guts and done God only knows how much damage.'

'Best will in the world, you're not a doctor, Rosie,' said

Werewolf.

'But I've seen enough people shot to know what's bad and

what isn't,' said Frankenstein. 'And Andy's bad.'

'He's not going to get any better lying in the van, that's

for sure.'

'Agreed,' said Frankenstein. 'So, what are the options? We

take him to hospital, then hold up our hands to shooting two

Yardies and stealing their heroin? What if Andy goes and

dies anyway? Where does that leave us? Looking like twats

staring at twenty years behind bars for nothing.'

'So we wait for him to die, is that what you're saying?'

said Werewolf.

Frankenstein shrugged.

'Why don't you spit it out?' said Werewolf.

'I shouldn't have to,' said Frankenstein.

12

'You want to finish him,' said Werewolf flatly. 'You want

to put a bullet in his head. What if it was me lying on the

floor of the van bleeding? Would you put a bullet in me?

Look me in the eyes and tell me that's what you'd do.'

'If it was me, I'd expect you to do the same,' said

Frankenstein.

'Easy for you to say, standing there while Andy's bleeding

to death,' said Werewolf. 'Look, maybe there's another way.

We take him to a doctor instead of a hospital.'

'They've all got to report gunshot wounds.'

'A hookie one,' said Werewolf. 'Someone who'll take the

bullet out and not say anything.'

'You know someone?'

'There's a guy in Peckham. We could be there in thirty

minutes at this time of night.'

'He needs major surgery, not a couple of stitches,' said

Frankenstein, 'and blood. Lots of it.'

'At least we can try,' said Werewolf.

'Then what?' asked Frankenstein. 'Your quack patches

Andy up, then what? Andy goes on sick leave for six months

to recuperate? For God's sake, how's he going to explain

away a bullet wound? And what about the quack? Does he

know you? Are you going to spend the rest of your life

waiting for him to grass you up?'

'We pay him enough he'll keep schtum.'

Frankenstein threw up his hands. 'You're mad,' he said.

'Maybe,' said Werewolf. 'But if it was you, Rosie, I'd be

out here saying the same.'

'He'll probably die anyway,' said Frankenstein.

'But at least I'd know I tried,' said Werewolf. 'Let's just get

him to the quack and see what the quack says.'

Frankenstein took a deep breath and exhaled. 'Okay. Just

don't expect me not to say I told you so when the shit hits

the fan.'

13

'The shit has already hit the fan,' said Werewolf, but

Frankenstein was walking back to the van. Werewolf hurried

after him.

As Werewolf got into the front, Frankenstein climbed

through the rear door and knelt down beside Alien. 'It's okay,

Andy, we're going to get you to hospital.'

Alien didn't respond. Frankenstein took the glove off his

right hand and felt for a pulse in his neck, but as soon as he

touched it he knew the man was dead. He looked up at

Werewolf. 'You might think I'm a callous bastard, but thank

heaven for small mercies is what I say.'

'What now?' asked Werewolf.

'We bury him where he'll never be found. Then it's back

to life as normal.'

'What about the gear?' asked Werewolf, gesturing at the

two bloodstained duffel bags.

'Leave that to me,' said Frankenstein.

'We didn't go into this to steal drugs,' said Werewolf.

'You think we should have left with nothing?' snapped

Frankenstein.

'I'm just saying we went there for cash, that's all.'

'And there wasn't any. And Andy took a bullet in the gut.

You want us to go through all that for nothing?'

Werewolf pointed at the MAC 10, which was lying on the

floor of the van next to Alien. 'What the hell did you bring

that for?'

'Souvenir,' said Frankenstein.

'It's a bloody liability, a weapon like that,' said Werewolf.

'Spray and pray.'

'Looks the business, though, doesn't it?' said Frankenstein.

'A gun like that could be useful.'

'You're not thinking of doing this again, are you?' asked

Werewolf. 'After what's just happened?'

'I'll sort it,' said Frankenstein. 'Don't worry.' He sounded

14

a lot more confident than he felt. Werewolf was right. Cash

was one thing - even dirty money could be cleaned, moved

and spent. Drugs were trouble, plain and simple.

The man stared through the windscreen at the rainswept

supermarket car park. Housewives were pushing trolleys

towards hatchbacks, their shoulders hunched against the

rain. Office workers on their way home huddled together at

the entrance, their frozen meals-for-one thawing as they

waited in vain for a break in the downpour. The sky overhead

was gunmetal grey and the forecast had been for rain

all night. Every few seconds the wipers flicked across the

windscreen.

It occurred to the man that a murder should always be

discussed after the sun had gone down, ideally when it was

raining. A storm added atmosphere - a flash of lightning, a

roll of thunder. It could be planned just as easily on a beach

under a blazing midday sun or on a pleasant spring afternoon,

but there wasn't the same sense of menace.

He tapped his fingers on the steering-wheel. He didn't

need to wear gloves but they were part of the image. Hired

killers wore gloves. It was expected. His were black leather,

moulded to his hands like a second skin. A strangler's gloves.

The man had been many things in his life, but he liked being

a hired killer best of all. It was probably the job satisfaction,

he thought, and smiled. It was okay to smile when he was

on his own but he'd have to watch it when he was with

Hendrickson. Hired killers didn't smile.

He spotted the man driving into the car park. It was a

convertible Mercedes with a personalised number-plate. A

flash car, designed to impress. It would be noticed and remembered.

The hired killer drove a grey Volvo: a nondescript car

in a nondescript colour with a nondescript registration

number. In his business it was important to blend into the

15

background. It was the same with his clothes. He never wore

designer clothes when he was working, or anything other

than a plastic wristwatch. He had no tattoos, his hair was cut

short, but not too short, and he spoke with no discernible

accent. His clothes were simple, off-the-peg, and the black

wool jacket he wore was one of thousands sold through a

mail-order company.

Larry Hendrickson climbed out of his Mercedes. He was

wearing a dark suit, well cut, with three buttons on the jacket.

Probably Armani and certainly expensive. He unfurled a red,

green and white golfing umbrella. His gleaming black shoes

were made-to-measure.

The man knew that on Hendrickson's wrist there was

an expensive Gucci watch. His hair was expensively cut,

his fingernails manicured, and on the two occasions that

the man had met him, Hendrickson had used the same

aftershave.

Hendrickson walked across the car park, taking care to

avoid the deeper puddles on the Tarmac. He was carrying a

slim briefcase made from the skin of some exotic animal. He

looked over his shoulder, so quickly that the man knew he

wouldn't have spotted a tail even if there had been one.

He hurried to the Volvo and climbed in, shaking the rain

off his umbrella and dropping it behind the front seats before

he flashed the man a smile. A frightened smile.

'Great day for ducks,' said Hendrickson.

'I guess,' said the man flatly.

'Did everything go okay?' asked Hendrickson. He put his

briefcase on his knees. Sweat beaded his forehead and there

was a nervous tic at the side of his left eye.

'Of course,' said the man. He reached into his jacket and

Hendrickson flinched. 'You wanted pictures,' said the man.

Hendrickson nodded. He was wearing wire-framed Gucci

glasses and he pushed them up the bridge of his nose. The

16

man's hand reappeared with four Polaroids. He gave them

to Hendrickson.

'Did he say anything?' Hendrickson asked, as he flicked

through the photographs, then put them into his jacket pocket.

'He said, "Don't," and "Please," but generally I try to get

it over with as quickly as possible,' said the man.

'Conversations tend to slow the process.'

'Did you tell him who was paying you?'

The man's eyes narrowed. 'Did you want me to?'

Hendrickson's cheeks reddened. 'No, no,' he said hurriedly.

'I just wondered, that's all.'

'I did exactly as you asked,' said the man. 'I killed him and

I buried him where he'll never be found. That's what you

wanted, right?'

'Of course.'

;«

'So, now it's time to pay the piper.' The man held out his

$ hand.

Hendrickson opened the briefcase, took out a bulky brown

envelope and gave it to the man, who slid open the flap and

ran his fingernail along the block of fifty-pound notes.

'It's all there,' said Hendrickson. 'Fifteen thousand pounds.'

He closed the case and snapped the two locks shut.

'I'm sure it is.'

'Aren't you going to count it?'

'Do I need to?'

'I just meant. . . you know . . .' Hendrickson's voice tailed

off.

'If we don't trust each other now, we're both in deep shit,'

said the man. He put the envelope inside his coat. 'This is

all about trust. You trust me to do the job, I trust you to pay

me in full. We trust each other not to go to the cops.'

'Oh, God,' said Hendrickson. 'The cops.' He pushed the

glasses up his nose again. The smell of his aftershave was

almost overpowering.

17

'Don't worry about the cops,' said the man. 'They're stupid.'

'I hope so.'

'They're too busy hassling motorists to worry about a businessman

who's gone AWOL. They won't even investigate.'

'They'll want to know where he's gone at some point.'

'They might talk to you, but it'll be routine. He's a grown

man, and without a body they won't make it a murder inquiry.'

'And the body won't ever be found?'

The man grinned. 'Not in a million years.'

'And the gun? You've disposed of it?'

'I know what I'm doing, Larry.'

Hendrickson swallowed nervously.

'Relax,' said the man. 'You asked me to kill your partner.

I did. You asked me to dispose of the body. I did. The

company's now yours to do with as you like. You've got what

you wanted. I've got my money.' He patted his coat pocket.

'Now we go our separate ways.'

'It was when you mentioned the police - I panicked.'

'There's no need. Even if the cops do suspect that Sewell's

been killed, you have an alibi for when I did it. All you have

to do is to keep your head.'

Hendrickson nodded slowly. 'You must think I'm stupid.'

'You haven't done this before. I have.'

'How many times?'

The man frowned. 'What?'

'How many times have you . . . killed someone?'

'Enough to know that it's best not to talk about it.'

'But you don't . . . feel anything ... do you?'

The man's eyes hardened. 'You don't know what you're

talking about,' he said.

Hendrickson held up his hands defensively. 'I'm sorry, I

didn't mean to offend you.'

'You're not offending me, you're annoying me.'

18

The rain thundered down on the roof of the blue Transit

van but the three men inside were wearing headphones and

barely aware of the noise.

'What's he waiting for?' asked the youngest. He had been

with the undercover unit for just two months and this was

his first time in the van. He'd arrived with two cans of Red

Bull and a Tupperware container filled with ham and cheese

sandwiches.

'It's his call,' said Superintendent Sam Hargrove, adjusting

his headphones. 'Has to be.'

Two digital tape-recorders were recording everything that

was said in the Volvo, and two CCTV monitors showed visuals

- the tops of the two men's heads and a shot from the front

passenger footwell.

'But we've got everything we need. A confession on tape

and the money in his hands.'

'It's his call,' repeated the superintendent.

A sheet of paper was stuck to the wall of the van with 'we

live and learn' typed on it. Until the man in the car said

the magic words, the three men in the van wouldn't be going

anywhere. Nor would the half-dozen uniformed officers

crammed into the back of the van on the other side of the

car park.

Hargrove ran his thumb over the transmit button of his

transceiver. He was as impatient as the youngster to have the

target in custody, but he'd meant what he said: it was the undercover

operative's call. It always was. He was the man on the

spot, the man whose life was on the line. Until Hargrove was

sure it was safe to move in, the operation continued to run.

Hendrickson's face was bathed in sweat. He took a large

white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped it. 'You

couldn't turn the heater down, could you?' he asked. 'It's like

an oven in here.'

19

The man adjusted the temperature. It wasn't especially hot

in the car.

'Are you okay?' asked the man.

'I haven't done this sort of thing before,' said Hendrickson.

'There's always a first time.'

'It's just that I might have more work for you.'

'You want someone else killed?'

'Not me.' He swallowed and licked his lips. 'Someone I know.'

'So, now you're touting for business for me, is that it?'

Hendrickson dabbed his lips with the handkerchief. 'It's

someone at my health club. They have a problem, and I got

the feeling they could use you.'

'Close friend, is it? I wouldn't want you bandying my name

around to all and sundry.'

'I didn't tell her who you were. I just said I knew someone

who might be able to help, that's all.'

'Who is she?'

Hendrickson glanced out of the rear window.

'What's wrong?' asked the man.

'I feel like we're being watched.'

'That's guilt kicking in.'

Hendrickson wiped his forehead again. 'What about you?

Don't you feel any guilt?'

The man shrugged carelessly. 'If I did, I wouldn't do what

I do, would I?'

'I guess not.' Hendrickson held out his hands in front of

him, palms down. 'Look at me. I'm shaking.'

'Go home and have a cup of tea. Plenty of sugar. You'll

be fine.'

Hendrickson folded his arms. 'He was a bastard,' he said.

'Who?'

'Sewell. He was running the company into the ground.'

'Better off without him, then,' said the man. 'This woman,

who is she?'

20

Hendrickson grimaced. 'I'm not sure I should tell you. Just

in case.'

'In case what?'

'In case she changes her mind.'

'Give me her number and I'll phone her.'

Hendrickson shook his head. 'I'd rather pass your number

to her. She can call you if she decides to go ahead.'

The man put his hands on the steering-wheel and gripped

it. 'That's not how it works,' he said. 'I don't hand out my

number to strangers. I'm not a plumber.'

'I rang you, though, didn't I?'

'My number was passed to you because you'd been asking

around for someone to take care of your problem. I knew

who you were before you called. I don't know who this woman

is. For all I know, she could be an undercover cop.'

Hendrickson snorted. 'No way she's a cop.'

'You know her well, do you?'

'Well enough. Her husband knocks her around.'

'And that's who she wants killed? Her husband?'

Hendrickson nodded. 'She came to the club with bruises

on her arm. Didn't want to talk about it at first. We had a

few drinks in the bar and it all came tumbling out.'

'So you're having an affair with her, is that it? And with

the husband out of the way you'll be free to move in.'

'It's not like that,' Hendrickson said. 'She's just a friend.'

'Got to be a pretty close friend if you're talking murder

with her.'

'I didn't say murder. She just said she wished her husband

was dead and I said I might know someone who could help

her.'

'There's a hell of a jump from wishing he was dead to

paying someone to kill him.'

Hendrickson shuddered. 'Not that big a jump.'

'It was different for you,' said the man. 'You wanted Sewell

21

out of the picture so that you could control the company.

Killing him made financial sense.'

'Her husband's rich,' said Hendrickson.

'So all she has to do is get a decent lawyer. If her husband's

been abusive, she'll take him to the cleaners.'

A middle-aged housewife rattled a trolley past the car with

one hand as she held a plastic carrier-bag over her head. She

looked at them through the windscreen. Hendrickson turned

away his face and didn't speak until she'd gone. 'Her husband

isn't the sort of man you can divorce,' he said.

'Spit it out, Larry,' said the man. 'What's the story? Tell

me now or get out of the car and we can go our separate

ways.'

Hendrickson hesitated, then spoke quickly. 'Her husband's

violent, that's all I know. A real hard bastard. He's already

told her that if she ever leaves him he'll put her in the ground.

She says he means it. Divorce is out of the question.'

'And what's her name?'

'Angie.'

'Angie what?'

'I just know her as Angie.'

The man's eyes widened in surprise. 'You don't even know

her full name and you're talking about hired killers with her?'

'I've known her for months.'

'But not her name?'

'You know what it's like in the gym. You nod and say hello

- you don't exchange business cards. We were just talking,

that's all.'

'About killing her husband?'

'I think she feels she can open up to me because I'm not

a close friend. I don't know her husband, only what she's

told me. And all I said was that maybe I knew someone she

could talk to who might help.'

'What does she look like?'

22

'She's pretty, blonde, late twenties. A bit tarty, a bit flash

- no bra when she exercises, you know the sort.'

The man studied Hendrickson with unblinking pale blue

eyes.

Hendrickson looked away nervously. 'I just thought . . .'

he said, then mumbled incoherently.

'You call that thinking?' said the man. 'Did you tell her I

was offing your partner?'

'Of course not.'

'Don't you think she's going to put two and two together

when she discovers he's out of the picture?'

'She doesn't know what I do. I didn't tell her I was

paying you. It was just a general conversation, that's all.'

He leaned forward, his arms round his stomach. 'I feel

sick,' he said.

'Not in the car,' said the man. 'If you're going to throw

up, open the door.' He flicked the air-conditioning control

and cold air blasted across their faces. 'Deep breaths,' he

said.

'I'm sorry,' said Hendrickson, still bent double.

'It's the stress,' said the man.

'I mean about Angie. I shouldn't have mentioned it. You're

right, it's none of my business.'

The man tapped his gloved fingers on the steering-wheel.

'You think she's serious? About wanting him dead?'

Hendrickson took several deep breaths. 'I'm sure of it.'

The man's fingers continued to tap the steering-wheel.

'Do you want me to give her your number?' asked

Hendrickson.

'Take the bird in the hand, Spider. For God's sake - take the

bird in the hand!' There was no way that Shepherd could

hear the superintendent: radio communication could only be

one way as transmission noise would blow an operative's

23

cover. Hargrove closed his eyes and massaged the back of

his neck. The tendons were as taut as steel wires.

'He's going to let it run, isn't he?' said the young officer.

He had a video camera trained on the car in the distance

but the rain meant that the footage would be virtually unusable.

Not that the exterior video mattered. The two video

cameras in the Volvo had recorded everything, and the audio

was all they needed to put Hendrickson away on conspiracy

to commit murder.

Hargrove ignored the officer but he knew he was right:

Shepherd was going to let it run. The rain continued to beat

down on the roof of the van as Hargrove strained to hear

what was going on inside the car. 'Okay,' said Shepherd,

through his headphones. 'Tell her to call me. But if it turns

to shit, I'll come looking for you.'

Hargrove cursed under his breath. He reached for his

bottle of Evian water and took a long swig, then cursed again.

The young officer watched through the viewfinder of his

video-camera as Hendrickson climbed out of the car and ran

across the car park, the umbrella low over his head. 'What

do we do, sir?' he asked.

Hargrove sighed. He opened his eyes, put his transceiver

to his mouth and clicked the transmit button. 'Alpha One,

everyone stand down. Repeat, everyone stand down.'

Hargrove paid for the drinks and carried them to the corner

table of the pub. Shepherd was taking off his black leather

gloves and nodded his thanks as the superintendent placed

the Jameson's and soda in front of him. His hair was wet

and the shoulders of his coat flecked with water.

'It's not how I'd have played it, Spider. That's all I'm

saying.'

'I had seconds to make up my mind,' said Shepherd,

stuffing the gloves into his coat pocket. 'What did you expect

24

me to do? Tell him I had to check with my boss?' He took

a sip of his whiskey.

'No one's saying it wasn't your call,' said Hargrove. He sat

down on the bench seat next to Shepherd and stretched out

his legs. He had been in the back of the Transit van for the

best part of four hours. 'I'm just reminding you that we've

spent two months setting up Hendrickson and I wouldn't

want to put that at risk for the sake of a maybe down the

line. Plus, we've got Hendrickson's partner tucked away in

a safe-house. He'll be none too happy when I tell him he's

got to stay there for the foreseeable future.'

'I figure it'll take a few days at most. I'll fix up a meet to

see if she's serious. I'll go in wired up, get her to pay a deposit

and we can leave it at that. If her husband's knocking her

around the court'll probably go easy on her so there's no

point in busting a gut.'

Hargrove cupped his hands round his brandy glass. 'You'll

be going in blind,' he said. 'All we have is a first name.'

'She's a battered wife,' said Shepherd. 'I doubt I'll be in

any danger.'

'I don't like it, Spider. There are too many ifs, buts and

maybes.'

Shepherd leaned forward. 'Boss, if she doesn't talk to me,

she might find someone else.'

Hargrove nodded thoughtfully. 'Forty-eight hours, that's

all I can give you.'

Shepherd looked pained, but the time frame wasn't up to

him. 'The ball's in her court,' he said. 'Hendrickson wouldn't

give me her number.'

'If she's serious she'll call. If she isn't, it's a waste of

time anyway. Forty-eight hours, Spider. Then we arrest

Hendrickson.'

Shepherd opened his mouth to argue but the superintendent

silenced him with a wave. Shepherd had worked with

25

Hargrove long enough to know when he'd reached his limit.

Forty-eight hours was all the time he had.

Roger Sewell was a big man, a good three inches taller than

the superintendent, and thirty kilograms heavier. He had

receding hair that he'd grown long and tied back in a ponytail,

and a goatee beard. He was wearing a grey suit but had

taken off his tie and thrown it on to the hotel bed.

'No bloody way am I spending another night in this shit

hole,' he said. 'I was promised a safe-house not a two-star

bloody hotel.'

'It's forty-eight hours,' said Hargrove, patiently. 'Two days.'

'Two days during which that bastard Hendrickson is going

to be ripping my company apart,' said Sewell. He pointed an accusing finger at the superintendent. 'Are you going to

reimburse me for any money I lose on this?' He didn't give

the superintendent time to reply. 'Of course you're bloody

not. What if he empties the bank accounts and transfers

the money off-shore. Then I'm fucked with a capital F,

aren't I?'

'Today's Friday,' said Hargrove. 'You have my word that

by Monday your partner will be in custody and you'll be

free to do whatever you want. Just give me the weekend, Mr

Sewell.'

Sewell paced over to the window. 'They won't even let me

go to the bloody pub. This is Leeds, for God's sake. No one

knows me in Leeds. I wouldn't be seen dead in Leeds.'

'It's too much of a risk, Mr Sewell,' said Hargrove. 'If

anyone recognises you and mentions it to Hendrickson, he'll

know he's been set up and he'll run.'

'So put him under surveillance.'

'We have. Two men are watching him round the clock. But

we can't account for phone calls or emails.'

Sewell slammed his hand against the window-frame. 'I'm

26

the innocent party here, yet I'm the one being held prisoner.

That bastard Hendrickson should be behind bars and he's

living it up on the outside while I'm eating off a tray.' He

turned to face the superintendent. 'I've done everything

you've asked of me. I even lay down in that hole in the

ground with fake blood on my face while you took photographs.

But I've reached my limit.'

'Forty-eight hours, Mr Sewell. It's not much to ask.'

'That's easy for you to say. You don't have to sleep on a

lumpy mattress and watch a fourteen-inch TV. And have you

seen the bloody room-service menu? Chips with everything.'

'Mr Sewell, let's not lose sight of what was happening.

Your partner was looking to have you killed. If we hadn't

intervened there was a good chance he'd have succeeded and

we wouldn't be having this conversation.'

Sewell dropped into an overstuffed armchair and swung

his feet up on to the bed. He ran a hand over his thinning

hair and down the ponytail. 'Bastard,' he said. 'I can't believe

he'd have me killed. He's a vegetarian, for God's sake.'

'People have killed for a lot less than he stands to gain

with you out of the picture,' said Hargrove.

'Yeah, but it's only bloody money.'

'We do appreciate the help you've given us,' said the superintendent.

'By Monday you can be back in the office and

you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that your partner is

going to prison for a long time.'

'I hope so,' said Sewell. 'I bloody well hope so.' He looked

across at the superintendent. 'Can you at least tell me why?'

'It's an ongoing operation,' said Hargrove. 'That's all I can

tell you.'

'Involving Hendrickson?'

Hargrove nodded. He didn't like lying to Sewell, but he

knew that the man was a lot less likely to co-operate if he

knew that the operation had been extended to include a

27

second party. Besides, it was a white lie. Hendrickson was involved. Up to a point. 'You'll be doing us a great service,'

said the superintendent.

'You'll owe me one,' said Sewell.

'Indeed,' said Hargrove.

'I want my laptop,' said Sewell. 'And my mobile phone.'

'I don't think that's a good idea,' said Hargrove.

'I won't call anyone. I won't send emails. I just need to

know what's happening.'

'Computers leave traces. So do mobile phones. We can't

afford the risk of anyone finding out you're still alive.'

Sewell threw up his hands in disgust.

'Two days, Mr Sewell,' said Hargrove. 'You have my word.'

The local police had assigned three uniformed officers to

babysit Sewell, taking it in turns to sit in the hotel's reception

area in plain clothes. They weren't there to guard him,

merely to ensure that he stayed in the hotel. The only threat

to Sewell's life was Hendrickson, and Hendrickson was under

the impression that his business partner was dead and buried

in the New Forest.

The officer on duty was a fifty-something sergeant with

a thickening waistline and thinning hair. He began to get to

his feet as Hargrove walked out of the lift but the superintendent

waved at him to stay seated and sat in the adjacent

armchair. 'How's he been?' he asked.

'Grumpy, sir,' said the sergeant. 'Keeps asking if he can

go out for a walk. Complains about the food, the TV, the

bed.'

'He's not to go out,' said Hargrove.

'I understand, sir.'

'We're having to extend his stay over the weekend,' said

Hargrove. 'I'll be clearing it with your bosses. But the longer

he's here, the more likely he is to slip the leash, so I'm going

28

to have to ask you to set up shop in the corridor outside his

room.'

The sergeant looked fed up but said nothing. The superintendent

sympathised. Sitting in a hotel corridor wasn't the

most entertaining way to pass an eight-hour shift. 'If he's still

unhappy about the hotel food he can order in from restaurants

but make sure he pays cash. On no account is he to

use his credit card.'

'Understood, sir.'

'Pass on the instructions to the rest of the team,' said the

superintendent. 'If you want to break it up into four-hour shifts, that's fine by me. So long as he's covered round the

clock, you can work it any way you want.'

'It's all overtime,' said the sergeant. 'You won't be hearing

any complaints.'

Shepherd sat in his car and looked at the front of the house:

a neat semi, the garden lovingly tended, the paintwork less

than a year old, a TV dish over the garage. Tom and Moira

Wintour had put a lot of work into their Hereford home and

it showed. A year-old Lexus was parked in front of the

garage, freshly waxed.

Shepherd had driven down from Manchester in his own

car, a dark green Honda CRY. He'd left the Volvo in the car

park below the city-centre loft where his alter egoTony Nelson

lived. Once the operation was over and he had Angie on

tape, the surveillance equipment would be removed and the

Volvo would go back into the police pool with new licence

plates and registration details.

On the back seat of the CRY a carrier-bag contained two

PlayStation cartridges that he'd bought in a toy shop in

Manchester. He'd spent the best part of an hour there but

hadn't been able to think of anything else to buy his son. He

climbed out, walked to the front door and rang the bell. He

29

saw a blurred figure through the frosted glass, then Moira

opened the door, smiling brightly. As always, her makeup

was immaculate. 'Daniel, you made it,' she said.

Shepherd smiled back and forced himself to ignore the

implied criticism. He felt bad enough that he had had to

cancel his last two visits at short notice without his motherinlaw

reminding him of his shortcomings.

Moira was the only person who used his full name. She

always had, ever since they'd first met. He'd asked her to call

him Dan but she'd paid no attention and Daniel he had

remained. Friends and colleagues alike used Dan or his army

nickname, Spider.

'Liam's in the garden,' she said.

'How is he?'

'Fine.'

'He sleeping okay?'

'Daniel, he's fine. Really. Can I get you a cup of tea?'

Shepherd declined her offer and went through the kitchen

into the garden. Liarn was kicking a football against a low

brick wall. His face broke into a grin as he saw his father

walking across the lawn. 'Dad!' he yelled, and rushed over,

grabbed him round the waist and hugged him hard. 'I wasn't

sure if you'd really come.'

'I said I would, didn't I?' said Shepherd, but he felt guilty.

He never deliberately set out to let his son down, but the

nature of his work meant that he rarely knew what he'd be

doing or where he'd be from one week to the next. He gave

his son the carrier-bag. 'I got you these,' he said.

Liam let out a whoop as he saw the PlayStation cartridges.

Then his face fell. 'Gran doesn't let me play video games,'

he said.

'Never?'

'An hour a day,' said Liam, grimly.

'That sounds reasonable,' said Shepherd.

3O

'Mum always let me play as long as I wanted.'

'No, she didn't, and you know it,' said Shepherd. 'She said

it was bad for your eyes.'

'Can I play them now?'

'Let's go to the park for a kickabout.'

Liam picked up his ball and they went back into the kitchen.

Moira was standing by the kettle, waiting for it to boil. 'I've

got cake,' she said.

'Liam and I are off to the park. We won't be long,' said

Shepherd.

For a moment she looked as if she was going to protest,

but then she forced a smile.

The park was a five-minute walk from the house. Liam

bounced the ball as they walked.

'So, are you okay?' asked Shepherd.

Liam shrugged.

'You know your gran and granddad love you, right?'

Another shrug.

'And the school here is okay, right?' Tom and Moira had

arranged for Liam to attend the local school until Shepherd

had things sorted in London.

'It's okay.'

'It's not for ever.'

Liam was clutching the ball to his chest. 'Are you sure?'

Shepherd stopped walking, put his hands on his son's shoulders,

then knelt down in front of him. 'What do you mean?'

'Are you dumping me?' He was close to tears.

'Dumping you?'

'With Gran and Granddad.'

'Of course not.'

'They say I can stay with them for ever.'

'They're just being nice.'

'They keep saying it's my room. But it's not my room. My

room's in our house, isn't it?' His lower lip trembled.

3i

'No question about that.' Shepherd ruffled his son's hair.

'Why aren't I living with you?'

The question's blunt simplicity was like a knife in

Shepherd's chest. He pulled Liam into his arms and buried

his face in the boy's neck. Liam dropped the football. 'You'll

come home soon, I promise.'

'I miss you, Dad.'

'I miss you, too.'

'Why aren't I living with you?'

'Because I've got to find someone to take care of us.'

'I can take care of us,' said Liam earnestly.

'There's a lot to do, Liam. Cooking, cleaning, laundry,

shopping. I've got work, you've got school. We need someone

to do that sort of thing for us.'

'Like a maid?'

'Yeah. An au pair they call them. She'll take care of the

house and us.'

'Like Mum used to do?'

'Yeah.'

'But she won't be my mum, right?'

'Right.'

'Because I don't want a new mum.'

'I know.'

'I keep dreaming about her.'

The too.'

Liam sniffed. 'Where's my ball?'

Shepherd released the child and looked around. The ball

had rolled into the gutter. He retrieved it and gave it to his

son. They walked in silence to the park. Shepherd didn't

know what to say to him. Yes, he wanted him back in London,

but there was no way he could take care of Liam and carry

on working without domestic help. Liam was only eight,

too young to be a latch-key kid, and public transport where

they lived was so unreliable that he'd have to be driven to

32

and from school every day. There was no way Shepherd

could make that sort of commitment while he worked for

Hargrove.

There was a football pitch at the park and they wandered

over to the closest set of goalposts, passing the ball back and

forth between them. Shepherd stood in the goalmouth and

Liam took penalty shots but his heart clearly wasn't in it.

There was no power in any of his kicks and he didn't seem

to care whether he got the ball past his father or not.

Shepherd tossed the ball back to his son. 'Give it some

stick, Liam.'

Liam placed the ball on the penalty spot, took a few steps

back, then tapped it towards him. The ball rolled across the

ground and stopped at Shepherd's feet. 'That's terrible.'

Shepherd laughed. 'The worst shot I've ever seen.'

'This is stupid,' said Liam.

'What's stupid?'

'This.'

'Football? You like football.' Shepherd picked up the ball

and threw it back to the boy.

Liam caught it and held it to his chest. 'You don't really

want to play.'

'I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to play with you,' said

Shepherd.

'Remember when you were in prison?' asked Liam.

'Sure.' Shepherd had been working undercover on the

remand wing of LIMP Shelton, trying to get close to a major

drugs importer who was sabotaging the case against him

from behind bars. Sue had brought Liam to visit him. It was

against all the rules, but Shepherd had needed to see them

both.

'Well, that's what this is like,' said Liam. 'It's like I'm in

prison and you're visiting me. And once visiting time's over

you'll go and I'll be here on my own.'

33

'You're not on your own. You're with your gran and

granddad.'

'You know what I mean,' said Liam. 'You don't want me.'

'Liam!' protested Shepherd.

'It's true! You never wanted me!' Liam dropped the ball

and ran away.

'Liam, come here!' Shepherd shouted. One of his mobile

phones rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. 'Liam, wait

for me!' It was the Tony Nelson phone. The caller had blocked

their number. 'Liam, God damn it, stay where you are!'

Shepherd yelled.

Liam stopped and turned to look at him. Tears were running

down his cheeks. Shepherd pointed a warning finger at him,

then pressed the button to accept the call. It was a woman.

'Is that Tony Nelson?'

'Yeah,' said Shepherd.

'Larry said I should call you.'

'He told me I might be able to help you,' said Shepherd.

'What do you want?'

'I think you know,' she said.

'I hope you're not a time-waster.'

'It's just difficult. On the phone.'

'Do you want to meet?'

Liam stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at Shepherd.

'Dad!' he shouted.

Shepherd pointed at him, then pressed a finger to his own

lips, telling him to be quiet.

'I think so,' she said.

'You're Angie, right?'

She caught her breath. 'Larry told you my name?'

'Just that you were Angie, that's all. Look, Angie, you called

me so that means you've already put a lot of thought into

this. If we're going to go through with it there are things to

discuss and that's best done face to face.'

34

'I'm not stupid,' said the woman.

'I'm not saying you are,' said Shepherd, 'but this is outside

your normal experience so you're anxious. I understand that.

But I can't afford to have my time wasted so you have to

decide if you want to move forward or forget the whole thing.

And to move forward, we have to meet.'

'Okay,' she said.

'So, do you need my help or not?'

'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, I do.'

'I hate you!' Liam shouted. He turned and ran across the

playing-field in the direction of Tom and Moira's house.

'Where are you?' asked Angie, suddenly suspicious.

'In a park. There are kids here but no one's listening.'

'Who was that shouting?'

'Just a kid. Where do you live?'

She didn't reply.

'Are you there?' asked Shepherd, wondering if he'd lost

the connection. Liam left the playing-field and ran along the

pavement, arms pumping furiously. Shepherd wanted to run

after him but he knew that if he spooked Angie there was a

good chance she wouldn't call back. It was like reeling in a

fish: he had to keep just the right amount of tension on the

line. Any hint that there was a problem and he'd lose her.

He forced himself to ignore Liam and concentrate on the

voice at the end of the line.

'I'm here. I just don't like you knowing too much about me.'

'If I don't know where you are, I'm not going to be able

to help you, am I?'

'I guess not.'

'So tell me where you are and we'll arrange a meeting.'

He heard her take a deep breath. 'You know Piccadilly

Gardens?'

'Of course.' It was the square in the city centre, terminus

for the city's tram system.

35

'We'll meet there. This evening. Five o'clock.'

'It's too crowded,' he said. 'Too many people.' He looked

at his watch. It was eleven thirty. Plenty of time to drive back

to Manchester.

'I want there to be people around,' she said. 'Safety in

numbers.'

'Look, Angie, this is my field of expertise. We need a place

where we can talk. Piccadilly Gardens will be mobbed.'

'That's why it'll be safe. No one will pay us any attention.'

Shepherd cursed under his breath. He wanted her in his

car so that he could record their conversation. If they were

in a square filled with trams, daytrippers and shoppers, he'd

have to wear a wire, and personal wires were unreliable at

the best of times. But if he pressed the point too far she'd

get suspicious.

'It's my way or we forget the whole thing,' she said, more

confidence in her voice.

'Okay,' said Shepherd. 'Piccadilly Gardens, five o'clock.

How will I recognise you?'

'You won't,' she said. 'I want to take a good look at you

first.'

'What are you worried about, Angie? Didn't your friend

vouch for me?'

'Larry thinks the sun shines out of your arse, but I want

to see who I'm dealing with.'

'Fine,' said Shepherd. 'I'll be wearing a black leather jacket,

grey pullover, black jeans, and carrying a copy of the Financial Times'

'This is like a blind date, isn't it?'

'Not really,' said Shepherd, coldly. He had to stay in character

and Tony Nelson didn't flirt, didn't joke, didn't make

small-talk. He was a stone-cold professional killer. 'I'll be by

the fountain at five on the dot. If you haven't contacted me

by ten past, I'm out of there.'

36

'I understand, Mr Nelson. And, believe me, I'm not wasting

your time.'

She cut the connection and Shepherd put the phone back

into his pocket. 'Game on,' he muttered. He picked up Liam's

football and headed for Tom and Moira's house.

Moira was waiting for him at the door. 'Daniel, what on

earth happened?'

'Nothing,' said Shepherd.

'Liam came back crying his eyes out.'

'Where is he?' asked Shepherd, squeezing past her.

'In his room.'

Shepherd went upstairs, carrying the football, and knocked

on Liam's door. When there was no reply he tried to open

it, but it was locked. 'Let me in, Liam.'

'Go away.'

'Please, Liam, I want to talk to you.' Shepherd pressed his

ear to the door.

'Go away.'

'Look, I have to go back to Manchester.'

'So go.'

'It's work.'

'I don't care.'

Shepherd sighed. He looked at his watch again. 'I've got

time for a coffee. Or we could have a go on the PlayStation.'

Moira came up the stairs. 'Daniel, maybe you should leave

him be for a while,' she said quietly.

'He's my son, Moira,' said Shepherd. 'I know how to handle

him.'

'Do you?' said Moira archly. 'Well if that's the case, why's

he in there with the door locked, sobbing his eyes out?'

Shepherd glared at her, then turned back to the door. He

knocked on it gently. 'Come on, Liam. Let's not be silly. I

don't have long.'

'I hate you. I just want you to leave me alone.'

37

'Daniel . . .' said Moira.

Shepherd ignored her. 'I didn't want to answer the phone,

but it was important. I had to take the call. I wanted to talk

to you, but this person might not have called back and it was

important.'

There was no answer from Liam, but Shepherd heard a

sniff.

'Liam, I love you more than anything. I'm sorry if I'm a

bad father at the moment but I've a lot on my plate and this

is all new territory for me.'

Shepherd put his ear against the door but Liam didn't say

anything. 'I'll count to ten, okay? Then you can come out

and we'll be friends again.'

Moira went back downstairs. Shepherd was ashamed at

the way he'd spoken to her, but there were times when his

mother-in-law's holier-than-thou attitude got on his nerves.

She meant well, but she hadn't worked since the day she'd

married Tom, and the grand total of her life experience came

down to her suburban friends, a weekly game of bridge and

an annual holiday to either France, Spain or Italy. She had

no idea of what Shepherd's life was like or the pressures he

was under. Yes, he wanted to be a good father. Yes, he wanted

to do the right thing by his son. But it was easy for her: she

had Tom, his bank manager's salary and an index-linked

pension a few years away. Shepherd had a job to do, a living

to earn, and a woman in Manchester who wanted her husband

dead.

Shepherd started counting. When he got to five he tapped

on the door in time with the numbers. 'Six. Seven. Eight.

Nine. Ten.' Shepherd took a deep breath. 'Liam?' The door

was so flimsy he could have knocked it down with one kick.

'Liam, please. At least give me a hug before I go.' He rested

his forehead against the door and sighed. 'Okay. Look, I have

to go, but I'll phone you this evening. I promise.'

38

Shepherd started downstairs but he had only gone a few

steps when the bedroom door opened. Liam stood on the

landing, his cheeks wet. Shepherd rushed back upstairs, bent

down and picked up his son. 'I'm sorry I'm such a rubbish

father,' he said.

'It's okay,' said Liam.

'I'm trying, I really am. Bear with me, until I get things

sorted.'

'I just want to be with you, Dad.'

'I know you do.' He kissed Liam, then sniffed his hair.

'You need a bath,' he said.

'I know.'

'And wash behind your ears.'

'I always do.'

Shepherd lowered his boy to the floor. 'I'll be back as soon

as I can.'

'Cross your heart?'

Shepherd solemnly crossed his heart.

'And you'll phone tonight before I go to sleep?'

Shepherd crossed his heart again. Liam nodded, satisfied.

Shepherd went downstairs.

Moira was in the kitchen, filling an earthenware teapot.

'Have you got time for tea, at least?' she asked.

'I've got to go, Moira. I'm sorry I snapped.'

'You didn't, Daniel. You just told an interfering old woman

to mind her own business. Nothing wrong with that.' She

finished pouring water into the teapot and replaced the lid.

She wanted to be mollified, Shepherd could tell. Self

criticism was one of the overused weapons in Moira's extensive

psychological armoury. 'You're not interfering, and I

know you've only got his best interests at heart,' he said.

'We all have,' said Moira. She began wiping down the

worktop, even though it was spotless. 'He's been through a

lot and what he needs now, more than anything, is stability.'

39

'I'm getting there,' said Shepherd.

Moira opened her mouth, then evidently decided not to

say anything. She carried on wiping.

'I'll phone tonight from Manchester,' he said.

'What's happening up there?'

'Just a job. It should be over this afternoon, then I'll be

back in London.'

'What about Sue's things? I could come down one weekend.

Help you sort out the clothing and shoes. There are charity

shops that will take them.'

'I'll do it,' said Shepherd. He kissed her left cheek

awkwardly, then hurried down the hallway and out of the

front door. She was right, of course. It was time to clear out

Sue's clothes. Four months was a long time. He'd tried several

times. He'd opened her side of the fitted wardrobe in the

bedroom and even gone as far as taking out some of her

clothes, but he'd never managed to throw any away. Somehow

it seemed disloyal. They weren't just clothes, they were Sue's

clothes. Everything she had, everything she'd touched, everything

she'd worn - it was all a part of her and he wasn't

prepared yet to discard anything. Or her.

He looked up as he climbed into the car and saw Liam

standing at a bedroom window. Shepherd waved and flashed

him a thumbs-up. Liam did the same and Shepherd grinned.

At least his visit hadn't been a complete disaster.

Shepherd parked on the top floor of a multi-storey car park

close to Piccadilly Gardens and sat for ten minutes to see

who drove up. There were housewives, families with children,

young couples out for a Saturday's shopping in the

city centre. Eventually he locked the car and walked down

to the third floor. The blue Transit surveillance van was in

the corner furthest away from the stairs and lifts. Shepherd

tapped the rolled-up copy of the Financial Times against his

40

leg as he walked over to it, knocked twice on the rear door

and climbed inside. Hargrove was there with Jimmy Faley,

the young officer who'd been on the Hendrickson surveillance,

and an Asian technician whom Shepherd hadn't met

before.

Hargrove took a swig from his plastic bottle of Evian water.

'This is Amar Singh,' he said. 'He's on attachment from the

National Criminal Intelligence Service with some state-oftheart

surveillance gear.' Shepherd shook Singh's hand.

'I can't imagine a worse place to record a conversation,'

said Singh.

'Yeah, it wasn't my choice,' said Shepherd. He nodded at

Faley and sat down on a plastic stool.

Singh pushed a black attache case across the metal floor.

'Make sure the briefcase is as close to her as possible,' he

said.

'You don't have to teach me to suck eggs,' said Shepherd.

'I'm not teaching you to suck anything,' said the technician,

'but its effective range is down to three feet on the

outside and I wouldn't want you blaming me if all we pick

up is traffic. I'd be happier if you were wearing a wire, too.'

'She's jumpy enough to pat me down,' said Shepherd.

'In a crowded square?'

'A lover's hug, hands down my back, a quick grope between

the legs, all she's got to do is touch something hard and she'll

be off.'

'She might just think you're pleased to see her,' said Singh.

Shepherd gave him a tight smile. 'I've got better things to

be doing on a Saturday afternoon, believe me,' he said. He

looked at Hargrove. 'Long-range mikes?'

'We'll have two guys on top of the office blocks overlooking

the square, but I don't hold out much hope. There's

a lot of noise out there.' He pointed at the case. 'That's our

best hope.'

4i

Shepherd clicked the twin combination locks and examined

the interior. It was lined with a light brown fake suede

material and had pockets for pens, business cards and a small

calculator. He took out the calculator and examined it. There

was nothing unusual about it. He put it back into its pocket,

then inspected the exterior. It looked like an ordinary attache

case. 'Okay, I give in,' he said. 'How does it work?'

Singh grinned. 'The batteries and transmitter are built into

the body of the case, and there's a recording chip in there

as back-up in case we lose transmission. There's no way

anyone will find it, short of cutting the leather. There are two

microphones, one in each lock. You set the combinations to

nine-nine-eight to open, nine-nine-nine to start transmitting.'

'The three nines would be your idea, I guess,' said

Shepherd.

'The whole gizmo's my baby,' said Singh.

Shepherd closed the case and clicked the locks shut. 'Nice

piece of kit,' he said.

Singh beamed.

'Anything on her?' Shepherd asked Hargrove.

'Not enough,' said Hargrove. 'We contacted the health club

first thing this morning but the admin staff are away until

Monday. I decided against calling the centre manager at

home because there's an outside chance that he might be a

friend and I didn't want to start raising red flags. We did a

check on the electoral register for Angie and Angela, but

without a surname or address it threw up hundreds of possibilities

within twenty miles of the fitness centre.'

'So I go in blind? I hate that.' Usually when Shepherd went

undercover he was fully briefed on his target. He had time

to memorise photographs and background details and knew

exactly who he was dealing with. But this time all he had

was a name. Angie. And a brief description that Hendrickson

had given him. Blonde, pretty, late twenties. A bit tarty, a bit

42

flash. 'No bra when she exercises, you know the sort,'

Hendrickson had said. Shepherd didn't. He looked at his

watch. 'I said I'd be there at five and wait ten minutes.'

'Did she sound serious?' asked Hargrove. 'I'd hate to think

we're on a wild goose chase.'

'She sounded worried,' said Shepherd. 'Easily spooked.'

'All we need is the offer,' said Hargrove. 'We can't give it

the full monty, like we did with Hendrickson. Sewell's been

on ice long enough. Just get the offer and tell her you need

the money by Monday. The offer and the down-payment are

all we'll need. I'll get her to roll over.'

Shepherd let himself out of the rear door. Singh reached

over and pulled it shut.

Shepherd ran down the stairs to the ground floor and

pushed open the double doors that led out of the building

and on to a side-street. It was a warm afternoon but he'd

told her he'd be wearing his leather jacket so he couldn't take

it off. The attache case was in his right hand, the Financial

Times in the left.

The narrow street opened into Piccadilly Gardens. The

flowerbeds were full of yellow and purple blooms. There was

a hi-tech fountain to the left, small jets of water that leaped

and curved through the air, then splashed into metal-lined

holes in the ground. Half a dozen small children rushed

around, trying to avoid the water but shrieking with pleasure

each time they got drenched.

Shepherd walked round the edge of the square towards

the fountain. He looked at his watch. Five o'clock exactly.

There was an empty wooden bench a dozen paces from the

fountain and he sat down, swung the case on to his knees,

and placed the newspaper on top. There was no point in

scanning the crowds so he read through the paper's headlines.

Not that he cared a jot for the fate of the nation's businesses.

He had no shares, and only a few thousand pounds

43

in his one and only bank account. When he had been in the

SAS his salary had been the same as a regular paratrooper

drew, and a police officer's wasn't much better. No one

joined the military or the police to get rich.

'Tony? Tony Nelson?'

Shepherd looked up and squinted in the bright sunlight.

He shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand. Slim. Blonde.

Pretty. Cute upturned nose. Pale blue eyes. Naturally blonde

hair, loose around her face. Lips that curved easily into a

smile. 'Angie?'

The smile widened, but Shepherd could see nervousness

in her eyes and the furrowing of her brow. 'Shall we walk

and talk?' she suggested.

'I'm okay here,' said Shepherd.

'I'm a bit restless, truth be told,' she said. 'I don't think I

can sit still at the moment.' She was wearing a loose-cut white

linen jacket and Versace denim jeans, with high-heeled open

toe shoes and a Louis Vuitton shoulder-bag. There was a

gold Rolex on her left wrist.

'Okay.' Shepherd opened the case, put the newspaper

inside, and clicked the locks shut. He flicked the combinations

to nine-nine-nine, then transferred the case to his left

hand as he stood up. 'We could go for a coffee, or something

stronger.' He wanted her inside, away from the noise

of the traffic.

'I'm driving,' she said, 'and caffeine's the last thing I want.'

She held out her left hand, palm downwards. It was trembling.

Shepherd noted the large diamond engagement ring

and the thick gold band on her wedding finger. 'See?'

'Nervous?'

'Shouldn't I be?' she said. She glanced around, as if she

feared that someone might be watching them. 'Come on, let's

walk.'

They moved away from the fountain. Shepherd kept the

attache case between them, but there was a lot of noise: children

squealing, engines rumbling, couples arguing, two black

teenagers break-dancing next to a boom box. Shepherd

doubted that the hidden microphones would pick up much

more than background sounds.

'You're not from Manchester, are you?' she asked.

'I move around a lot,' said Shepherd. 'It doesn't pay to

stay too long in one place, doing what I do.'

'How much do you charge?' she whispered.

'Didn't Hendrickson tell you?'

'He just said you weren't cheap. And you did what you

were paid for.'

'I'm not cheap,' said Shepherd, 'but for what you want,

you don't want cheap. You want it done right, without repercussions.'

'He

said you were professional.'

'I am. Thirty thousand pounds. Half when you decide you

want to go ahead. Half on completion.'

She took a packet of Marlboro menthol out of her bag,

put one between her lips and lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter,

then offered one to Shepherd. He shook his head.

'How do I know you won't just take the fifteen thousand

and disappear?' she asked.

'Because I'm a professional.'

'So I have to trust you?'

Shepherd stopped. 'I didn't come here to be insulted,' he

said. 'I don't know who you are or where you're from. I'm

the one taking things on trust here. For all I know you could

be a cop.'

'Do look like the filth?' She flicked ash on the ground.

'Cops come in all shapes and sizes,' said Shepherd. 'Just

because you've got a double-D cleavage and fuck-me high

heels doesn't mean you haven't walked a beat.'

'They're Cs,' she said, 'and they're real.'

45

'I didn't doubt it for a second,' said Shepherd. 'And so am

I. Do you have thirty thousand pounds?'

She smiled sarcastically. 'Not on me, no, but I can get it.'

She started walking again. Shepherd caught her up.

'When?'

'When do you want it?'

'The sooner you pay me, the sooner I can do the job.'

'Just like that?'

'You give me the down-payment. We fix up a time and a

place. You establish an alibi. I do the job. You pay me the

rest of the money. We go our separate ways.'

'No guilt? No recriminations?'

'For me? Or for you?'

Angie smiled tightly. 'Oh, don't worry about me,' she said.

'I won't lose a minute's sleep, believe me.'

'Hendrickson said he beats you.'

She blew smoke at the sky. 'And the rest.'

'Why don't you just go to the cops?' said Shepherd. 'They

don't look kindly on wife-beaters. When he's locked away,

you can get a divorce.'

'You don't know my husband,' she said.

'I'm going to have to, though. To get the job done I'll need

to know everything about him.'

She blew more smoke at the sky, then stopped and looked

at him through narrowed eyes. 'This is where the whole trust

thing comes into play,' she said. 'Suppose I tell you, and

suppose you decide you'll make more money by talking to

him?'

'I wouldn't have lasted as long as I have if I'd gone around

double-crossing clients,' said Shepherd. 'Word gets about.'

'Can we talk hypothetically?' she said.

'I'd rather talk specifics,' said Shepherd.

She dropped what was left of her cigarette and stubbed it

out with her toe. 'This is such a bad idea,' she muttered.

46

Shepherd said nothing. The approach had to come from

her. If he pressed her in any way he risked becoming an agent provocateur.

She lit another cigarette. 'They can kill you, those things,'

said Shepherd.

'My husband smokes two packs a day and he's as healthy

as a horse,' she said, and shivered.

'How did you get so scared of him?' asked Shepherd.

'It's what he does,' she said. 'He scares people. He makes

them so afraid of him that they do what he wants.'

'And he scared you into marrying him, did he?'

'He's charming with it,' she said. 'He can charm the birds

down from the bloody trees when he puts his mind to it. I

didn't realise then that sociopaths can turn on the charm at

will.' She took a long pull on the cigarette, then let the smoke

seep slowly through her pursed lips. 'Have you ever turned

a job down?'

'I've had people who couldn't raise the money,' said

Shepherd.

'I meant, once you've found out who the target is, have

you ever refused to go ahead?'

'I don't care who the target is,' Shepherd said. 'All I care

about is getting paid. I'm not a vigilante. I don't care why

or who. Just when, where and how much.'

'Have gun, will travel?'

'I'm a professional. It's what I do.' Shepherd was replaying

the conversation in his mind, trying to work out if he had

enough. He was pretty sure he hadn't. It was akin to nailing

a prostitute. He needed Angie to tell him exactly what she

wanted him to do, and how much she was prepared to pay

him. And in an ideal world, he needed her to hand him an

envelope full of cash. He looked at his watch.

'Have you got somewhere else to go?' asked Angie.

'I get the feeling I'm wasting my time here,' he said.

47

Angie sighed. 'I want him dead,' she whispered.

She had spoken so softly that Shepherd doubted the microphone

had caught it. 'And you're prepared to pay me thirty

grand to do it?'

She opened her eyes, nodded and started walking again.

Shepherd cursed inwardly and hurried after her. Whispers

and nods wouldn't count for anything in court.

'Who is it you want me to kill?' he asked, as he drew level

with her.

'I told you. My husband.'

'I need his name, Angie.'

'Charlie. Charlie Kerr.'

'I'm going to need a photograph. You can give me one

with the down-payment.'

She nodded again.

'You can get it?'

Another nod. Shepherd gritted his teeth. The only proof

of the conversation would be the recording, and so far, when

it came to specifics, he had done all the talking.

'Tell me about him,' he said.

'Like what?'

'What he does, where he goes, how he spends his time.'

She held the cigarette inches from her mouth and stared

at the filter. It was smeared with lipstick. Her eyes remained

fixed on it as she answered his question. 'A gangster,' she

hissed. 'He's a fucking gangster.'

'Literally?'

'Literally. Drugs. Protection. He used to rob building societies,

but that was way back when.'

Shepherd ran the name through his mental database but

drew a blank. It wasn't a name he'd come across before. His

memory was virtually perfect so if he'd so much as read the

name in a file or heard it mentioned in conversation he would

have remembered. 'Where do you live?'

48

Angie gave him their address. Hale Barnes. An affluent

suburb of Manchester.

'I guess he doesn't have an office,' said Shepherd.

'He owns a nightclub in the north of the city, Aces. His

little in-joke. Aces. AC's - Angela and Charlie's. Sweet, huh?

Now he uses it to pick up a succession of teenage tramps.

And he has the cheek to tell me that if he ever catches me

with another guy he'll break my legs.'

'He's there every night?'

'He says he is. He tells me to call him on his mobile so

he could be anywhere.'

'Any associates I should know about?'

'Do you want a list?'

'I need to know who's likely to be in the vicinity. Does he

have bodyguards, for instance?'

She dropped the half-smoked cigarette and stamped on it

as if she was stamping on her husband's throat. 'There's Ray

and Eddie. He sees more of them than he does of me, but

I wouldn't call them bodyguards. Eddie drives him around.'

'Do they carry?'

'Carry?'

'Guns. Are they armed?'

'I don't think so. I've never seen Charlie with a gun.'

'You said he deals in drugs. What sort?'

'He doesn't deal, exactly. He imports. Cocaine, mainly.'

'From where?'

'He never says. But we've a place in Spain and whenever

we go to Morocco he disappears with the guys for hours at

a time. He goes to Miami a couple of times a year and that's

business, he says.' She took out the packet of Marlboro and

toyed with it. 'You're having second thoughts, aren't you?'

'What do you mean?'

'Now you know it's Charlie Kerr, big-time gangster, I need

taking out, you're getting cold feet.'

49

'Says who?'

'I can see it in your face.'

Shepherd looked at her, his face blank. 'I'm not scared of

your husband, no matter who he is.'

'I didn't say you were. I said you were having second

thoughts. My husband's a dangerous man. Not the sort you'd

normally come across, I bet.'

'I come across all sorts,' said Shepherd.

'We'll see,' said Angie. She stopped walking and stared at

him. 'So you'll do it? You'll kill him for thirty thousand

pounds?'

Shepherd held her look. Her eyes were burning with a

fierce intensity and she was leaning towards him, so close he

could smell her perfume.

'Is that what you want?' he asked.

'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, it is.'

So that was it. Caught on tape. What she wanted doing

and how much she was prepared to pay. Conspiracy to

commit murder. Life imprisonment. The fact that she was

young and pretty and had an abusive husband meant that

she'd probably get away with seven years, maybe six. She'd

still be pretty when she got out, just not as young. 'I'll need

a number to call you,' he said. 'You blocked your mobile

when you called me last time.'

Angie took out her phone and tapped out his number. His

phone rang and he took it out of his pocket. Her number

was on the screen. 'Got it?' she asked. Shepherd nodded,

and she cancelled the call. 'You're better texting me than

calling,' she said. 'Every time my phone rings he wants to

know who it is.'

Shepherd put away his phone. 'Worst possible scenario

and he wants to know whose number it is, tell him you

clipped my car and it's an insurance job. No damage to yours

but I lost a tail-light. Use the name I gave you. Tony Nelson.'

5O

'That's your real name?'

'It's the name I'm using. That's what you'll call me. And

when this is over, Tony Nelson will no longer exist.'

'And I'll never see you again?'

'Why would you want to? The reason I can get away with

what I do is because no one knows who I am. Even if you

decide to go to the police, what can you tell them? That you

paid a man called Tony Nelson to kill your husband. A man

who doesn't exist.'

'Why would I go to the police?'

'Guilt. Remorse.'

'There'll be no guilt,' she said vehemently. 'He's made my

life a misery.'

'No kids?'

'He can't.' She smiled coldly. 'Low sperm count, the doctors

said, but he won't accept it. Blames me. That's probably why

he screws around as much as he does.' She wrapped her

arms round herself. 'More information than you need, right?'

she said.

'Anything you tell me helps,' said Shepherd. 'When can

you get the money?'

'I'll have to withdraw it from one of my accounts. That's

a problem, isn't it?'

'Because?'

'The cops might check for withdrawals in the days up to

. . .' She hesitated, then finished the sentence.'. . . up to the

day it happens.'

'You just need a cover story,' said Shepherd. She was right,

of course, Shepherd knew, but he didn't want her dragging

things out while she withdrew the cash in dribs and drabs.

He already had enough on tape to charge her with conspiracy,

but the cash would be proof positive. 'Say you were going

gambling. Are you a member of any casinos?'

'A couple in Manchester. Charlie likes to play blackjack.'

5i

'Perfect,' said Shepherd. 'Worst comes to the worst, you

say you went gambling.'

'The casinos keep records,' she said.

'So make sure you go a few times before I do the job. In

fact, as alibis go, you could do a lot worse than be in a casino

- lots of witnesses, and you have a story for where the cash

went.'

'Do you think the police will suspect me?'

'I'll make it look like a gangland hit,' said Shepherd. 'The

police will put it down to a drugs war and do the bare

minimum.'

'Good riddance to bad rubbish?'

'Something like that,' said Shepherd.

She shivered again. 'It's funny, isn't it? It's just another

day, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, people are living

their lives, and we're talking about murder.'

'We have to talk about it. It has to be planned down to

the last detail because if we make one mistake they catch us.

Can you get the fifteen grand by Monday morning?'

She nodded.

'And pictures. The more the merrier. We'll talk about his

schedule once you've paid me the deposit.'

They stood in silence for a while. 'That's it?' Angie said

eventually.

'That's it.'

'I feel like I've just made a deal with the devil.'

'In a way you have.'

She forced a smile, then walked away. Shepherd saw two

of Hargrove's men, both dressed casually, moving parallel to

her as she left the square. They'd follow her back to her car

and would be in radio contact with two motorcyclists who

had parked close by. By nightfall they would know all there

was to know about Angie Kerr and her gangster husband.

Shepherd headed back to the multi-storey car park,

52

checking reflections in office windows and car wing mirrors

to make sure he wasn't being followed. Angie Kerr was the

suspicious type and he wouldn't put it past her to have

someone tail him. Just as he had satisfied himself that no one

was behind him, his mobile rang. 'Looking good, Spider,'

said the superintendent.

'You heard everything?'

'We lost you a few times but we got the gist,' said Hargrove.

'That plus the fifteen grand will nail it for us. Our guys are

on her tail as we speak.'

'I'm on my way back now,' said Shepherd.

'Don't bother. We're in a side-street overlooking the square

- we'll pick you up. Where are you?'

Shepherd gave him directions, and five minutes later the

Transit pulled up. Shepherd climbed into the back. Singh

pulled the attache case out of his hands. The superintendent

took a swig of Evian water. 'We didn't get much from the

directional microphones but the case worked a treat.'

'Of course it did,' said Singh, caressing it as if it were a

favourite cat.

Shepherd grinned at his enthusiasm and patted him on

the back. 'We're done?' he asked.

'Absolutely,' said Hargrove.

Shepherd climbed out of the van. He took a circuitous

route to the warehouse conversion and used his swipe card

to open the outer door. His flat was on the second floor. He

kept nothing of himself in it. If anyone should become suspicious

of Tony Nelson, they could search it for hours and

never find a clue as to his real identity. The utility bills were

in Nelson's name, paid for by direct debit from a bank account

that would stand up to any scrutiny. The flat had been decorated

and furnished by the landlord: white walls, light oak

floors, pine furniture ordered from the Habitat catalogue.

Shepherd took a bottle of lager from the stainless-steel fridge

53

in the kitchen and sat down on the white canvas square

armed sofa in front of the television.

He looked at the clock on top of the empty bookcase. Six

thirty. He'd finish the beer, have a shower, then phone Liam.

He took the two mobiles from his jacket pocket and put them

on the glass-topped coffee-table. He sipped his lager. If all

went to plan he'd be back in London on Monday afternoon.

Hargrove hadn't mentioned a new assignment so there was

a chance that he could take a few days off. It would give him

time to fix up an au pair and get the house ready for Liam's

return. He took a drink from the bottle. He might even make

a start on clearing out Sue's things. It was about time.

He lay back on the sofa and rested the bottle on his stomach. It had been a hell of a day. Driving from Manchester to

Hereford and back, then straight into the Angie Kerr sting.

One hell of a day.

Keith Rose couldn't help smiling as he drove west on the

M25. Here he was, fifteen years into a career with the

Metropolitan Police, two awards for bravery on the living

room wall, and he had ten kilos of heroin in the boot of his

car on the way to his very own drugs deal. 'Funny old world,'

he whispered.

He'd thought long and hard about what he should do with

the heroin they'd taken from the crack house in Harlesden. In

a perfect world he'd have dumped the polythene-wrapped

packages in the nearest landfill or lake, but the world wasn't

perfect and ten kilos of grade-four heroin was worth more

than three-quarters of a million pounds on the street. Not that

he would get anywhere near that amount. Three-quarters of

a million was what the drug was worth when it was cut with

whatever the dealers had to hand and sold on to addicts in

single-dose wraps. The Yardies had probably paid about three

hundred grand for it. The only way Rose could get that sort

54

of money for the heroin was if he were to sell it on to street

dealers and that was too much of a risk. The only way to

sell it safely was to pass it on to an importer at a price below

the cost of bringing it into the country. It was a simple matter

of economics. A street dealer had to pay between twenty and

thirty thousand pounds a kilo. An importer bringing it in

from the Continent would pay half that. So, to an importer

in the UK, the heroin in Rose's boot was worth a maximum

of fifteen thousand pounds a kilo. And it would have to be

even cheaper than that for them to risk doing business with

someone they didn't know.

The problem for Rose was that most of the major drugs

,, importers were under surveillance by the Drugs Squad or

' MI5. And the smart ones were so cagey that they would only

do business with people they knew. Which meant that Rose

would be putting his career, if not his life, on the line for a

hundred and fifty grand at best. And he had to split that two

ways. Seventy-five grand wasn't much in the grand scheme

of things. Two years' salary, give or take. Which meant plan

I B: take the drugs to Ireland. Irish prices were generally

twenty or thirty per cent higher than in Britain - a reflection

of the Celtic Tiger's healthy economy and the fact that

most of the drugs sold on there were brought from England

- and the Garda Siochana, the Irish police force, was about

as efficient as the Keystone Cops on a bad day. Also there

was no real equivalent of MI5. The Irish Defence Forces

11 Military Intelligence G2 Branch and the Garda's Special

Branch C3 Section concentrated on terrorism and counterintelligence,

so drugs were left to the boys in blue.

Half an hour on the Police National Computer was all it

had taken for Rose to compile a list of the top three drug

barons in the Irish Republic with their addresses. All had

done business at one time or another with an Irish crime

family in North London and were known to the Drugs Squad.

55

I

All were put under surveillance whenever they set foot on

British soil, but they weren't stupid: they rarely visited the

UK and even avoided stopovers at Heathrow en route to their

villas in Spain.

They were ex-directory, but Rose's method of contacting

them had been simplicity itself. He had sent a one-ounce

package of his heroin by regular mail to each man, with a

laser-printed note saying he had ten kilos for sale at twenty

thousand euros a kilo, delivery in Ireland, and the number

of a pay-as-you-go mobile that he'd bought in a shop on the

Edgware Road. Two had replied. One had sent a text message

in two words, one of which was an obscenity. The other had

phoned late at night and started by telling Rose of all the

terrible things that would happen to him if he was messing

them around. Then he said they wanted to see the gear. He

promised to call when he was in Dublin and the man had

given him a mobile number. Game on. You didn't have to

be especially clever to be a drugs dealer, just careful. And,

as gamekeeper-turned-poacher, Keith Rose knew how careful

to be.

The heroin they'd taken from the Harlesden flat was

double-wrapped in thick polythene so a drugs dog wouldn't

so much as wag its tail if it stumbled across it, but Rose knew

that the chances of him being checked when he drove his

car off the ferry from Holyhead to Dublin were next to zero.

And, in the unlikely event that he was stopped, he'd produce

his warrant card before they even thought about giving his

car the once-over. If plan B went as well as he expected, he'd

be back in London with two hundred thousand euros within

twenty-four hours. Having taken the opportunity to down a

couple of pints of the genuine black stuff.

A band was playing, far off in the distance. Shepherd groaned

and opened his eyes. There was a bitter taste in his mouth.

56

One of his mobiles was ringing. He groped for it. Hargrove's

phone. He swung his feet off the sofa and took the call.

'What's wrong?' he asked.

'Nothing, but we need to meet tomorrow,' said the superintendent.

'Charlie Kerr's a bit out of the ordinary. I have to

run some things by you before Monday.'

Shepherd rubbed a hand over his face. The lager bottle

lay on its side by one of the sofa legs. He must have fallen

asleep with it in his hand. 'Fine. Where and when?'

'I'll let you have a lie-in,' said Hargrove. 'Let's say three

o'clock. There's a rugby field in Trafford by a pub called the

Golden Fleece.'

'I'll be there. Everything's okay, right?' He looked out of

the floor-to-ceiling window that took up most of the left

hand side of the apartment. It was dark outside. A full moon

hung in the pitch black sky, the night so clear that he could

see the craters that pockmarked its surface.

'Everything's fine. I'll brief you tomorrow.'

Shepherd cut the connection and stared at the phone. It

was half past eleven. He cursed. He dialled Moira's number

and groaned inwardly when Tom answered the phone. He

apologised for phoning so late.

'It's almost midnight.' Tom groaned.

'I promised to call Liam before he went to sleep.'

'He's been in bed for hours.'

Shepherd apologised again, but before he'd finished Moira

had taken the phone from her husband. 'Daniel, this isn't

good enough, it really isn't.'

'I fell asleep,' said Shepherd, lamely.

'And your son cried himself to sleep,' said Moira. 'I let

him stay up until ten and that's an hour past his weekend

bedtime. You promised, Daniel, and you shouldn't make

promises you can't keep.'

'It wasn't a question of not keeping a promise,' said

57

Shepherd. 'I fell asleep, that's all. It wasn't deliberate.'

'Whatever, he's asleep now. Call again tomorrow. And

think of how much your thoughtlessness has hurt him.'

She cut the connection. Shepherd lay back on the sofa and

stared up at the ceiling. His mother-in-law was right. He'd

let his son down yet again. His stomach churned and he felt

like throwing up. He'd cut short his promised visit, he'd fallen

asleep when he'd promised to phone and he'd left his son in

storage, like unwanted furniture. If there had been a prize

for worst father of the year, he'd win it. He made a silent

promise to himself: as soon as the Angie Kerr job was tucked

away, he'd make it up to Liam. He'd show his son just how

good a father he could be.

Rose spent two hours driving around the north of Dublin

looking for a suitable place to hand over the drugs, then

spent the night in a cheap bed-and-breakfast. Before he went

to sleep he phoned his wife and told her he was on a surveillance

operation at Gatwick Airport and that he loved her.

He spent five minutes talking to his daughter, then he phoned

the Irish mobile number and told the man who answered

that he would show him the heroin at eleven o'clock in the

morning. He had the venue already planned and the Irishman

didn't argue. After making the second call he slept a dreamless

sleep.

Breakfast was a full Irish - eggs, bacon, sausage, white

pudding, black pudding, potato scone, fried bread - and

Rose cleared his plate before he drove to the airport. He left

his car in the short-term car park and walked to the arrivals

terminal where he picked up the keys to a rental. He drove

it to the short-term car park, and when he was sure he wasn't

being watched he switched the drugs and a cloth-wrapped

bundle to the new car, then drove out of the airport whistling

to himself.

58

The place he'd chosen for the handover was the car park

of a pub on the edge of a rough housing scheme - blocks

of flats with broken windows and graffiti, shopfronts protected

by roll-down metal shutters. It didn't look the sort of place

that was regularly visited by the Garda, and he doubted that

any of the locals would be members of a Neighbourhood

Watch scheme.There were no CCTV cameras and the nearest

police station was five miles away. According to the Police

National Computer, it was slap in the middle of the area

controlled by the gang that was going to buy the heroin. Rose

had thought they'd be more relaxed on their home turf, less

likely to be trigger happy.

He arrived half an hour before the time he'd told the

Irishman. He parked with the front of his car facing the road

and slid the cloth-wrapped bundle between his legs. He was

wearing sunglasses and leather gloves, with a baseball cap

pulled down over his face. A ten-year-old Mercedes pulled

into the car park at a quarter to eleven. There were four men

in it and Rose recognised two of the faces from the computer

files. They were enforcers. The man who ran the gang was

keeping his distance, but Rose had expected as much. He

flashed his headlights and the Mercedes rolled slowly across

the car park.

Rose stayed in his car. The rear doors of the Mercedes

opened and two men walked towards him. They wore long

coats that flapped in the wind, and had their hands in the

pockets. Rose wound down the window. 'Can you guys do

me a favour and stop where you are?' he called.

The two men halted, a dozen paces from the car. 'Have

youse got the gear?' said the taller of the two. Six feet two,

maybe, with wide shoulders hunched against the wind that

blew between the blocks of flats. His nose was almost flattened

against his face. A boxer's nose.

'Have you got the money?'

59

'We're gonna have to see the gear before youse gets to see

the cash.'

'I've no problem with that, but just so we know where we

stand, what are you carrying?'

The boxer frowned. 'What?'

Rose smiled patiently. 'What sort of weaponry have you got

under your coats? I'm guessing handguns or a sawn-off at

most.' He raised the gun he was holding, just enough so that

they could see what it was. 'I've got an Ingram MAC 10, which

fires eleven hundred rounds per minute and holds thirty in

the magazine so I don't want you making me nervous - if my

trigger finger gets jumpy I could accidentally empty the whole

clip in less time than you could say .. . well, before you could

open your mouth, actually.' He glanced at the weapon in his

hand. 'Recoil-operated, select-fire submachine-gun, fires from

an open bolt. Nice, but not especially accurate beyond twenty

five metres. And in case you're wondering, yes, it would shoot

right through the panel of this door. And with the silencer,

not too many people would hear it. Not that they'd give a

shit around here anyway.'

The two men looked at each other, then back at Rose,

whose smile widened. 'I'm not trying to pull a fast one on

you,' he added. 'I just want us to know where we all stand.

Let's see what you've got.'

The boxer slid his right hand out of his pocket. An automatic,

probably a Colt. The other pulled back his coat: a

Kalashnikov assault rifle with a folding stock hung from a

nylon sling.

'Nice,' said Rose. The file had mentioned the gang's links

to former paramilitaries so the Kalashnikov wasn't a surprise.

'So, if the shit does hit the proverbial, it's going to get very

noisy and very messy. I'm just here to sell the gear and get

back over the water. It's good stuff, and it's pure as the

driven, so you're getting a hell of a good deal.'

60

'Youse could be the cops,' said the boxer.

'I could be, but my accent alone should let you know that

I'm not working for the Garda. And the fact that I'm cradling

a MAC 10 in my hot little hands sort of puts paid to any

undercover police operation, doesn't it?'

The boxer nodded slowly. 'So now what do we do?'

'I show you the gear. You show me the money. When we're

both happy, we exchange and go our separate ways.'

'Where is it?'

'The boot. Where's the money?'

'Back seat.'

'Okay. Why don't you get into the seat here next to me

while your mate with the heavy artillery checks the gear?'

'Youse wouldn't have an itchy trigger finger, would you?'

'I know what I'm doing,' said Rose.

The boxer sighed, opened the passenger door and climbed

in. He had his gun in his lap, the barrel pointing at the dashboard.

Rose popped open the boot and watched in his rearview

mirror as the guy with the Kalashnikov went to the

back of the car.

'Youse came alone?' mused the boxer.

'I just want to sell the merchandise,' said Rose. 'I don't

want to start a gang war. I thought if I turned up mob

handed you'd get jumpy and that's the last thing we need.'

'Where did youse get it from?'

Rose tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. 'Need

to know,' he said.

The guy with the Kalashnikov bent down and disappeared

from Rose's view. Rose was relaxed, but he kept his finger on the trigger.

'Youse look like a cop.'

'Yeah, everyone says that.'

'Except you're as nervous as a cat in a kennel right now,

which you wouldn't be if youse had backup.'

61

'I've no back-up. Trust me on that. But I do have a gun

that can fire eleven hundred bullets a second so tell your

mate to get a move on, will you?'

The boxer gave him a curt nod and shouted something

in Gaelic to his colleague.

'English,' said Rose. 'If you don't mind.'

'How does it look, Kieran?' shouted the boxer.

Rose took his eyes off the rear-view mirror and checked

out the Mercedes. The driver had his hands on the steering

wheel. The front passenger was sitting stony-faced, chewing

gum.

'Looks good,' said Kieran. He walked to the passenger side

of Rose's car. 'Ten kilos. Good stuff. The man walks the

walk.'

'So far so good,' said the boxer. 'Now, how do youse want

to play it?'

'You and I walk over to your car and check the money.

Kieran stays in front of us and keeps his hands away from

the Kalashnikov.'

The boxer climbed slowly out of the car. Rose did the

same, sliding the MAC 10 under his jacket as he closed the

door. Kieran walked to the Mercedes, his long coat flapping

behind him. Rose accompanied the boxer, his finger still on

the MAC 10 trigger. He scanned the windows of the flats

overlooking the car park but no one was watching. Two

plump teenage girls pushed prams away from the block

entrance, smoking and swearing.

They reached the Mercedes and Kieran pulled open the

rear doors. There were two black Adidas gym bags on

the back seat. He pulled them out and swung them on to

the boot.

'Watch the paintwork, will youse?' snarled the boxer.

Kieran unzipped one of the bags and stepped to the side.

He kept his hands free, a faint smile on his face. Rose peered

62

li

inside the bag. It was full of bundles of fifty-euro notes. He

pulled one out at random and flicked through it. Then he

sniffed it.

The boxer laughed. 'Think we printed them ourselves?'

Rose put back the bundle and unzipped the second bag.

He checked another bundle at random. It seemed genuine,

and all the notes were used. If they had been counterfeit they

would all have been new, Rose thought. He stepped back

from the car. 'Everything looks cool,' he said.

'Youse don't want to count it?'

'I trust you,' said Rose, deadpan. 'Plus, you rip me off for

a few grand, so what? I didn't see you weighing the gear to

see if I'm a few ounces short. It's all based on trust at the

end of the day. Trust and artillery.'

'Trust and artillery,' said the boxer. 'I like that.'

'Kieran can put the bags in my boot, and take the gear.'

The boxer nodded at Kieran, who transferred the money

and carried the heroin to the boot of the Mercedes and

slammed it shut.

Rose backed towards his car, ready to swing out the MAC

10 at the first sign of a double-cross, but Kieran slid into the

back seat of the Mercedes. 'It's been a pleasure doing business

with youse,' said the boxer, throwing Rose an ironic

salute. 'Have a safe trip home.' He got into the back of the

car, slammed the door and the vehicle rolled slowly out of

the car park.

Rose watched as it drove away, white plumes feathering

from the exhaust. His heart was hammering in his chest but

he wanted to throw back his head and howl in triumph. He'd

done it. He'd bloody well done it.

The bad guy popped his head up from behind a crate and

Liam fired twice with the shotgun. The man's skull exploded

with a satisfying pop and brains splattered over the wall

63

behind him. Two more bad guys appeared from behind a

row of oil barrels, brandishing axes. Liam reloaded smoothly

and blew them away.

'Don't those things carry parental warnings?' asked Moira.

She was carrying a tray with a glass of orange juice and some

fig rolls on it.

'Parents don't play video games, Gran,' said Liam, his eyes

never leaving the screen. His thumbs flashed over the handset

and two more villains slumped to the ground.

'You know what I mean, young man. Don't be cheeky,'

she admonished him, as she placed the tray on the coffee

table.

'Sorry, Gran,' said Liam. He reloaded and waited for a

bad guy to appear at the top of the stairs, then shot him in

the chest.

Moira sat down on the sofa next to Liam. 'Did your father

buy you that?'

'Nah, he got me two racing games. I got this with my

pocket money.'

'An hour we said, remember? An hour a day.'

'Okay.'

'Would you mind switching it off and talking to me?'

'Gran . . .'

'I'd like to talk to you.'

Liam sighed and switched off the console. He reached for

his orange juice and gulped it down.

'You know your granddad and I love having you here,' she

said.

Liam wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

'And you're happy at school?'

'It's okay.'

'But it's a good school, isn't it? And there's a better mix

of children in your class. Not as many . . . well, you know

what I mean, don't you? It's not like London.'

64

'The teachers are nice,' said Liam, 'and I like walking to

school.'

'There you are, then,' said Moira. 'You like your room

here, too, don't you?'

Liam nodded, and bit into a biscuit.

'Your granddad and I were thinking that perhaps you'd

like to stay with us.'

Liam frowned. 'For ever?'

'Not necessarily, no,' said Moira, hurriedly. 'But your

father's very busy at work, you know that. And remember

what happened last night. He said he'd phone but he didn't.

He isn't very reliable, so Granddad and I think you might

be better off here with us.'

'Is this Dad's idea?' asked Liam. Tears sprang to his eyes.

Moira put her arm round his shoulders. 'No, it's not. He's

still talking about you going to London to be with him. But

it's going to be difficult, and it might be better for him if

you stayed here.'

Liam wiped his eyes on his sleeve. 'It isn't fair.'

'What do you mean?' asked Moira.

'It's like you're all trying to force me to do something I

don't want to do.'

'No one's trying to force you to do anything, Liam.'

'Dad never asked me if I wanted to come and stay here.

He just dumped me.'

'Now you're being silly.'

'He doesn't want me. That's why he left me here and it's

why he didn't call.'

'He does want you, Liam, of course he does. We want you,

too - and we all want what's best for you.'

'I want to be with my mum!'

'Liam!' Moira protested. 'Calm down.'

'I don't want to! I wish I was with Mum right now. I wish

I was dead like her!'

65

Liam rushed out of the room, knocking over his glass with

what remained of the juice.

Tom came in from the garden as Moira was dabbing at

the carpet with a damp cloth. 'I heard shouting, what's wrong?'

Moira shook her head. 'Nothing,' she said. 'Nothing's

wrong.'

Even from the far side of the field Shepherd could hear

the crunch of bone against bone as the two men collided

at full pelt. The rugby ball bounced into touch and the two

men helped each other up, grins on their mud-splattered

faces.

Hargrove was sitting on a wooden bench outside the pub,

which overlooked the rugby pitch. Shepherd sat down next

to him, wearing his black leather jacket and blue jeans. He

hadn't shaved.The superintendent was immaculately dressed

as always, in a pristine blue blazer, grey flannels and gleaming

brogues. He sipped his shandy. 'Can I get you a drink,

Spider?'

'I'm okay,' said Shepherd. He stretched out his legs and

sighed.

'Not a rugby player, are you?' asked the superintendent.

'Not really, no.'

'Too many rules?' said Hargrove.

'Something like that.'

'I'm a cricket man myself,' said Hargrove. 'Never understood

why it isn't played all year round.'

'The weather, maybe,' said Shepherd.

'The thing I like about it is that it's a team game,' said

Hargrove, ignoring Shepherd's comment. 'But at the same

time you function as an individual. When you're batting, it's

all down to you. No back-up, no support. When you're

fielding, you're working as a team.'

Play restarted on the pitch, but after a few seconds there

66

was another juddering crunch, three players went down and

the referee blew his whistle.

'You're a runner, right?' asked Hargrove.

'It's a way of keeping fit,' Shepherd said. 'I don't run for

fun.'

'What do you do for fun?'

Shepherd ran a hand through his unkempt hair. It was a

good question. He used to go to the cinema and for long

walks. He used to eat, drink and make merry. But that was

before Sue had died. He still tried to have fun with Liam,

but more out of parental duty than from the desire to enjoy

himself. He'd kick a football with his son, play video games

and take him to matches, but no matter how much he loved

Liam, the boy was an ever-present reminder of the wife he'd

lost. Fun hadn't been a major part of his life in recent months.

Hargrove took a sip of his shandy. 'Charlie Kerr,' he said.

'We've opened a real can of worms.'

Shepherd looked across at him. 'He's known?'

Hargrove smiled. 'Oh, yes. Not Premier Division yet, but

on the way. Greater Manchester Drugs Squad have been on

to him for a while. The Firm and the Church have been

keeping a watching brief.'

The Firm: MI5. It had been tasked with targeting big-time

drugs-dealers and career criminals after the fall of the Soviet

Union and the IRA's decision to start peace talks had left

the Security Service with little to do. And the Church:

Customs and Excise.

'Why just a watching brief?' asked Shepherd.

'Kerr's one of the smart ones. Doesn't go near the gear,

doesn't touch the cash. It's a question of resources. It would

cost millions to put him away. They've been hoping that

eventually he'll deal with someone they've turned.'

Hargrove took a CD Rom in a plastic case from his blazer

pocket and handed it to Shepherd. 'Those are the files on

67

him. Surveillance pictures, known associates, all the intel we

have.'

Shepherd pocketed the disk. He knew that the nature of

the investigation was about to change, but he waited for the

superintendent to continue. Spectators cheered as a bald,

burly player ran a good fifty yards down the pitch and hurled

himself between the posts. The referee's whistle blew long

and hard.

'He runs a sideline in protection rackets but that's a hangover

from his old days. Now he leaves that pretty much up

to one of his heavies, Eddie Anderson. His nightclubs are

busy, but they're money-laundering set-ups more than

anything.'

And a source of eager young girls, Angie had said. The

woman scorned. The woman whose life was about to change

for ever, and not for the better, thought Shepherd.

'Kerr's father was an old-school villain, Billy Kerr. Armed

robber who got involved in the drugs trade in the late eighties.

Got shot on the Costa del Crime a few years back.

Professional hit, but there was never anyone in the frame for

it.'

'So Charlie's following in his father's footsteps?'

'Seems that way. But he's self-made. He was only a teenager

when his dad was killed. He was living with his mother. She

and Kerr had separated not long after he was born and Kerr

had almost no hand in raising him. Must have been in his

genes.' Play started again on the pitch. 'This could be a

godsend, Spider.'

'Maybe,' said Shepherd.

'We've got her on tape, conspiracy to murder. If she turns

up with the cash tomorrow, that's the icing on the cake. If

we offer her a way out, there's a good chance she'll take it.'

'She's scared to death of him.'

'She doesn't have a choice,' said Hargrove. 'No real choice,

68

anyway. If she goes down he'll know exactly what she was

planning. He might decide that life behind bars is punishment

enough, but a guy with his resources can have someone

killed in prison just as easily as on the outside. If she gives

evidence against him, though, he'll be the one behind bars.'

'Yeah, but she's not stupid. She'll know that just because

he's banged up doesn't mean he can't have her killed,' said

Shepherd.

'So she's damned if she does and damned if she doesn't,'

said Hargrove. 'At least we can offer her protection. A new

identity. The works.'

'Plus she gets to keep his money?'

'Anything that's not confiscated as the proceeds of crime,'

agreed Hargrove. 'That's got to sound more attractive than

life behind bars.'

Shepherd stretched out his legs. If it had been a simple

matter of offering Angie Kerr the choice of two evils, there

would have been no need to give him the files on her husband.

Hargrove obviously wanted him to make the approach.

'We'll only get one shot,' said Shepherd. 'If she turns us

down, Kerr will know we're on to him and go to ground.'

'Which means we're no worse off than we are now,' said

Hargrove.

'And we've no idea how much she knows about her

husband's operation.'

'Exactly,' said Hargrove.

'Which is where I come in?'

Hargrove looked at Shepherd. 'Are you okay about this?'

'It's messy,' said Shepherd, 'getting close to the wife to get

to the husband.'

'No one's asking you to get into bed with her, Spider,' said

the superintendent. 'Just find out how much she knows about

his business. It could be that he keeps her in the dark, in

which case she's no use to us.'

69

'And we charge her with conspiracy anyway? Even though

there's a good chance he'll have her killed?'

'She's the one who's hired a killer. We can't let her walk

just because her husband's a villain.'

'A drugs baron who knocks her around, who terrorises her

and screws anything in a short skirt?'

The superintendent raised an eyebrow quizzically. 'You're

not going soft on me, are you?'

'It's not about being soft. It's about justice. You're saying

that if we can't put him away, even though he's a grade-A

villain, we'll make do with wifey.'

'If you feel that strongly about it, make sure there's enough

to put him away. And if wifey helps, wifey walks. Look,

there's a whole series of imponderables we have to nail down.

We have to find out how much she knows about Kerr's wrongdoing,

then see if she's prepared to give evidence against him

- as his wife she's entitled to refuse. And if she is prepared

to help, we'll need evidence to back it up.'

'What about Sewell?' asked Shepherd. 'He's not going to

be happy about being kept under wraps.'

'Leave Sewell to me.'

'What about resources?'

'Whatever we need. Greater Manchester Police will be

footing the bill.'

And taking the credit if we bring Kerr down, thought

Shepherd, ruefully. It was always that way. Hargrove's undercover

unit had a roving brief: forces around the country put

in a request to the Home Office whenever they needed the

unit's services, and Hargrove reported to the Home Secretary.

The members of the unit never took credit for their successes

and never appeared in court. They simply amassed the

evidence, put the case together and moved on. Taking credit

would mean blowing their cover, and the last thing an undercover

policeman needed was publicity.

70

Shepherd stood up. 'I'll make a call, tell her I need more

info.'

'And get the deposit. We need it on video.'

Shepherd walked away, hands in his pockets. He didn't

look back, but could feel Hargrove watching him. He cursed

under his breath. The Angie Kerr job wasn't going to be as

cut and dried as he'd hoped, and every day in Manchester

was a day away from his son.

Rose drove back to the airport and parked the rental car next

to his own vehicle. He checked that no one was around, then

transferred the MAC 10 to the boot of his car. Customs

checks into the UK were as cursory as those into Ireland so

he had no qualms about taking it back to London.

He took the rental back to its drop-off point, then retrieved

his own car and drove it to the ferry terminal. He had an

hour's wait before boarding. His mobile rang as he was

getting out of his car. 'It's good gear you've sold us,' said a

voice. A guttural Irish accent. Not the boxer and not the man

to whom Rose had spoken on the phone before.

'I told you so,' said Rose. He headed up the metal stairway

to the main deck.

'And your price was fair. Would you be able to get us

more?'

'Maybe,' said Rose.

'You know where we are,' said the man.

'Yes,' said Rose. He cut the connection and walked up on

to the deck. He watched as the remaining cars drove on to

the ferry. As they left Dublin port and headed across the

Irish Sea, he took the Sim card out of the phone and flicked

it out over the waves.

Shepherd made himself a cup of coffee, then slotted the CD

into his laptop. The information on the disk was password

7i

protected and Shepherd keyed in the eight-digit number that

would give him access. It was one of the perks of having a

near-photographic memory: he never had to remember a

password or phone number.

The files were split into three sections: MI5, Customs

and Excise, and the Greater Manchester Police Drugs

Squad. The MI5 file was the largest but contained little

intelligence. It consisted mainly of copies of wire-tap authorisations

and transcripts of conversations that Charlie Kerr

had made over the previous eighteen months, none of which

appeared to have had anything to do with drugs. Hargrove

had been right: the Security Service had nothing more than

a watching brief, and if all they were doing was monitoring

his phone traffic then they didn't stand a chance of getting

anything on him. A criminal of Kerr's calibre would hardly

start organising cocaine shipments by phone, even using

pay-as-you-go mobiles. MI5 had access to the Echelon

eavesdropping system, a joint venture between the United

States, Great Britain and New Zealand, which allowed for

the world-wide monitoring of all phone and email conversations.

It was also equipped with voice-recognition so

accurate it could identify a target from among millions of

conversations. But listening to Kerr and catching him in

the act of setting up a major drugs deal were two different

things. The only way to get him would be to use an undercover

agent, or persuade a family member or associate to

inform on him.

The Customs and Excise file was a tenth the size of MIs's,

but it contained surveillance photographs of Charlie and

Angie arriving at Heathrow airport and leaving Malaga

airport. Kerr was balding, a big man with broad shoulders.

He was a head taller than Angie and in several of the photographs

he had an arm round her as if he wanted to establish

ownership. There were also photographs of them at their

72

villa in Spain, and at various restaurants with several Costa

del Crime faces. There was nothing wrong with the Kerrs

wining and dining with major criminals, of course, drinking

Dom Perignon and tipping with fifty-euro notes. It wasn't a

criminal offence to associate with villains. Yet. There were

reports of Kerr's trips to the United States, Drug Enforcement

Administration and FBI reports on whom he had met in

Miami. There was no information on any pending US investigations

in the file, so either they weren't telling the Church

or the Church was playing Secret Squirrel with its overseas

information.

In theory, the intelligence services, Customs and the police

were supposed to co-operate on major cases, but in practice

they guarded their turf jealously. There was a lot of resentment

on behalf of the police and Customs that MI5 had

moved into anti-drugs work. The Security Service had shown

little interest in catching drugs barons until their own jobs

were on the line and now whenever they were involved in a

major seizure their press-relations people went into overdrive,

trumpeting every drugs bust as a major victory for

MI5. Also the spies were able to operate in decidedly grey

areas, while the police had to follow the Police and Criminal

Evidence Act to the letter. And while Customs had to fight

for every penny of its budget, it seemed that MI5 had a blank

cheque book to play with.

Customs had tried using an undercover agent to infiltrate

Kerr's circle in Marbella, but two weeks into the investigation

he'd been sussed and had made a rapid withdrawal. He

was only identified by his cover name in the reports he'd

filed. There was nothing in them that would have resulted in

charges: he had met with Kerr three times in various nightclubs

but the only conversations they'd had were social chitchat.

According to the agent, Charlie Kerr was notoriously

unfaithful to his wife, and on the nights he was out without

73

her he usually ended up bedding one pretty girl or another,

although he was always back in his villa by dawn. The agent

had suggested sending in a pretty female undercover agent

but the head of Drugs Operations had vetoed a honey trap.

Charlie Kerr was too dangerous: a borderline psychopath.

The Marbella operation had been aborted one night after

the agent had been out in a group with two of Kerr's associates,

Ray Wates and Eddie Anderson - the men Angie had

talked about. They'd sat on either side of the agent and plied

him with drink. When Charlie had left with a young Spanish

waitress they'd suggested they move on to another club. The

agent had had a bad feeling about the way the men were

smiling at him. He'd pretended to be more drunk than he

was and said he had to go to the bathroom. He'd broken a

window, climbed down a drainpipe and caught a plane back

to London. Shepherd understood the man's decision.

Sometimes you had to go with your instincts. If a situation

felt wrong it probably was.

The police file contained more hard intelligence than those

of MI5 and the Church put together. In his mid-twenties

Charlie Kerr had been charged with armed robbery three

times. Each time the case had collapsed before it had got to

court. Witnesses were intimidated or paid off; evidence mysteriously

disappeared. In one case CCTV footage was wiped

in police custody. Kerr was thought to have been responsible

for more than two dozen building-society and bank

robberies over a five-year period, netting, according to police

estimates, close to a quarter of a million pounds. Sometimes

he worked alone, sometimes with a partner, and he hadn't

served a day in prison. He had a criminal record, though,

for an assault on his eighteenth birthday: he'd bitten the ear

off a middle-aged man in a pub and had been given a year's

probation after three witnesses swore that he had been

provoked. It was the only time he had been in court but it

74

meant that his fingerprints, teeth impressions and DNA were

in the system.

Kerr had channelled the profits from the robberies into

drugs but, because of his record, he took more care than

most to cover his tracks. He was paranoid about phones and

did virtually all his business outdoors, face to face. There

were hundreds of surveillance photographs in his police file,

but no hard evidence of drugs-dealing. The police had looked

into Kerr's nightclubs, and while they were sure he was

using them to launder his drugs profits, they hadn't been

able to prove it. There were also rumours that his men were

extorting money from other nightclubs in the Manchester

area, but only one owner had ever complained officially his

club had burned down the next day and he left the city

shortly afterwards.

Shepherd read the file with a heavy heart. It was always

the really nasty pieces of work who got away with it. Petty

thieves, small-time pimps, street-corner drugs-dealers were

rounded up, tried and packed off to prison. But the real

villains were virtually untouchable. They surrounded themselves

with physical and legal protection, intimidated or

bought their way out of trouble, and caused untold misery

to the population at large. Time and again, in police and

1 Customs files he saw appeals for major investigations turned

down because the resources weren't available: it was too

expensive to put together a case that was guaranteed to result

in a conviction. And the powers-that-be couldn't afford to

move against the likes of Kerr without a guarantee of success.

If the case collapsed they would look incompetent, so it was

I easier, and safer, not to try.

The Drugs Squad had tried working its way up the chain,

picking up dealers on the street with balloons of heroin in

their mouths, then using the threat of a jail sentence to get

them to roll over on their supplier. They'd had some success,

75

putting two major wholesalers away, but they couldn't get

near Kerr or his associates. People were simply too scared

to give evidence against him.

Shepherd sat back and ran his hands through his hair. What

about Angie? She, more than anyone, must know what her

husband was capable of. Would she be prepared to go into

the witness box and tell a court how he brought hundreds of

kilos of heroin and cocaine into the country? And what about

afterwards? If the Crown could find a non-corruptible jury

and a judge who couldn't be paid off or intimidated, and if

Charlie Kerr was sent down for ten or fifteen years, what

would happen to her? A lifetime in witness protection? Or a bullet in the head from the contract killer that Kerr would

surely put on her trail to show the world that you never went

up against Charlie Kerr?

Angie Kerr's life as she knew it was about to end. If she

refused to help the police she'd go to prison on conspiracy

to murder. If she co-operated, she'd be in hiding for the rest

of her life. And Shepherd knew that anyone could be found

eventually, providing you had time and money. And Charlie

Kerr had plenty of both.

Roger Sewell finished drying himself and tried to pull on the

hotel robe. It would barely have fitted a man half his size and

he couldn't get it across his shoulders. He swore and flung it

away from him. The hotel room was eight paces from door to

window, and six from the bed's headboard to the TV cabinet.

Sewell knew this because he had spent the best part of the day

pacing up and down, cursing Larry Hendrickson for wanting

him dead, and the police for keeping him locked in a room the

size of a cell. He'd only agreed to co-operate in the first place

because he wanted to see Hendrickson behind bars, but right

now Hendrickson was probably wining and dining a couple of

escort girls in one of Manchester's top clubs.

76

I

Sewell glared at the half-eaten cheeseburger and chips

on the dressing-table. He hadn't stayed in anything below

four stars since his teenage years. The food was terrible

and they didn't have a bottle of wine for more than twenty

pounds. Sewell wouldn't ask a dog to live in the place, but

the cops seemed to think it was acceptable to ask him to

stay put for another two days. And Sewell hadn't been fooled

by the smooth-talking Superintendent Hargrove. Something

had obviously gone wrong and they wanted to keep him

on ice until they'd covered their arses. He didn't believe

Hargrove's story about there being another contract. They'd

screwed up their investigation and Sewell was paying the

price.

He wrapped a towel around his waist, picked up the

remote control and flicked through the TV channels.

Nothing but soap operas and quiz shows. There were at

least three policemen downstairs so there was no way he

could leave the hotel. When they'd first told him about

Hendrickson's plan, they'd asked him not to tell anyone

else, not even his family. Not that Sewell had much in the

way of family. A mother in a nursing-home in North Wales,

a sister who'd got halfway round the world during her gap

year, married an Australian and never come home, and a

couple of elderly aunts. If Sewell died, the only people at

his funeral would be business acquaintances - he had fewer

friends than he had relatives. He had followed instructions

and no one knew where he was. But that meant he didn't

know what Hendrickson was doing with the company, or

its money. If Hendrickson was sure he'd got away with

murdering Sewell, he wouldn't hurry to take over the

company. He would probably wait a few days before he

reported him missing, then bring in his own man as cosignatory

on the bank accounts and sell the company. He

had been pestering Sewell to sell for the past three years

77

but he had always refused. Sewell owned seventy per cent

of the shares so there was no way Hendrickson could sell

without his agreement. Or death.

Everything depended on Hendrickson being convinced

that no one suspected he had murdered his partner. If

Hendrickson knew the police were closing in on him, he'd

probably empty the bank accounts and make a run for it.

Some offshore accounts could be accessed 24/7, and it

wouldn't take more than a few phone calls to transfer around

half a million pounds out of the business. If Hendrickson

realised the police were on to him, that would be more than

enough running-away money.

Sewell picked up the hotel phone and pressed nine for an

outside line. He smiled as he got a dial tone. He was fed up

to the back teeth of following instructions. He could call his

lawyer, John Garden, and at least check up on the bank

accounts to see if Hendrickson had been making unexpected

withdrawals. A few minutes on the phone would either put

his mind at rest or confirm his worst fears. Garden had been

on Sewell's payroll for almost ten years and he trusted him

as much as he trusted anyone.

Sewell tapped out the number of his lawyer, but before

he'd hit the fifth digit a brusque voice was on the line: 'Sir,

who are you trying to call?'

'That's none of your business,' said Sewell.

'I've been instructed not to let you make any phone calls,'

said the man.

Sewell recognised the voice of the sergeant who'd brought

him to the hotel in the first place. 'I want my laptop brought

in, and I need cash.'

'No visitors, sir. Those are my orders.'

'You tell me I can order food to be brought in, but I have

to use cash and I'm down to my last twenty quid.'

Til speak to the superintendent,' said the sergeant.

78

'I've had enough of this,' said Sewell. 'I'm cooperating,

I'm doing everything you ask - all I want is my laptop and

some cash.'

'Like I said, sir, I'll speak to the superintendent.'

'I want to talk to my lawyer,' said Sewell, forcefully.

'I can't allow that, sir,' said the sergeant, 'without the superintendent's

say-so.'

'Isn't there something called habeas corpus?' said Sewell.

'A lawyer has the right of access to his client?'

'That applies to people in custody, sir,' said the sergeant.

'Well what do you call this?' asked Sewell. 'It's worse than

prison.'

'I think that's an exaggeration, sir,' said the sergeant. 'I've

visited a few in my time and I don't remember one with

room service.'

'Listen, you sarcastic piece of shit, either I talk to my

lawyer tonight or I set fire to my room. There's no way you'll

be able to keep me here if the place burns down.'

'That would be a very foolish thing to do, sir.'

'Tell Hargrove I want to talk to my lawyer or I start lighting

matches.' Sewell slammed down the phone. He picked up

his room-service tray and threw it against the wall.

It was just after nine o'clock when Keith Rose got home. As

he pulled into the drive he saw his wife at the sitting-room

window. She waved and disappeared. He drove into the garage

and went through the internal door to the kitchen. Tracey

was in her pink dressing-gown, pouring boiling water into

two mugs. 'Sorry I'm late, love,' he said, putting his hands

on her hips and nuzzling her neck.

'You need a bath,' she said, stirring sugar into one of the

mugs of coffee.

'How was she today?' he asked, stroking his wife's long

auburn hair.

79

'Not good,' said Tracey. She turned and linked her arms

round his neck, kissing him hard on the lips.

Rose broke away first. 'Is she asleep?'

'Just dropped off.'

'I'll go up and see her.'

Tracey released him. 'Was it bad?' she asked.

Rose frowned, not understanding what she meant.

'Gatwick. The surveillance.'

'Waste of a weekend,' he said. 'All foreplay and no orgasm.'

Tracey smiled coyly. 'I'll see if I can remedy that,' she said.

'Go and see your little girl, then come to bed.'

Rose went upstairs. Kelly's bedroom door was ajar and a

nightlight cast shadows from the toys scattered around the

room. He sat down on the bed, taking care not to disturb

the drip line that ran across the sheet and into her left forearm.

He ran his hand down the side of her face. There were dark

patches under her eyes and her chest barely moved as she

breathed.

'It's going to be okay, sweetheart,' Rose whispered. 'Daddy's

going to do whatever it takes to make you better.'

The phone rang. Sewell slid off the bed and padded over to

answer it.

It was Superintendent Hargrove. 'I gather you're not happy,

Mr Sewell.'

'Damn right I'm not,' said Sewell. 'Your Rottweilers won't

even let me talk to my lawyer.'

'What do you intend to talk to him about?' asked Hargrove.

'No one knows where I am and I need someone on my

side.' Sewell thought it best not to mention that he wanted

Garden to check up on his firm's financial status.

'As we prevented your murder, you can assume we're on

your side, Mr Sewell. Your partner was looking for a hitman.

If we hadn't presented him with our man, you'd be lying

80

I

in a shallow grave in the New Forest with a bullet in your

skull.'

Sewell sighed. Every conversation he had with the superintendent

went around in circles. 'Fine. I'm grateful. But I

need to know my legal position.'

'You're helping us put a criminal behind bars.'

'But I'm the one who's being held at the moment.'

'It won't be for long, Mr Sewell.'

'Two days, you said. Which means one more day to go.'

Sewell sensed hesitation in the superintendent. 'One more

day to go, right?' he pressed. 'I'm out tomorrow?'

'I hope so,' said Hargrove.

'You'd better do more than hope,' said Sewell. 'Look, I can

go at any time, can I?'

'I'd rather you didn't, but I can't stop you. You don't need

a lawyer to tell you that.'

'You're saying I can go home now?'

'Yes, Mr Sewell, but I'd rather you didn't. As soon as

Hendrickson sees you he'll know he's been set up.'

'So you'll have to arrest him?'

'Probably. Which means that our secondary investigation

gets blown out of the water.'

'So?'

'Another potential murderer will get away with it.'

'Like I said, so?'

'What if you were the potential victim, Mr Sewell? What

if we needed someone else to stay hidden for a few days so

that we could catch Hendrickson in the act? Wouldn't you

want that person to cooperate?'

'There you go again,' said Sewell. 'Now it's a few days.

You said two before.'

The superintendent sighed. 'I'm as unhappy about this as

you are,' he said, 'but we now have a second ongoing investigation.

Another contract has come to light, and we want

81

the same man who nailed your partner to go after this person.

If you surface, Hendrickson will tip off the other person

and all hell will break loose. And you will put my man at

risk.'

'Have you got Hendrickson under surveillance?'

'We know where he is.'

Sewell pounced on the evasion. 'Do you have men watching

him?'

'We don't have a car outside his house, but we have him

red-flagged at all ports and airports. If he was going to run,

we'd know. We're watching his credit-card activity so we'll

know if he buys a ticket to go anywhere. He doesn't suspect

anything so there's no reason for him to run. He thinks he

got away with murdering you. Provided you stay where you

are, that won't change.'

'I want my laptop,' said Sewell. 'I've got work to do.'

'I can't allow you to send emails,' said Hargrove.

'You're monitoring all calls so you'd hear if I fired up the

modem. Look, I'm not asking for much. My laptop - and I

need cash. Someone told the Rottweilers I can't use my credit

cards and I'm running low on funds.'

'I'll sort that out,' said Hargrove.

'And my computer?'

'Where is it?' asked Hargrove.

'In the boot of my car.'

'The car in your garage? The BMW?'

'That's it.'

'Okay. Give your keys to the sergeant on duty and I'll pick

it up for you. I'll drop it round tomorrow.'

'If you don't, I'm walking.'

'The sergeant says you were threatening arson.'

'That's still a possibility,' said Sewell, and hung up before

the superintendent could respond.

82

1

Shepherd was making himself a cup of coffee when one of

his mobile phones rang. He had three lined up on the kitchen

table. One was personal, one was the phone Hargrove used

to contact him, the third, which was ringing, was for his

current operation. He picked it up. It was Angie Kerr. He

pressed the green button to take the call. 'Yeah,' he said.

'Is that Tony?'

'Yeah. Have you got the money?'

'Yes. And the photographs. Can you see me today?'

'The sooner the better,' said Shepherd. He looked at his

watch. It was ten thirty. His car was already wired for sound

and vision but it would take at least an hour for the surveillance

team to get into position. 'How about midday?'

'Okay. Piccadilly Gardens again?'

'No,' said Shepherd. 'From now on I call the shots. You're

not handing money to me in a crowded square. We do it

where no one can see us.' He wanted it captured on video

and the only way to do that was in his car. 'Where are you

now?'

'Home. Charlie went out and said he wouldn't be back all

day.'

'And there's no problem with you leaving the house?'

'No, I'm here on my own.'

'Better make it some distance away,' said Shepherd. 'Do

you know Altrincham? There's a Safeway supermarket there.'

It was a ten-minute drive from Hale Barnes, a small town

that had long ago been engulfed by Greater Manchester.

'I know it.'

Til be in a grey Volvo. Drive around the car park until

you see me, then park away from me. Don't look at me. Get

out of your car and go into the supermarket. That'll give me

a chance to check that you're not being followed. Wait two

minutes, then walk out. If I'm sitting with both hands on the

steering-wheel, it's safe to come to my car. If my hands aren't

83

on the wheel the meeting's cancelled and you wait for me to

call you. Have you got that?'

'Yes, but who do you think'll be following me?'

'Better safe than sorry,' he said curtly. 'Just do as I say. Be

there at noon.' He cut the connection.

Hargrove parked down the road from Sewell's house, then

sat in the car to check that he hadn't been followed - from

force of habit rather than genuine concern. He got out of

the car, turned up the collar of his coat and kept his head

down as he walked to the garage door. He unlocked it and

pushed it upwards, slipped inside, flicked the light switch

and pulled the door down.

The laptop was on the back seat of the car in a black nylon ' 1

case. Hargrove picked it up and was heading to the garage

door when he saw the door that led through to the house.

He stopped and looked at it, then tried the handle. It opened.

Hargrove smiled to himself. He had no authority to search

Sewell's house, but the man had given him the keys. He went

through into the kitchen and put the laptop on the table.

All the equipment and appliances were stainless steel and

didn't appear to have been used. The refrigerator contained

bottles of Bollinger and imported lager. There was a stainless

steel bread bin, but it was empty, and Hargrove couldn't find

any food in the cupboards. Menus from various local restaurants

hung on a hook by the oven and a carrier-bag containing

the remnants of a Chinese takeaway was in the steel bin by

the door.

There was a big-screen plasma television on the sitting

room wall and a state-of-the-art sound system with DVD M recorder and satellite receiver.The furniture was black leather,

the coffee-tables mainly glass, and there was a black-wood sideboard loaded with bottles of spirits. Hargrove could see

why Sewell wasn't enjoying his stay in the hotel.

84

I

He went back into the kitchen and switched on the laptop.

It was a new model Sony with wi-fi to connect it to the Internet

via wireless. There was also a modem. Hargrove found a

connecting cable in the nylon case and slipped it into his pocket.

He couldn't afford to have Sewell prowling around the Internet.

There was nothing he could do about the wi-fi other than to

check there was no signal in the hotel. He doubted there would

be - it didn't have satellite TV or a business centre.

Hargrove's fingers played across the keyboard. He ran

Sewell's Outlook Express program, then went through his

Inbox and Sent Items folders. His mail seemed to consist of

two sections: office correspondence and contacts from an

adult matchmaking service. Hargrove read through more than

fifty replies from women who thought that Sewell was a

handsome twenty-five-year-old with blond hair, a six-pack

abdomen and a sexual organ that would put an elephant's

to shame. He had clearly posted someone else's photograph

on the website and was reaping the benefits. Many of the

emails in his Inbox had photographs attached, and in most

of the pictures the women were naked. Hargrove didn't know

if Sewell ever met any of them or if he just got a kick from

reading their replies, but he'd have some explaining to do if

they met him. The real Sewell was neither handsome nor

twenty-five; he didn't have a six-pack or blond hair.

The office correspondence was far less racy but even more

interesting. There were emails going back nine months from

Larry Hendrickson, pressing Sewell to agree to sell his

company to a London firm. The offer had been raised from

an initial 750,000 pounds to just under two million. There were no

copies of the replies Sewell had sent, but it was obvious that

Hendrickson had been getting increasingly desperate. His

emails initially detailed the financial reasons for a sale, then

practically begged Sewell to accept the deal. The last few

were terse. Not threatening, nothing that could be used in

85

court, but it was clear that the two men were no longer friends.

The bigger chunk of the shares was owned by Sewell, who

had founded the company, but Hendrickson would still be

in line for almost half a million pounds. That alone was worth

killing for, but with Sewell out of the way Hendrickson stood

to gain control of the whole company.

Hargrove switched off the laptop, closed it and put it back

into the case. He drove to Altrincham and dropped off the

laptop at the local police station with a chief inspector who

owed him a few favours. The man promised to get the laptop

to the Leeds hotel by nightfall. Hargrove thanked him and

headed off to meet the surveillance van. It would soon be

time for Shepherd's meeting with Angie Kerr.

Shepherd parked his Volvo in a space well away from the

building. Supermarket car parks were his favourite place for

a meeting. No one was surprised to see a man sitting alone

in his car: they assumed that he was waiting for his wife.

There were always plenty of people about, which meant that

faces tended not to be recognised.

Hargrove's surveillance van drove slowly round the car

park, then reversed into a space in the far corner.

'Check for sound,' said Shepherd. The van's lights flashed

once. There were two microphones, one in the passenger

side ventilation duct, the other in the hands-free telephone.

'Check for vision,' he said. The van's lights flashed again.

There were two tiny video cameras in the car, one down in

the passenger-side footwell, the other in the overhead light

fitting. Both microphones and cameras were linked to a

transmitter in the boot of the Volvo and the sound and images

could be heard and seen up to a mile away. Shepherd had

a gun under the passenger seat, a SIG-Sauer with seven

cartridges in the clip. He wasn't expecting trouble from Angie,

but her husband was a different matter.

86

I

He scanned the vehicles in the car park. Nothing out of

the ordinary. He slid into character. He was Tony Nelson,

hitman for hire. Former paratrooper turned mercenary who'd

fought for the highest bidder in the Balkans before moving

into private practice. No wife, no children, parents long since

dead, in a car accident caused by a drunk driver, and a sister

he hadn't seen for ten years. There was nothing about Tony

Nelson that Shepherd didn't know; there was no question

that could be asked of him to which he didn't know the

answer. That was the way it had to be.

Shepherd saw Angie at the wheel of a Jaguar, crawling

between the ranks of parked cars. A large red motorcycle

peeled away from the supermarket entrance and headed down

the road. A woman in a Mini sounded her horn impatiently,

but Angie continued to drive slowly until she spotted

Shepherd at the wheel of the Volvo. She smiled instinctively,

then bit her lower lip and looked away as she remembered

she wasn't supposed to acknowledge him until she'd been

inside the supermarket.

She found a parking space and walked into the shop. She

was wearing a well-cut blazer over a white polo-neck sweater,

faded blue denims and high-heeled boots. Her body language

screamed that she knew Shepherd was watching her: her

back was ramrod straight and her right hand gripped the

strap of her shoulder-bag as if her life depended on it.

Shepherd knew that looking relaxed when you were scared

was one of the hardest things to pull off. Feigning anger,

aggression, fear or any strong emotion was easy, but being

normal when your life was on the line was a skill that came

only with years of experience.

Shepherd placed his gloved hands on the steering-wheel

and waited for her to reappear. He glanced at the surveillance

van. The cab was empty. The driver had moved into

the back and was probably waiting to snap Angie with a long

87

lens. Hargrove would be sitting with his headphones on and

sipping the Evian water he always had by his side on surveillance

operations.

When Shepherd looked back at the supermarket. Angie

was already heading his way. He avoided eye-contact until

she slid into the passenger seat. 'It's the last car I'd expect

you to have,' she said.

'That's why I drive it,' said Shepherd. 'It's a family car so

anyone driving one is assumed to be a family man.'

'Your whole life is like that, I suppose,' she said. 'Layers

and layers of disguise. Do you even know who you are?'

It was a good question, thought Shepherd, one that got to

the heart of his undercover work. He had assumed so many

identities over the years that sometimes even he wondered

who Dan Shepherd really was. Or if he existed any more.

But it wasn't a question he wanted to address now. He was

Tony Nelson, hired killer. 'Do you have the money?' he

asked.

Angie reached into her bag and took out a thick envelope.

It wasn't sealed and Shepherd ran his thumb along the stack

of fifty-pound notes. He slid it into his jacket pocket.

'You said you wanted a photograph,' she said, taking

another envelope from her bag. 'I brought a few.'

Shepherd flicked through them: Kerr lying on a sofa, grinning

at the camera, Kerr sitting under a beach umbrella raising

a bottle of Spanish beer, Kerr kneeling next to a golden

retriever. 'What's the dog's name?' asked Shepherd.

'Brinks,' said Angie. 'After Brinks Mat. All that gold bullion

stolen from the airport. I wanted to call her Goldie but he

said she was Brinks and that was the end of it.'

'He wasn't involved in the Brinks Mat robbery, was he?

He'd only have been a teenager.'

'His dad was,' said Angie.

'A family business, then?'

Angie shrugged. 'Not really. Charlie didn't have much to

do with his father.'

'Maybe that's the problem,' said Shepherd. 'Maybe he's

spent his life trying to prove that he's as big a man as his

father was. Trying to win his approval through imitation.'

Angie tilted her head to one side. 'That's very perceptive,

considering you've never met him,' she said.

'It's common enough,' said Shepherd.

'What about you? Was your father a hired killer?'

'My father was a baker. All I remember of him was the

smell of flour.'

She smiled. 'Don't tell me you both needed the dough,'

she said.

Despite himself Shepherd laughed, and felt himself slip

out of character. As Dan Shepherd, he liked the woman. But

Tony Nelson wasn't sitting in the Volvo with fifteen thousand

pounds in his jacket pocket because he liked her. He

was there to do a job. 'Does he walk the dog on his own?'

Angie's hand went up to her mouth. Her nails were a deep

pink, Shepherd noticed. 'Don't do it in front of Brinks,' she

said. 'Oh, God, that would be terrible.'

'I need him to be on his own.' Shepherd continued to

flick through the photographs. Kerr standing with two men.

Shepherd recognised them as Eddie Anderson and Ray

Wates. Anderson was small and wiry with tight black curls.

Wates was as tall as Kerr but broader, his head shaved. 'Who

are these guys?' he asked Angie. One of the hardest things

to do undercover was to compartmentalise what he knew

and what others thought he knew. As Dan Shepherd he

knew everything the police knew about Eddie Anderson and

Ray Wates, but as Tony Nelson they were just faces in a

photograph.

'Eddie and Ray,' she said. 'They're practically joined at the

hip to Charlie these days.' She tapped a fingernail on Anderson's

89

face. 'That's Eddie. He's Charlie's yes man. Everything

Charlie says, Eddie agrees with him. He thinks the sun shines

out of Charlie's arse.' She pointed to Wates's burly chest.

'Ray's Charlie's muscle. You wouldn't want to meet him in

a dark alley.'

Shepherd nodded. Wates was a hard case, all right. He'd

been sent down in his twenties on a seven stretch for GBH

but had been released after four. Since he'd started working

for Kerr he'd been charged by the police half a dozen times

for threatening behaviour and assault, but witnesses had

always failed to make it to court and Wates had walked each

time.

'They don't stay at the house, though?'

'Bloody right they don't,' said Angie. 'But they're there

first thing in the morning and usually in for a nightcap last

thing.'

'Who drives your husband?'

'Eddie.'

Shepherd took a pen and a notepad from his jacket pocket.

He scribbled down the names. For her benefit, not his. 'What's

your address?'

She told him and Shepherd wrote it down. It was a five

bedroom house with a double garage standing in almost an

acre of gardens. There was a swimming-pool at the back and

a tennis court. Shepherd had seen surveillance photographs

and a floor plan of the internal layout.

'And what car does he drive?'

He knew it was a black Range Rover, but Tony Nelson

had to be spoon-fed the details.

Her mobile phone rang and she jumped as if she'd been

stung. She fished it out of her bag and swore. 'It's him,' she

said. 'Christ!'

'Don't answer it,' he said.

'He gets stroppy if he has to leave a message,' she said.

90

'Accuses me of all sorts.' She pressed the button to take the

call and put the phone to her ear. 'Hiya,' she said. Shepherd

heard the stress in her voice. 'At the supermarket,' she said.

'We needed wine.' A pause. 'That Frascati I like. We're out

of it.' Another pause. 'I know but I just felt like the Frascati.'

She bit her lower lip, her right hand clenched into fist. 'Half

an hour,' she said. 'I was going to get some seafood, too.

Make a paella. Is that okay?' The fist clenched and

unclenched. 'What time?' She screwed up her face. 'I'm not

nagging,' she said eventually. 'I was just asking what . . .

Hello? Charlie?'

She looked at Shepherd. 'Hung up on me,' she said, as she

put her phone away. 'He does that a lot.'

'Was he giving you a hard time?'

'He wanted to know why I wasn't at home. Then when I

asked what time he'd get back he went ballistic. Accused me

of spying on him.'

'How late does he stay out?'

'Late. He comes back stinking of cheap perfume and thinks

I won't notice.'

'The guys he does business with, do you know who they

are?'

'Why?'

'I want to muddy the waters as much as possible,' said

Shepherd. 'If I shoot him in the head in your back garden,

the police will want to know where you were and if you and

your husband had been rowing. If he gets shot in a Moss

Side council block full of crack-heads and gang-bangers

they'll put it down to a business deal gone wrong. You said he dealt in cocaine. Does he sell it to crack dealers?'

'He hates blacks,' said Angie. 'No way would he ever do

business with them. Says they'd kill their own mothers for a

tenner.'

'What about South Americans? Last time we met you said

9i

he went to Miami twice a year. I figure it wasn't for the sun,

so who does he meet there?'

'He never takes me,' she said. 'He says it's business and I

don't know who he sees.'

Shepherd did. There were DEA files on the CD Hargrove

had given him, along with photographs of Kerr meeting representatives

of Carlos Rodriguez, one of Colombia's most

successful cocaine and heroin dealers. The DEA surveillance

hadn't produced any concrete evidence, but Shepherd

doubted that the three-thousand-mile trip had been a social

visit.

'Does he take you to Spain?' Kerr had a large villa overlooking

Marbella. Six bedrooms, six bathrooms, and a pool

twice the size of the one in Hale Barnes.

'Three or four times a year,' she said.

'Does he go on his own?'

'Why?'

'I could do it there. If you were in the UK, no way would

the police be looking at you. Shootings are ten a penny on

the Costa del Crime.'

'Usually I go with him, but I could come up with an excuse

next time.' She frowned. 'Problem is, I don't know when he'll

be going next. And I'd rather you did it sooner than later.'

'Is there a rush?'

She shook her head. 'It's just that now I've decided I want

it done, I want it done. I don't want it hanging over me. Is

it okay if I smoke?'

Shepherd nodded and she took a packet of Marlboro

menthol out of her bag. She lit one and put the packet back.

'Do you always ask this many questions?' she asked. She

opened the window and blew smoke through the gap.

'The better prepared I am, the less chance there is of something

going wrong,' he said, 'and from what you've told me,

Charlie Kerr isn't the typical target.'

92

'What is typical?' she asked.

'Usually it's a business disagreement that can't be solved

any other way. Or a way of teaching somebody a lesson.'

She chuckled throatily. 'You don't teach somebody a lesson

by killing them,' she said.

'No, but you can kill someone as a warning to others,' he

said.

'And you've done that?'

'I do what I'm paid to do,' he said. 'You asked what a

typical job was.'

'You don't have many wronged wives contacting you, then?'

'Most wronged wives head for a solicitor,' said Shepherd.

'You think I'm being a bit drastic, don't you?'

Shepherd didn't reply.

Angie turned to him and pulled down the neck of her

sweater. Just below the collar bone, on her right breast, was

a circular scab. A cigarette burn, healing nicely. 'Last time

we had an argument, he did this to me. He'd had a bit to

drink. Said he was sorry afterwards, said he only did it because

he loves me so much, but it wasn't the first time and I doubt

it'll be the last.' She let go of the sweater and took a drag on

the cigarette. 'Bastard,' she hissed.

'How much is he worth, your husband?'

'Not planning to raise your price, are you?' she asked.

'Just background,' he said.

'Forewarned is forearmed?'

'Something like that.'

'Seven million, give or take,' she said.

'And do you know where it all is?'

'It's not buried under the swimming-pool, if that's what

you mean.'

'What I mean is that, once he's dead, you'll have to make

sure you can get your hands on his assets. Most heavy criminals

hide their ill-gotten gains and if your husband's done

93

that you might find you're penniless when he's gone.'

Angie smiled thinly. 'Most of the bank accounts are in my

name,' she said. 'I'm the majority owner of most of his businesses.

In fact, nothing's in his name. He doesn't even have

a credit card. Says the filth can track you anywhere you go

if you use plastic'

He was right. One of the easiest ways to keep someone

under surveillance was to watch their credit-card spending.

Restaurants, hotels, plane tickets. It was indelible proof of

where a target had been. The smart ones stuck to cash. And

the really smart ones made sure that no assets were in their

name.

'So, you're going to do it?' she asked. She flicked the stub

of her cigarette through the window.

'I've taken your money,' he said. 'It's as good as done.'

'When?'

'Give me a day or two. I'll have to watch him for a while,

get used to his habits.'

'What if he sees you?'

'He won't.'

'He's edgy. Thinks the cops are watching him. Doesn't

discuss business on a land line, only uses pay-as-you-go

mobiles.'

'If the cops are watching him, I'll spot them,' said Shepherd.

He knew they weren't. Hargrove had checked with the head

of the Greater Manchester Police Drugs Squad and been

told that Kerr wasn't under active surveillance.

'And if they are?'

'It'll make it more difficult, that's all. Once I've accepted

a job, Mrs Kerr, I follow it through, come what may.'

'Angie,' she said. 'You and I are about as close to each

other as two people can get without having sex, right?'

Shepherd laughed again, then forced himself to straighten

his face.

94

i

'You look different when you smile,' she said.

'Everybody does,' he replied.

'No, you look like a totally different person.'

'I don't have too much to smile about in this line of work,'

said Shepherd. 'It's not like I get to see people in their best

light. I'll call you once I've decided when and where.'

'And I fix up an alibi?'

'The more people the better. Ideally somewhere with

CCTV.You mentioned the casino last time.That's the perfect

place.'

'Will I see you again?'

'Afterwards. To pay me the rest of the money.'

'So that's it, then?'

'That's it,' said Shepherd.

She opened the door and climbed out of the Volvo, then

leaned back in. 'I'm not a hard-hearted bitch, you know.'

'I never said you were,' he said.

'And it's not about the money. I couldn't give a shit about

how much he's got. It's just . . .'

'You're scared,' he finished for her. 'You're scared of what

he might do to you.'

'He's always said he'd rather I was dead than with

someone else.' She slammed the door and walked towards

the supermarket.

Shepherd leaned his head on the rest. So that was that.

He had the money in his pocket and she'd handed it to him

with bare hands so her fingerprints would be on the envelope.

He had her on video discussing the murder of her

husband. Life behind bars. Unless she cooperated.

One of his mobiles rang. He was carrying two, the one

used by Tony Nelson and the other to take calls from

Hargrove. It was the latter. 'Excellent, Spider,' said Hargrove.

'Perfect sound and vision.'

'Now what?'

95

Til run it by the GPS.'

'Are we going to use her to get the husband?'

'Doesn't sound like she's got much to offer,' said the superintendent.

'She

knows where the money is,' said Shepherd. 'And we

could use her in Spain.'

'You heard what she said, Spider. She doesn't know when

he'll be over there again.'

'So she gets thrown to the wolves?'

'She's conspiring to commit murder, not shoplifting a can

of catfood,' said Hargrove. 'Look, it's been a stressful couple

of days. Take an early bath, you've earned it.'

'Thanks,' said Shepherd. He cut the connection and tapped

the phone against his chin. He wasn't proud of himself. Angie

Kerr was a victim, yet the full weight of the law would be used against her. If there had been any justice in the world

the authorities would have moved against her husband years

ago. But it was always easier to go for the soft targets.

He drove back to the rented flat and changed into his running

gear. At the bottom of the wardrobe there was an old canvas

rucksack containing half a dozen housebricks wrapped in newspaper,

a habit from his SAS days. A run without weight on

his back wasn't a challenge. And he didn't wear state-of-the

art nylon trainers stitched together by Chinese juveniles earning

a dollar a day: he ran in army boots. For Shepherd running

wasn't a fashion statement, it was a way of keeping his body

at the level of fitness his job required.

He took the stairs down to the ground floor and pushed

through the double glass doors that led out to the pavement.

It didn't matter whether he ran in the city or through woodland.

After the first ten minutes he wasn't aware of his

surroundings. Now he ran on automatic pilot, his thoughts

never far from Angie Kerr and the unfairness of it all.

96

Angie parked next to her husband's Range Rover. She picked

up the supermarket carrier-bags from the passenger seat the

ingredients for paella and three bottles of Frascati. She

liked the Italian wine. Her husband was always getting her

to drink expensive champagne when they were out but she

preferred Frascati. It was smoother and didn't have the acidic

aftertaste she always got from champagne.

She unlocked the front door. 'Charlie, it's me,' she called,

but there was no reply. She went through to the kitchen and

put the wine in the fridge.

'Where were you?' said her husband. She jumped. She

hadn't heard him come up behind her. He was leaning against

the doorway, a smile on his face.

'I told you. Shopping.'

'You were gone almost two hours.' He enunciated each

word as if he was speaking to someone who had to lip-read.

'Charlie, I had to park, I had to get the food. The supermarket

was busy.'

'It's Monday. It's never busy on a Monday. And you went

to the supermarket on Saturday.'

'For general food shopping. But I wanted more Frascati.

And I said I'd make paella, right?'

Kerr nodded at the carrier-bag on the kitchen table. 'So

that's why you were gone so long, yeah? For paella and cheap

Italian plonk.'

'And petrol.'

Kerr lit a cigarette and blew smoke at her. 'So you filled

up the Jag?'

Angie nodded.

Kerr took another long drag on his cigarette, held the smoke

in his lungs, then exhaled through clenched teeth, all the time

watching his wife's face. 'So,' he said, 'if we go outside and

check, the tank'll be full, will it?'

'Charlie, why are you doing this?' she whispered.

97

'Because I don't like being lied to. In fact, I hate it - hate

it more than anything. And you know why?'

Angie knew. He'd told her a hundred times or more.

'Tell me why I hate being lied to.'

'Because it means people think they're smarter than you.

When they're not.'

Kerr smiled. 'That's right. And do you think you're smarter

than me?'

'No,' she said. 'I don't.'

He pushed himself away from the door and walked across

the kitchen, passing so close that she could smell his aftershave.

She stiffened when he drew level with her but she

forced herself not to flinch because she knew he would take

that as a sign of guilt. Her heart pounded and her mouth

was dry, but she tried not to swallow. He picked up the carrier

bag and looked inside. 'Paella,' he said.

'I know you like paella.'

'You like paella,' he said. 'I'm more of a lobster man.'

'You know you can't get decent lobster in Manchester,'

she said.

'Not a patch on Spanish lobster, you're right there,' he

said. He put the carrier-bag down on the work surface. 'So,

let's go and have a look at the Jag, shall we?'

'Charlie . . .'

'What?' he said, raising his eyebrows. 'Want to change your

story? A last-minute amendment to the details of where the

hell you've been for the last two hours?'

Angie felt tears spring to her eyes and blinked them away.

He took a perverse pleasure in making her cry, then having

sex with her as the tears ran down her face. It wasn't making

love - it wasn't even sex. It was rape. Without love, without

tenderness, just grunts, curses and threats of what he wanted

to do to her. It was hardly ever in bed, either. It was in the

kitchen, over the back of one of the sofas in the sitting room,

98

or against a bathroom wall. He was always sorry afterwards.

Or he said he was. He'd stroke her hair and kiss her neck

and say he really loved her, that it was only because he loved

her so much that he hurt her. And he made her a promise

as he stroked her hair and kissed her neck: if she ever left

him, if he ever thought she was going to leave him, he'd kill

her. Because he loved her so much.

'I went to the supermarket for the shopping and I got

petrol,' she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. She kept

smiling at him because he'd take any other facial expression

as an excuse to get physical - a push, a pinch, a slap. Then

her tears and the violence.

He took a step towards her and raised his cigarette. She

flinched. He grinned and put the cigarette slowly to his lips.

He inhaled slowly and the tip went bright red. Then he took

it out of his mouth and held it a few inches from her left

cheek. Her face ached from smiling. She knew he wouldn't

stub it out on her face. He was too clever for that. When he

marked her it was on a place no one else would see.

'Let's have a look, shall we?' he said. He blew smoke into

her face. 'Got the keys?'

'Sure,' said Angie.

He walked into the hallway. Angie followed him. Kerr

opened the front door and headed for the Jaguar. He stopped

when he reached the driver's side and held out his hand.

Angie gave him the keys. He pressed the electronic tag and

the locks clicked open. 'You okay?' he asked her.

'Fine,' she said.

'Anything you want to say?'

Angie shook her head.

Kerr opened the door and the internal light winked on.

He slid on to the driver's seat and inserted the ignition key.

He peered at the fuel gauge. The needle swung up to the

full position. Kerr stared at it for several seconds, then pulled

99

out the key and climbed out of the car. He closed the door

and tossed the keys to his wife. 'Come on, let's have a drink,'

he said. 'I'll open a bottle of Dom.'

He went into the house. Angie stared after him, her hands

trembling.

The phone woke Shepherd from a dreamless sleep and he

fumbled for it. 'Are you awake, Spider?'

'I am now,' said Shepherd, rubbing his face.

'I've had a word with the GPS and NCIS. They're all

getting very hot over Angie Kerr.'

'Yeah, well, she's a sexy girl.'

'The initial response is that they want her turned,' said

Hargrove. 'They don't feel they've any other way of nailing

her husband.'

'Which says a lot about the sad state of policing in this

country, doesn't it?'

'Now, now, Spider, you're getting all bitter and twisted.'

'He's a criminal, right? I've read the files you gave me.

MI5, the Church, the Manchester cops, they all know he's

bad. Even the DEA's been on his case in Miami. But no one

does anything.'

'It's a question of resources, you know that. Even we have to choose whom we assist. My unit gets hundreds of requests

every year, but we take on a couple of dozen at most.'

'A guy like Kerr should be a priority, that's all I'm saying.'

'There are hundreds of Kerrs in the UK. Thousands,

maybe. We have to choose our targets carefully.'

'We take the cases we know we'll win, is that what you're

saying?'

'What's the alternative? We spend our time chasing dead

ends? There's no point in mounting an investigation if we

know we're going to fail. You have to play the odds. A guy

like Hendrickson, we know we can put him away. Kerr's a

100

bigger fish and you need a bigger hook to catch him.'

'And Angie Kerr is the hook?'

'Hopefully,' said Hargrove. 'The Drugs Squad and the

Church can act on anything she gives them.'

'He'll kill her,' said Shepherd grimly.

'She'll be protected,' said Hargrove. 'Look, this isn't a

conversation for the phone, and I need to run something else

by you. You know the pub by the canal, the place where we

first discussed the Hendrickson case?'

'Sure.'

'Can you be there at eleven?'

Shepherd squinted at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

It was just after nine. Plenty of time. 'Yeah.'

'See you, then,' said the superintendent. 'And remember,

we're on the same side here. I'm no happier about using

Angie Kerr than you are, but sometimes the end justifies the

means.'

Shepherd pulled on an old pair of shorts and a tattered

T-shirt and went for a short run, a quick two kilometres

without the rucksack, then shaved, showered and changed

into a pullover and jeans. He retrieved his leather jacket from

the sofa where he'd thrown it the previous night and headed

out, picking up a coffee from his local Starbucks as he walked

to the meeting-place. The pub was only fifteen minutes from

his apartment, on the edge of the city's vibrant Canal Street

gay area.

Hargrove was sitting on a wooden bench outside the pub.

He stood up as Shepherd approached, and the two men

walked along the canal path.

'Two guys taking an early-morning stroll, people will get

the wrong idea,' said Shepherd.

'Since when have you cared what people think?' said

Hargrove. 'Besides, you're not my type.'

As ever, the superintendent was immaculately dressed: a

IOI

well-cut cashmere overcoat over a blue Savile Row pinstripe

suit, starched white shirt with cufflinks in the shape of cricket

bats, and an MCC tie. 'I could be your bit of rough,' said

Shepherd.

'You've been up north too long,' said Hargrove. 'You're

developing the northern sarcasm.'

'Aye, and I've started eating mushy peas, too. But you're

right, I wouldn't mind being closer to home.'

'That's good, because I need you on another job in London,

ASAP.'

Shepherd grimaced. 'I was hoping for a few days off. It's

been a while since I saw Liam.'

'This is urgent, I'm afraid.'

'It always is,' said Shepherd, and regretted it. No one

forced him to do the work he did. He was an undercover

cop by choice and could walk away any time he wanted to.

'Sorry,' he said. 'I've been in Tony Nelson's skin too long.'

'Well, you'll be leaving him behind for this next case,' said

the superintendent. 'You'll be a cop. Investigating cops.'

Shepherd groaned. An operation against other cops was

dirty work at best, dangerous at worst, and he'd tried to steer

clear of it. 'Can't IIC handle it?'

'Not this one. We need someone with your specialist

knowledge.'

'Specifically?'

'Your ability to handle automatic weapons. No one in the

Internal Investigation Command has your military background,

and while most of my people are proficient with

handguns, I need someone familiar with carbines. Especially

the MP5, which is what the SO 19 guys use.'

The Heckler & Koch was the weapon of choice in the SAS,

and Hargrove was right. Even four years after leaving the regiment,

Shepherd knew he could take apart and reassemble the

weapon blindfold, and it wouldn't take him more than a few

102

hours on the range to be as accurate as he ever was. The MP5

was a simple enough weapon, but few police officers were

trained in its use. The Diplomatic Protection Group used them.

So did the Met's armed-response units.

'We think the Met might have a rogue armed-response

unit,' said Hargrove. 'Rogue as in they've either gone vigilante

or they're ripping off drugs-dealers at gunpoint.'

'Bloody hell,' said Shepherd.

'Yeah, tell me about it,' said Hargrove. 'The commissioner's

one unhappy bunny.'

'If it's cut and dried, why do they need us?'

'Because it isn't. All the Met has is circumstantial.'

'No smoking gun?' said Shepherd.

'Just a roomful of dead drugs-dealers and a cop who's

disappeared.'

'So you want me to do what? Infiltrate the gang and get

them to take me on their next heist?'

'Your intuition never ceases to amaze me, Spider.'

Shepherd's eyebrows headed skywards. 'You're serious,

aren't you?'

'I'm afraid I am.'

Shepherd put his hands into his jacket pockets.

'Investigating cops is always messy.'

'It doesn't come messier.'

'Plus, they can spot undercover cops.They know the signs.'

'You'll be in as a cop. We can stick close to your true background.'

'Not

my name, though. Shit hits the fan, I want to disappear.'

'I'll

get a legend sorted by tomorrow evening. We can use

the SAS background but say you left because you couldn't

hack it, then seven years up in Scotland. Strathclyde, maybe.

The three men we're looking at are all London boys, never

been north of the border.'

103

'They can pick up a phone/ said Shepherd.

'I'll have it covered,' said Hargrove. 'You don't go in unless

your legend's watertight.'

'I'd rather we didn't use the SAS. I don't want them asking

for war stories. Let's say I was in the Paras.'

'Agreed,' said Hargrove. 'I'll get our background boys to

draw something up and run it by you at the end of the week.

I'll get a car sorted. We'll play you having money problems

and looking to make a fast buck.'

'So they ask me to take part in the robberies? How likely

is that?'

'I want you looking corruptible. It might get them talking.'

Shepherd wasn't convinced it would be that easy to get

maverick cops to open up to him. 'So, what's the story?' he

asked.

'Last week two drugs-dealers were shot dead in a Harlesden

crack house. It took the police the best part of an hour to force

their way in and by then the shooters had gone out the back

way. There was a witness alive in the house and another in a

lock-up. All they can tell us is that the robbers were white and

that there were three, two in the house and one who was outside

most of the time. They wore dark clothing and rubber masks.

When the shooting started two of the witnesses were bound,

gagged and face down, so they don't know what happened.

But one of the dead Yardies had a .22 that had been fired five

times. Only two of the bullets have been accounted for.'

'So one or more of them was hit?'

'The witnesses say that one of the Yardies who died

screamed something about a vest. Then one of the robbers

yelled that he was hit.'

'Why do you think it was cops?' asked Shepherd.

'The forensics boys got hold of a decent slug from one of

the dead Yardies, ran it through the Scotland Yard database,

and that's when it all got interesting.'

104

'In what way?'

'The bullet came from a .45 Python that was used in a robbery

in South London last year. They got the guy, a Clapham blagger

by the name of Joey Davies. He's doing a fifteen stretch in

Parkhurst. They never found the gun.'

'Guns are bought and sold.'

'Of course they are. But Davies always claimed that the

Python was in his flat when he was busted. The police found

two other guns, but not the Python. First guys into the flat

were an SO 19 Trojan unit, which included one of the guys we think has gone bad. Keith Rose.'

'So this Rose picks up a gun last year and saves it for a

rainy day?'

'Looks that way.'

'So why don't the rubber-heels boys pick him up and sweat

him?'

'Because he's been a cop for fifteen years so he's not going

to sweat, and because all we've got is circumstantial and

hypothesis. We have a bullet, we don't have a gun. And we

have witnesses who can only remember Frankenstein and

alien masks and dark clothing.'

'It's possible that the gun was stolen but sold on to a gang

with a grudge against the Yardies.'

'It's possible, but this doesn't feel like a gang fight to

me. If it was, they'd have killed everyone. It's more like a

robbery that went wrong. The way we see it, the robbers

got in and overpowered the two Yardies, then waited for

the rest of the guys to come back. One of the Yardies pulled

a gun and all hell broke loose. Then the robbers bailed

out.'

'Presumably the Yardies won't say what was taken?'

'They deny there were drugs in the flat. There was crack

processing equipment in the attic and a safe with twenty

grand in it. Twenty grand doesn't seem much, so I think it's

105

safe to assume that the robbers got away with drugs or cash.

Maybe both.'

A narrow boat put-putted past them. A big man wearing

a brown-leather jerkin and a floppy felt hat waved a can of

Carlsberg in salute, his other hand on the tiller. Hargrove

smiled back.

'I'm missing the obvious, aren't I?' said Shepherd.

'Maybe,' said the superintendent.

Shepherd ran through everything Hargrove had told him.

'One of the robbers was hit,' he said eventually.

The superintendent smiled. 'Exactly.'

'Do any of the SO 19 guys have any unexplained injuries?'

'One has disappeared. Andy Ormsby had only been with

them six months. Didn't turn up for work the day after the

robbery. After three days the police broke into his flat and

it looked as if he'd just packed a suitcase and left.'

'No note?'

'Nothing. And no one's heard from him since.'

'So the Yardies killed him, then?'

'Maybe,' said Hargrove. 'Maybe not.'

Shepherd's brow furrowed as he realised what the superintendent

had suggested. 'His mates killed him? He was

wounded but they couldn't take him to a hospital so they

topped him?'

'Or waited for him to die. Only they know what happened.

But there wasn't any blood in the flat, not from the robber.

If there was we'd have done a match with Ormsby's DNA

and we wouldn't be having this conversation.'

'That's my way in, then? I replace Ormsby?'

'It's the way I see it,' said Hargrove.

'Isn't it a bit obvious?'

'They probably won't realise we traced the bullet. There's

no reason for them to think they're suspects. People do have

nervous breakdowns and disappear, and jobs don't get more

106

stressful than serving with an armed-response unit.'

'How about an undercover cop pretending to be a member

of an ARV? I'd be trying to set up cops with guns. How7 stressful is that?'

'Are you saying you don't want the assignment?'

Shepherd flashed Hargrove a tight smile. It was always up

to an undercover operative to decide whether or not they

would accept a job. It had to be that way. But Shepherd had

never turned down an assignment and he had no intention

of starting now. 'I'll need a couple of days on the range. If

I'm rusty, they'll spot it.'

'We can fix you up on a police range here. Or in Scotland.'

'I'll get it sorted.'

'Hereford?'

Shepherd nodded. 'It'll give me a chance to see Liam, too.'

'Can you be ready to go in on Monday?'

That gave Shepherd six days to prepare. Six days in which

to wipe away the persona of Tony Nelson and step into his

new character. 'If you can have the legend ready by then,'

he said. He took a deep breath. 'No rest for the wicked.'

'Are you okay?'

'It never ends, does it?' said Shepherd. 'At first you think

you're making a difference, but for every villain we put away,

there's another two waiting to take his place.'

'That doesn't mean we stop trying, Spider. You've put

some dangerous men behind bars. You can be proud of what

you've achieved.'

'Yeah, but in the grand scheme of things, what difference

do we really make?'

'Ah, now you're getting all metaphysical. The meaning of

life.'

'I know what life's about,' said Shepherd. 'It's about raising

children. First time I held Liam in my arms I knew that.

Nothing else matters. But how do babies grow up to be

107

rapists, drugs-dealers and murderers? I look at Liam and I

just know he's going to turn out okay. He's only eight but

you can already see he's a good kid. He's polite, he's considerate,

he doesn't get into fights. Everybody likes him.'

'He's got you as a role model, Spider. And he couldn't

have asked for a better mother than Sue.'

'I don't think it's down to that. I don't remember teaching

him the difference between right and wrong,' said Shepherd,

'but there isn't an ounce of badness in him. Then you look

at the kids prowling in packs doing drugs and mugging other

kids for their mobiles and you wonder why they went bad.

It's not too big a step from playing truant to dealing drugs,

and the next thing you know they're shooting each other

with automatic weapons.'

'Kids go bad,' said Hargrove, 'and bad kids grow into bad

adults, and our job is to put away as many of the bad guys

as possible.'

'Treat the symptoms, not the disease?'

'Hell's bells, Spider, are you having a crisis of confidence?'

Shepherd didn't reply.

'Do you want to see our psychologist?' said Hargrove

quietly. 'Talk things through?'

'I'm not crazy.'

'It's not about being crazy,' said the superintendent. 'It's

about stress and how you deal with it. That's why we have

a psychologist as part of the team, to nip problems in the

bud. The last twelve months you've been through a lot.'

'I know.'

'Knowing it and dealing with it are two different things.

You never really grieved for Sue.'

Shepherd stopped walking and glared at Hargrove.

'Bullshit,' he said. 'Bull-fucking-shit.'

Hargrove put up his hands defensively. Tm just saying,

when it happened you were in prison undercover. You didn't

108

have time to deal with it. When you got out you had Liam

to take care of. Then you wanted to get back into harness.

You needed to work, you said. I thought maybe you were

right, but you've gone from one job to the next and maybe

you need time to grieve.'

'I'm not the crying sort.'

'Again, crying and grieving aren't the same thing.'

'I'm not seeing a shrink. End of story.'

'Right. I'm just saying it's an option.'

'This isn't about Sue. Or Liam. Or my stress levels. It's

about pissing on a forest fire.'

'If we don't try, if we let them get away with it, how does

that make the world a better place? You were in Afghanistan

with the SAS and we were supposed to have won that one,

but did it really solve anything? That doesn't stop us fighting

for what we think is right.'

'And now I'm going up against other cops?'

'Cops who've gone bad, Spider. And in my book they're

worse than dyed-in-the-wool villains. Is that what this is

about? Going after cops?'

Shepherd started walking again. 'I'll be fine. Trust me.'

Shepherd drove his CRY towards London at a steady seventy

miles an hour, resisting the urge to join the stream of executive

cars whizzing by in the outside lane. He used his handsfree

to phone an au pair agency in Ealing and arranged an

appointment for the following morning at ten o'clock. He'd

already filled in their questionnaire, but they required a

personal interview before they would send a woman to his

house. From the sound of it, it was easier to get into the SAS

than on to the agency's books.

His second phone call was to Major Allan Gannon, who

answered on the third ring.

'Not caught you at a bad time, have I?' said Shepherd.

109

'Spider! Business, social, or are your nuts in the fire again?'

It was a fair enough question. Usually when Shepherd

phoned the major he needed a favour. He explained that

he was about to join a police armed-response unit and that he

needed a refresher course in the equipment and tactics he'd

be using.

Gannon chuckled. 'Guess you're a little rusty,' he said.

'When?'

'Soon as possible,' said Shepherd.

'What are you doing over the next couple of days?'

'I'm on my way to London and I've a few things to do in

the morning, but then I'm yours.'

'Come to the Duke of York barracks at noon,' said Gannon.

'Bring an overnight bag.' He cut the connection, leaving

Shepherd to wonder what he had planned. One thing he was

certain of: he was putting himself in good hands. He'd served

with the major in Ireland, the former Yugoslavia, Sierra Leone

and Afghanistan, and trained with him everywhere from the

jungles of Brunei to the Arctic wastelands of northern

Norway. There wasn't a man he trusted more.

There was a double-knock on the hotel-room door. Sewell

was staring at a spreadsheet on his laptop. 'Go away,' he said.

'I don't need the bed turning down.'

'It's not Housekeeping, Mr Sewell,' said a man's voice. It

was the superintendent.

Sewell got up and walked to the door. He was naked except

for a hotel towel wrapped round his waist.

Superintendent Hargrove was wearing an immaculate

pinstripe suit, a crisp white shirt and a blue tie with red

cricket balls on it. He was holding two bottles of Bollinger.

'I gather this is your tipple.'

'Does this mean we're celebrating that shit Hendrickson

being arrested?' asked Sewell.

no

Hargrove looked pained. 'Not exactly.' He closed the door.

'We said Monday. Today's Tuesday. Forty-eight hours has

become four days.'

'I'm sorry,' said Hargrove, 'I really am. It's just that this is

bigger than we first thought.'

'Bigger than attempted murder?'

Hargrove looked around for somewhere to sit. Sewell had

the only chair, facing his computer. 'Do you mind if I sit on

the bed?' he asked.

'Suit yourself,' said Sewell. He popped the cork out of

one of the bottles of champagne, went to the cramped

bathroom and took two plastic cups off the glass shelf by

the basin. He poured champagne into them and gave one

to the superintendent. That Hargrove knew Bollinger was

his favourite champagne suggested that he had done more

than get the laptop from his car when he visited Sewell's

house, but Sewell wasn't up to picking a fight. 'You realise

you're running out of any goodwill you might have had?'

he said.

'I don't know what to say,' said Hargrove.

Sewell doubted that was true. The superintendent had obviously

come to the hotel with something on his mind, and

he'd never been lost for words during their previous conversations.

'Enough is enough,' he said. 'I've given you four days,

which is twice as long as you said it would take. You said

you had all you needed to arrest Hendrickson.'

'We do,' said Hargrove.

'So arrest him. Throw the shit into a cell and let me get

back to running my company.'

'I wish it was as simple as that,' said Hargrove. He sipped

his champagne. 'I don't suppose there's any whiskey in the

minibar is there?' he asked.

'There isn't a minibar. Hendrickson will have better facilities

in prison than I've got here,' Sewell said.

in

'But you've got your computer. And I've given the sergeant

cash for any food you want bringing in.'

'I want to go home,' said Sewell flatly.

'We need more time,' said Hargrove.

Sewell swore.

'Possibly the rest of this week.'

'I told you already, Hendrickson could be bleeding my

company dry. By the time I get back into my office there

might be nothing left. What then, Superintendent? The police

will come up with three million quid, will they? Out of petty

cash?'

'Actually . . .' Hargrove took an envelope out of his jacket

pocket and handed it to Sewell, who put down his beaker

and opened it. It was from the chief constable of Greater

Manchester, agreeing to reimburse him for any money he

lost as a result of his co-operation with the ongoing investigation.

He would also guarantee a consultancy fee of twenty

five thousand pounds, whatever the outcome of either case.

'He can do that?' asked Sewell.

'He can do whatever he wants with police funds,' said

Hargrove.

'This guy you're after, the second investigation, he's big,

yeah?'

'Oh, yes,' said Hargrove. 'He's big.'

'Big kudos for you if you get him, commendations all

round, the chief constable looks good?'

'If it wasn't important, we wouldn't have put your case on

hold,' said Hargrove.

'So he's bigger than me, is that what you mean?' Sewell

bristled. 'I sit here in this pokey hell-hole while you find

bigger fish to fry?'

'No one's saying your case isn't important, Mr Sewell. Larry

Hendrickson will go to prison for a long time, and rightly so.

But what we're working on now is a different sort of case. I

112

wish I

could go into details, but I can't. What I can tell you is

that the guy we're going after is a nasty son-of-a-bitch and

the police here have had all sorts of problems with him. You'll

win all sorts of Brownie points if you help take him out.'

Sewell reread the chief constable's letter. 'The twenty-five

grand's mine whatever happens?'

'Providing you cooperate.'

'And if I come to you after this is over and tell you that

as a result of that shit Hendrickson being in charge of my

company I'm a hundred grand down, the Greater Manchester

Police will write me a cheque to cover the loss?'

'That's what the letter says,' said Hargrove. 'The chief

constable might want to see a breakdown of your losses, but

I can't see him going back on his word.'

'All right, then.'

'You're okay to lie low for the rest of this week?' asked

Hargrove.

'Yes, but not here,' said Sewell. 'I want an upgrade.'

'I don't think that'll be a problem. We'll move you

tomorrow.'

'Five stars.'

'Agreed,' said Hargrove wearily.

'A suite. Not a room.'

Hargrove nodded.

'And sex,' Sewell added.

'I'm going to have to draw the line there, Mr Sewell,' said

the superintendent.

'I've had nothing but my right hand for company,' said

Sewell. 'That's a cruel and unusual punishment in my book.'

'I can't risk you meeting a girlfriend,' said Hargrove. 'It's

only four or five more days.'

'It wouldn't have to be a girlfriend,' said Sewell. 'I'd use

an escort agency. They'll send a girl round. I'll make sure

it's not one I've had before.'

I

113

Hargrove rubbed the back of his neck. 'Okay,' he said

wearily.

'And the sergeant uses his money to pay for it.'

'For God's sake, man!' said Hargrove.

Sewell shrugged. 'I can't use my credit cards, can I?' he

said. 'Besides, if the chief constable wants me to be happy,

he'll pay.'

Hargrove stood up. 'I think I'd better go before you take

the shirt off my back,' he said.

'It wouldn't fit,' said Sewell, grinning, 'but I'll have the tie.'

Angie Kerr climbed out of the shower and stood watching

her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror as she towelled

herself dry. The scab on her breast was about to come off

and she dabbed it carefully with the edge of her towel. It

wasn't the first time her husband had burned her, but if

everything went to plan it would be the last. No more burns,

no more slaps, no more punches to the stomach that he knew

would hurt but not leave a permanent mark. All his friends

knew how he treated her. Sometimes when he abused her in

public, she got a sympathetic glance or some small acknowledgement

that they knew what she was going through, but

they were all too scared of Charlie to say anything.

Eddie Anderson had come closest to talking to him about

it. Charlie had punched her in the stomach while they were

in the VIP section of Aces after she'd asked him to stop

flirting with one of the waitresses. The girl was a tall, leggy

blonde, barely out of her teens, and Charlie had had his hand

on her backside, squeezing it as if he was checking a melon

for ripeness. The girl was leading him on, flashing her eyes

and flicking her hair, and she had known full well that Angie

was his wife.

Angie had waited until she and her husband were alone before

she told him she didn't like him making a fool of her. He'd

114

~Jr

I

smiled coldly, then slammed his fist into her belly. She'd been

unable to breathe for a minute or so, gasping as tears streamed

down her face. Charlie had stood up and walked over to the

bar where Eddie and Ray were drinking. Angie had just about

recovered her breath when Eddie came over and told her he

was to drive her home. Angie didn't argue. She knew that if

she did, her husband would hurt her all the more.

He had given her his arm, she had taken it gratefully and

they had walked out together. Angie would never forget the

look of triumph on the waitress's face. She wondered if the

girl knew what Charlie was like, if he ever showed her his

violent side. Maybe he only needed one woman to dominate,

and it was her bad luck that he'd chosen her. Eddie

had helped her into the back of the car, but he didn't say

anything until he was sitting in the front with the engine

running. He'd looked at her in the rear-view mirror. 'Are you

all right, Mrs Kerr?' he'd asked.

He'd kept looking at her, waiting for her to answer. Angie

had wondered what he expected her to say. If she'd said no,

she wasn't, that her husband had hit her one time too many,

would he have taken her to hospital? To the police station?

Had Charlie asked Eddie to pretend to be concerned to see

how she'd react? And if she had told Eddie that she was sick

to death of the beatings and the verbal abuse, would he have

told Charlie, and would Charlie have made her life more of

a misery than it already was?

'The way he treats you, it's not right,' Eddie said quietly.

This time she had seen concern in his eyes.

Angie had found herself smiling, even though her stomach

felt as if it had burst. 'I'm okay, Eddie,' she'd said. 'I know

he loves me really.'

Eddie had stared at her for several seconds, then put the

car into gear. He hadn't spoken again all the way home, even

when he'd walked her to the door.

115

Angie towelled her hair dry, brushed it, and sprayed Kenzo

perfume around her neck. Charlie liked her to smell good

when she got into bed. She turned off the light and walked

into the bedroom.

He was standing by the window, looking up at the moonlit

sky. 'I love you, Peaches,' he said, without turning.

She knew he meant it. But 'love' didn't mean the same to

Charlie Kerr as it meant to most people. It meant control.

It meant ownership. He loved his car. He loved his house.

He loved his villa in Spain. And he loved her.

'Come here,' he said.

He was naked - he never wore anything in bed and insisted

that she didn't either. She padded across the carpet and slid

her arms round his waist, pressing her breasts to his back.

'You'll never leave me, will you?' he said.

The moon was full and looked so close that Angie felt she

could almost reach up and grab it. 'No, Charlie. I'll never

leave you,' she said.

'You know what would happen if you did?'

Angie swallowed. She kissed the back of his neck.

'I'd find you,' he said. 'I'd track you down and I'd kill you

with my bare hands.'

'I know you would,' she whispered.

He reached behind and stroked the insides of her thighs.

'You're my wife and I love you,' he said.

'I know'

'If I didn't love you, I wouldn't lose my temper,' he said. 11

'I'd just walk away. I wouldn't care.' He turned and pressed

his lips against hers, his tongue forcing its way into her

mouth so quickly that she didn't have time to breathe. She 1

felt herself gag and fought it. The times when he was having

sex with her were the most dangerous. If she did the wrong

thing, said the wrong thing, even moaned in the wrong way,

his caresses turned to punches, his kisses to bites. She let

116

him kiss her hard, and moaned softly, the way he liked. She

had to make him think she was enjoying it. He stopped

kissing her and held her head in his hands, staring into her

eyes. 'I love you, Angie,' he said.

'I love you too,' she said, although it had been a long time

since she'd loved him. Now there was just contempt for him

in her heart, and hatred. She didn't want to leave him. She

wanted him dead. And Tony Nelson was going to kill him

for her.

Charlie grinned, then turned her so that she was facing

the window. He grabbed her wrists and put her arms up

against the glass. 'Open your legs,' he said.

Angie did as she was told, and he forced himself inside

her.

'Yes,' she said, 'yes, yes, yes.' She stared up at the moon

and imagined Tony Nelson shooting him in the back of the

head with a large handgun. 'Yes,' she moaned. 'Yes, yes, yes.'

Shepherd walked around the ground floor of the house,

checking the locks on the windows and doors. He was only

going to be away for a couple of days but there had been

several opportunistic break-ins in the area, according to a

flyer put through his letterbox by the local crime-prevention

officer.

He'd considered selling the house after Sue's accident but

Liam had protested vociferously. It was Mum's house and

he didn't want to live anywhere else. Shepherd knew what

the boy meant. He'd been the one who'd paid the mortgage

but Sue had decided on the decor and furniture and there

wasn't a room that didn't have her presence in it. Saying

goodbye to the house would mean saying goodbye to Sue,

and neither he nor Liam was prepared to do that.

Most of the books on the shelves in the sitting room had

been Sue's and her magazines were in the bathroom. After

117

he'd got back from Manchester he'd cleared Sue's clothes

out of his bedroom into black plastic bags, then left them in

the spare room. He couldn't throw them away.

One of his mobiles rang and he hurried to the kitchen. It

was the one Hargrove used, but a woman's voice spoke. She

introduced herself as Kathy Gift and said that Superintendent

Hargrove had suggested she call to arrange an appointment.

'Why?' he asked. Hargrove hadn't mentioned her.

'Sorry, I should have said. I'm a psychologist attached to

Superintendent Hargrove's unit,' she said.

'I said I didn't want a shrink,' he said. 'Anyway, I'm just

about to leave for a training exercise.'

'When are you back?'

'A couple of days.'

'Friday?'

'I'm not sure, but I'll be away from London at the weekend

whatever happens.'

'Will you call me when you're back so that we can schedule

an appointment?'

'Of course,' said Shepherd, and cut the connection. He

had no intention of meeting her or any other psychologist.

He looked at his watch and cursed. He'd told the au pair

agency he'd be there at ten and he was already a few minutes

late. He carried his bags out to the CRY and drove half a

mile to the neat row of shops where the agency had its offices

above a veterinary surgeon. He parked on a meter, buzzed

the intercom and hurried up the stairs.

The office consisted of two rooms, one with two secretaries

surrounded by filing cabinets and a window overlooking

the rear yards of the shops, and a larger office for the owner,

Sheila Malcolm, BSc. Shepherd knew about the academic

qualification as it was on the agency's letterhead and on the

metal plate on the door.

Shepherd apologised for being late and the secretaries made

118

him wait while Miss Malcolm rearranged her schedule to

accommodate him. She was alone in her office when

Shepherd was ushered in and he assumed that either she had

been on the phone or she was punishing him. He apologised

¦ again as he sat down in front of her desk.

Miss Malcolm tapped on her computer keyboard and

looked at the screen over the top of her glasses. 'You need

someone to live in and take care of your home and your

young son.' She was archly elegant in a well-cut two-piece

tweed suit. Her dyed auburn hair was perfectly coiffured and

her pale pink lipstick had been applied with a surgeon's

I precision.

Shepherd nodded.

¦ 'A lot of our girls are reluctant to live in when there isn't

a lady of the house,' said Miss Malcolm.

'My wife died,' said Shepherd.

¦ Miss Malcolm had the grace to blush. She removed her

spectacles and let them hang round her neck on a thin silver

chain. 'I'm sorry to hear that,' she said. 'It's usually divorced

husbands who come to us, and they're sometimes more

trouble than they're worth.' She flashed him a smile. 'I'm

sure you understand.'

'My wife died,' repeated Shepherd, 'and, as you can see

¦ from the form I filled in, I'm a police officer. I think it's fair

to say that I'm a safe bet.'

'Absolutely, Mr Shepherd.'

'My boy is with his grandparents at the moment, but I

want live-in help so that he can be with me.'

'A boy should be with his father,' said Miss Malcolm. She

¦ looked at her terminal. 'You have a room for her, which is

good, and a car. How does your son get to school?'

'Car,' said Shepherd.

I

'And will you be responsible for the school-run, or will

the girl?'

119

Shepherd swallowed. Images flashed through his mind.

Sue at the wheel of her black VW Golf. Liam in the back

seat. Sue twisting to pick up Liam's backpack. The traffic

lights on red. The Golf accelerating. The supermarket lorry.

'Mr Shepherd?'

Shepherd shook his head. Td do it when I was in London,

but from time to time I'll be away.'

'You travel a lot?'

'Some.'

'So you'd want someone a bit more mature, who could

take responsibility for everything in your absence.'

'That sounds good,' said Shepherd. 'If possible, I'd prefer

them to be British.'

'Ah, these days we have few British girls on our books,'

Miss Malcolm said. 'It wasn't always like that, of course.

Some of our best girls were filling in time before university.

We had Cheltenham Ladies' College girls, but now they're

either working in Switzerland or trekking across South East

Asia. The bulk of our girls are from the new entrants to the

EU, Poland, Hungary, Slovenia. I can wholeheartedly recommend

the Polish girls. They're hard workers and trustworthy.

We've had a few negative experiences with the Slovenians,

but we now have them thoroughly checked before we bring

them over.'

Shepherd would have preferred a girl from the UK so that

he could run his own check through the Police National

Computer, but it sounded as if he wasn't going to get the

chance. 'Do you have anyone who could start immediately?'

'I have three Polish girls arriving tomorrow, two from

Estonia, and I'm having half a dozen applicants interviewed

in Slovenia later this week. Nurses. They can earn five times

as much in London as au pairs.' She raised her eyebrows.

'Now, I'll have to check whether they have international

driving licences, and I'm not sure whether they want live-in

120

positions. Sometimes they like to stay together. We try to

discourage sharing - bad habits spread. But we should have

several likely candidates for you to see before the end of the

week.'

'And they're all screened for criminal records?' asked

Shepherd.

'Absolutely,' said Miss Malcolm. 'We insist on a letter from

the local police authority saying they haven't committed any

offences, and an HIV-status certificate. We prefer them to

have references from previous employers, ideally in the UK.

That's not always possible, of course, as many are coming

here for the first time.'

Shepherd stood up. 'I'm going to be away for a few days,'

he said. 'You can get me on my mobile.'

'Going anywhere nice?' asked Miss Malcolm.

'Not really,' said Shepherd. 'Business rather than pleasure.'

'Well, hopefully by the time you get back we'll have fixed

up the perfect young lady for you,' she said brightly.

The phone rang and Sewell frowned. He wasn't allowed to

call out and since he'd been in the hotel no one had rung

him. He picked up the receiver. 'Yes?'

'Mr Sewell, this is Sergeant Beattie, downstairs.'

Sewell sighed, expecting bad news.

'If you could have your bag packed, we'd like to move you

in about fifteen minutes.'

Sewell thanked him, then threw his clothes and washbag

into the holdall he'd brought with him when the police had

picked him up from home on Friday morning. He switched

off his laptop, closed it and put it into its nylon bag with the

unopened bottle of Bollinger.

The sergeant knocked on his door and took him downstairs

to where a younger officer in plain clothes was waiting

at the wheel of a green Rover. Sewell and the sergeant climbed

121

into the back. There was no small-talk during the short drive

across the city, but Sewell wasn't trying to make friends with

his custodians.

The lobby of the hotel to which they took him was a big

improvement on his previous accommodation. It was bright

and airy, and there were three pretty girls behind the desk

who greeted them with smiles. The sergeant handled the

check-in, the younger plain-clothes officer carried Sewell's

holdall.

A porter showed them to SewelFs suite. There was a large

sitting room with a sofa, two armchairs and a television set

three times the size of the one in the previous hotel. There

was a DVD player, too. Sewell opened the minibar and

grinned. There was a full range of beer, spirits and mixers,

and two half-bottles of champagne. It wasn't Bollinger, but

it was drinkable.

There was another big-screen TV in the bedroom and a

king-size bed. The bathroom contained a Jacuzzi and a shower

big enough for a rugby team. Sewell's smile widened. Things

were getting better by the minute.

'Is there anything we can get you, sir?' asked the sergeant.

Sewell picked up a copy of the room-service menu and

flicked through it. Oysters, fillet steak, Dover sole, a full range

of French and Italian wines. 'Hookers,' he said. 'Lots and

lots of hookers.'

The guard checked Shepherd's ID against the computer

printout on his clipboard and waved to the far end of the

parade-ground. 'If you'd park in bay thirty-two, sir, and head

on through the door over there. Major Gannon's expecting

you.'

Shepherd edged the CRY over the metal teeth that would

rip into the tyres of vehicles going the wrong way. He appreciated

the 'sir' but it didn't apply to his former rank in the

122

SAS or to his present status as a detective constable with the

police.

He locked the car and went through the door with his

overnight bag. Two soldiers in fatigues were standing behind

a reception desk. Shepherd showed his ID and one took him

down a corridor and knocked on a mahogany door. As he

walked in, Major Gannon was already striding across the

room, his arm outstretched. 'You're looking good, Spider,'

he said.

'Thanks, sir. You're in no bad shape yourself.' The major

was a big man with a strong chin, wide shoulders and a nose

that looked as if it had been broken at least once. He had

the appearance of an enlisted man rather than the high-flying

officer that he was. In all the years Shepherd had known him

he had never heard him referred to as a Rupert, the derogatory

term troopers used to describe their officers. The major

was always 'the Boss'. Shepherd had gone into battle with

him twice, and would have died for him without a second

thought.

Gannon shook his hand and slapped him on the back. 'Tea?' he asked. 'Staff's got a brew on.'

'Thanks,' said Shepherd. 'Two sugars.'

The staff sergeant poured a mug of thick, treacly tea,

splashed in a little milk and used a dessertspoon to heap in

two mounds of sugar. Gannon sat down behind his desk.

Behind him was a large window overlooking the parade

ground. There were three phones on the desk, and the briefcase

containing the secure satellite phone they called the

Almighty lay on a table. It never left Gannon's side. The only

people who had access to it were the prime minister, the

Cabinet Office, and the chiefs of MI5 and MI6. When it rang

it meant that all hell was breaking loose somewhere. The

major was head of the Increment, an ad hoc pulling-together

of men from the Special Air Service and the Special Boat

123

Squadron to carry out missions deemed too dangerous for

the intelligence services.

Shepherd sipped his tea. 'Thanks for doing this at short

notice, Major,' he said.

'Not a problem,' said Gannon.

'I didn't think they allowed live firing here, it being in the

centre of London and all,' said Shepherd.

'We're not training here,' said the major. 'We'll be in Stirling

Lines.'

Shepherd's heart sank. It had taken him the best part of

an hour to drive from Ealing to Central London, and this

meant retracing his route plus an extra four or five hours

westward to Hereford. They wouldn't get to the barracks

until evening, so they probably wouldn't start training until

tomorrow. A whole day wasted.

Gannon looked at his watch. 'Transport's on the way,' he

said.

'Great,' said Shepherd.

'I've been reading up on SO 19 procedures,' said the major.

'I've already briefed the guys in Hereford and they'll have

the Killing House set up for us.'

The Killing House was where the SAS rehearsed its hostage

rescues. Shepherd had spent hundreds of hours there when

he was in the Regiment, firing live ammunition at targets „

while colleagues played the part of hostages, often smoking ' '*

and cracking jokes as the bullets flew.

'Have you done much firing recently?' asked Gannon. 1 1

Shepherd carried a pistol when he was undercover and i

the operation warranted it, but he'd never had to fire it in

anger. Apart from a yearly range assessment, there was no

requirement for him to do any live firing. It was different

for the officers in SO 19: their shooting skills were constantly

tested and assessed, hence the need for Shepherd to get in

some practice. \\

124

I

The windows rattled and Gannon looked over his shoulder.

A large green helicopter settled slowly in the middle of the

parade-ground. Its rotors slowed and the turbine settled back

from a deafening roar to a juddering growl.

'Our chariot awaits/ said the major. He stood up. 'You can

bring your tea with you, if you like.' He grinned at Shepherd's

confusion. 'One of the perks of the job,' he said.

There were three troopers behind Shepherd, their feet shuffling

in the darkness. There were no lights in the Killing

House, and the troopers hadn't been given night-vision

goggles. Their Heckler & Koch MP5S had been fitted with

1003 Aiming Projectors, which shone a tight beam of intense

light from a fifty-five-watt halogen bulb directly along the

gun's line of fire. The light could be used to blind targets

temporarily but because the beam was so focused it didn't

affect the user's night vision.

Shepherd had the retractable stock version of the weapon,

the MP5A3, which was favoured by the SAS because they

often used their weapons covertly. It was also in general use

by SO 19.

Shepherd had memorised the layout of the Killing House

by glancing at a hand-drawn map for less than five seconds.

His memory gave him an advantage over the troopers he

was with, but they spent up to three hours a day practising

there and knew all of its permutations. The corridor they

were in had three doors off it as well as the one they had

just come through. There was a door at the end, facing them,

another on the right three paces ahead and a third on the

left a little further on.

Shepherd's eyes were stinging from the cordite in the air

and his ears were buzzing. They were using live ammunition

and the floor had to be swept clear of dozens of empty

cartridges after each scenario had been played through. They

125

weren't wearing gas masks because armed police were generally

not permitted to use tear gas or thunderflashes, unlike

the SAS who used pretty much any ordnance they needed

to achieve their objective.

Shepherd flashed his light at the door on the right, then

kicked it open and went in low to the right. Two troopers

behind him followed, one to the left, one to the right, while

the third stayed in the corridor. Lights flashed. There were

two targets in the room, one sitting at a desk, the other

standing in the far corner. 'Armed police, drop your

weapons!' shouted Shepherd, as he pulled the trigger and

sent three slugs thudding into the chest of the desk target,

a diving suit filled with straw. MP5S ratt-tatt-tatted behind

him and the target in the corner was hit in the chest and

head.

More flashes to confirm that the room was clear, then back

out into the corridor. The formation changed: this time

Shepherd brought up the rear and waited in the corridor

while the three troopers burst into the second room. There

were three short bursts of fire. One target, another padded

diving suit. The briefing had specified six targets and one hostage. That meant the hostage and three targets were in

the last room.

Shepherd led the way down the corridor. He flashed his

light at the door then went through, keeping low as he swept

his MP5 around the room, stabbing at the light button. Flash,

flash, flash. There were more flashes behind him. One hostage,

four targets. The briefing had been flawed to catch them out,

but the troopers with Shepherd were old hands and one

snorted just before Shepherd yelled, 'Armed police,' and the

firing started.

Bullets thudded into the four padded diving suits and within

seconds it was over.

'Clear,' said Shepherd.

126

The hostage was sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair

holding a transceiver. He spoke into it. 'Lights,' he said.

The overhead fluorescent bulbs flickered into life. Major

Gannon surveyed the targets. 'Not bad,' he said. Like

Shepherd and the three troopers, he was wearing black overalls

and a Kevlar vest. 'You might have given me a new

parting, but I'm not bleeding so that's a good sign.'

Shepherd smiled. None of the bullets had gone anywhere

near the major. It was traditional for troopers to play the

part of hostages in the Killing House. It demonstrated trust

but it also gave them the chance to experience being under

fire. The major had had more than enough experience of

gunfire and that he had decided to sit in on Shepherd's initial

exercise was a better demonstration of his faith in Shepherd's

ability than any written evaluation.

'It's interesting without the night-vision gear,' said

Shepherd.

'The cops aren't trained in it,' said the major. 'Nine times

out of ten they wouldn't go into a no-light situation. Too

risky.'

Shepherd had read the So 19 manuals and it was clear

that the police followed different procedures from the SAS.

They went in hoping that the incident could be resolved

without shots being fired. They identified themselves as

armed police and would charge in shouting that the targets

were to drop their weapons. They were only to fire if they

were under attack or if civilian lives were at risk. The SAS

went in as a last resort and went in hard. There was no

shouted identification, no need to tell the bad guys to give

up. They went in intending to shoot and kill. The chest and

the head were the only targets. Double tap, triple tap, it

didn't matter: all that mattered was that the target went

down and stayed down. If Shepherd stood a chance of

being accepted as a member of an armed-response unit

127

he'd have to forget most of what he'd learned as an SAS

trooper.

There was a further problem, which Hargrove had made

clear to him when he'd accepted the assignment: once an

SO 19 officer had fired his weapon he was immediately

removed from firearms duty until the incident had been investigated.

That could take months. If there had been a fatality,

it could take years. If Shepherd fired his weapon, the undercover

investigation would be over.

The major stood up and stretched. 'Your marksmanship

is spot on,' he said. 'Can't fault you on that. But we're going

to have to slow your reaction time a bit.' He grinned. 'Crazy,

I know, but at the moment you're moving at twice the speed

of a cop. You're identifying yourself and firing at the same

time and that'll get you drummed out the first time it happens

in the real world.'

Shepherd nodded.

'On style, I'd keep your weapon high, stock to shoulder,'

said Gannon. 'I know we fire from the hip, but the cops train

that way. Generally they don't go up against multiple targets

so intimidation is the name of the game. They hope the bad

guy will back down. Most armed cops go through their whole

career without ever firing their gun in anger.'

'Got it,' said Shepherd.

'What you just went through is as tough as it will get,' said

the major. He gestured to a small CCTV camera in the

corner of the room. 'We'll review the tapes, then run through

a few exercises, just to get you more in tune with the cop

way of doing things.'

'I appreciate it, Major.'

Gannon waved away his thanks. 'It's an interesting exercise,'

he said. 'Like detuning a high-performance car. Come on, let's

get some fresh air while they're getting the tapes ready.'

They walked away from the Killing House to the barracks

128

memorial garden in front of the Regimental church. The

SAS had moved from its old barracks in May 1999, and

taken over the former RAF Cledenhill base.They had brought

the Killing House with them and the clock tower from the

old Stirling Lines barracks had been rebuilt in the garden.

Engraved on it were the names of all the members of the

SAS who had been killed in action.

'You know there's always a place for you here, Spider,'

said the major.

'On the clock tower? Thanks a lot, but I

don't plan to

shuffle off this mortal coil just yet.'

The major ignored his jibe. 'With the Regiment,' he said.

'I'm a bit long in the tooth to be abseiling out of helicopters,'

said Shepherd.

'You're thirty-four. Hardly over the hill. And the Regiment

could use you on the directing staff. We lost three instructors

last month. They're in Iraq pulling in two grand a week.'

'I appreciate the offer, but I was never cut out to be an

instructor. Besides, as a cop I can spend more time with my

boy.'

'An undercover cop?' said Gannon. 'That means being

away for days at a time, maybe weeks, doesn't it? If you come

back to us you'd be based here and have most weekends off.

House prices are a darn site cheaper than London, too. Your

in-laws are still in this area, aren't they?'

'Born and bred,' said Shepherd. 'They're taking care of

Liam until I get my situation sorted. It'll be okay.'

'The offer stands,' said the major. 'You change your mind,

let me know.' They headed towards the administration block.

'These rogue cops, aren't they going to be suspicious when

you turn up out of the blue?' asked Gannon.

'Alleged rogue cops,' said Shepherd, with a smile. 'That's

the thing about being a cop - we have to bother with things

like proof and evidence.'

I

129

'But presumably they wouldn't be sending you in unless

they were pretty damn sure.'

'Like my boss says, knowing and proving are two different

things. But my legend'll be watertight.'

'It had better be,' said the major. 'Bad cops with automatic

weapons. Not a pleasant mix.'

'I'll be okay,' said Shepherd.

Gannon slapped him on the back. 'I don't doubt it for one

minute,' he said.

The Saudi knew that he would be lucky one day. That was

all he needed. One lucky day when Allah smiled on him.

He'd been at university in London when the IRA had almost

killed the then prime minister, Margaret Thatcher. They'd

exploded a huge bomb in her Brighton hotel and she had

been pulled from the rubble, shaken but alive. The Saudi

had never forgotten what the IRA had said afterwards:

Margaret Thatcher had been lucky, but she would have to

be lucky for ever; they only had to be lucky once. The Saudi

felt the same.

He had been unlucky three times already. He had planned

the perfect operation in Manchester. Five men in Manchester

United's Old Trafford stadium all fitted with explosive vests,

ready to blow themselves up shortly after kick-off. The tickets

had been acquired, the volunteers had been selected, but

even before the explosives had arrived in the country a careless

conversation on a mobile phone had been picked up by

an electronic monitoring station at Men with Hill in Yorkshire.

Within days the five volunteers, all Iraqis with British citizenship,

had been arrested.

Then he had arranged for a truck filled with fertiliser explosive

to be driven to the base of the London Eye by the river

Thames. They had been betrayed by an old man who had

overheard a whispered conversation in an East London

130

mosque. He had spoken to his imam, who had made a phone

call. Two days later a rented garage in Battersea was raided

and four men were taken to Belmarsh prison. The Saudi had

been on his way to the lock-up to collect the truck when the

police went in. Five minutes later, and he would have been

arrested with the others. Allah had smiled on him, but it had

not been his lucky day.

The Saudi had next planned to detonate a car bomb in

Trafalgar Square, but the day he was due to strike there had

been a trade-union protest and the square was sealed off.

The Saudi and another man had driven the explosive-laden

car around the West End for the best part of two hours before

they had abandoned the mission. The Saudi had told his

associate to take the car back to the house in St John's Wood

that they were using as a base, but again he had been betrayed.

The house was raided that night and the associate was

arrested. He, too, was now in Belmarsh.The authorities hadn't

released details of the arrest or the car bomb. The Saudi

knew why: if the public were aware of how close alQaeda

| had come to detonating a massive bomb in Trafalgar Square

they would lose all confidence in the security services.

The Saudi ran his hands down the canvas vest. It fitted

well. He had made it himself, stitching it by hand. It was

woman's work, but no woman could be trusted to know what

he had planned. He had been unlucky three times but he

would not be unlucky a fourth.

The four other men who had given themselves to the

mission did not know each other. They knew only the Saudi,

and only he knew that they were involved. Even if one of

the others was caught or went to the authorities, they knew

nothing of any value. They didn't know what the target was.

They didn't know when they would be deployed. And they

didn't know who else was involved. They would be told only

hours before it was due to happen.

131

The Saudi only ever spoke to the men in person. He never

used the telephone, he put nothing in writing. There were

no computer files, no letters, no written instructions, just

whispers and nods. All four men were highly trained and

all had made their preparations. They were ready to die,

happy even to give up their lives. They craved the opportunity

to die killing infidels. And if the Saudi's plan worked,

and if he was lucky, many hundreds of infidels would die.

Soon.

Shepherd borrowed a car from the SAS pool and drove from

the Stirling Lines barracks to Tom and Moira's semi. He

phoned from the car to let them know he was on the way.

'I wish you'd let us know you were coming, Daniel,' Moira

said. 'I could have aired your room.'

Shepherd hadn't known he was going to Hereford until

the helicopter had landed on the parade-ground in London.

'It's a flying visit, literally,' he said. 'I'm only here for two

days and then I'm back to London.'

Shepherd heard Liam shouting in the background. 'Is that

Dad?'

'Liam wants to talk to you, as you probably heard,' said

Moira.

'Dad, where are you?' Liam asked excitedly.

'On my way to see you,' he said. 'I'll be there in fifteen

minutes.'

'Are we going to London?'

'Not yet. Soon, though.'

'But you can stay here for a while?'

'For tonight, at least,' said Shepherd. 'Let me talk to your

gran.'

Liam put his grandmother back on the line. 'You don't

have to go to any trouble, Moira. I can bunk down at the

barracks.'

132

'Nonsense,' she said briskly. 'You'll spend the night with

us and that's the end of it. And you shouldn't be using the

phone while you're driving. That's how accidents happen.'

She cut the connection before he could explain that he

was using the hands-free kit.

When he pulled up in front of the house, Liam was in the

garden, waiting for him. Shepherd picked up his son and

swung him round. 'I missed you, kid.'

'Put me down!' squealed Liam.

Shepherd lowered him to the ground and tickled him.

Liam ran giggling into the house and Shepherd chased after

him. They stopped short when they saw Moira in the kitchen

doorway, her arms folded across her chest. 'No running in

the house, Liam,' she said.

'Sorry, Gran.'

'Sorry, Moira,' said Shepherd. He winked at Liam and his

son giggled.

'Don't forget your homework,' said Moira.

'Gran . . .'

'It's got to be done. You either do it now or you do it after supper. And I'm sure after supper you'll want to play with

your father. Why not pop up to your room and get it out of

the way?'

Liam looked up at his father. 'You're staying?'

'Of course.'

Moira took Shepherd into the kitchen and made a pot of

tea. 'Just two days, you said?'

'Today and tomorrow. I'll head back to London Thursday

evening, but I'll be here at the weekend.'

'And you're doing something with the Regiment?'

Shepherd could hear the suspicion in her voice. She'd never

been comfortable with the fact that he was an SAS trooper,

and Shepherd realised she thought he might be planning a

return to soldiering. She had no need to worry because that

133

was the farthest thing from his mind. 'Just some technical

training,' he said, 'to do with a police job.'

She poured milk into his tea and handed him the cup and

saucer. There were no mugs in Moira's house.

She sat down at the kitchen table. 'Tom and I have been

talking,' she said, 'about Liam. He's settled in so well with

us. The school was prepared to take him on a temporary

basis because of the circumstances, but I've already spoken

to the headmistress and there's a permanent place for him

if we want it. We'd have to move quickly, though, it's a

popular school . . .'

'He's my son,' said Shepherd. 'He belongs with me.'

'Of course he does,' she said. 'No one's trying to take him

away from you. But he's been with us for most of the past

four months, and when you do come it's usually a flying

visit. It's not as if your job is nine to five, is it?'

Shepherd opened his mouth to reply but shut it again

when he heard a key in the front door. He stood up and

smiled when Tom Wintour walked in. 'Dan, good to see you,'

he said. 'I was wondering whose car that was out front.

Where's the CRY?'

'It's a loaner,' said Shepherd. 'The CRV's in London.'

Tom shook hands with him, then dropped his battered

leather briefcase under the kitchen table. 'Are you staying?'

he asked, as he sat down at the table next to Moira. He

was portly with receding grey hair and thick horn-rimmed

glasses. He was a bank manager and looked the part in his

dark blue pinstriped suit, starched white shirt and inoffensive

tie.

Moira poured him a cup of tea. 'Of course he's staying,'

she said.

'I was going to bunk at the barracks, but Moira insisted,'

said Shepherd.

'You'll be able to have breakfast with Liam,' said Tom. He

134

sipped his tea. 'Did Moira tell you we've been talking about

Liam's future?' he said.

'Yes,' said Moira.

'We love having him here,' said Tom. 'There's plenty of

room. There's the garden. The school is only ten minutes

away.'

'I was telling Daniel about the school,' said Moira.

'I appreciate the offer, Tom, really I do, but I want Liam

with me.'

'Absolutely,' said Tom. 'That's where he belongs. But until

your situation is a bit more stable, why not let him stay with

us?'

'I don't see him enough as it is,' said Shepherd.

'But how is that going to change if you take him back to

London and get a housekeeper?' asked Moira.

She and Tom were facing him and Shepherd felt as if he

was being grilled in a police interrogation room. He toyed

with the idea of refusing to say anything until his lawyer

arrived.

'He'll be in the care of a stranger most of the time. The

3 agencies that fix up housekeepers can be a nightmare. Half

the time they don't even know the girls they're dealing with.

At least here Liam is with family,' Moira added.

* 'I'm his family,' said Shepherd.

'We're his grandparents, Daniel. We have rights, too.'

Shepherd didn't want to argue with them. He knew they

i| only had Liam's best interests at heart. And, besides, they

were right. 'I'll make sure I get someone decent,' he said. 'I'll

check references and stuff. It'll be fine.'

'And what happens if you're sent away from London?' said Moira. 'Susan said you were away all the time.'

'Not all the time,' said Shepherd, defensively. But, again,

he knew she was right. He could as easily be assigned to a

case in Aberdeen as London. And while he was always free

135

to turn down an assignment, he doubted that Hargrove would

keep him on the team if he only accepted jobs close to his

home. 'Even if the case is outside London, I'll be able to get

home at night and at weekends more often than not.'

'Daniel, you've been in Manchester for the past week,' said

Moira, patiently.

Shepherd took a deep breath. It would have been easier if

his mother-in-law had been shouting at him but she was calm

and reasonable, the logic of her argument forcing him into

a corner. 'I want to try,' he said. 'If it doesn't work out, I'll

rethink my situation. But I was a good father when Sue was

alive, and I don't see that I'm going to be a bad one now

that she's gone.'

'Nobody's suggesting that,' said Tom. 'We just want the

best for your boy.' He sighed and ran his finger around the

rim of his cup. 'Have you thought about moving jobs within

the force?'

'Pounding a beat, you mean?'

'There are jobs, surely, that would allow you to spend more

time at home.'

It was something Sue had raised a few weeks before she'd

died. Shepherd had said he'd think about it, but in his heart

of hearts he knew he'd never ask for a transfer to a desk job.

He'd given up his army career without hesitation when Sue

had become pregnant with Liam. Life in the SAS was

dangerous at the best of times and he had narrowly escaped

death in Afghanistan after taking a sniper's bullet in the

shoulder. But it was only after he'd been recruited into

Hargrove's undercover unit that he'd discovered police work

could be every bit as dangerous as serving with special forces.

At least when he was in the SAS he had had a pretty good

idea of who was going to be taking pot-shots at him. Now

that he mixed with the criminal fraternity, he never knew

who might decide to stick a knife in his back, both literally

136

and figuratively. It was what gave the job its edge. There were

times when it was considerably more stressful than going

into battle with men you trusted with your life. But he couldn't

tell Tom and Moira that. He always downplayed his police

work with them, as he had with Sue.

'I can't be stuck in an office,' said Shepherd, and immediately

regretted the words - that was exactly where Tom

Wintour had been for the past thirty years. 'I need to be out

and about...' he added. Tom was a good man and had done

a sterling job in raising Sue and taking care of Moira. While

it wasn't a life that Shepherd could have lived, he respected

the man as a good father and husband.'. . . there are fewer

perks when you're office-bound. I get travelling expenses,

overnight expenses, lots of overtime. It makes a big difference

to my pay cheque.'

'Money isn't everything, Daniel,' said Moira.

Shepherd forced himself to smile. 'No, but it'll make our

life easier,' he said.

'Just think about it,' said Tom. 'He'd have stability here,

and he wouldn't have the problems you get in inner-city

schools these days.'

'What problems?' asked Shepherd. 'I live in Ealing.'

'Oh, come on, Daniel, we read the papers,' said Moira.

'« 'Drugs, shootings, classrooms full of asylum-seekers.'

'You don't want to believe everything you read in the Daily

MaiV

a 'It's not about what paper we read,' said Moira. 'It's about

the quality of education. The schools in London, the state

ones anyway, are dire, and you can't argue with that.'

'Liam's school is fine,' said Shepherd. 'Sue went to a great

deal of trouble to make sure we were in the right catchment

area. Anyway, it's not about schools. I'll send him private if

I have to. It's about my son being with me, and I'm sorry,

but that's not negotiable.' His stomach was churning and his

137

heart pounding. 'I don't want to fight, I really don't.'

Tom smiled sympathetically. 'It's not a fight, it's a discussion

about what's best for Liam.'

'I know,' said Shepherd.

'Let's just leave it for the moment, shall we? You're here,

Liam's here. Moira can cook us some supper and I'll open

a bottle of wine.'

'Maybe I'll go and help Liam with his homework.'

'Good idea,' said Tom. 'Red or white?'

'Whatever you're having is fine,' said Shepherd. He saw

Moira and Tom exchange a worried look as he left the

kitchen. Despite Tom's conciliatory words he knew that there

had been only a temporary cessation in hostilities. The war

would continue.

Sewell flicked through the TV channels. Comedy shows,

gardening, a quiz hosted by an effeminate comic. A leaflet

on top of the TV explained how to access the paid-for

system. A dozen new-release movies were on offer, with

four pornographic films. The hotel charged ten pounds each,

but Sewell decided that the police could pay for an orgasm

or two. At the bottom of the leaflet a brief note informed

guests that the hotel was equipped with wi-fi, allowing guests

to access the Internet without connecting through a phone

line.

'Thank God for four-star hotels,' muttered Sewell. He sat

down at the dressing-table, opened the laptop and tapped

his fingers impatiently as the computer booted up. He flicked

the wi-fi switch and waited while the machine searched for

a frequency to lock on to. A bubble appeared at the bottom

right of the screen, wireless connection available. Sewell

was online.

He launched Outlook Express and waited as more than

forty emails dropped into his inbox. There were a dozen

138

from contacts on the dating service he'd joined. He didn't

bother reading them. Most of the rest were junk, offering

everything from penile extensions to American university

degrees. There were a dozen emails from clients and four

from people at work. Nothing from Hendrickson, of course.

Sewell cursed under his breath. He was looking forward to

sitting in court the day Hendrickson was sentenced. Fifteen

years to life, Hargrove had said. Sewell intended to give

Hendrickson a piece of his mind before they took him away.

There were two emails from clients he often played golf

with, asking why he hadn't turned up on Saturday, and one

from his stockbroker, tipping a couple of shares. Nothing

urgent.

He closed Outlook Express and opened Internet Explorer.

He was able to access his two personal bank accounts online

and checked them both. There had been no withdrawals, but

Sewell hadn't expected to see any. There was no way

Hendrickson could access them, even if Sewell was declared

dead. It was the office accounts he was worried about, but he couldn't get to them online.

He went to the company website and logged on, typing

his user ID and password. Nothing much had changed since

he'd been in the office. A few more orders had been placed.

He went through to the accounts section and flicked through

it. Everything was as it should have been. But Sewell was

worried about the company bank accounts. He sat back and

chewed his lower lip. He hated not knowing what Hendrickson

was doing.

He closed Internet Explorer and opened Outlook Express

again. He wrote an email to John Garden, swearing the lawyer

to secrecy and asking him to check the status of the company

bank accounts. Garden ran the company's legal department

as well as acting as Sewell's private legal adviser and had

been with him even before he'd set up the company. Sewell

139

hesitated before he sent the email. The superintendent had

been unequivocal about him not making contact with anybody

until Hendrickson was in custody. 'So sue me for not obeying

your every word,' Sewell said, and pressed send.

Shepherd tucked the quilt under Liam's chin. 'Good night,

sleep tight, hope the bedbugs don't bite,' he said, and kissed

his son on the forehead.

'Will you be here tomorrow?' asked Liam, sleepily.

'Sure. I'll have breakfast with you and drive you to school.'

'And will you pick me up?'

'I'll try,' said Shepherd. 'I've some work to do at the

barracks. Some training.'

'Secret Squirrel?'

Shepherd laughed. 'Yes. Secret Squirrel.'

'Are you going back in the army?'

'Definitely not.'

'So you're going back to London?'

'In a day or two.'

'Can I come with you?'

'I've got to get us an au pair fixed up first, but as soon as

I've done that you can be back in your old room.'

'Soon?' Liam's eyes were half closed and Shepherd could

see he was struggling to stay awake.

'Soon,' said Shepherd.

'Promise?'

'Promise.'

'Okay.' Liam's eyelids fluttered and closed.

Shepherd stroked his cheek. 'Sweet dreams, kid,' he said.

Shepherd woke up and tried to work out where he was. He

relaxed when he remembered he was in Moira and Tom's

house, in the double bed he had shared with Sue whenever

they had stayed over. He looked at his watch. It was seven

140

thirty. He could hear Moira downstairs in the kitchen, getting

breakfast ready.

He slid out of bed, shaved, showered and changed into a

clean shirt and jeans. Liam was sitting at the kitchen table,

spooning porridge into his mouth. 'Hiya, kid, what time do

we have to leave for school?'

'Half past eight,' Liam replied.

'Liam, not with your mouth full,' admonished Moira. 'Egg

and bacon, Daniel?'

'Lovely,' said Shepherd. His mother-in-law was a first-class

cook and served a great fry-up. 'Egg and bacon' was her

shorthand for eggs, bacon, sausage, fried bread, tomato and

baked beans. He helped himself to coffee. 'Where's Tom?'

he asked, sitting next to Liam.

'Tom leaves at seven on the dot,' said Moira, ladling beans

on to his plate. 'He likes to be first in. Makes a point of it.

He hasn't had a day off sick in twenty-seven years. What

about you? What are you doing today?'

'It's Secret Squirrel, Gran,' said Liam. He took a couple

of gulps from a tall glass of orange juice.

'Just training,' said Shepherd. 'Nothing exciting.' He didn't

want to tell his son or Moira that he was going to spend all

morning firing handguns to get his accuracy up to the level

expected by SO 19.

He tucked into his fry-up, and Liam went upstairs to get

ready for school.

'Shall I pick him up this afternoon?' asked Moira, and

poured herself a cup of tea.

'What time does he finish?'

'Half past three.'

"Thing is, I'm not sure what time I'm going back to London.'

'But you'll be here this evening?'

'I hope so, but it's not up to me. The Regiment's handling

transport.'

141

'This coming and going doesn't do Liam any good at all,'

said Moira. She sighed. 'I'm sorry, I don't mean to nag.'

'I'll phone you when I'm done,' said Shepherd, 'and, whatever

happens, I'll be back at the weekend.'

Liam reappeared with his schoolbag. Shepherd wolfed

down the last of his breakfast, picked up his overnight bag

and took his son to the car. Liam gave him directions, and

Shepherd realised he'd never even seen the school his son

went to. He had no idea who his teacher was. He started to

ask questions about it, but Liam was monosyllabic. 'It's not

my school, Dad,' he said eventually. 'My school's in London.'

'I know,' said Shepherd.

'London's where my friends are.'

'I know.'

'So don't keep asking me about it. I won't be here long.'

'Okay.'

'Will I?'

'I hope not.'

Shepherd pulled up and Liam undipped his seatbelt. 'I'll

see you tonight, yeah?'

Shepherd nodded.

'You will be here, won't you?' asked Liam.

'I'll do my best, kid,' said Shepherd.

'Promise?'

'Cross my heart.'

Liam beamed, slung his bag over his shoulder and ran to

the gate. Shepherd knew he'd been playing with words and

was suddenly ashamed. He had promised he'd try to be there,

but that was not how Liam had understood it. So far as Liam

was concerned, Shepherd had promised to be there, and that

was a promise he couldn't make. Telling people what they

wanted to hear was part of working undercover, but it was

no way for a father to talk to his son.

142

Larry Hendrickson was sitting with his feet on the desk and

sipping his second cup of coffee when his intercom buzzed.

It was his secretary telling him that Norman Baston was

outside and wanted a word. Hendrickson told her to send

him in. Baston was the firm's IT team leader, a nerdish

computer geek with slicked-back hair and two PhDs. He

rarely left the computer room so Hendrickson realised it had

to be important. Either something was wrong with the system

or he had received another job offer and wanted his salary

bumped up again. He was already earning six figures, but

was worth every penny. The problem was, he knew it.

'How's it going, Norm?' asked Hendrickson, swinging his

feet off the desk.

'Have you heard from Roger?' asked Baston. He had few

social graces and never made small-talk. He was far more

comfortable with his computers than he was with people.

'Not since last week,' said Hendrickson.

'Any idea where he is?'

'What's the problem?'

'Maybe nothing, but he logged on yesterday and went

through the accounts system. I just wondered if something

was wrong.'

Hendrickson fought to stay calm. 'If there was a problem,

I'm sure he'd mention it to me.' m 'When's he coming in?'

'Like I said, I haven't spoken to him since before the

weekend, but he didn't say he was going anywhere.'

'We had a meeting fixed up today. Thursday, ten fifteen.

His secretary says he hasn't been in all week.'

'You know what Roger's like.'

'He hasn't even spoken to Barbara.'

'It's only Thursday, and it's not as if the ship will sink if

he's not at the helm, is it? Have you tried his mobile?'

'Goes straight through to voicemail.'

143

Hendrickson's mind was whirling from the ramifications

of what Baston had said. Sewell couldn't have logged on

because he was in a shallow grave in the New Forest. So

who had got hold of his User ID and password? The only

person that came to mind was Tony Nelson. Had he decided

to make some extra money by stealing from the company?

He might have tortured Sewell before he killed him, forced

him to hand over details of the company bank accounts.

Hendrickson tried to appear calm. As far as anyone in the

company was concerned, Sewell had gone AWOL for a few

days. It wasn't unusual, and it was far too early for

Hendrickson to show signs of concern. 'Email?' he suggested.

Til send one now. I just thought maybe he'd said something

to you.'

Hendrickson shook his head. Tm sure it's not worth

worrying about.'

Baston put his left thumb to his mouth and began to gnaw

at the nail. He ambled out of the office.

Hendrickson stood up and began to pace. Everything had

been going exactly as planned. Sewell was dead and buried.

Hendrickson had yet to call in the police, but when he did

they'd find the house empty. They'd check the hospitals,

maybe the ports and airports, run a check on Sewell's credit

cards. It would become a mystery that they'd never solve.

Hendrickson knew Sewell liked to meet women through online

dating agencies and chatrooms: at some point he'd suggest

that maybe he had met someone online and either run off

with them or been murdered. After a respectable amount of

time he'd tighten his control over the company, sack Sewell's

people and bring in his own. There'd be no need to sell the

company, not when he was in sole control. That was the plan

- but now Nelson was threatening to ruin everything. He

wanted to scream with frustration and hurl his coffee mug

at the wall, but he fought to stay calm. Now was not the time

144

to lose his temper. He had to stay in control. He'd hired one

killer. Now all he had to do was find another and get him

to take care of Nelson. It was just a question of money, and

Hendrickson had more than enough of that.

He walked down the corridor to Sewell's office, where

Barbara was busy on her word-processor. He tapped on the

door. She looked up and smiled when she saw him. 'Larry,

how can I help you?' She was an attractive brunette in her

late forties.

'Any sign of Roger?'

She shook her head. 'He's not answering his phone either.'

'He didn't say where he was going, did he?'

'I was expecting him on Monday.'

'He mentioned going to Florida. Did he say anything to

you?'

'He didn't ask me to get him tickets.'

'And there've been no emails from him?'

'Not this week.'

'No contact at all?'

'Do you think something's wrong, Larry?'

Hendrickson tried to look relaxed. It was too soon to start

raising red flags, but it was only natural to be concerned if

his partner had gone missing. 'No - you know what he's like.

He'll probably turn up tomorrow with a sore head. Anything

¦ urgent I can take care of for him?'

'He's right up to date. He worked late last Thursday to

clear his desk.'

Hendrickson frowned. That wasn't like Sewell. He was

¦ forever behind with his paperwork. In fact, he left much of

the day-to-day administration to Hendrickson. 'I'm the ideas

man,' he'd always say. 'You're the bread-and-butter guy,

Larry.' Hendrickson had to chase him to sign contracts and

cheques.

'Thursday night?'

145

'He was still here when I left. That's why I wasn't worried

when he didn't come in on Friday. I assumed he had a long

weekend planned. I'm sure he's fine.'

'You're probably right,' said Hendrickson. 'If he does phone

in, ask him to give me a call, will you?'

Hendrickson headed back to his own office. He didn't

think for a minute that Sewell would call. Not unless they

had phones in hell. But he needed to know who'd been using

Sewell's ID and password to log on to the company system.

And what they wanted.

The major walked with Shepherd across the grass to the

outdoor shooting range. Four troopers in fatigues were firing

three-round bursts of their MP5S at metal cut-out figures of

terrorists, the sound of gunfire echoing off the nearby barracks

buildings.

'The Trojan units favour the Glock,' said the major. 'You

used the SIG-Sauer, right?'

A sergeant was loading ammunition into magazines at a

wooden bench and he nodded at Shepherd. His fingers were

slipping rounds into the magazine quickly and efficiently,

working purely by feel.

'Started with the Browning Hi-Power but, yeah, the fifteen

round magazine gives the P226 the edge every time,' said

Shepherd.

'The cops use the Glock with a ten-round magazine. The

pros put eight in the mag so that the spring doesn't get overstrained.

Two point five kilogram trigger pull. Not my

favourite short, but you're stuck with it.' Gannon picked up

one of the pistols on the bench and handed it to Shepherd.

'They say it never jams, right?' said Shepherd.

Gannon pulled a face. 'No guns jam,' he said. 'Ammunition

jams. Put a crap round in a Glock and it'll jam. If you want

jam-free, stick with revolvers, and live with having only six

146

shots. The cops don't bother putting tracer rounds at the

bottom of the mag. We do, because in situations where we

need constant firepower it lets us know when to change

mags. Cops make every shot count so they should always

know how many they've got left. That's the theory. Now, let's

see what you do at ten metres.'

Shepherd picked up one of the magazines and slotted it

into the butt of the Glock. Gannon stood slightly behind him

as he adopted the classic firing stance. Left foot slightly

ahead of the right, right hand around the butt, left hand

around the right. The targets were simple ringed bullseyes,

about two feet in diameter. He fired eight shots in four

groups of two at one of the targets, then lowered the gun.

All eight shots had gone through the centre of the target; the

holes could have been covered by a fifty-pence piece.

¦ 'Show-off,' said the major, grinning.

'Like riding a bike,' said Shepherd. He ejected the empty

mag and slotted in a fresh one.

He walked with the major to stand in front of the second

target. This one was twenty-five metres away. Shepherd fired

four groups of two in quick succession. His accuracy at the

longer distance was virtually unchanged.

The major nodded approvingly and walked with Shepherd

to the third target. This one was fifty metres away, the upper

limit for a handgun. Beyond fifty metres, hitting a target with

any degree of accuracy was down to luck more than training.

He took a few seconds to get comfortable, forced himself to

relax, then fired eight shots. All were within the centre three

rings and could have been covered by a saucer. Eight killing

shots at fifty metres was good shooting by anyone's standards.

He ejected the mag, opened the breech to check that

it was clear, locked the top slide in place and handed the

gun to Gannon.

'Your accuracy's spot on, Spider, can't fault you on that,'

147

said the major. 'Technique-wise, the double tap is fine for

the range, but it's single shots when you're on the street.

Remember, with the boys in blue every shot counts and has

to be accounted for. The big difference between us and the

cops is that we shoot until the target goes down. Cops shoot

when only absolutely necessary to neutralise the threat.'

'Got it.'

'I bloody hope so, Spider, because if you revert to your

Sass training and empty a magazine into a bad guy, you go

to jail and don't pass go. Cops can only fire if life is in imminent

danger. As soon as the bad guys drop their weapons,

you stop firing.'

'Okay.'

'What we're going to do now is to take you back into the

Killing House and run you through a series of drills, using

blanks. We'll throw dozens of civilian situations at you.

Teenager with an airgun, angry husband holding wife hostage,

armed bank robbers, the works. We'll be testing two things

- your marksmanship and, more importantly, your judgement

calls. You can't afford to make a mistake.'

Just then his mobile phone rang. Shepherd grimaced.

'Sorry,' he said to the major. 'I've got to keep it on in case

the job needs me.'

'Go ahead,' said Gannon.

Shepherd walked away and took the call. It was Miss

Malcolm from the au pair agency. 'I haven't caught you at

a bad time, have I, Mr Shepherd?' she asked.

Shepherd wondered what she'd say if he told her that he

was about to go into the SAS Killing House to practise

hostage-rescue techniques. 'No, it's fine, Miss Malcolm.'

'I've had four girls arrive in London at short notice and

I thought I might show you the pick of the litter, so to speak.'

'That's good news,' said Shepherd. 'The sooner the better,

as far as I'm concerned.'

148

'I was wondering if I could have one pop along to see you

on Friday morning.'

'That would be fine,' said Shepherd. There was a burst of

automatic fire from the far end of the range.

'What on earth was that?' asked Miss Malcolm.

'Nothing,' said Shepherd. 'Just a car backfiring.' He realised

I that the major was listening. Gannon mimed firing a burst

at him with an MP5 and Shepherd waved him away. 'Thanks

for your call, Miss Malcolm,' he said and cut the connection.

It was only when he put away the phone that he realised

she hadn't told him the girl's name or where she was from.

'Sorry,' he said to Gannon. 'I've got to get an au pair fixed

up sharpish.'

'Couldn't get one for me, could you? I could do with something

to keep me warm at night.'

¦ 'She'll be cooking, ironing and babysitting Liam. That'll

I

be her lot,' said Shepherd. 'She'll probably turn out to be a

twenty-stone Romanian weight-lifter, but looks are pretty

low on my list of requirements.'

Shepherd spent all morning in the Killing House under

the supervision of the major and a counter-terrorism

instructor, a grizzled sergeant whom Shepherd remembered

from his days in the SAS. They broke for lunch at one and

the major took Shepherd to the mess. A special-projects

team, a captain and fifteen troopers, were at an adjoining

table and clearly curious as to who the major was with.

'So, what do you think of the new place?' asked Gannon,

as he started on a plate of sausage and chips.

'More space than the old barracks,' said Shepherd. 'Food's

the same as it ever was, though.'

'Funnily enough, it used to be the RAF's catering school,'

said Gannon, stabbing at a sausage. 'They didn't leave any

chefs behind so we're stuck with our old guys. Still, it's only

fuel, isn't it?'

149

said the major. 'Technique-wise, the double tap is fine for

the range, but it's single shots when you're on the street.

Remember, with the boys in blue every shot counts and has

to be accounted for. The big difference between us and the

cops is that we shoot until the target goes down. Cops shoot

when only absolutely necessary to neutralise the threat.'

'Got it.'

'I bloody hope so, Spider, because if you revert to your

Sass training and empty a magazine into a bad guy, you go

to jail and don't pass go. Cops can only fire if life is in imminent

danger. As soon as the bad guys drop their weapons,

you stop firing.'

'Okay.'

'What we're going to do now is to take you back into the

Killing House and run you through a series of drills, using

blanks. We'll throw dozens of civilian situations at you.

Teenager with an airgun, angry husband holding wife hostage,

armed bank robbers, the works. We'll be testing two things

- your marksmanship and, more importantly, your judgement

calls. You can't afford to make a mistake.'

Just then his mobile phone rang. Shepherd grimaced.

'Sorry,' he said to the major. 'I've got to keep it on in case

the job needs me.'

'Go ahead,' said Gannon.

Shepherd walked away and took the call. It was Miss

Malcolm from the au pair agency. 'I haven't caught you at

a bad time, have I, Mr Shepherd?' she asked.

Shepherd wondered what she'd say if he told her that he

was about to go into the SAS Killing House to practise

hostage-rescue techniques. 'No, it's fine, Miss Malcolm.'

'I've had four girls arrive in London at short notice and

I thought I might show you the pick of the litter, so to speak.'

'That's good news,' said Shepherd. 'The sooner the better,

as far as I'm concerned.'

148

1

'I was wondering if I could have one pop along to see you

on Friday morning.'

'That would be fine,' said Shepherd. There was a burst of

automatic fire from the far end of the range.

'What on earth was that?' asked Miss Malcolm.

'Nothing,' said Shepherd. 'Just a car backfiring.' He realised

that the major was listening. Gannon mimed firing a burst

at him with an MP5 and Shepherd waved him away. 'Thanks

for your call, Miss Malcolm,' he said and cut the connection.

It was only when he put away the phone that he realised

she hadn't told him the girl's name or where she was from.

'Sorry,' he said to Gannon. 'I've got to get an au pair fixed

up sharpish.'

'Couldn't get one for me, could you? I could do with something

to keep me warm at night.'

'She'll be cooking, ironing and babysitting Liam. That'll

be her lot,' said Shepherd. 'She'll probably turn out to be a

twenty-stone Romanian weight-lifter, but looks are pretty

low on my list of requirements.'

Shepherd spent all morning in the Killing House under

the supervision of the major and a counter-terrorism

instructor, a grizzled sergeant whom Shepherd remembered

from his days in the SAS. They broke for lunch at one and

the major took Shepherd to the mess. A special-projects

team, a captain and fifteen troopers, were at an adjoining

table and clearly curious as to who the major was with.

'So, what do you think of the new place?' asked Gannon,

as he started on a plate of sausage and chips.

'More space than the old barracks,' said Shepherd. 'Food's

the same as it ever was, though.'

'Funnily enough, it used to be the RAF's catering school,'

said Gannon, stabbing at a sausage. 'They didn't leave any

chefs behind so we're stuck with our old guys. Still, it's only

fuel, isn't it?'

149

'That was one of the first things I noticed when I left the

Regiment,' said Shepherd. 'The weight started to go on. I

put on ten pounds in the first month.'

'All the coffee and doughnuts you cops eat, I suppose.'

'Soldiering burns up the calories. Police work is less physical,

certainly the sort I do.'

'Stressful, though.'

'Yeah, I suppose so. Long-term stress. In the Sass, the

stress comes in bursts mainly. Bang, bang, bang, then it's all

over and you wait for the shit to hit the fan again. In undercover

work it's constant. Even when a case is over there's

still the worry that someone might find out who you are and

what you did.'

'Revenge, you mean?'

Shepherd buttered a chunk of bread. 'You're on your own

if it goes tits up,' he said. 'In the Sass you've got the Regiment

to take care of you. Safety in numbers.'

'Cops take care of their own, don't they?'

'Uniforms, maybe, but I'm in a special unit. Most people

don't even know I'm a cop.'

'Armed?'

'If it goes with my cover. But as Dan Shepherd, no, I'm

not supposed to carry a gun.'

'Not supposed to?'

Shepherd chuckled. 'Some rules are meant to be broken,'

he said. 'Anyone sneaks into my home in the middle of the

night, they'd better be wearing body armour.'

They finished their lunch and walked back to the Killing

House, past the ammunition stores and the briefing room

they called the Kremlin. As always Gannon was carrying his

sat phone.

'How much longer will you be heading up the Increment?'

asked Shepherd.

'It's open-ended,' said the major. 'Apparently I'm doing

150

such a good job they want me there until I retire or kick the

bucket.'

'All this al-Qaeda activity must keep you in the firing line,'

said Shepherd.

'You don't know half of it, Spider. Five is asking us to do

some pretty heavy stuff, these days. Stuff we'd never have

i I got away with in the old days.'

'Difficult to get a handle on what they want, isn't it?'

'You knew where you were with the Provos - Brits out, a

| united Ireland. Simple. Everyone knew what they wanted,

and why the British wouldn't give it to them. What the hell

does al-Qaeda want? No one really knows. Death to infidels?

The Yanks out of Saudi? Every woman in the world wearing

a veil? And the way they wage war is so alien. Suicide

bombers? Killing women and children? The Provos could be

evil bastards at times, but the al-Qaeda lot are something

else. How the hell are you supposed to deal with a suicide

bomber?'

'It's a sick business, all right.'

'It's going to happen here, Spider. Sooner or later. Five

i are working overtime to keep the lid on it, but there's only

so much they can do. And when it happens it'll be big.'

'Spectaculars, the IRA called them,' said Shepherd. 'Always

hated that. Almost glamorised what they did. A bomb's a

bomb. Casualties are casualties.'

'But even they drew the line at planes. Or trains. They

could have put a bomb on a British Airways flight whenever

they wanted. The Dublin to Belfast train was a sitting target.

But they never went for it. You know why?'

'They followed rules, I guess,' said Shepherd.

'They regarded it as a war and they followed the rules of

war. Most of the time. But al-Qaeda has no rules. The end

justifies the means, no matter what the means are. They'll

blow up a school if it serves their purpose. A football ground.

151

The more horrific the better. They've got guys out in North

Korea trying to buy uranium to build a dirty bomb. They

were in Russia for anthrax. They've got cells all over the

world stockpiling explosives. It's like trying to treat cancer.

You take out one tumour and another one grows somewhere

else. You're always one step behind, trying to catch

up. At least with the Provos we knew who the bad guys

were. We had the RUC on our side and we had real intel.

You know how many Arabs they had working for MI5 on

9/i1?'

Td guess none.'

'You'd guess right. They had a few Arab speakers but they

were white Oxbridge graduates. It's no wonder intelligence

in that area is so weak. Still is, as far as I can see. Most of

what's in the MI5 files that go across my desk is guesswork.'

He lifted the sat phone. 'I just carry this around and wait

for it to ring.'

They reached the Killing House. 'Question,' said Shepherd.

'Fire away.'

'How do you handle a suicide bomber?'

'You don't,' said the major. 'You can't. They want to die,

so there's nothing you can say to them, no way you can apply

pressure. You have to take them out with as few casualties

as possible.'

'So you slot them, end of story?'

'Head shot because the explosive is generally strapped to

their body. But even then, chances are they'll go bang. They

normally hold the trigger and all they have to do is press it.

Even with a clean head shot the hand can spasm and-set it

off. Plus there's plan B.'

'Plan B?'

'Whoever sends the bomber into play usually has a fallback

position. Either a timer or a remote-control trigger.

They often use mobile phones.'

152

'So slotting the guy doesn't necessarily make the bomb

safe?'

'The guy can be dead on the ground and you still can't

go near him, not before the bomb-disposal guys. The only

way to deal with them is to take them out before they get to

their target area. Once they're in place, you're screwed. The

Israelis deal with them on a daily basis and the only defence

they've got is public vigilance. You see a Palestinian wearing

a bulky jacket, you scream like hell and run for it.'

The sergeant was at the entrance to the Killing House,

carrying an MP5. He nodded at Shepherd. 'You ready for

round two, Spider?'

Shepherd grinned. He relished working with professional

soldiers again. Undercover work was solitary. He met

Hargrove, he occasionally worked with other agents if the

particular job required it, but generally he was alone. The

comradeship of the Regiment was one of the things he missed

most about it.

'We'll run through some group hostage situations,' said

Gannon. 'Then I've arranged for sniper training.'

'Excellent,' said Shepherd. That was another thing he missed

about the SAS. The chance to play with big boys' toys.

When the sergeant called time on the exercises in the Killing

House Shepherd was exhausted. He'd been working with

four troopers from the counter-terrorism wing and they'd

pushed him hard. He drank from a plastic bottle of water

and spat on the ground. 'Nothing like the taste of cordite, is

there?' said Gannon.

'How did it look?'

'You'll fit right in to SO 19,' said Gannon. 'Not quite up

to our high standards, of course.'

'Of course,' said Shepherd. He handed his weapon to the

sergeant.

153

'We're going to have to leave the sniping,' said Gannon.

'I've got to head back to London. Chopper's ready now.'

Shepherd looked at his watch and groaned. He hadn't

realised how long he'd been in the Killing House. He pulled

out his mobile phone and called Moira.

'Daniel,' she said, and Shepherd could tell she was annoyed

with him.

'Hiya, Moira. Look, I'm not going to be able to pick Liam

up.'

Moira sighed. 'I collected him from school half an hour

ago. A teacher phoned me to say that Liam was waiting at

the gates.'

Shepherd's heart sank. 'Oh, God, I'm sorry.'

'And I don't think that taking the Lord's name in vain is

going to make things any better,' said Moira.

'Can I talk to him?'

'He's very upset, Daniel.'

Shepherd gritted his teeth, unable to believe he'd screwed

up again. Why hadn't he kept a closer eye on the time?

'You can't keep doing this to him,' said Moira. Her voice

was flat: she wasn't accusing him, simply stating a fact.

'I know. Can you just tell him I was held up?'

'He knows that. He knows you don't do it deliberately.'

The fact that she was being so understanding made

Shepherd feel worse. 'I'm sorry, Moira.'

'I know you are. You're always sorry when you let him

down. But you can't keep doing it.'

'Please, Moira, can I speak to him?'

'He's crying. He won't want to speak to you. Not ibr a

while.'

Shepherd felt as if he'd been punched in the solar plexus.

He squatted with his back to the wall. 'Look, can you get

him into the back garden in fifteen minutes?'

'What on earth for?'

154

'Please, Moira, just do as I ask, will you?'

'Daniel . . .'

'Fifteen minutes,' said Shepherd. He cut the connection

and banged the back of his head against the wall. 'Shit,' he

said. 'Shit, shit, shit.'

Moira knocked on the bedroom door. 'Liam?' she said. There

was no reply so she knocked again. 'Liam?'

'I'm not hungry,' said Liam.

'I haven't made supper yet,' said Moira. 'I want you to

come outside.'

'Why?'

'I just do.'

'I want to stay here.'

'Listen to me, young man, you'll do as you're told. Open

this door now.'

Moira heard him slide off the bed and pad across the floor.

He opened the door and looked up at her, cheeks wet with

tears. 'It's not fair,' he said. 'Dad always does this. He always

says he'll be there and then he's not.'

Moira bent down so that her face was level with her

grandson's. 'Your father loves you very much, but sometimes

he's busy.'

'He thinks his work's more important than me.'

'No, he doesn't,' said Moira. 'You're the most important

thing in the world to him. Now, don't be silly and come out

into the garden.'

Liam followed his grandmother down the stairs and out

through the kitchen door. Moira took him to the end of the

garden where Tom had planted a clump of rosebushes. A

light wind blew through the branches of a weeping willow

close to the shed.

'What are we doing, Gran?' asked Liam.

Moira wasn't sure, but she'd heard the insistence in her

155

son-in-law's voice and could tell how upset he was. If he

wanted them in the garden, then that was where they would

be. They heard the helicopter before they saw it, a thudding

whup-whup-whup to their right. Moira shaded her eyes with

her hand and peered into the sky. There were large cumulus

clouds dotted around, as white as cotton wool. She made out

a black dot, no bigger than an insect, highlighted against one,

and pointed at it. 'There, Liam, see it?'

Liam jumped up and down. 'Is it Dad?'

Despite herself Moira smiled. 'Yes, I think it probably is.'

The helicopter flew lower and gradually they could make

out the rotor and the tail. Then they saw a figure in the open

hatchway.

'It's Dad!' yelled Liam.

The helicopter was too far away'for Moira to make out

the man's features, but she had no doubt that it was her soninlaw.

It was a grand gesture, indeed, but he didn't seem to understand that being a parent wasn't about making grand

gestures, it was about providing security, and being there for

your child, day and night. Liam needed a father who helped

him with his homework, played football with him in the

garden, tucked him up at night, not an action hero who flew

in by helicopter to prove how sorry he was.

The helicopter circled the garden, the rotor wash squashing

the grass flat. The man waved from the open door. Liam

waved back excitedly. 'Dad!'

The man blew a kiss.

Liam blew one back. 'Look, Gran!'

Moira patted his shoulder. 'Yes, I see him.'

The helicopter banked, flew off to the east, towards

London. Liam watched it go. 'He does love me, doesn't he,

Gran?' ^

'Oh, yes,' said Moira, quietly. 'He does.'

156

Norman Baston bit into his cheeseburger and checked his

email inbox for the tenth time that evening. There was no

reply from Roger Sewell. Baston had tried Sewell's mobile

twice and both times it had gone straight to voicemail. Sewell

hadn't logged on again. The first time he'd come in remotely:

he hadn't accessed the system from within the company.

Baston wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. The meeting

Sewell had missed that morning had been an important

one. Baston knew that Sewell was vehemently against

Hendrickson's ambition to sell the company. If he succeeded,

Baston would never realise the true value of his share options.

He wanted Sewell to agree to a new contract that would

make up for the money he'd expected to get when the firm

was sold. It was Sewell's company and Baston had no quarrel

with that, but he knew what a crucial role he had played in

its success. It was time for Sewell to pay the piper.

Baston knew exactly what was going on at the company.

He had access to the company's computer records and could

monitor all internal and external emails. Sewell was fanatical

about his staff not talking to his competitors, and he also

wanted to know what they said to each other. Every Monday

Baston provided him with a breakdown of Internet usage

and a summary of the more interesting email traffic. He knew

exactly who Hendrickson was talking to, and what he stood

to make if the sale went through. He'd seen all the arguments

that Hendrickson had put forward in his attempts to convince

Sewell to sell. And he'd read all Sewell's objections.

Baston also knew what Sewell got up to in his free time,

how he liked having sex with women he met through the

Internet. Sewell used pictures of male models to lure in

young women, then offered them money for kinky sex.

Ninety-nine per cent turned him down, but a one per cent

success rate was more than enough when he was getting

several hundred replies a month. Baston knew where Sewell

157

took the women, what he did with them, and he knew where

on the system Sewell stored the digital photographs he took

of his escapades. Baston was sure that Sewell would agree

to his pay demands. Blackmail was an ugly word. But so was

transvestite. And dildo.

Baston took another bite of cheeseburger and slotted a

handful of French fries into his mouth. He chewed with

relish. It was almost eleven o'clock at night but he was in no

rush to go home. Home was a two-up, two-down terraced

house in Salford that wouldn't have been out of place in an

episode of Coronation Street. He'd inherited it from his parents

after they'd died in a motorway pile-up outside Preston on

the day before his seventeenth birthday. He hadn't changed

anything in the house and still slept in a single bed in the

second bedroom. He hadn't been in his parents' room since

the day they'd died. He hadn't even opened the door. His

father's pipe was still in the ashtray next to the wing-backed

chair by the gas fire. Baston never sat in the chair, or in his

mother's space on the sofa. He never cooked in the house.

His mother had never let him make so much as a cup of tea,

and all he ate now were takeaway meals and breakfast cereal.

Home was just a place where he slept and ate.

His office was where he preferred to be, working on his

beloved computers. He preferred the machines to his

colleagues. Computers never lied, or sneered at you because

you had spots or because you would rather read a software

manual than talk about soccer or women's breasts.The money

Baston earned wasn't important, other than as a means of

keeping score. There was nothing he wanted to buy. He

didn't drive, he didn't drink or do drugs, he had all the

clothes he needed and the company paid for all the equipment

he wanted. But money gave him status. He had access

to the payroll program - he'd designed it, and he knew what

everyone in the company earned. There weren't many who

158

I I

earned more than he did, only Hendrickson, Sewell and the

sales manager, Bill Willis. If Sewell met Baston's latest

demands he'd overtake Willis. Then it would be Baston who

did the sneering as he walked through the car park and saw

Willis climbing into his convertible Saab, dressed in his

made-to-measure suit and carrying his calf-leather briefcase.

Willis always said, 'Good evening,' when he saw Baston

heading towards the bus stop, and sometimes offered him a

lift, but Baston knew he did so only to ram his success in

Baston's face. Well, soon the tables would be turned. Baston

knew about Willis's affair with one of the secretaries in

accounting. He was married and so was she, and Baston had

kept copies of all the lovey-dovey emails they sent each other.

One day he'd send Willis's wife an envelope stuffed with hard

copies. That would serve Willis right.

Baston checked his inbox again, but there was nothing

from Sewell. It wasn't like his boss. Sewell checked his emails

every hour or so, and his mobile was rarely off. Baston had

sent him half a dozen emails asking him to get in touch either

online or by phone. Now he logged on to the company's

email system and checked Sewell's mailbox. The mail hadn't

been read since Sewell had logged on to the system on

Wednesday night. The six emails he'd sent him were all there,

unread.

Baston sat back and stared at his monitor. Sewell wasn't

picking up his office email, but he had a personal account,

one he used on his laptop. Baston could access the laptop

whenever Sewell was online. A couple of years earlier Baston

had put in a keystroke program and set up backdoor access

that allowed him to roam through the laptop's hard drive

whenever the machine was connected to the Internet. He

knew that Sewell would go apeshit if he ever found out, but

he'd gone to a great deal of trouble to cover his tracks. His

fingers played across the keyboard. Sewell wasn't online.

I

159

Baston took another bite of his cheeseburger and chewed

thoughtfully. Okay, so Sewell wasn't online. And he wasn't

picking up his emails. But maybe he'd sent emails last time he

was online. He wiped his greasy hands on his trousers and

tapped on the keyboard. He ran a search program, looking for

any emails sent to company employees within the last forty

eight hours. There was one, to the head of the firm's legal

department, John Garden. Sewell had sent it on Wednesday

night and Garden had read it first thing that morning. It was

still in his inbox. Baston chewed as he read it. Sewell didn't

say where he was or what he was doing. In capital letters he

told Garden on no account to tell Larry Hendrickson that he'd

been in touch, and asked him to check if there had been any

unexpected transfers from the company bank accounts and to

send a reply to Sewell's personal email address.

'What the hell are you up to, Roger?' Baston muttered.

He hated mysteries. And Roger Sewell was certainly behaving

mysteriously.

Shepherd opened the fridge and groaned when he saw there

was no milk. He took a sip of black coffee, then sat on the

sofa and phoned Moira. Liam answered. 'I knew it would be

you, Dad,' he said excitedly. 'Did you fly all the way to London

in the helicopter?'

'All the way.'

'In the clouds and stuff?'

'We flew under the clouds. You can't see where you're

going when you fly through clouds so it's dangerous.'

'Can I go in a helicopter one day?'

'Sure you can,' said Shepherd.

'Why didn't you land?'

'You have to stay away from trees and buildings. I'm sorry

I didn't pick you up from school today. I was busy. I wanted

to, but it didn't work out.'

160

] 'That's okay.'

'Are you sure?'

'Course.'

'Gran said you waited outside.'

'I was at the gate. Mrs Mowling asked me who was picking

me up and she rang Gran. It was okay.'

'But you were cross with me, yeah?'

Liam didn't say anything.

'I'll see you at the weekend, right?' said Shepherd.

'In the helicopter?'

j 'I'll probably drive.'

'And I can come back to London with you at the weekend?'

asked Liam.

'Maybe.'

'You always say "maybe" when you mean "no". It's not

fair,' said Liam.

'If I can make it happen, I will,' said Shepherd, 'but I have

a to get things sorted first. I haven't even got any milk in the

I fridge so how could I make you breakfast?'

] 'Toast,' said Liam.

1 'No bread.'

'I don't need breakfast.'

'Most important meal of the day,' said Shepherd.

'Says who?'

'Says everyone. Your gran for a start.'

'I don't care about breakfast. I want to live at home.'

'I know you do, kid. I'm only teasing. Let me get some

help fixed up and then you can move back in.'

'Okay.' Liam sounded wretched.

¦ 'I mean it,' said Shepherd.

1 'Okay.'

'What are you doing now?' asked Shepherd.

'Talking to you.'

'Before I phoned?'

I

161

'Watching TV.'

'And you've done your homework?'

'I did it before supper.'

'Good lad.'

'Dad?'

'Yes?'

There was a long pause. 'Nothing,' said Liam, eventually.

'What?'

'Nothing. See you at the weekend. 'Bye.'The last few words

tumbled out and Liam cut the connection before Shepherd

could say anything else. He wasn't sure if his son had been

about to cry or if he was rushing off to do something. Shepherd

thought about ringing back, then decided against it. If Liam

was upset, a phone conversation wouldn't help.

When the doorbell rang Shepherd was in the shower. He

cursed, grabbed a towel and peered down through the bedroom window. His visitor was a young woman, shoulder

length brown hair, raincoat with the collar up. Shepherd

frowned, then remembered that Miss Malcolm had promised

to send a potential au pair for him to interview. He

opened the door and smiled apologetically. 'I'm in the shower

- give me a minute to get dressed,' he said. 'Why don't you

make us both a coffee?The kitchen's down there.' He pointed,

then padded back upstairs where he finished drying and

pulled on a grey turtleneck pullover and black jeans.

As he walked into the kitchen the woman handed him a

mug of black coffee. 'I didn't know if you wanted milk or

sugar,' she said.

'Black is fine,' he said. 'I'm out of milk anyway.' He sipped

the coffee. 'So, where are you from, then?' he asked.

The woman frowned. 'Hampshire, originally.'

'You're English?'

'That surprises you?' she asked.

162

'It's just that Miss Malcolm said most of the girls in your

line of work were from Eastern Europe.'

The woman's frown deepened. 'Who do you think I am?'

she said.

'You're from the agency? The au pair?'

Now the woman's eyes sparkled with amusement. 'You've

i i been giving me the runaround for the past week.'

Shepherd groaned. 'The psychiatrist?'

'Psychologist.'

'I'm sorry, but I'm busy.'

'I just want a few minutes of your time, DC Shepherd.'

Shepherd glared at her. 'How long have you been with

Hargrove's unit?' he asked. I 'Six months.'

'Okay, first rule of this business, we never use ranks or

honorifics.'

'We're in your home.'

a 'It doesn't matter where we are. You get in the habit of

I using ranks or saying "sir" and one day you do it in front

I

of someone who gives a shit and puts a bullet in my head.'

'I'm sorry,' she said.

Shepherd looked at his watch.

'Really, this won't take long,' she said. 'I'm not going to

ask you to lie on a sofa and talk about your mother. I just

want a quick chat.'

¦ 'You want to evaluate my mental state to see whether or

not I'm suitable for undercover work,' said Shepherd. 'I don't

mean to sound paranoid,' he added.

'Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean we're not out

¦ to get you,' she said. She smiled and took a sip of her coffee.

'Dan - it's okay if I call you Dan, is it?'

'Anything's better than Detective Constable.'

One of his mobiles rang. It was Hargrove. 'I've got to take

this,' he said. 'Can you wait for me in the sitting room?' He

163

went out into the garden before he took the call. 'If you're

calling to check whether she's here, the answer's yes,' he said

frostily.

'Excuse me?' said Hargrove.

'The psychologist. She's here.'

'Ah,' said Hargrove. 'That's not why I'm calling, but I'm

glad you two are talking.'

'Because you don't think I'm up to the job?'

'Because we all deal with stress in different ways, and she

can help you cope with what's going on in your life.'

'And what if I refuse to talk to her?'

'That in itself is a sign that something's amiss,' said

Hargrove. 'It's like a guy with cancer refusing to see a

specialist. Denial doesn't solve anything.'

'I don't have cancer, and I'm not in denial,' said Shepherd.

'Spider, will you cut me some slack here? You have to see

a certified psychologist at least twice a year. You know that.

All agents do.'

'This is different, and you know it is. She's here to see if

I'm firing on all cylinders or if I'm a few sandwiches short

of a picnic. And I know I'm mixing my metaphors.'

Hargrove chuckled. 'Just have a chat with her, and that'll

be the end of it.'

'Unless she discovers I'm suicidal.'

'Are you?'

'Of course not,' said Shepherd, then flushed as he realised

the superintendent was joking. 'If you're not calling about

her, then what's up?' he asked.

'Angie Kerr,' said Hargrove. 'Good news, bad news. The

good news is that the GPS wants to do a deal with her.'

'And the bad?'

'They want you to make the approach. Because you were

on the original case, the Hendrickson one, they want continuity

of investigation. If someone else takes over now it'll be

164

harder to show the chain of the investigation down the line.

Charlie Kerr could scream entrapment if a new officer makes

the approach. If you do it, it becomes part of the ongoing

investigation. You were pursuing the case against her but

offered her the option of giving evidence against her husband.'

'I hope you told them no,' said Shepherd. 'There's no way

j | I want a gangster like Charlie Kerr knowing I was on his

case. And it'll all come out in pre-trial disclosure if I make

the approach.'

'I'm ahead of you, Spider,' said Hargrove. 'I told them in

no uncertain terms that your security is paramount.'

'They actually thought I'd go to Angie Kerr and tell her

I was an undercover cop? How stupid are the GPS?'

' 1 'They just want to make the best case they can,' said

Hargrove. 'You can see their point. I've suggested we fix up

another meeting, then we move in and arrest you and her at

I j the same time. She'll think we have you in custody and that

1 ' you'll roll over on her. We give her the out of rolling over on

her husband and that should be that.'

'I'm due to start with SO 19 on Monday,' said Shepherd.

'You know how hard it is to stay in character on a job. Am

I supposed to hold down two now?'

'It would just be a meet. You can say you want to go over

a few details.'

'I'm not sure about this,' said Shepherd. 'We already have

the evidence against her. Manchester CID can bust her for

» conspiracy to murder on that, and they don't have to tell her

* I was undercover. Bearing in mind what her husband will

do to her, she'd be a fool to turn down any deal.'

'If she sees you arrested, she'll know it's over.'

Shepherd sighed. 'Okay. When? I'm on duty all next week,

two until ten every day. I can hardly tell them I'm taking a

day off to go to Manchester.'

'What about this afternoon?'

165

Shepherd cursed. There was time to fix up a meet in

Manchester, but it was a long drive and the weekend traffic

would be a nightmare. 'I'll phone her and get back to you,'

he said.

'Thanks, Spider. I've got your SO 19 legend ready and a

vehicle. I'll get them to you this afternoon.'

Shepherd cut the connection, left the mobile on the kitchen

table with the two others and went through to the sitting

room. The woman was sitting in one of the armchairs. She

had taken a clipboard out of her briefcase and was sitting

with it on her lap. Her coffee was on a side table. Shepherd

headed for the sofa, then stopped himself and sat in one of

the armchairs instead. 'Don't read anything into my choice

of seat,' he said. 'I can let you finish your coffee but then

I've got to drive up to Manchester. Hargrove's orders. If you

have a problem with that, take it up with him.'

'Fine,' she said. 'By the way, I'm Kathy Gift. It's Dr Gift,

actually, but I take your point about not using honorifics.'

'Gift?'

'As in present,' she said. 'It used to be longer. My great

grandparents were German. They cut off a few syllables

when they moved to England.' She crossed her legs. She was

wearing a dark blue skirt that rose above her knees, a matching

jacket and a cream shirt. There was a gold necklace with a

Star of David round her neck. 'Did you meet my predecessor?'

she asked.

The previous psychologist had been a sixty-year-old man

who wore tweed jackets and smoked a briar pipe. He had a

clutch of professional qualifications and was one of the most

humourless men that Shepherd had ever met. 'Only when I

had to.'

'And you weren't impressed?'

'He was a clever guy, but unless you've done what we do

it's hard to understand what's involved.'

166

; 'The pressures?'

'I'm not saying you can't empathise, because of course

you can. But that's a world away from understanding what

we go through.'

'Is it possible to explain what it's like?'

'You've spoken to other agents, haven't you?'

She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. 'They all say

the same thing initially,' she said. 'Unless you've done it, you

can't understand what it's like.'

'There you go, then.'

'But after a few sessions, they realise I'm there to help,

not to be judgemental or make career decisions. I'm just

someone you can unburden yourself to. Someone who can

i offer an objective view on how to deal with problems that

, arise.'

* Shepherd's brow creased. 'But you're more than that,

1 aren't you? You've a direct line to Hargrove, and if you think

a guy's going over the edge you're duty-bound to tell him.'

'Is that how you're feeling - that you're about to go over

the edge?'

I Shepherd chuckled. 'You don't miss a trick, do you?'

'I'm not trying to trick you. I just want to know what makes

you tick. Superintendent Hargrove is concerned, that's all.

You've been under a lot of stress lately and he wants reassurance

that all's well.'

'I can do the job. Isn't that all that matters?'

'Short term, of course results are important. But think of

a racing car belting along at top speed and developing a fault.

Until it blows apart everything probably seems fine.'

'Does he think I might fall apart?'

'Don't read too much into that analogy,' she said. 'And he

thinks highly of you. You know that.'

'But he still wants me to talk to a shrink.'

'Think of it as preventive maintenance.'

167

Shepherd sipped his coffee. 'Okay, let's talk technique.

You've read my file?'

'Of course.'

'So you know about my trick memory.'

'Photographic, it says in the file.'

'Whatever. I can recall pretty much everything I see or

hear. It fades eventually if I don't use the information, but

short term it's infallible. It's because of my memory that I

ha\\= few problems in maintaining my cover stories. I'm able

to compartmentalise the roles I play. I put them on and take

them off like I change clothes.'

'As easy as that?'

'It's not easy, but it's easier for me than it is for a guy who

has to try to remember what he said to whom and where he

was when he said it. I can cross-reference everything without

thinking about it.'

'You're lucky.'

'I guess.'

'But you've been less lucky on the home front.' She was

watching for his reaction.

'I'm handling it,' he said.

'How?'

'My boy's staying with his grandparents and I'm interviewing

au pairs. As soon as I've found one Liam can move

back in with me.'

'That's not handling what happened, is it? You're dealing

with practicalities, not your feelings.'

'My feelings don't come into it. My wife died, it was a

damn shame, but life goes on.'

'You miss her.' It was a statement, not a question.

'Of course I miss her.'

'And Liam?'

'He lost his mother.'

'Does he talk about it?'

168

'No.'

'Have you raised it with him?'

'I don't want to upset him. He's a child.'

'He has to talk about it, Dan. And so do you.'

'In time.'

She smiled sympathetically. Shepherd was an expert at

reading faces, but he still couldn't tell if her smile was genuine

or not. 'There's nothing wrong with grief,' she said. 'It's part

of the process.'

'I know, eight stages,' said Shepherd. 'Denial, anger,

bargaining, guilt, depression, loneliness, acceptance and hope.'

'And what stage are you at?'

'I know Sue's dead, there's no one to be angry with, there's

no one to make a deal with to get her back, it wasn't my

fault so I don't feel guilty, I'm too busy to be depressed, I

don't get lonely, I accept that she isn't coming back. So where

does that leave me? At hope? Hoping for what?'

'It's interesting that you say there's no one to be angry

with.'

'It was an accident. She was driving Liam to school and

went through a red light. A truck hit her. End of story.'

'You don't have to be angry with a person. You can simply

be angry with the unfairness of it. Why your wife? Why not

some other woman on the school-run?'

'Shit happens.'

'Yes, but when it does, don't we wonder why it's happened

to us?'

'Thinking about it won't bring her back.'

'So you block it.'

'You're putting words into my mouth.'

'So tell me what words you'd use. At the moment all I'm

getting is negatives. You're not guilty, you're not angry, you're

not depressed. What are you?'

'I really am going to have to get my skates on,' said

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Shepherd. He stood up. 'I don't want to be rude but I have

to go.'

'What you really mean is that you want me to go.'

'That's right.'

She stood up and handed him her mug. 'I want to schedule

a meeting with you over the next few days.'

'I'll let you know.'

Gift's eyes hardened. 'I don't think you understand, Dan.

I'm not asking, I'm telling. I have the authority to remove

you from active service if I'm not completely satisfied that

you're up to the job.'

'Bollocks.'

She flashed him a tight smile. 'Check with the superintendent

if you like, but he'll confirm what I'm saying.'

'The case I'm on is more important than whether or not

I cry myself to sleep at night.' He held up his hand quickly.

'Not that I do.'

'Have you cried at all since your wife died?'

The question stopped Shepherd in his tracks and he

lowered his hand. He hadn't cried when he'd learned that

Sue had died. And he hadn't cried at her funeral. Or afterwards,

when he lay alone in the double bed, still able to smell

her perfume on the pillow. He wasn't the crying sort. He'd

lost friends, seen two blown to bits by a landmine in Kuwait,

but he'd never cried for them. If you saw action you saw

death, and there wasn't time to stand over a grave bawling

your eyes out. But friends and fellow soldiers weren't wives,

and it was only when Gift asked the question that Shepherd

saw something was wrong when a husband didn't weep for

his dead wife.

Gift touched his elbow. 'I'm not the enemy, Dan. I'm here

to make your life easier.'

'I can't come into the office,' he said quietly.

'No one's asking you to,' she said. 'I can come to you.'

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'And all we do is talk?'

'Just talk. What about Monday?'

'I start the new job on Monday,' he said. 'I don't need any

distractions.'

'Tuesday, then? Or Wednesday?'

'Wednesday,' said Shepherd. 'I'll be here most of the

morning.' He had already checked with SO 19 and he was

on the two until ten shift for the first week.

He accompanied her to the front door and let her out. He

watched her walk to her black Mazda sports car. He wondered

what her choice of car said about her. He had been telling

the truth when he told her he could slip into and out of his

roles without difficulty. What he hadn't told her was that he

was often more comfortable when he was playing a role than

when he was being himself. And even he knew that that

wasn't a good sign.

I As the psychologist drove away, Shepherd saw a girl walking

briskly towards his garden gate. She was in her twenties, dark

hair dyed blonde, wearing a knee-length black leather coat.

She walked down the path. 'My name is Halina, from the

agency,' she said. She had high cheekbones, green, catlike

eyes, gleaming white teeth and a slight American accent.

Shepherd shook her hand. Her nails were painted red but

1 bitten to the quick and she had silver rings on most of her

fingers. 'Where are you from, Halina?' he asked as they went

inside.

'From Poland,' she said. 'Warsaw. I have my references

here.' She handed him a large manila envelope. 'My name,

it means "light" in English.'

¦ Shepherd opened the envelope. There was a letter from a

factory manager in Warsaw saying that she was a hard worker

and good timekeeper, another from an American couple who

said she had done a great job taking care of their six-year

old daughter during their year-long stay in the Polish capital.

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There was also a photocopy of the application form she had

filled in to join Miss Malcolm's agency. Everything seemed

in order. Halina spoke good English, had a clean driving

licence and a consistent work history. But something was not

right about her. He didn't know what it was, but he knew

she wasn't to be trusted. His policeman's instinct had kicked

in and he had been in the job long enough to know that,

more often than not, he could rely on his gut feelings. He

made small-talk with her for fifteen minutes, then sent her

on her way with a promise that he'd call Miss Malcolm on

Monday. He didn't want her within a mile of his son, no

matter how glowing her references.

He phoned Miss Malcolm and explained that the girl she'd

sent wasn't suitable. She promised to call as soon as she had

any other prospects, but pointed out that it was a seller's

market. 'Like plumbers or electricians,' she said, 'sometimes

you just have to take what's available.' t ¦

Shepherd thanked her and rang off. His personal opinion

was that the welfare of his son was a hell of a lot more

important than a leaking tap or a blown fuse, but he knew

there was no point in picking a fight with her. If he was

going to find someone suitable, he needed Miss Malcolm

on his side.

He picked up the Tony Nelson phone and took a deep ]

breath. He had to stop being Dan Shepherd, single parent

and undercover police officer. Everything he said on the

phone had to be in character. Cold, efficient, ruthless. He

focused on what he was about to do. Then he rang Angie ¦

1 I

Kerr. Her voicemail kicked in and Shepherd cut the connection.

He'd try later.

He changed into his running gear and picked up his

weighted rucksack. He did a fast ten kilometres and by the

time he got back to the house he was drenched with sweat.

Two cars were parked in the road outside the house, a new

172

red Rover and a three-year-old white Toyota. Two men were

standing at the front door, one with a clipboard, the other

with an A4 manila envelope. Shepherd didn't recognise either

but they both had the short hair and stout shoes that marked

them out as police officers in plain clothes. 'Dan Shepherd?'

said the man with the clipboard.

'Yeah,' said Shepherd. He slipped off the rucksack and

dropped it on the path.

'Compliments of Superintendent Hargrove,' said the man,

nodding at the Toyota. He held out the clipboard and a pen.

'Sign at the bottom, please.' The car would be registered,

taxed and insured in the name of the legend he was using

as an SO 19 officer.

'The gear's in the back, sir,' said the man, handing him

the keys. 'You can check it if you want.'

'I'm sure it's fine.'

'Second page, sir.'

Shepherd signed for the equipment he'd need for his

SO 19 duty, bulletproof Kevlar vest with ceramic plate, black

Nato-style ballistic helmet, Kevlar gloves with leather trigger

finger, equipment belt with plastic retention holster for the

Glock, Sure-Fire combat light, CS spray, plastic handcuffs,

retractable baton, radio pouch and magazine pouches.

'And page three is for documentation, sir.' The man fished

a white envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to

Shepherd, who signed on the third page, then handed the

clipboard back to the man.

The second man gave him the manila envelope.

'Background files, no need to sign for them,' said the man.

He had a Northern Irish accent. 'Normal procedures apply.'

They went back to the Rover and drove off.

'Normal procedures' meant memorise and destroy.

Shepherd opened the boot of the Toyota, took out the black

nylon equipment bag and let himself into the house. He

173

dropped the bag and the rucksack in the kitchen, then showered

and changed back into his grey pullover and black jeans.

He made himself some coffee before he opened the manila

envelope.

It contained a CD disk and a dozen sheets of paper in a

clear plastic file. Shepherd dropped down on to his sofa and

swung his feet on to the coffee-table. The file contained his

SO 19 legend. He scanned the sheets, committing them to

memory. He was Stuart Marsden, armed cop. Three years

on the beat in Glasgow followed by four years in a Strathclyde

armed-response unit. Two commendations for bravery,

promotion on the horizon, single with no children. No

emotional baggage. It was a far cry from Shepherd's own

situation.

Marsden's date of birth was his own. That was par for the

course: the people who put together the legends stuck as

close as possible to the operative's own history. It was the

small things that could trip up an agent. Getting his birth

sign wrong. Forgetting the name of the station in the town

where he was born.

He'd worked undercover in Glasgow on several long-term

operations so he knew the geography of the city, and an hour

or two with a guidebook and map would fill in any gaps.

When he'd finished he closed his eyes and ran through

the details. It was all there. He had no idea why he had almost

total recall while most people struggled to remember their

own telephone number, but it had saved his life on at least

two occasions. Once he'd been tied to a chair in a basement

faced with three men with axe handles and it had only been

his memory that had convinced them he was an art thief

who specialised in early-nineteenth-century religious works.

The second time he'd been helping to load a yacht with

several hundred kilos of Moroccan hashish when one of the

crewmen recognised him from a previous operation. He had

174

pulled a gun and threatened to shoot. Shepherd had been

using a different identity on the first operation but his faultless

memory had pulled up enough detail from the original

legend to persuade the sailors that he'd switched identities

because he was being pursued by the DEA. He'd ended up

drinking brandy with them all night, their new best friend.

He tossed the plastic file on to the coffee-table, then slotted

the CD into the laptop. It contained the personnel files of

Sergeant Keith Rose and two dozen members of SO 19.

Shepherd didn't want to read the files: it felt like eavesdropping

on colleagues. It was one thing to target drugs

dealers and armed robbers, quite another to go against fellow

police officers. Keith Rose might well be a bad cop, and there

might well be others among the files on the CD, but the

majority of the men Shepherd had to read about would be

good, honest officers. Shepherd knew how he would hate

another cop to read his personnel file - with information

about Sue's death, or what Kathy Gift thought of the way

he was dealing with stress. He wouldn't want a fellow officer

to look for signs that he was corrupt.

He stood up and paced around. It was always up to him

whether or not he accepted an assignment, but the only reason

he had for saying no to this case was that he didn't want to

investigate other cops. And Shepherd knew that wasn't a

good enough reason. He sat down again and started to read.

Norman Baston ambled down the corridor towards Larry

Hendrickson's office. He grinned amiably at Hendrickson's

secretary. 'Is your lord and master in?'

'Good morning, Norman,' she said. 'Let me check.'

She picked up her phone and spoke to her boss, then

nodded for him to go through.

Hendrickson looked up from his terminal as Baston walked

into his office. 'What's up, Norm?' he asked.

175

Baston closed the door behind him. 'Have you and Roger

got a problem?'

Hendrickson frowned. 'What do you mean?'

Baston sat down in one of the two chairs facing

Hendrickson's desk and stretched out his legs. 'You still want

to sell the company, right?'

'You know I do. If it wasn't for Roger, we'd have done the

deal six months ago, but he's the majority shareholder.'

'Do you think he might be trying to force you out? And

by you, I mean us.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

Baston took a typed sheet from his jacket pocket and slid

it across Hendrickson's desk.

Hendrickson blanched as he read it.

'If everything's rosy, why is he asking John to check the

company accounts and not say anything to you?'

Hendrickson fought to keep calm. 'He's maybe got a better

offer on the table and wants to juggle the figures.' He stared

at the heading on the email, then glanced at the calendar on

his desk. The email had been sent on Wednesday night. Five

days after Roger Sewell had been shot and buried in the New

Forest. And Sewell was dead: Nelson had shown him the

photographs. Hendrickson dropped the sheet of paper on to

his desk. 'There's no way anyone else could have sent that,

is there?'

Baston's brow creased into deep furrows. 'What do you

mean?'

'Someone messing about with Roger's email address.'

'Not unless he gave someone his password. And why would

he do that?'

Hendrickson's heart was pounding and he had a headache.

If Nelson was accessing the computer and sending emails

under Sewell's name, what was he hoping to achieve? And

why would he email John Garden? If it was money that Nelson

176

wanted, he could have forced Sewell to sign a few cheques

before he put a bullet in his head. None of this made any

sense. Unless Sewell wasn't dead. A cold shiver ran down

Hendrickson's spine. And if he wasn't dead, how had Nelson

got the Polaroids?

He tried to keep his voice steady. 'Has John replied to

Roger's email?'

'Not yet. What do you think Roger's up to?'

'He's the boss, Norm. He can do what the hell he wants.'

'But I get the feeling he's cutting you - and me - out of

the loop.'

'Now you're being paranoid.'

Baston tapped the sheet of paper. 'He wants John to check

the company accounts, get back to him on his personal email

and not tell you. That's being devious. He's up to something.

For all we know he could be selling his stake to some multi

national

and we'll get sod all.'

¦ 'Roger wouldn't do that.' Hendrickson was close to

throwing up. 'Look, he's taken a few days off and he wants

to keep a check on things. He probably doesn't want me to

know he's looking over my shoulder.' Hendrickson got up,

came round the desk and opened the door. 'It's nothing,

Norm.'

Baston scratched his neck. 'I've got a bad feeling about it,'

he said.

'It's all that junk food you eat,' said Hendrickson. 'Go on,

I'll give you a call as soon as I hear from him.'

Baston didn't seem convinced. Hendrickson patted his

shoulder and eased him out of the room. He closed the door,

then rushed over to the desk, picked up the sheet of paper

and reread it. If Sewell wasn't dead, what had Nelson been

playing at? And why hadn't Sewell turned up at the office?

Sewell had to be dead. What was happening now was the

prelude to some blackmail attempt. He took out his mobile

¦ 177

and called Angie. Her phone went straight to voicemail.

Hendrickson didn't like to leave a message but he couldn't

spend all day calling her. 'Angie, hi, it's Larry. Look, I need

to talk to you. It's urgent. Your husband - don't do anything

until you've talked to me, okay?' He cut the connection, then

realised he hadn't said anything about Tony Nelson. Maybe

he should have warned her about him. He put his thumb on

the redial button but had second thoughts. He didn't want

to sound too worried - it might spook her. Besides, she'd

know what he meant. He had to stay in control. A plan was

already forming in his mind. He'd get Angie to fix up a

meeting with Nelson, then he'd turn up and force the man

to tell him what he was playing at.

Charlie Kerr closed one eye, sighted along his cue, and hit

the white ball. It clipped the red into the corner pocket and

pulled back behind the brown. 'Nice,' said Eddie Anderson.

He was standing by the Scoreboard, balancing his cue on his

left foot.

Angie appeared at the door in her pale blue towelling robe,

with a glass of orange juice. 'I'll be by the pool, babe.'

'Don't forget we're out tonight,' he said. Two members of

the Carlos Rodriguez cartel were coming over to finalise a

cocaine deal he'd been putting together. The plan was to take

them out to dinner with a couple of high-class escort girls.

Dinner at an upmarket Thai restaurant followed by a visit to

one of the city-centre casinos, then straight to Aces where

they'd get the full VIP treatment.

'I'll look good for you, babe,' she said. She walked up and

kissed his cheek. 'Don't worry.'

Kerr patted her backside. 'You always look good,' he said.

He grinned at Anderson. 'What do you think, Eddie? She

looks good, yeah?'

'A sight for sore eyes,' said Anderson.

178

Angie flashed him a smile and headed for the pool. Kerr

bent over the table and potted the brown. 'Nice shot,' said

Anderson.

Kerr went for another red but it hit the edge of the pocket

and spun across the table. He swore. 'I need a coffee. Angie!'

he shouted. There was no answer. 'I don't know why we even

have a pool,' he said. 'She never bloody swims in it, just lies

down next to it. Angie!'

'I'll make it,' said Anderson.

'Your coffee tastes like shit,' said Kerr.

He went through to the kitchen and switched on the kettle.

Angie's mobile was on the black marble work surface, plugged

into a mains socket. Kerr picked it up. It was switched off.

He pressed the power button, then spooned coffee into the

cafetiere. He picked up the phone. There was a single voice

message. Kerr played it. Who the hell was Larry?

Shepherd took the black nylon equipment bag up to the

bedroom and laid out the contents on the bed. It had his

Stuart Marsden cover name scratched into it and looked as

if it had been in use for years. The equipment was all labelled,

too. Police officers were as bad as SAS troopers when it came

to liberating or souveniring equipment. A name-tag was sewn

into the inside of the bullet-proof vest and the belt, and

'Marsden' had been scratched into the side of the holster. A

printed name-tag had been sellotaped to the stem of the

flashlight and the CS spray, while 'SM' was painted inside

the helmet. All the equipment was in good condition but had

clearly been used. It was the little things that mattered when

it came to maintaining a cover. If he turned up at SO 19 with

brand new gear, questions would be asked.

He hauled on the vest. It was similar to the one he'd worn

in the SAS. It weighed several kilograms, with the ceramic

plate in the front pocket to protect the heart and vital organs.

179

He slid the belt round his waist, then slotted the CS spray

and retractable baton into their holders.

He took off all the equipment and repacked it in the nylon

bag, then sat down on the bed and opened the white envelope.

He had destroyed the CD files Hargrove had sent, then

burned the sheets of paper. But the white envelope contained

the documents he'd need as Stuart Marsden: there was a

warrant card, and a driving licence, both with a recent photograph,

a Bank of Scotland debit card and a Barclaycard. The

credit cards would function, Shepherd knew, but every pound

would have to be accounted for at the end of the operation.

He had a spare wallet into which he slotted the cards and

the licence, with half of the banknotes from his own wallet.

He put it into his bedside cabinet. He had the weekend to

himself before he stepped into the shoes of Stuart Marsden,

armed policeman. Not shoes, he reminded himself. Boots.

SO 19 officers wore regular army-issue black leather boots,

and the ones Hargrove had sent were brand new. Shepherd

would have preferred to wear his own, but they were brown.

He'd have to go running in the new boots, wearing two pairs

of thick wool socks to protect his feet until they were broken

in.

He got changed and went downstairs with the boots. Before

he left the house he phoned Angie Kerr again. The call went

through to voicemail, but Shepherd didn't leave a message.

Angie stretched out on the sun-lounger, then pulled her

Marlboros and lighter from the pocket of her robe. She lit

a cigarette and she looked at the back of the house. It didn't

feel like a home, even though she'd lived there for more than

five years. Charlie had bought the place without telling her.

He hadn't even told her he was putting their old house up

for sale. The first she'd known of the sale was when an estate

agent had walked in while she was in the shower.

180

Angie took another pull on her cigarette. She'd decided to

sell this house, once Charlie was out of the way, and all the

furniture. She'd walk away with just her clothes. She didn't

want anything that would remind her of him. She'd have to

wait until a decent interval had passed - play the grief-stricken

widow for a few months - but then she'd be set for life. The

- house was worth at least two million, there was almost a

™ quarter of a million in their joint account, and she had access

to three safety-deposit boxes in various banks containing

¦ cash and Krugerrands worth well over half a million. She

didn't know where Charlie kept all his money but she had

no doubt he had millions stashed in overseas accounts. He'd

made a will shortly after they'd married so she was pretty

sure that his lawyers would tell her where the money was.

But even if they didn't she had more than enough to live in

luxury for the rest of her life.

I I

She flicked ash and lay back on the sun-lounger, enjoying

the feel of the sun on her face. She'd sell the villa in Marbella

too and buy a place in France. Charlie hated France. He

hated the food, he hated the people, he hated not being able

to speak the language. He felt comfortable in Spain. He was

a face there, he was known, feared. He was ushered into the

best nightclubs without queuing or paying, he got the best

seats in all the restaurants, and young women lined up to

sleep with him. Once Tony Nelson had done his job, she'd

never go to Spain again. She'd buy an apartment in London,

Chelsea maybe, and a farmhouse in France. She'd make new

friends. Real friends. The only friends she had now were the

friends Charlie chose for her.

It hadn't always been like that. He'd been charming when

they'd first met. She had been seventeen and a virgin, he

was six years older, with money in his pocket, a green MGB

and his own house. He had known the men on the doors

of all the city's top clubs. Angie worked at a city-centre

181

hairdresser's and was only six months away from being a

fully qualified stylist when Charlie had walked in, wearing

his Armani suit and Gucci shoes. He flirted with her and

asked her out, and she had said yes. He was charming,

generous and made her laugh. Her parents had been against

the marriage but she'd been looking for a way to leave

home since she was fourteen and eloping was the perfect

excuse.

The first year had been a dream. She'd never asked where

Charlie's money came from, and hadn't really cared. He

hadn't started hitting her until the second year. He was on

his way out one night and she'd asked where he was going.

He slapped her, hard, then immediately apologised. He'd

hugged her and promised he'd never hit her again, and the

next day he'd given her a gold Rolex. He'd hit her again the

following week when he saw she wasn't wearing the watch.

She reached over and touched the Rolex. She wore it all the

time now, even in the shower. She wouldn't wear it after

they'd buried Charlie. She was going to have it buried with

him. She smiled at the thought of him spending eternity with

the watch she loathed.

She took another drag on her cigarette, held the smoke

deep in her lungs, then exhaled. She'd never smoked before

she'd met Charlie. Now she smoked two packets a day. When

Charlie was out of the way, she'd stop.

She shivered, although it was a warm day, and opened her

eyes. Her husband was standing at the bottom of the sun

lounger. Angie was wearing her sunglasses up on her head

and she dropped them down so that she could see his face.

He was smiling at her, the cold, humourless smile that was

usually the prelude to a beating. Then she saw that he was

holding her mobile phone in his left hand.

'In the house,' he said. 'Now'

'Charlie, what's wrong?'

182

1

'You and I are going to have a little chat,' he said coldly.

'About Larry.'

Larry Hendrickson walked out of the changing room and

threw his towel over his shoulder. He went through the

weight-training area. Exercise was the last thing on his mind

¦ but he wanted to see Angie Kerr and she was often at the

health club during the week. It was where he had met her,

where he'd noticed the bruises. She'd first told him about

her abusive husband in the club's fruit juice bar, where he'd

talked about Sewell and how his dog-in-the-manger attitude

was damaging the company and the prospects of everyone

who worked for it. Now he needed to talk to her again,

I about Tony Nelson. She hadn't returned his call and he didn't

know where she lived so the health club was his best chance

of finding her.

He looked through the glass panel in the door to the aerobics

room. A couple of dozen plump housewives were trying

to keep up with a lithe ponytailed blonde from New Zealand.

Angie wasn't among them. Hendrickson walked on to the

treadmills. There were two blondes at the far end, watching Sky News as they jogged up steep inclines, but neither was

Angie Kerr. She wasn't on any of the exercise bikes, either.

Angie was a keen squash player but she wasn't on any of

the squash courts. And she wasn't in the sauna or at the juice

bar. He ordered an orange and carrot juice and sat down at

an empty table. He didn't know what car she drove and he

didn't want to draw attention to himself by asking at Reception

if she was in today. He'd just hope she showed up.

His mobile rang and he looked at the display. It was her.

'Jesus, Angie, where the hell have you been?'

. 'What's wrong?'

'Have you spoken to Nelson yet?'

Angie didn't reply.

1 183

'Angie, have you spoken to Nelson yet?'

'Not since Monday, no.'

'Have you paid him yet?'

'What's wrong, Larry?'

'I don't know. I don't think we can trust him, that's all.'

There was another long pause.

'Angie, are you listening to me?'

'I have to see you, Larry,' she said. She sounded close to

tears.

'I know,' he said. 'I'm at the health club. Can you get away?'

'You can come here, to the house.'

'What about your husband?'

'He's away,' said Angie. 'He won't be back until next week.'

'Where do you live?'

'Hale Barnes, about ten minutes' drive from the club. Can

you come now?'

'No problem,' he said. 'What I've got to say is best not

said over the phone. Give me the address.'

Hendrickson stopped the car at the roadside and looked at

Angle's house. It was big and modern with huge picture

windows and tall chimneys. A long drive wound through

sprawling lawns dotted with clumps of well-tended trees. It

must have been worth a fortune. Hendrickson could see why

she didn't just walk away from her husband.

There were large black wrought-iron gates at the entrance

but they were open. A single car was parked in front of the

double garage: Angie's Jaguar.

It was the first time Hendrickson had been to Angie's house.

She'd be alone and emotionally vulnerable, especially when

he told her what Nelson had been doing. Hendrickson could

be a shoulder for her to cry on, and maybe, just maybe, it

would lead to something else. He'd fancied Angie the first

time he'd seen her in the health club. Slim and blonde with

184

full breasts and long legs. Now he'd tell her what had

happened and she'd be scared and he'd take her in his arms

and tell her it was all right, he'd take care of her, and then

he'd cup one of those wonderful breasts. He'd kiss her on

the cheek, and then he'd find her lips, and then he'd whisper

that maybe they'd be more comfortable in bed.

He took a deep breath and put his Mercedes in gear, rolled

slowly up the drive and parked next to the Jaguar. He climbed

out and walked to the front door, whistling softly. He rang

the bell and shifted from side to side as he waited for the

door to open. He heard high heels clicking on a hard wood

floor and his stomach turned over. High heels and stockings,

her on top, tossing her blonde hair and urging him on.

The door opened. Hendrickson's smile hardened when he

saw that Angie in the flesh was a far cry from the sexy siren

of his fantasy. Her face was tear-stained and there was a red

blotch on her left cheek as if she'd been slapped. Her hair

was pulled back into a tight ponytail and her lipstick was

smeared as if she'd been roughly kissed. 'Hello, Larry,' she

said, avoiding his eyes. 'Come on in.' She held open the door,

looking at the floor.

'Are you okay?' said Hendrickson. It wasn't how he'd

imagined it. She had on wooden sandals, baggy jeans and a

pink sweatshirt.

'Come inside,' she said.

Hendrickson stood at the threshold. He had a sudden urge

to get back into the Mercedes and drive away. But he knew

he had to find out what Tony Nelson was up to and the only

way to do that was to talk to Angie. He had to find out how

far she had gone with Nelson. And he had to get her to

arrange a meeting with the man so that he could catch him

unawares.

He stepped into the hallway and she closed the door behind

him. She pressed her back against the door, her hands flat

I 185

against the wood. She started crying, big, gasping sobs.

Hendrickson didn't know what to do. In his fantasy he'd held

her and tried to kiss her, but sex was now the furthest thing

from his mind. 'What's wrong?' he asked.

She didn't say anything, just stood shaking her head and

sobbing.

'Is it Nelson? Has something happened?'

Angie wrapped her arms round her stomach and slid down

the door until she was crouched on the floor. Tears streamed

down her cheeks.

Then Hendrickson heard a sharp laugh and whirled

around. Two men were standing in a doorway. One was short

with tight, black curls and the other was shaven-headed and

had the build of a wrestler. He wore a sovereign ring on his

wedding finger and a thick gold chain on his right wrist. As

he stared at Hendrickson he cracked his knuckles, like pistol

shots. It was the smaller man who had laughed. He was

carrying a large kitchen knife and swished the blade from

side to side. Hendrickson swallowed and took a step back.

'Who are you?' he stuttered. 'What do you want?'

'We want a chat,' said the man with the knife.

'What about?' said Hendrickson. He took another step

back. 'This isn't m-m-my house,' he stammered. He pointed

at Angie, who was still sobbing, her forehead resting on her

arms. 'I'm just visiting. I'm not her husband.'

'No,' said a voice to his left. A third man walked out of

the sitting room. He was tall with receding hair and, like the

other big man, he was holding a knife. Its blade glinted under

the hall light. The man smiled - a cruel smile, the smile of

a man who enjoyed inflicting pain. 'I am,' he said.

It took less than five minutes for Larry Hendrickson to tell

Kerr everything he knew about Tony Nelson. There had been

no need to torture him, or even to hurt him, but Kerr had

186

done it anyway and taken pleasure in it. Wates and Anderson

had taken him down to the wine cellar and tied him to a

chair while Kerr had taken Angie up to the bedroom. Angie

had cried and kept repeating that she was sorry, but it didn't

mean much when she'd hired a hitman to murder him.

Kerr had taken her to the bedroom, made her undress and

raped her on their king-sized bed. She didn't protest and she

didn't struggle. He swore at her when he came and slapped

her face. Then he used two Kenzo ties to bind her wrists

and ankles and pulled the phone out of its socket. She lay

on her side, sobbing into a pillow.

He showered, changed into a fresh polo shirt and khaki

chinos, then went downstairs. He walked through the kitchen

to the garage and took a pair of bolt-cutters before he headed

down to the basement. Kerr could smell the acrid tang of

urine as he walked down the wooden steps. Hendrickson had

wet himself.

'This is a mistake,' quavered Hendrickson.

'Couldn't agree with you more, Larry,' said Kerr, swinging

the bolt-cutters.

'I don't know what she told you, but it was all her idea,'

said Hendrickson.

'My wife, you mean?' asked Kerr.

'Please--' said Hendrickson.

'Please what? Please don't hurt me? Please don't kill me?'

'Look, I've got money--'

'Not as much as I have, Larry.' Kerr slapped the bolt

cutters in the palm of his hand. 'This Nelson, how did you

get in touch with him?'

'I phoned him.'

'I meant the first time. I'm assuming you didn't get his name from the Yellow Pages'

'A friend of a friend. He knows people, he said he'd put

the word out, and Nelson got in touch.'

187

'What's he look like?'

'Dark brown hair, just under six foot. He looks . . .'

Hendrickson struggled to find the right word. '. . . normal,'

he said eventually. 'He looks like everyone else.'

'What does he drive?'

'A Volvo. A grey Volvo.'

'I don't suppose you know the number?'

Hendrickson shook his head.

'Because it'll save you a toe if you do.'

Hendrickson started to plead but Kerr knelt down next to

the chair. He rolled up Hendrickson's left trouser leg. 'Nice

material,' said Kerr. 'Armani?'

'I don't know, please, God, I don't know!' screamed

Hendrickson.

'Looks like Armani,' said Kerr.

'The number of his car. I don't know the number of his car.

Why would I know the number of his car, for God's sake?'

Kerr slipped the bolt-cutting blades on either side of the

little toe on Hendrickson's left foot. Hendrickson struggled

but his ankle and knee were tied to the chair. He rocked the

chair backwards and forwards but Wates grabbed his shoulders

to hold him still.

Kerr pressed hard on the handles of the bolt-cutters and

Hendrickson screamed as the blades bit into his flesh. Kerr

felt resistance as the blades hit the bone but he forced the

handles together and the toe fell to the floor. Hendrickson's

screams went up an octave. Kerr straightened up, grinning.

Anderson had turned away but Wates was grinning as widely

as Kerr, relishing Hendrickson's shrieks. The wine cellar was

soundproofed and the nearest neighbour was a hundred yards

away so there was no possibility that anyone would hear what

was going on.

Gradually Hendrickson's screams subsided. He was breathing

heavily, and his eyes glazed over. Kerr realised he was going

188

into shock. 'Get him some water,' he said to Anderson, who

hurried up the stairs.

'How did you meet my wife?' he asked.

Hendrickson coughed. 'The gym,' he said.

'What - you just walked up and asked if she wanted her

husband dead?'

Hendrickson shook his head. Kerr grabbed his hair. 'Don't

you pass out on me, you shit,' he said.

When Anderson returned with the water he put the glass

to Hendrickson's lips and he gulped the water. 'Thank you,'

he gasped.

'When was the last time you saw Nelson?'

'Last Friday.'

'And he killed your business partner?'

Hendrickson nodded.

'How much did you pay him?'

'Thirty grand.'

'How did he do it?'

'Shot him and buried him in the New Forest.'

'Nice,' said Kerr. 'And you thought he could do the same

to me, did you?'

'That's not what--'

'You calling me a liar, Larry?'

'It's not that - I just gave her his phone number.'

'What did I ever do to you? Did I ever cause you any

grief? Did I run over your cat? Because if I did, I'd rather

you told me now'

'I just gave her his number, that's all.'

Kerr opened his eyes wide. 'Oh, that's all right, then. All

you did was give my wife the phone number of a contract

killer. It's all been a misunderstanding, then.'

'Look, please, there's something you need to know--'

'I think I have the gist,' said Kerr, slapping the bolt-cutters

against his palm.

189

'There's something else,' said Hendrickson. 'If I tell you,

will you let me go?'

'I don't think there's anything else I need to know. My

darling wife has told me everything.'

'No, this Nelson, he's up to something. That's why I called

Angie. He's trying to stitch me up.'

'What do you mean?'

'If I tell you, will you let me go?'

'If you don't, I'll start work on your hands,' said Kerr.

'I don't want to die,' said Hendrickson.

'No one wants to die,' said Kerr. 'So talk.'

Hendrickson looked at Anderson.

'Don't look at him, Larry, look at me. What about this

Nelson guy?'

'He's been using Roger's email address to get information

about the company.'

'Who's Roger?'

'My partner. The guy I wanted out of the way.'

Kerr frowned. 'You're not making any sense. This Roger

guy is dead?'

Hendrickson nodded. 'Nelson showed me photographs.

Polaroids.'

'Of what?'

'Of Roger. Dead.'

'But you didn't see the body?' asked Kerr, thoughtfully.

'I didn't want to be there. I just wanted him out of the way.'

'So Nelson did the dirty and showed you Polaroids and

you gave him the cash?'

'Yes. But a couple of days later someone logged on to our

company website using Roger's password. And sent an email

about the company accounts.'

'And you think it was Nelson?'

'It couldn't be anyone else. That's why I was trying to get

hold of Angie. To warn her about Nelson.'

190

Kerr considered what Hendrickson had said.

'So, can I go?' said Hendrickson. 'Please. I'm sorry about

what happened, but all I did was give your wife a number.'

Kerr ignored him. Nelson must be an amateur to start

using a victim's email. A professional would do the job he'd

been paid for, then vanish. Messing around with emails was

a risk, and a true professional wouldn't take risks. Kerr was

getting a bad feeling about the mysterious Tony Nelson.

'I just want to go home,' pleaded Hendrickson.

'You're starting to annoy me now, Larry,' said Kerr.

Hendrickson began to cry and the damp patch around his

groin darkened.

'Christ, I hate it when they piss themselves,' said Kerr.

He took off four of Hendrickson's toes and both his thumbs

before he got bored with the torture. Hendrickson had

stopped screaming and was passing in and out of consciousness.

Kerr dropped the bolt-cutters on the floor and stood

back. He nodded at Wates, who pulled a large plastic bag

over Hendrickson's head and used electrical tape to seal it

round his neck. Hendrickson struggled for a couple of

minutes, then went still.

Kerr went upstairs to the bedroom. Angie was still lying

on the bed, crying. Kerr untied her ankles and stroked her

hair. 'Stop crying,' he said.

Angie took a ragged breath.

Kerr helped her sit up. 'Come on, there's something I want

you to see,' he said. 'In the wine cellar.'

Shepherd phoned Hargrove just before midnight and explained

that he'd had no luck in contacting Angie Kerr. Every time he

called it went straight through to voicemail, which meant that

her phone was switched off so his number wouldn't show up

as a missed call. He'd left one message, short and to the point,

asking her to call him, but she hadn't got back to him.

191

He went to bed and lay awake for most of the night. He

kept thinking about Sue, replaying her accident. He missed

her smell, her touch. He missed arguing with her and making

up. He missed being inside her and holding her as she gasped.

As dawn broke he went downstairs and poured himself a

large measure of Jameson's, then tipped it down the sink.

Alcohol wasn't going to solve anything.

He changed into a pair of faded army shorts and a tattered

T-shirt, pulled on two pairs of wool socks and the black army

boots, then hefted the brick-filled canvas rucksack on to his

shoulders. He ran for the best part of an hour around the

streets of Ealing, his boots thudding on the pavements, the

rucksack straps chafing his shoulders, taking a perverse

pleasure in the pain. By the time he was back home he was

close to exhaustion. He took off the boots and socks and

examined his feet. No blisters.

He showered, then changed into jeans and a black pullover

and walked down to the local shops. He bought copies of

the Daily Mail, the Daily Telegraph and the Sun and, on a

whim, a ticket for that night's lottery draw, letting the machine

choose his numbers. He picked up a carton of milk and two

freshly baked croissants from the delicatessen, then headed

home.

He made himself a cup of coffee and took it with the croissants

into the garden. There was a wooden table with two bench seats and he sat down. He and Sue had built the table

and seats from a kit they'd bought at their local garden

centre. The instructions had been in some Oriental language

and half the bolts were missing. Shepherd broke one of the

croissants into small pieces. Sue had been seven months

pregnant and she'd never looked sexier as she'd brushed her

hair out of her eyes and laughed at his D-I-Y attempts. He

looked up at the rear of the house. He'd stripped and repainted

all the bedroom windows while Sue had done the ones on

192

1 the ground floor. She'd changed the layout of the garden,

putting in two rockeries, a couple of flowerbeds and a dozen

fruit trees. The kitchen was her design too, and so were the two bathrooms. She had put her heart and soul into the

house and there was no way he could bring himself to sell

it. In time, maybe, but not yet.

He finished the croissants and coffee and carried his empty

mug back into the house. He looked at his watch. Almost

midday. Miss Malcolm had assured him that a girl from the

agency would drop in before noon. He had planned to interview

the girl, then drive to Hereford to spend the weekend

with Liam. While he was up in his bedroom packing an

overnight case the doorbell rang.

The girl standing on the doorstep barely came up to his

chest, had black hair and wore no makeup. She smiled up

at him. 'Mr Shepherd?'

| 'Yes?'

'I am Katra. The agency said I was to come and see you.'

She was holding a similar manila envelope to the one Halina

had shown him. 'I hope now is not an inconvenient time for

me to call.' She said each word slowly and precisely, as if

she had memorised the sentence, and nodded when she'd

finished.

'Come on in,' he said, and held the door open for her. She

was wearing a green parka with a fur-lined hood, sand

coloured cargo pants and scuffed Timberland boots. He

showed her into the kitchen. 'Tea or coffee?'

'Just water,' she said. 'Please.'

Shepherd gave her a glass of tap water and opened the envelope.

There was a copy of her agency application, which he

scanned. She was twenty-two, although she looked less. She

had left school at sixteen and had only worked in a shoe factory.

There was a letter on headed notepaper from a police inspector

in Slovenia saying that Katra did not have a criminal record.

193

Shepherd frowned. Miss Malcolm hadn't mentioned she was

sending a Slovenian - in fact, she had left him with the impression

that she didn't trust them.

'You've not worked as an au pair before?' he asked.

'I have five younger brothers,' she said.

'Five?'

'Five. The youngest is Rufin and he is twelve and can take

care of himself now so my father says I can come to England.

I want to study English. And work.'

'You helped raise your brothers, is that it?'

'My mother died when Rufin was born. My father worked

in a steel mill so I had to take care of them all.'

Shepherd did the maths in his head. 'You were ten when

she died?'

'She was bleeding and the hospital didn't have enough of

her type of blood.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I was very sad but it was a long time ago.'

'And your father never remarried?'

'He said he never wanted another wife, that no one could

take her place. I cooked and cleaned and took care of them when they were sick. It wasn't too difficult. I had aunts to

help me sometimes and the teachers at school did what they

could.'

'Your father was lucky to have a daughter like you.'

Katra grinned. 'He knows that. He tells me all the time

that I'm just like my mother.'

'Your English is good but it says here you left school at

sixteen.'

'I studied at home. One of the teachers gave me some

books and sometimes she would come to the house to help

me practise.'

'And then you worked at a shoe factory?' There was a

reference letter from the manager, who said that Katra had

194

I

I

been a diligent worker and that after six months he had

promoted her from the production line to the quality-control -- department.

¦ 'My father had an accident at the steel mill so I went to

work.'

'You were working and taking care of your family?'

¦ 'The boys were older so they helped. It wasn't so hard.'

She sipped her water.

'Miss Malcolm explained my situation?'

'She said you are a widower and you have a young son.'

Widower. It was the first time Shepherd had heard himself

1 described like that. It sounded Victorian, as if he should have

been wearing a frock coat and top hat. But it was what he

was. A man whose wife had died.

'Where is your boy?' asked Katra.

'Liam is with his grandparents. I'm on my way to see him

now. I need someone who can take him to and from school.

You can drive., right?'

'My father taught me. I have a licence.'

'An international licence?'

Katra nodded.

I 'And I need someone to do laundry, clean the house and

cook.'

'You need a wife,' she said.

At first Shepherd thought she was being funny or sarcastic,

then realised she was not, just factual. It was exactly what

he needed. He needed Sue. 'You're right,' he said.

'I can take care of you both,' she said. 'I cook good.'

'I bet you do,' he said. He glanced at his watch. 'Look,

what are you doing today?'

I 'I come to see you. Then Miss Malcolm said I should call

her. That is all I do today.'

'Where are you' staying?'

'I share a room in a house in Battersea,' she said. 'Some

195

Slovenian girls who have been here for a year are letting me

stay with them until I have a job. One hundred pounds a

week. That's good, no?'

It seemed expensive to Shepherd, but he smiled and said

that it sounded like a good deal. 'Why don't you come with

me? We'll go and see Liam.'

She beamed up at him. 'I have the job?'

Shepherd looked at her. His life often depended on his

ability to read people, and he trusted his instincts. Katra

seemed open, honest and without guile. 'Let's see how you

get on with my son first.'

Katra grabbed him around the waist and hugged him, then

released him and apologised. 'I'm sorry, it's just that I'm so

happy.'

Shepherd couldn't stop a grin. 'Let's see what Liam thinks,'

he said. 'He'll be spending more time with you than I will.'

He picked up his car keys and tossed them to her. 'You can

drive. It'll give me a chance to see how you handle the car.'

'Where are we going?' she asked.

'Hereford. It's near Wales. Over to the west.'

She frowned. 'Do I need a visa? I have my passport but

my visa is for the United Kingdom only.'

Shepherd laughed. 'No, love, you don't need a visa for

Wales.'

He told her to get the car started while he fetched his bag.

As he went into the bedroom he caught sight of himself in

the mirror. He was smiling, and felt guilty suddenly, as if he

had been disloyal in some way to Sue. He sighed. 'She'll be

good for Liam, love,' he whispered. 'She'll make him laugh.

She might even bring some happiness back into the house.

God knows, we could do with some.' He picked up his

overnight bag, then went downstairs and locked up.

The engine was running as he climbed into the CRY.

Katra was already wearing her seatbelt. He fastened his.

196

'Let's go then,' he said. 'You can tell me the story of your

life as you drive.'

Wates rolled Hendrickson's body over on the plastic sheeting.

Kerr pointed to a severed toe. 'You've missed a bit, lads,' he

said.

Anderson picked it up, tossed it next to the body and

grimaced. 'What's the story, boss?' he asked.

'Wait until it's dark and bury it where it'll never be found.

If we knew where the partner was we could bury them

together.'

'What's the plan about this Nelson guy?'

'We'll have a word in his shell-like. Find out what the score

is.'

'Can I say something, boss?' Anderson looked pained.

'What the hell's crawled up your arse and died?' said Kerr.

'This is not a good idea, that's all, you taking this personal.'

'For fuck's sake, Eddie, this guy was talking to my wife

about putting a bullet in my head.'

| 'I don't mean him. I mean Nelson.'

'I've got to find out what he's up to. Angie's given him

fifteen grand and he's not made a move, but he's pissing

around sending emails under a dead guy's name. That's a

mystery and I hate mysteries.'

'You've always said, right from the first time I started with

you, that you never go near the gear or the money. You let

Muppets take the risk, you take the reward.'

'The Gospel according to Charlie Kerr,' said Kerr.

'Right, so why are you taking risks with this? What you

did to Hendrickson, that was fair enough, he came to your

house. But this Nelson, if you're going to do something, why

do it yourself? There's guys who'd do it for you as a favour,

you know that.'

'Because this is personal, Eddie.' Anderson still looked

I

197

uncomfortable. Kerr patted him on the shoulder. 'It'll be

easy-peasy,' he said. 'Angie'll make a call to arrange a meet

and when he turns up we'll play Who Wants To Be A

Millionaire? - he just won't get to phone a friend.'

Shepherd and Katra arrived in Hereford as the sun was

dipping below the horizon. The traffic had been heavy, with

holidaymakers heading to Wales for the weekend, and there

had been long tail-backs. Shepherd had been impressed by

Katra's driving. She accelerated smoothly and used her

mirrors constantly. He had felt relaxed with her at the wheel

and knew he could trust her with Liam in the car.

He gave her directions to Moira's house, and on the way

briefed her on what to expect from his in-laws. With the best

will in the world Moira was certain to view Katra as an interloper

and would probably give her a hard time. Tom would

be more easy-going but he wouldn't be comfortable with a

stranger taking care of his grandson. 'Just be yourself,'

concluded Shepherd. 'They won't be fooled by flattery. I

tried that when I first met them.' He shuddered at the

memory. 'Shot me down in flames.'

He'd worn a suit and tie and smiled so much that his face

had ached. He had seen the suspicion in Moira's eyes as

soon as he told them he served with the Special Air Service.

There was constant friction between the Regiment and the

locals, especially in the town's drinking establishments. The

SAS lads needed to blow off steam from time to time, and

the local men weren't happy that the town's girls made a

beeline for the super-fit, self-confident soldiers. Evidently

Moira wasn't going to allow Shepherd to take her beloved

daughter without a fight, and her interrogation was as bad

as anything he'd faced on his selection week.

Her observations had echoed the views of Shepherd's own

parents when he had told them he wanted to drop out of

198

university, although she had made her point more succinctly.

Why would anybody give up a promising academic career

for a job whose ultimate aim was to kill people?

Shepherd had drunk a couple of glasses of Tom's best

whiskey and tried to explain that being in the SAS wasn't

about killing people, it was about being the best of the best.

It was about testing yourself to breaking point, and defending

your country, standing up against the bullies of the world be

they terrorists or dictatorships. He never convinced Moira,

but he won over Tom. And while they'd both been dubious

about an SAS trooper courting their daughter, it was clear

that they respected his honesty.

Katra parked the CRY in front of Moira and Tom's house

and looked up at it. 'It's nice,' she said. 'Well cared-for.'

'Yeah, she's house-proud, is Moira,' said Shepherd.

'What shall I call her?'

'Mrs Wintour,' said Shepherd. 'Her husband is Tom but

you'd better call him Mr Wintour unless he says otherwise.'

'And is it okay to call you Dan or shall I call you Mr

Shepherd?' she asked.

Shepherd took his hand off the door handle. It was a good

question. Moira would notice the informality if she used his

first name, and it might be better to make it clear from the

outset that Katra was an employee and not a family member.

'Mr Shepherd's a good idea, Katra,' he said, 'but only while

they're around. Everywhere else it's Dan.'

The front door opened as Shepherd reached for the bell.

'Dad!' Liam shouted. Shepherd picked him up and hugged

him. Liam looked at Katra over his shoulder. 'Who's she?'

he asked.

'Manners,' said Shepherd.

'I'm Katra,' she said.

'Are you my dad's girlfriend?'

'Liam!' said Shepherd.

199

Moira came down the hallway. 'What's this about a girlfriend?'

she said.

'Liam's overactive imagination,' said Shepherd, putting his

son down. 'This is Katra. She's an au pair.'

'I thought you were getting a housekeeper,' Moira said

frostily.

'Housekeeper, au pair, it's pretty much the same, isn't it?'

'Pleased to meet you, Mrs Wintour,' Katra said.

Moira shook her hand. 'How old are you?' she asked.

'Katra's twenty-two. Can we do this inside, Moira?'

Moira sniffed pointedly.

'Where are you from?' Liam asked Katra, as they walked

down the hallway towards the kitchen.

'Portoroz,' she said. 'In Slovenia.'

'Where's that?'

'It's in Europe,' she said. 'Near Russia.'

'I've never heard of it.'

'We're a quiet country,' she said, smiling. They went into

the kitchen.

Moira closed the front door. 'You said you were getting a

housekeeper, Daniel. That girl looks barely old enough to

take care of herself.'

'She's the oldest in her family and she practically raised

her siblings single-handed,' said Shepherd. 'She won't have

any trouble with one eight-year-old boy.'

'Totally unsuitable,' she said, folding her arms.

'Moira, she'll be fine.'

'When you said housekeeper, I imagined someone more

my age, with experience, someone reliable.'

'She's got references and I'll make some checks of my own

on Monday. Liam's taken to her already.'

'Liam doesn't know any better. And what about food?

What do they eat in Slovenia?'

Shepherd started to laugh, but stopped when Moira's eyes

200

narrowed. 'I'm sure she'll cope with egg and chips,' he said.

'That's still Liam's favourite, isn't it?'

'Fine, if you won't take me seriously,' said Moira. She headed

for the kitchen, and Shepherd followed her. He knew it wasn't

Katra personally that Moira was against: it was the idea of

anyone other than herself taking care of Liam. He could have

turned up with a fifty-year-old Cordon Bleu-trained Scot and

Moira would have given her the cold shoulder.

Liam was sitting with Tom at the kitchen table while Katra

was spooning coffee into a cafetiere. Liam was repeating

something she'd said.

Katra laughed. 'No, you say "prav zadovoljen sem" because

you're a boy. I'm a girl so I say "prav zadovolna sem". It's

only a small difference, but it's important.' She repeated 'zadovoljen', stressing the final syllable.

'Prav zadovoljen sem,' Liam said, slowly and carefully.

Katra clapped. 'Well done! You sound like a Slovenian

already.'

Liam beamed. 'Katra's teaching me Slovenian,' he said to

Shepherd. 'Prav zadovoljen sem,' he said. 'It means I'm happy.'

'Well, if you're happy, I'm happy,' said Shepherd.

'Let me do that,' said Moira, reaching for the cafetiere.

'Let the girl be, Moira,' said Tom. 'Be nice for the two of

us to be waited on for a change.' Moira glared at him, clearly

annoyed at what she saw as a betrayal. He put up his hands

in surrender but grinned at Katra, which only made Moira

angrier.

'Tom, this is my kitchen, always has been and always will

be,' she said.

'And no one keeps a better kitchen than you, my angel,'

said Tom, 'but if Katra is going to look after Liam and Dan,

we should at least let her show us what she can do.'

Moira stood wringing her hands, then sat down at the

table.

201

Liam kept up a torrent of questions while Katra made the

coffee. What was her family like? Where had she gone to

school? How long would she be staying in England?

'Maybe five years,' said Katra. 'I want to earn enough

money to start my own business and learn English.'

'Your English seems pretty good to me already,' said Tom.

She poured the coffee and carried it over to the table, along

with a jug of milk and the sugar bowl. She sat next to Shepherd

and watched expectantly as they all sipped. Shepherd and Tom

nodded approval, then looked at Moira. She shrugged. 'Lovely,

Katra. Thank you.'

'How about we give Katra a trial run?' said Shepherd. 'She

could cook dinner for us.'

Moira's jaw dropped. 'Oh, no, I'm doing a roast. I've got

everything planned.'

Tom put a hand on her arm and gave it an encouraging

squeeze. 'It's a good idea,' he said. 'It'd give you a night off. We could have a nice bottle of wine and let Katra get on with it.'

'Go on, Gran,' said Liam. 'It'll be fun.'

Katra smiled. 'I'd be happy to cook for you all/ she said.

'There you are, then,' said Tom.

Shepherd looked at his watch. 'The lottery,' he said. 'I

bought a ticket today.' He fished it out of his wallet.

'Daniel, really! The lottery's nothing more than legalised

gambling.'

'It's for good causes,' said Shepherd. 'Come on, you can

check the numbers with me.'

Moira glanced at Katra, who had opened the refrigerator

and was checking the vegetables. 'I'll stay with Katra,' she

said, but Tom took her arm and eased her out of the kitchen.

They went through to the sitting room and he switched

on the television. Within five minutes the winning numbers

were on the screen. Only two matched numbers that Shepherd

had chosen. He scowled and tore his ticket in half.

202

'Serves you right,' said Moira primly.

'I was going to give you half if I won,' he teased.

'I don't believe that for a second,' said Moira.

'Well, you'll never know now,' he said.

They watched television until eventually Liam appeared

in the doorway. 'It's all ready,' he said.

Katra had prepared the kitchen table with silverware and

napkins, and had placed two candles in the centre. There

was a wooden basket filled with chunks of bread, and a bowl

of sauteed potatoes that smelt strongly of garlic.

'I did the potatoes,' said Liam.

Moira looked worriedly at the sink but gleaming pans were

, { stacked on the draining-board and Katra had polished the

stove until it shone.

Katra opened the oven and took out a casserole dish.

'I was going to roast the chicken,' said Moira, 'with stuffing.'

j 'I know, but Liam said he wanted to try Slovenian food

so I showed him how to make kurja obara. It's a sort of

chicken gumbo.'

'It smells great, Gran,' said Liam.

'It's a recipe from my aunt,' said Katra, 'with parsley and

celery.'

'You're right, Liam - it does smell good,' said Tom, sitting

1 down and rubbing his hands.

Katra placed a stainless-steel bowl full of steaming

1dumplings on the table. 'Metini struklji,' she said. 'I took some

mint from the garden,' she told Moira. 'I hope you don't

mind. The dumplings are traditional Slovenian food but not

all English people like them and Liam said you liked sauteed

potatoes so I did them as well. Except Liam cooked them.'

I 'You told me what to do,' said Liam. 'She's a great cook,

isn't she, Grandma?'

Moira looked at Liam for several seconds, then she smiled.

'Yes, she is,' she said. She patted Katra's arm. 'It looks lovely,

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I

dear. And if it tastes half as good as it smells I think my

husband will be fighting to keep you here!'

Katra blushed and giggled. She sat down and served Moira

first, then heaped spoonfuls of the chicken on to the plates

in front of Shepherd, Tom and Liam. When she'd helped

herself, she reached over and took Moira's hand. 'Perhaps I

could say a grace,' she said.

Moira nodded enthusiastically. 'That would be wonderful,'

she said, and gave Shepherd a meaningful look.

Shepherd smiled but didn't rise to the bait. The fact that

he had no religious leanings was one of the many reasons

his mother-in-law had thought him an unsuitable husband

for Sue. They had been married in Tom and Moira's church

in Hereford but he had had to bite his tongue during their

pep talks with the local vicar. He had seen and been through

too much to believe in God.

Moira took Liam's hand and Shepherd took the other.

They all bowed their heads as Katra prayed. When she raised

her head she said, 'I hope you all enjoy it.'

They did. Several times during the meal Shepherd caught

Moira looking wistfully at Katra. He knew what she was

thinking. Katra was physically different from Sue, but her

smile and laugh were similar. Liam seemed to have picked

up on it, albeit subconsciously. He behaved as if he had

known her for years. When the meal was over he helped her

clear the table and wash up.

'What do you think, Moira?' asked Shepherd, as they went

back through to the sitting room for coffee.

'She'll do, I suppose,' she said grudgingly, but Shepherd

knew that Katra had won her over, big-time.

The explosives came into the country with some hand

carved furniture that had been ordered by a minor diplomat

who was related by marriage to the Saudi royal family. The

a

204

consignment carried diplomatic privilege and wasn't even

looked at by Customs. It wouldn't have mattered even if they

had inspected the container because the explosives were so

well hidden they would never have found them. The furniture

was taken to the diplomat's five-bedroomed house in

Mayfair where the Saudi used an electric saw to reduce a

mahogany chest to firewood. In the process he retrieved forty

plastic-wrapped packages of Semtex. It had been manufactured

by the Czechs and shipped to Libya. A Libyan captain

with two expensive mistresses had smuggled twenty kilos of

it out of his barracks and sold it to a Palestinian, who paid

in brand new hundred-dollar bills and took the explosives

overland to Saudi Arabia, hidden in a false compartment in

a four-wheel drive.

The Saudi already had the detonators. They had been

brought into the country by a pilot with Emirate Airlines,

hidden in a false compartment of his flight case. The pilot

was sympathetic to the aims of the Saudi and his compatriots.

He was a Palestinian and two of his teenage cousins

had been killed by the Israelis for not stopping quickly enough

at a roadblock. The boys were unarmed, just children, and

the Israelis hadn't even offered an apology.

The Saudi was able to buy the rest of the equipment he

needed in London. Wire, digital alarm clocks, electrical

switches, batteries and a soldering iron. The four vests were

tight-fitting with ten pockets, each pocket a perfect fit for

one of the packages of Semtex. He sewed the vests by hand,

pricking his fingers so often that they were spotted with his

blood.

He unwrapped the plastic packages, then used Sellotape

to wrap dozens of two-inch nails around each block of explosive

and placed them in the pockets. The explosions would

be devastating but the shrapnel would do most damage.

He tested the electrical circuits on his dining-table, using

205

flashlight bulbs in place of the detonators. Each vest had

three detonators, all connected to one electrical switch.

Pressing the electrical switch connected the detonators to the

battery. Three was overkill, the Saudi knew, but the detonators

couldn't be tested in advance.

A second circuit ran parallel to the first. It connected the

battery to the detonators via a digital alarm clock. Irrespective

of whether the electrical switch was activated, the clock would

close the second circuit at two minutes past five p.m. The

men had been told to trigger their devices at five p.m. If they

failed to do so, to the bombs would detonate of their own

accord. The men would not be told of the secondary circuit.

It was standard operating procedure, the Saudi knew. Most

of the hijackers in the planes that had been flown into New

York's World Trade Center had not been told the true nature

of their mission. Only the pilots had known. Until the last few

seconds the majority of the hijackers had thought that they

would be landing at JFK airport and the hostages held until

America agreed to al-Qaeda's terms. As far as the Saudi's men

in London were concerned, they would be the ones in control.

They would decide if and when to press the switch. But the

Saudi knew that the human element was the weak link in any

operation. If the men were captured or injured they might not

be able to press their switches. If they had a change of heart,

the clock circuit would take over and override the switch mechanism.

It was a necessary subterfuge, the Saudi knew. The

operation was more important than the operatives.

Shepherd let Katra drive the CRY back to London. Liam

wanted to sit in the front but hadn't argued when Shepherd

insisted that he was in the back. He wanted to learn more

Slovenian words and Katra taught him a couple of songs.

When they got back to Ealing he was singing on his own

and could count up to twenty.

206

Shepherd had tried calling Miss Malcolm from Hereford

to confirm that he wanted to hire Katra but had only reached

m the agency's answering-machine. He decided that there

wouldn't be a problem and told Katra that she was hired.

Katra had beamed.

Moira hadn't been happy about Shepherd taking Liam to

1 | London. There had been tears in her eyes as she'd said goodbye

and as the car drove away she'd collapsed into Tom's arms.

Shepherd told himself that his son belonged with him, and

Liam was thrilled to be going back to London, especially

I when he realised that Katra would be taking care of him.

They drove via Battersea, where Katra picked up her suitcase

and said goodbye to her friends.

Shepherd let them into the house and switched off the

burglar alarm as Liam rushed upstairs with Katra to show

her his room. He went into the kitchen. There was a photograph

of Sue and Liam on the refrigerator door, held in place

by a magnet in the shape of an apple. It had been taken at

Hallowe'en the previous year. Liam had been invited to a

schoolfriend's fancy dress party and Sue had made him a

pirate's outfit. Shepherd had been away on an assignment in

Bristol and the job had kept him away overnight so Liam

I had insisted that he and his mother take a photograph. It

¦ was the best photograph he'd ever seen of his wife and child:

Sue's arm was around Liam's shoulders and they were both

grinning from ear to ear.

He heard Liam and Katra laughing upstairs and suddenly

felt guilty. He kissed the first and second fingers of his right

hand and pressed them to his wife's face. 'I'll always love

you, Sue,' he said softly. 'She's just here to keep us together

as a family.'

A wave of sadness rushed over him. He was never going

to see her again. The photographs and memories were all he

1 had now.

207

'Dad!'

Shepherd jumped.

'Dad, come here!'

Liam was standing at the top of the stairs, one hand on

the banister, the other pressed against the wall, swinging his

legs backwards and forwards.

'I've told you not to do that,' said Shepherd. 'It's dangerous.'

Liam stopped. 'Where's Katra sleeping?'

'The spare room.'

'Can't she sleep with me?'

'It's not a sleepover party, Katra's here to work,' said

Shepherd. 'Anyway, boys and girls don't share rooms.'

'You and Mum did,' said Liam.

'Well, if you and Katra ever get married, you can share,'

laughed Shepherd, 'but until then she has the spare room.'

Katra came up behind Liam and stroked his hair. Liam

giggled. 'Will you marry me, Katra?'

'Of course. When you are old enough.'

Shepherd went up the stairs and opened the door to the

spare room. 'Have a look, Katra, see what you think.'

There was a double bed and a built-in wardrobe with

mirrored sliding doors and a small teak dressing-table. 'It's

lovely,' said Katra. 'Perfect.'

'You'll have to share the bathroom with Liam, I'm afraid.'

'That's fine,' she said. 'In Portoroz we had one bathroom

for the seven of us.'

'Seven?' said Liam.

'My father and me and five brothers.'

'What about your mother?'

'Katra's mum died when she was young,' said Shepherd.

He patted Liam's shoulder. 'That's something you've got in

common.'

'Was it an accident?' Liam asked Katra.

'She was sick.'

208

'I'm sorry,' said Liam. He slipped his hand into hers and

squeezed it.

'It was a long time ago,' she said.

'It's not fair, is it, when things like that happen?'

She looked down at him and nodded. 'No, it's not fair.'

'I'll keep the bathroom tidy,' he said.

'Thank you.'

'It'll be a first,' said Shepherd.

'Dad!'

Shepherd went back outside to fetch Katra's suitcase and

his overnight bag, then took them upstairs. Katra was sitting

on her bed. 'This is so nice,' she said. 'Thank you.' She pointed

at the two black plastic bags at the foot of the bed. 'What

are they?' she asked.

'My wife's . . .' began Shepherd, but Sue wasn't his wife,

not any more. How was he supposed to refer to her now?

'They're Sue's clothes,' he said finally. 'I wasn't sure what to

do with them. I'll find somewhere else for them.' He picked

them up, one in each hand, and took them down to the garage.

He put them under the tool bench, then showed Katra the

freezer, which was packed with ready meals. 'You eat these?'

she said, picking up one of the ice-encrusted boxes.

'Only if I can't get a takeaway,' he said.

'Takeaway?'

'You know. Chinese or Indian food. You buy it and take it

away.'

'I will go shopping tomorrow for real food. And you have

herbs in your garden?'

'Are weeds herbs?'

She either didn't understand the joke, or ignored it. 'I will

need garlic, parsley, marjoram, tarragon and horseradish,' she

said.

'I guess the supermarket will have them,' he said. 'We can

go tomorrow. We'll drop Liam off at the school, then we'll

209

shop and then I've got to go to work. I start at two and my

shift finishes at ten so I'll be back at eleven.'

They headed back to the kitchen. 'What time does Liam

go to bed?'

Shepherd shrugged. 'So long as he's up for school, I leave

it to him. What do you think? Ten?'

'Nine might be better.'

'Nine it is,' said Shepherd.

Back in the kitchen she opened the fridge and checked the

sell-by date on a box of eggs. Then she opened a carton of milk and sniffed it. 'I can make omelette tonight,' she said.

'With chips.'

'Great,' said Shepherd.

He switched on the kettle and reached for two coffee

mugs, but Katra beat him to it. 'You relax,' she said. 'I will

make coffee.'

Shepherd moved out of her way. 'That grace you said at

dinner yesterday, what was it?'

Katra turned pink. 'Ah,' she said. 'I was hoping you wouldn't

ask.' She busied herself spooning instant coffee into the

mugs.

'What's wrong?' asked Shepherd.

'Actually, my family isn't religious,' she said. 'My mother

was, but after she died my father refused to set foot inside

a church and threw out my mother's Bible and crucifix.'

'What about the grace?'

'I thought Mrs Wintour might like a prayer, so I said a

poem.'

'A poem?'

'Well, it was a traditional Slovenian song.'

'What does it mean?'

'You really want to know?'

Shepherd was enjoying her embarrassment. 'Oh, yes,' he

said. 'I think it's important that I know.'

210

Katra looked as if she was in pain. 'Well, it's about a young

man who is planning to visit his three girlfriends. The first

is a waitress and she will give him something to drink. The

second girl is a cook and she will give him something to eat.

And the third . . .'

'Yes?' said Shepherd, encouragingly.

'The third is the one he really loves and she will take him

to her room.'

Shepherd bit his lower lip to stop himself laughing. 'Her

room?'

Katra looked even more uncomfortable. 'You know,' she

said. 'She loved him, so . . .' She shrugged.

'And you pretended to be saying grace?'

'You're not angry, are you? I am so sorry. I just wanted

to please her.'

'No, Katra, I'm not angry.' He couldn't contain himself

1 any longer and burst out laughing.

Liam came in from the sitting room. 'What's wrong?' he

asked.

Shepherd grinned at Katra. 'Nothing,' he said. 'Everything's

fine.'

One of the mobiles in his jacket pocket rang. He was

carrying three and he fished them out. It was Hargrove, and

he went through to the sitting room to take the call. The

superintendent wanted to know if he'd spoken to Angie

. Kerr.

'I've tried every hour but her phone's off. I don't want to

leave a message.'

'What do you think?'

'I don't know. If she's had a change of heart she'd have

got back to me. It could be as simple as a lost phone.'

Til check to see if she's reported it,' said Hargrove. Til

put a tail on her as well. But if all else fails you'll just have

to go up and front her.'

211

'I'm starting with SO 19 tomorrow,' said Shepherd. 'Two

until ten, it won't give me much time.'

'You could get your mates to helicopter you.'

Shepherd grinned. 'You heard about that.'

'I wish I had SAS resources,' said Hargrove. 'Worst possible

scenario, you could call in sick and drive up. We've got to

nail her, and soon.'

'Let me know about the phone,' said Shepherd.

'You got the Stuart Marsden legend?'

'Sure. It's fine.'

'And everything went okay at Hereford?'

'I'm up to speed. I don't expect any problems.'

'I meant with your boy. Is he okay?'

'Yeah, he's fine. He's back here now.' Liam came running

into the sitting room. 'Can I play football in the garden with

Katra?' he asked.

Shepherd waved him away. 'I've got some father stuff to

do,' he said to Hargrove.

'Enjoy it while you can.' Hargrove laughed. 'Teenagers are

a whole different ball-game.'

Shepherd cut the connection and went back to the kitchen.

Katra and Liam were running around the garden, chasing a

football. Liam was whooping and waving his arms. Shepherd

hadn't seen him so happy for a long time. It was good to

have a woman back in the house, even if she was an employee.

Shepherd woke up with a start. He looked at the bedside

table and cursed. He hadn't set the alarm. He grabbed a

dressing-gown and rushed down the hallway to Liam's

bedroom. He wasn't there. Shepherd hurried downstairs. His

son was sitting at the kitchen table, washed, dressed in his

school uniform and demolishing a plate of scrambled eggs

and cheese on toast. His favourite. Katra was pouring coffee.

'Look what Katra made for me,' said Liam through a

212

mouthful of egg. 'I showed her how to do it, but she uses

water instead of milk.'

Katra handed Shepherd a mug of coffee. 'There's no need

to get up,' she said. 'I can take him to school.'

'I said I'd show her where to go,' said Liam.

'Are you sure?' Shepherd asked Katra, and sipped his

coffee. She'd made it just as he liked it.

'It's no problem,' said Katra.

Shepherd forced a smile. It was the first time he'd entrusted

his son to anyone other than family, and he barely knew

Katra. 'Okay,' he said.

'Is the white car yours too?' asked Katra.

'It's for work,' said Shepherd. 'You can use the CRY.' He

hadn't told Katra the exact nature of his work, but she knew

he was a police officer.

Liam finished his breakfast and Katra helped him put on

his coat. Shepherd kissed him. 'You be good, yeah?' he said.

'I'm always good,' said Liam.

| 'I'll do the shopping on my way home,' said Katra.

Shepherd took out his wallet and gave her two fifty-pound

notes. Then he knelt beside Liam. 'I won't be here when you

I get home,' he said. 'My shift finishes at ten, so I won't be

back until you're in bed.'

'I could stay up,' said Liam.

Shepherd laughed. 'You'll be in bed by nine, young man.'

S'But you'll come in and see me, even if I'm asleep?'

'Sure,' said Shepherd.

He stood at the front window and watched Katra and Liam

climb into the CRY. Panic gripped him and he fought to

control it. Liam had been in the back of the car when Sue

had jumped the red light and crashed into a delivery truck.

He'd emerged from the accident unscathed but he'd seen his

mother die and Shepherd couldn't imagine what that must

have been like for an eight-year-old boy.

213

Liam waved. 'Seatbelt,' mouthed Shepherd. Katra turned

and said something to the boy, then Liam clipped on his

belt.

The CRY was a big four-by-four with airbags and antilock

braking system and it was high off the ground, more

crash resistant than the VW Golf Sue had been driving when

she'd died. Even so, Shepherd had to fight the urge to run

out and tell Katra he'd drive Liam to school. It was ridiculous,

of course. Moira had been running Liam to and from

school in Hereford and Shepherd hadn't given it a second

thought. Sue's accident had been a stupid mistake, coupled

with bad luck. Liam was no more at risk in the CRY with

Katra than any other child on the school-run that morning.

He'd be fine. Katra beeped the horn and Shepherd raised

his coffee mug in salute. Suddenly he remembered that he

hadn't given Katra a mobile phone so that she could contact

him in an emergency. 'Relax,' he whispered. 'He's in good

hands.'

He stood at the window until the CRY was out of view,

then changed into his running gear and the black army boots.

He ran on auto-pilot, barely aware of his five-kilometre route

through the streets of Ealing and on to Scotch Common,

skirting three golf courses, a circuit he'd run almost a thousand

times during the four years since he'd bought the house.

Sue had suggested he joined the local gym or even put a

treadmill in the garage, but Shepherd wanted the ground

beneath his boots and the wind in his face - the smell of

grass and trees, or even car exhaust, was preferable to the

perfumed deodorants that pervaded the gym. He wanted to

run outdoors and he wanted to run hard; he wanted peace

and quiet so that he could think. He had to become Stuart

Marsden.

By the time he got back to the house he was in character.

He shaved, showered and changed into his off-duty policeman

214

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I

I

clothes: blue denim shirt, black jeans and leather jacket. He

put the boots into the black nylon bag with the rest of the

SO 19 equipment, set the burglar alarm, locked the front door

and headed for the Toyota.

He called Miss Malcolm as he drove along the A40 towards

the SO 19 base at Leman Street and told her he wanted to

hire Katra. She said she'd put the paperwork in the post to

him.

He reached Leman Street at midday. He'd been told to

report two hours before his shift was due to start so that

he'd have time for a briefing with Rose.There was a confusing

one-way system and he passed Aldgate tube station twice

before he got on to the northern end of Leman Street. He

found a space and bought a pay-and-display sticker that gave

him an hour's parking.

The nondescript building halfway down the street looked

as if it had once been a police station but the only indication

that it was a Metropolitan Police building was a sheet

of paper stuck to the glass door that had the force's blue and

white logo in one corner. It was a six-storey concrete and

glass block, bland and featureless except for a forest of radio

antennae on the roof. Three Vauxhall ARVs were parked in

front.

Shepherd pulled open the glass door and went over to the

reception desk to find out where he could park for the duration of his shift. A bored uniformed constable checked his

warrant card and gave him directions to an underground car

park.

After he'd moved the Toyota, he walked back to Leman

Street with his kit-bag and went in search of Keith Rose. A

civilian secretary told him he was in the indoor range in the

basement. Shepherd had to ask for directions and felt like

the new boy at school.

As he went down the stairs he heard the sharp cracks of

215

an MP5. He let himself in. Six men in black overalls were

standing twenty-five metres from bullseye targets. They were

all wearing bright orange ear-protectors. Shepherd took out a

small plastic case containing yellow foam earplugs and fitted

them as he headed towards the group. He recognised Keith

Rose from the photographs in the file Hargrove had given

him. He was just under six feet tall and broad-shouldered. His

head was shaved and he had a sweeping Mexican moustache.

He was talking to one of the men who had been

shooting at the targets.

They looked over at Shepherd. 'Stuart Marsden,' said

Shepherd. Tm looking for Sergeant Rose.' He had to pretend

he didn't know what Rose looked like.

'Guilty as charged.' Rose stepped forward and held out

his hand. Shepherd shook it and dropped his kit-bag. Like

the rest of the men, the sergeant had an MP5 hanging off

his shoulder on its nylon sling. 'Stuart's here to show us how

the Jocks do it.'

'I'm not Scottish, sir,' said Shepherd.

Rose frowned. 'Strathclyde, they told me.'

'That's right, but I was born in London.'

Rose handed his MP5 to Shepherd and gestured at the

targets. 'Show us what you can do, then.' He grinned.

Shepherd checked the weapon, then slid the safety selector

to fire. He swung the gun smoothly up to his shoulder and

fired six single shots into one of the targets. His grouping

was good, all within the two inner circles.

'Nice,' said Rose. Shepherd gave him back the carbine.

'Let's go into the canteen for a chat. Then we'll get you fixed

up with a Glock.'

Shepherd picked up his kit-bag. Rose held open the door

and took him along a corridor. 'Word is you were in the

army,' he said.

'For a few years. The Paras.'

216

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'Why did you leave?'

Shepherd smiled easily. 'Didn't realise I was being interviewed

for the job. Thought I was being transferred here.'

Rose didn't smile. 'In the Trojans it's all about knowing

your team,' he said. 'If we go into a building and there's bad

guys with guns, we all have to be on the same wavelength

and that's down to knowing everything about each other. No

secrets.'

'Same in the army,' said Shepherd.

'So why did you quit?'

'Difficult to answer. Boredom, for one. The training got

to me, running up and down mountains, waiting for the shit

to hit the fan. And when the shit hits, it's pretty shitty.

Afghanistan wasn't much fun.'

'What about Ireland?' They reached the canteen.

'A couple of tours, but the IRA had pretty much called it

quits when I was there.'

Rose pointed at an empty table. 'Drop your gear and we'll

grab some food. You hungry? No haggis but the chef can

probably stuff a sheep's stomach for you if you ask him

nicely.'

'I guess I'm stuck with the Scottish jokes.'

'For the foreseeable future, yeah. Until we find something

else to pick on. Newbie syndrome.'

'No sweat,' said Shepherd. He dropped his bag and joined

Rose in the queue for food.

'So, you reckoned the cops was a cushier number?' asked

Rose.

'I wouldn't have to sleep in a barracks, and I'd be dealing

with real people. The army's a closed community - you're

either in it or you're an outsider. I was fed up with the same

old faces, day in, day out.'

'It's not that different in the Trojans,' said Rose. 'We're

tight. Have to be.'

217

'But they don't make you run up and down mountains

with a Bergen on your back.'

'SO19 isn't a soft touch.'

'Didn't mean to suggest it was,' said Shepherd. 'I've been

a cop for seven years, and carrying a gun for most of that

time.'

'I don't see why you'd want to move south,' said Rose. j i

'The London weighting might be attractive, but property's

still twice the price you'd be paying north of the border.'

'My dad's in hospital down here, I wanted to be closer

to him.' They reached the front of the queue. Rose took I 1

steak and kidney pie and chips and Shepherd the same.

They collected mugs of coffee and headed back to their i g

table. ' i

'What do we call you?' asked Rose, as he poured brown

sauce over his pie.

'Up to you. The guys in Glasgow called me Irish.' I ]

Rose frowned. 'You're not a Paddy, are you?'

'Irish Stew. They thought it was funny.' It was one of the

details in his legend that served no other function than to

add colour to his cover story. I

'Stu it is, then. I'll leave it up to the lads to give you a . .

nickname. They call me Rosie in the pub, Sarge or Skipper 1

when we're on duty.' ¦ '

'Yes, Sarge.'

'Cards on the table, Stu. I was hoping to get someone local 1

in our vehicle. Mike Sutherland's one of the best drivers in 1

the Met and I ride shotgun, so it's a map man we're short

of.'

'I'm up to speed,' said Shepherd. 'I was born in London,

remember.'

'You've been in Scotland for almost a decade and things

change,' said Rose. 'Last thing I need is for you to take me

the wrong way down a one-way system.'

218

'My dad was a black-cab driver,' said Shepherd. More

colour. 'Used to test me on the Knowledge when I was still

in short trousers. But we've got GPS, right?'

'Computers don't always know the quickest way,' said Rose,

'and sometimes they crash. If that happens I need someone

in the back who knows where they're going.'

'Try me,' said Shepherd.

Rose grinned. 'Okay,' he said. 'We get a call to Grosvenor

Road, which is the quickest way to get there?'

'I'd guess you mean Grosvenor Road in Pimlico in which

case I'd head over Vauxhall Bridge. But there are Grosvenor

Roads in Upton Park, Forest Gate, Leyton and Wanstead, so

I'd ask first.'

Rose raised an eyebrow. 'Grantully Road,' he said.

'Maida Vale. One way, entrance from Morshead Road.

Runs parallel to Paddington recreation ground.'

Rose nodded. 'Had a suicide there three months ago. Guy

blew off his head with a shotgun. Okay, you're my map man.'

He stabbed at a chunk of steak. 'Why did you join the

Strathclyde cops and not the Met?'

It was a good question, and was also covered in the Stuart

Marsden legend. 'Had a mate in the Paras who was from

Glasgow and his dad was a chief inspector. He put in a good

word for me.'

'But you didn't fancy London?'

Shepherd looked uncomfortable. 'Long story, Sarge. My

mum died when I was a kid and my dad remarried. Turned

out to be the stepmother from hell. That's why I joined the

army. When I got out, I wanted to be as far away from her

as possible.'

A police officer in black overalls and bulletproof vest walked

over to their table carrying a tray. Rose grinned up at him.

'Hiya, Mike, say hello to our new map man, Stu Marsden.

Stu, this is Mike Sutherland. Our driver.'

219

Sutherland nodded at Shepherd and sat down opposite

him. He had a plateful of bacon and sausage and four slices

of bread and butter. 'The Jock, yeah?' said Sutherland.

'Nah, he's not Scottish,' said Rose. 'He was just explaining.'

'Family stuff,' said Shepherd, 'but my dad's on his own

now and he's not doing so well, so I want to be around when

he needs me.'

'And it was easy to transfer to the Met?' asked Sutherland.

'I'd been asking for a move and the SO 19 vacancy came

up.'

'You must have friends in high places. There's a long waiting

list for ARV slots.' Sutherland stabbed a sausage and bit off

the end.

'I was lucky.'

'Just don't get me lost.'

'He's fine,' said Rose. 'His dad was a black-cab driver.'

'Funny, he doesn't look black,' said Sutherland.

Rose flashed Sutherland a tight smile. 'PC Sutherland is

one of the least PC of our officers. We try to keep him in

the car as much as possible.'

Kerr got the early-morning flight to Heathrow and took a

taxi to the Kings Road. He had made a phone call the previous

evening and Alex Knight was expecting him. He told the taxi

driver to wait.

'The meter's at sixty quid already,' said the man.

Kerr pointed at the black door between an antiques shop

and a hairdresser's. 'I'll be in there ten minutes at most. Then

we're straight back to the airport.'

The driver beamed at the thought of a double fare.

Kerr got out and walked along the pavement to the black

door. A small brass plaque read 'Alex Knight Security' beside

a bell button and a small grille. He pressed the button and

was buzzed in. He took the stairs two at a time and when

220

he reached the top Knight's secretary had the door open for

him. 'Charlie, we can FedEx orders, you know,' she said.

Kerr kissed the striking brunette's cheek. 'Just wanted to

see you, love.'

'He's expecting you,' she said, and opened Knight's office

door.

He looked up from his computer terminal and grinned

boyishly, stood up and shook hands with Kerr. He was several

inches taller than Kerr, but stick-thin with square-framed

spectacles perched high on his nose. 'We do deliver,' he said.

'Yeah, Sarah said, but I wanted you to talk me through

the gear.'

Knight waved him to a seat. He pulled a cardboard box

from one of his desk drawers and pushed it across the desk.

'This is the kit you wanted. The transmitter's linked to a GPS

so you get position information accurate to six metres.'

1 Kerr opened the box. Inside he found a small metal cylinder

with a three-inch wire protruding from one end and a handheld

GPS unit.

I 'There's an on-off switch on the transmitter. Best bet is

to connect it to the car's electrical circuit. Then it'll run and

run. If you can connect its aerial to the car aerial, you're

laughing.'

'Won't have time for that,' Kerr said. 'Best we'll be able to

do is get it under a seat.'

'You'll have about twelve hours, then. Maybe a few more.

But once the battery starts to go, the strength of the signal

drops.'

'That'll be enough,' said Kerr. 'What's the range?'

II

'Unlimited for the locator. The transmitter connects to the

nearest satellite and the GPS unit logs on to the signal. You'll

only lose the signal if either unit is underground or in a

shielded area. But the voice transmitter is good for about

two hundred metres, line of sight. Less in a built-up area.'

221

Knight showed Kerr how to switch on the GPS unit. A

map of Central London flickered on the screen. He flicked

the switch and a couple of seconds later a red dot appeared

on the Kings Road. 'The switch there gives you the voice.

It's a neat bit of kit.'

'Two gizmos in one. Just what I need,' said Charlie.

'It's from my mate in Kiev. Based on a KGB model.'

Kerr repacked the equipment and gave Knight an envelope

filled with fifty-pound notes. 'Fancy lunch?' asked

Knight.

Kerr stood up. 'I've got to dash, mate. Mountains to climb,

rivers to cross. Next time.' He hurried outside and got back

into the cab. Now he had everything he needed to get his

claws into the mysterious Mr Nelson.

After lunch, Rose took Shepherd to the armoury where a

lanky sergeant with receding hair issued him with a Glock,

four magazines and a box of ammunition. The gun would

be Shepherd's while he was based at Tango 99, the call sign

for the Leman Street headquarters, but when he wasn't on

duty it would stay in the armoury. The MP5S were a different

matter: they were assigned to the ARV rather than to individual

officers.

Rose and Shepherd went down to the range where they

donned ear-protectors. Rose watched as Shepherd fired

several dozen shots at targets ten metres away. Shepherd

checked the grouping, altered the sights and fired another

two dozen shots. All were in the centre ring of the bullseye.

He noted the number of shots fired in the range log, then

Rose took him up to the locker room where they changed

into their working gear. Shepherd loaded his three clips with

9mm ammunition and slotted them into the nylon holders

on his belt. He slid his Swiss Army knife into his trouser

pocket.

222

Rose cast a professional eye over Shepherd's equipment.

'Not too far behind the times north of the border, then?'

'Aye, it was a great relief to us all when they stopped us

using flintlocks, the noo,' said Shepherd, in an over-the-top

Scottish accent.

Rose grinned. 'Come on, let's get you fixed up with a

radio.' He took Shepherd along a corridor to an office with

'comms' on the door. There was a rack of radios in chargers.

Rose took one for himself and signed the log with his name

and the number of the unit. Shepherd followed his example,

then fitted the radio into the holder on his belt. He threaded

the wiring spaghetti under his vest, clipped on the microphone

and put on the black plastic earpiece.

Rose talked him through the local frequencies, then they

went back to the armoury. Sutherland was waiting for them.

Shepherd returned his unused Glock ammunition to the

sergeant and signed for the bullets he'd fired. The sergeant

issued them with two MP5S, both with retractable stocks,

and ammunition. More ARV crews arrived to collect their

weaponry, and Rose, Shepherd and Sutherland went out to

the car park.

As they left the building, Shepherd's radio crackled. 'MP

to all Trojan units, intruders at the Houses of Parliament.

Possible Operation Rolvenden.' MP was the call sign of New

Scotland Yard's control centre: Operation Rolvenden was the

call sign for a terrorist incident.

Rose confirmed over the radio that they were en route from

Leman Street. 'There's luck for you, Stu,' he said. 'First day

on the job and we get a bloody terrorist incident. We'll be

calling you Jonah next.'

They got to their car, a Vauxhall Omega, white with a red

fluorescent strip down the sides and a three-letter identifier

on the roof. Shepherd got into the back and put his carbine

into the metal carrier in the centre of the rear seat. Sutherland

223

climbed into the front and fastened his seatbelt. 'You know

where the Houses of Parliament are, I suppose,' said

Sutherland. 'I wouldn't want to get lost, your first day and

all.'

'If you need directions, just ask,' said Shepherd. 'I'd have

thought a top driver like you would have known where the

mother of all parliaments was.' Rose gave Shepherd his

carbine, climbed into the front seat and slammed the door.

Over the main radio more call signs came in from cars

heading towards the incident. Two Trojan units were on the

way, but Shepherd wasn't sure how effective armed police

would be against suicide bombers.The black metal gate rattled

back and Sutherland edged the car out into East Tenter

Street, which ran behind the Leman Street building.

'You're up to speed on the six Cs?' asked Rose. The ARV

accelerated as Sutherland turned on to Mansell Street and

headed south, towards the Thames.

Shepherd couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic. The six

Cs were on a card given to all police officers, explaining how

to deal with a suicide bomber. 'Sure,' he said. 'Confirm,

cover, contact, civilians, colleagues, check.'

It was something of a joke among serving officers, a case

of stating the obvious if ever there was one. Confirm - the

location and description of a suspect. Cover - withdraw fifty

yards from the suspect to a point where it is possible to maintain

visual contact. Contact - your supervisor and request

more police assistance. Civilians - direct to a place of safety

but not if this is likely to compromise or further endanger

the public or other officers. Colleagues - prevent other officers

coming into the danger area. Check - for further suspects

or devices.

'We'll probably be going with the six Ss,' said Rose. 'See

the bugger's got a bomb, shit yourself, say a prayer, shoot

him dead, stand by your mates and say nothing.'

224

'Definitely,' said Sutherland, hitting the blues and twos and

accelerating past a double-decker bus. He tapped coordinates

into the onboard computer.

'We were on a course a few weeks back,' said Rose. 'How

to spot a suicide bomber in a crowd. Signs of sweating,

mumbling and possibly praying.'

'And ten kilos of Semtex strapped to their chest is always

a bad sign,' said Sutherland. 'Who writes that shit? Some

graduate entrant who's spent his whole career sitting behind

a desk?'

Rose ignored the interruption. 'Well, the good news is that

any blast from a suicide bomber is only lethal within about

thirty feet. Severe injuries up to fifty yards. And beyond a

hundred and fifty yards you're safe as houses.'

'And this is good news because . . . ?' asked Shepherd.

Rose jerked his thumb at the gun-holder. 'Because those

little beauties are dead accurate up to a hundred yards, which

is as close as we're gonna get to any ragheads on a mission.'

'Er, Sarge, ragheads is on the list of terms likely to cause

offence,' said Sutherland. 'IC Six, please. Or camel jockeys.'

They roared alongside the Thames, the London Eye in

the distance. As they headed for Westminster Bridge they

spotted the honey-coloured Big Ben tower next to the Houses

of Parliament. 'See anything?' asked Rose.

Shepherd had binoculars to his eyes but the west side of

the tower seemed clear. 'Nothing yet, Sarge.'

Rose clicked his radio mike. 'MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, any

update on Operation Rolvenden at the Houses of Parliament?'

'Negative, Trojan Five Six Nine.'

'Be handy to know if they were IC Six or not.'

'Trojan Five Six Nine, soon as we know, you'll know. If

the info is not suitable for RT transmission we'll call direct

on the car phone.'

'Who's in charge at the scene?' asked Rose.

225

'Chief Inspector Owen. But Assistant Commissioner

Hannant is en route'

'Well, if Owen's on the case we can all relax and go home,'

said Sutherland, sarcastically.

Rose flashed him a withering look. Banter was all well and

good between colleagues, but not when there was an open

mike in the vehicle. It was a well known fact that assistant

commissioners had had their sense of humour surgically

removed and the AC would be monitoring all radio traffic.

'Trojan Five Six Nine is three minutes away,' said Rose.

'You'll be the first ARV on the scene,' said the MP

controller. 'Report to Chief Inspector Owen on arrival.'

Rose replaced the mike.

'You know Owen?' asked Shepherd.

'Couldn't make a decision to save his life,' said Sutherland.

'Ask him if he takes sugar in his tea and he reaches for a

manual.'

'He's graduate entry, accelerated promotion,' said Rose.

'Not thirty, but tipped as a potential chief constable. That

means everything he does has a political dimension to it.

He's more concerned with not making mistakes than he is

with catching villains. The crack in his arse is from sitting

on too many fences. Hannant's a good copper, though. Let's

hope he gets there soon.'

They were driving along Victoria Embankment when

Shepherd saw the first of the three figures on the tower. 'I've

got one,' he said. 'Just below the clock face.' He could make

out a figure in a blue anorak with the hood up and a bulky

pack on his back. Not necessarily a he, Shepherd corrected

himself. There were as many women as men prepared to

blow themselves to kingdom come.

Shepherd scanned down the tower. Two more figures were

some way below the first. 'I see all three,' he said. 'They're

carrying backpacks.'

226

'Shit,' said Rose. 'Backpacks mean a bigger bang. You can

put thirty kilos of high explosive in a backpack with ballbearings

or nails and that's the equivalent of a car bomb.'

Traffic was heavy but the siren and flashing lights carved

a way through for the ARV. They reached Westminster Bridge

and Sutherland swung right. A traffic patrol car, its blue light

flashing, had parked across the bridge and two uniformed

constables were turning back southbound traffic.

Rose clicked on his radio. 'MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, I

see crowds all around College Green. Isn't someone moving

them out of the area?'

'Trojan Five Six Nine, we have units evacuating the Houses

of Parliament.'

'That's fine, but the threat's outside.'

Sutherland brought the car to a halt.

'MP, Trojan Five Six Nine is at the scene,' said Rose, into

his mike. 'Break out the guns, Stu.'

'Yes, Sarge.' Shepherd unlocked the metal case between

the two rear seats, handed one of the MP5S to Rose, then

slotted a magazine into the second weapon. He climbed out

of the car. All around people were staring up at the clock

tower. A group of Japanese tourists was snapping away with

digital cameras. Mothers with babies in pushchairs were

watching the climbers, shading their eyes with their hands.

Workmen in overalls were shouting catcalls up at the three,

daring them to jump.

'This is bloody madness,' said Rose. 'Why aren't these

people being moved out of the way? Where the hell's Owen?'

Shepherd let the gun hang on its nylon swing as he scanned

the clock tower through his binoculars. He focused on the

climber second from the top. He had turned and was watching

the crowds. Shepherd got a glimpse of his face. 'Looks like

an Arab,' he said.

'You sure?' asked Rose.

227

'Fairly.'

Rose clicked on his transceiver mike. 'MP, Trojan Five Six

Nine, confirm that we have visual on three intruders. One

is definitely IC Six.'

Chief Inspector Owen was standing with half a dozen

uniformed constables in yellow fluorescent jackets. One of

the officers had a megaphone and raised it to his mouth to

ask the three men to return to the ground.

'I don't believe this,' said Rose. 'Come on.'

Shepherd followed him to the group. The constable lowered

the megaphone and looked at Owen for further instructions.

The workmen jeered at the officers.

Rose nodded at Owen. 'Trojan unit, sir. We need authorisation

from you to fire.'

Owen seemed stunned by his request. 'Hold on, Sergeant,'

he said. 'All we have at the moment is three guys climbing

Big Ben.'

'It's down as a possible terrorist incident, sir,' said Rose,

'and I don't want to start telling anyone their job but we

should be getting civilians out of the immediate area.'

'But we don't know that there's a threat,' said Owen.

'Three men with backpacks climbing one of the nation's

monuments, I think it's safe to assume the worst, sir,' said

Rose, with emphasis on the 'sir'.

'Could be base jumpers,' said the chief inspector.

'Base jumpers?'

'The guys who parachute off tall buildings,' said Owen.

'I know what base jumpers are, sir, but at least one of

them's an Arab and those aren't parachutes on their backs.

MI5 has said there are specific al-Qaeda threats against the

House of Commons. If we don't react decisively it'll be down

to us.'

'It's not a question of being decisive, Sergeant. It's about

making the right decision.'

228

Owen beckoned to the constable with the megaphone.

'Start moving people back. Establish a perimeter a hundred

and fifty yards from the base of the tower. And be tactful,

man, we don't want a bloody stampede.'

Shepherd was looking at the three climbers through the

| binoculars. One was only feet from the top of the tower.

'Sir, we have to take action now,' said Rose.

'I'm not sure, Sergeant.'

Two police cars arrived, lights flashing but sirens off.

'If they're carrying high-explosive charges they could

* demolish the tower. If there's shrapnel, people could be killed,

even with a cordon.'

j I Owen wiped his forehead on his sleeve. 'Where's the god

damned

AC?' he asked.

'It's your call, sir.'

'You're sure you can reach them?'

'No question,' said Rose.

Indecision was etched into Owen's face. A sergeant and

three constables jogged over from the newly arrived vehi

11 cles.

Over the megaphone, the constable was asking for people

to move away, but no one paid him any attention. All eyes

were on the men on the clock tower.

I 'If they destroy Big Ben, we'll look bloody stupid standing

| * here letting them do it,' said Rose. 'Sir,' he added, as an after

thought.

'And if they're thrill-seekers, we'll have shot three innocent

men,' said Owen.

Shepherd focused on the second figure on the tower.

The man was looking over his shoulder and smiling. He

was to the bottom right of the clock face, close to the V

numeral.

'Sir,' said Rose, 'we need a green light from you.'

Owen glanced up and down the Embankment. Two ambui lances

had arrived and parked close to the police cars. Owen

229

took a deep breath. He clicked his radio mike. 'MP, this is

Chief Inspector Owen, can you patch me through to AC

Hannant.'

His radio buzzed. 'I'll try, sir.'

Rose sighed with exasperation.

'Hang on,' said Shepherd. 'I think I know him.'

Owen turned towards him. 'What?'

'I think I know him,' repeated Shepherd. He pointed up

at the figure by the V. 'I don't remember his name but he's

a British citizen, Pakistani descent. His wife did a runner

with his two sons and he's been fighting for custody. He was

in the papers last year, did the protest on Blackpool Tower

with a couple of other guys.' In fact, Shepherd had recalled

his name - Kashif Jakhrani - but he didn't want it generally

known that he had an almost perfect memory. It was best

kept secret so that he could use it to his advantage.

'What protest?' asked Rose impatiently.

'Fathers for Children,' said Shepherd. 'Divorced dads

who've been refused access to their kids. They draped the

banner over the tower.'

'Are you sure?' said Owen.

'That's him. I read about it in the papers.'

'So on the basis of a newspaper photograph that you may

or may not have seen last year, you're saying that man's an

angry father and not a terrorist?' said Rose.

Shepherd put the binoculars to his eyes and focused on

the man's face again. He flicked through his mental filing

system and found the newspaper article he'd scanned the

previous year. In the photograph, Jakhrani was wearing a

Superman costume. 'It's him,' said Shepherd. 'No question.

He married an English girl and she refused him access to

their two kids after they divorced. He's no terrorist.'

Owen's radio crackled. 'AC Hannant here. Everything okay,

Paul?'

230

I

1

I

Owen clicked his mike. 'Fine, sir. Just wanted to see what

your ETA is. Seems to be a protest. We're keeping a watching

brief and we'll pick them up when they climb down.' He

looked at Shepherd. 'Are you sure?'

'I'm sure,' said Shepherd.

'God help us if you're wrong.'

Again Hannant's voice crackled over Owen's transceiver:

'Are the TV people there yet?'

'No, but they'll probably be here soon, sir,' said Owen.

'You handle the press, Paul. You'll know what to say.

Public protests are a right, but public safety is paramount,

we don't want to be heavy-handed, blah-blah-blah. The

usual waffle.'

'Will do, sir.'

Owen waved at Rose's MP5. 'The guns can go back in

the car, Sergeant.'

'I'd be happier if we remain armed,' said Rose.

'Sarge,' said Shepherd. Rose followed his gaze. Two of the

three men had reached the top of the tower and had taken

off their backpacks. As the third joined them they unfurled

a huge banner. It billowed in the wind, 'fathers have rights,

too!'

'Stupid bastards,' Rose muttered.

Shepherd headed back to the car. Rose went after him and

clapped him on the shoulder. 'Nice call.'

'Just lucky.'

'It was more than that. To remember something you saw

in the paper a year ago! I'd have slotted them without a

second thought.'

'And you would have been right,' said Shepherd. 'They

could just as easily have been al-Qaeda. If I hadn't recognised

the guy and we'd been ordered to shoot, I'd have done

it.'

'And the media would have crucified us,' said Rose.

231

'Yeah, well, they want it both ways, don't they? They want

the UK safe from terrorists yet they accuse us of being

heavy-handed when we do what's necessary. Can't bloody

win. Journalists and politicians - don't know which are

worse.'

'Throw in senior police officers and I'll agree with you.'

They got into the car and stowed the MP5S. Rose picked

up the radio and called in that they were back on watch.

Sutherland was peering up at the tower. A second banner

had been dropped so that it covered the north face of the

clock, 'kids need their dads.' 'Do you think they know how

close they came to getting shot?' he mused.

'They just want to make their point,' said Shepherd.

'They were lucky,' said Rose. 'And you must have one hell

of a memory.'

'Nah, story just interested me.'

'You've got kids?'

'Not that I know about,' Shepherd joked. He hated denying

Liam's existence but Stuart Marsden didn't have a family.

'These guys get a raw deal. Most of them pay child support

and want to be good fathers, but their wives get vindictive.

What about you? Have you got kids?'

Sutherland flashed Shepherd a warning look, but Rose

didn't seem perturbed. 'A daughter. But if my missus ever

tried to take her away from me, you wouldn't find me climbing

Big Ben with a banner.' He stretched and sighed. 'I hate false

alarms,' he said. 'All foreplay and no orgasm.'

'Can't help you there I'm afraid, Sarge,' said Sutherland.

He looked over his shoulder at Shepherd. 'Besides, that's up

to the new guy.'

'Didn't see that in the job description,' said Shepherd.

'Don't worry, Stu,' said Rose. 'You're not my type.'

The car radio crackled. 'Trojan Five Six Nine, armed

robbery in progress at Speedy Pizzas in Battersea high street.'

232

Sutherland put the car into gear and switched on the siren

and flashing lights.

g Rose picked up the mike. 'MP, Trojan Five Six Nine en

h route] he said.

* Cars were pulling to the side of the road to let the Vauxhall

through. 'Hopefully we'll get you an orgasm this time, Sarge.'

Sutherland laughed as he stamped on the accelerator and

tore past an open-topped tour bus. There was still a roadblock

leading to Westminster Bridge but the uniformed police

waved them through. They sped across the empty bridge and

through the road block on the south side.

The controller filled Rose in on what was happening. Two

IC3S, black males, had gone into the pizza shop and produced

sawn-off shotguns. A customer had decided to have a go and

grabbed for one of the guns. It had gone off and the noise

had alerted passers-by. Three had phoned 999 on their

mobiles, and within two minutes a local ARV had been on

the scene with two area cars. They had contained the situation

but the two robbers were now holding the customers

and staff hostage.

'Why the hell would anyone stick up a pizza place?' asked

Sutherland. 'How much cash would they have at this time

of day?'

'Could be druggies,' said Rose.

'Druggies with shotguns? They're more at home with

blood-filled hypodermics or knives,' said Sutherland.

Shepherd felt the blood pounding through his veins and

the elation that came from the body's release of adrenaline.

This was no false alarm: there were men with guns and they

were prepared to use them. And it was up to him and his

colleagues to stop them. He focused on his immediate task,

of finding the most efficient route to the crime scene, but

his mind was already whirling through the ramifications of

11 a hostage situation. There would be no gunfight while the

233

men were inside the building with hostages. The officer in

charge would play it by the book and negotiate for as long

as he could. The SO 19 officers would be there to contain

and control, but to shoot only as a last resort. The hostage

takers would be hoping for safe passage, but Shepherd knew

that wouldn't happen. The police would keep a dialogue

going until the robbers realised that the siege would end only

one way - with them in custody.

Sutherland cut through the south London streets. A second

local ARV called up that it was on its way to the scene, and

the officer in charge called in to request a hostage negotiator,

then an ambulance. A customer had been hit by the shotgun

blast and was bleeding heavily. That changed the situation,

Shepherd knew: if the life of a hostage was in immediate

danger, there was a chance that the armed police would be

ordered in.

Trojan Five Eight One called in that it was en route with

an ETA of six minutes. It was one of SOi9's black vans with

trained snipers among its eight-man crew. It added to the

likelihood that the building would be stormed. Shepherd's

pulse raced. He remembered Major Gannon's briefing in

Hereford. The way armed police took a building was a

complete contrast to the SAS method. The SAS went in

hard, thunderflash grenades to stun, multiple shots to make

sure that the targets went down and stayed down. They

stopped only when the object was secured. When the SAS

did their business there were usually no cameras around, no

witnesses to scream about overkill and human-rights violations.

But the police had to follow procedures, many of which had been drawn up by men who had never seen a gun fired

in anger, never had cordite sting their eyes, never felt the

paralysing punch of a bullet hitting home.

The officer in charge was a chief inspector from Battersea.

Sutherland and Rose said they didn't know him but his voice

234

was calm. He confirmed that the street had been cordoned

off and that offices and apartments were being cleared. He

suggested that vehicles enter the high street from the east.

Shepherd's eyes flicked over the map and he called out an

alternative route to Sutherland.

They powered past an ambulance that was also Battersea

bound, siren wailing. Shepherd wondered how badly hurt

the customer was. Sawn-off shotguns were lethal at close

range but the shot dispersed so much once it left the barrel

that the damage could be superficial beyond fifty feet or so.

Shepherd had taken a bullet once and almost died, but he

had been a soldier fighting a war. The customer had expected

no more than a boring wait in a queue and now he was a

victim in an armed robbery. There was an unfairness about

crime, the way it struck without warning. If you were in the

wrong place at the wrong time you became a victim. At least

in a war you knew what to expect.

'Here we go,' said Sutherland. Two area cars were ahead

of them, their bumpers together across the road. A single

uniformed constable in a yellow fluorescent jacket pointed to the left and Sutherland parked. Shepherd was already

unlocking the gun-holder.

Rose took one of the MP5S and Shepherd followed him

to the uniformed constable. At the far end of the road there

were two more police cars, blue lights flashing. One had

saucer-sized yellow stickers in the corner of the windows,

which showed it was an ARV. Half a dozen uniformed

policemen were kneeling behind the cars, watching the front

of the building. Two had MP5S aimed at it.

'Where's the OIC?' asked Rose.

The uniformed constable indicated an estate agent's office.

'Chief Inspector Cockburn,' he said.

Shepherd looked up at the rooftops as he followed Rose

across the road. The street had shops on both sides, with

235

two floors of brick-built apartments above them. On the

roof of the apartments opposite two policemen were scrutinising

the pizza place, one through high-powered binoculars.

Rose and Shepherd went into the estate agent's. A

uniformed sergeant and two constables were standing by

the window. Chief Inspector Cockburn was sitting at a desk,

a transceiver in front of him next to his cap. His right hand

was drumming on the desk and sweat glistened across his

bald scalp.

'Keith Rose, sir. SO 19. This is Stuart Marsden.'

'Any sign of the Specialist Firearms team?'

'On its way from Leman Street, sir. What's the story?'

'We've a customer bleeding to death on the floor and two

nervous young men with shooters. They were on their way

out when they saw the local ARV. They took a couple of

shots at it, then ran back in. I've two men on the roof opposite

who can see inside. Someone's trying to stem the bleeding

but it doesn't look good.'

'Where do you want us, sir?'

'We're going to have to move quickly, Sergeant. I know

I'm supposed to wait for a negotiator, but if we do, that

customer could die. Do you have any suggestions?'

'Is there a back entrance?'

'There's a fire exit that leads into the kitchen and we have

two armed officers outside. I doubt you could get in without

the robbers hearing you, though.'

'Have you spoken to them?'

'The negotiator's on his way. We're just keeping a lid on

it until then.'

It was the right thing to do, Shepherd thought. Hostage

situations could easily go wrong and had to be handled by

experts.

'I could get two of my men above the shop,' Rose said.

'They could drop down outside, on ropes. They wouldn't

236

see them coming. Your men on the roof opposite can tell us

when we've a clear run.'

'Okay, Sergeant. Get them in position, but wait for my

say-so.'

A constable had pinned a large sheet of paper to one wall

and a young man in a grey suit was helping him draw a

ground plan of the pizza place. There was a large kitchen at

the back, with a counter in front of it. There was a toilet and

washroom to the side, but it was for staff only and was reached

from behind the counter. There were a few stools and a shelf

where customers could eat but it was more of a home

delivery operation than a restaurant.

Rose turned to Shepherd. 'How are you at abseiling, Stu?'

'It's been a while but I can handle it.'

'You and Mike see if you can gain access to the roof across

the way.'

Shepherd hurried over to the car, opened the boot and

took out two nylon ropes, karabiners and nylon harnesses.

'Sarge wants us up top,' he said. He slung the carbine over

his shoulder and jogged to a door between a chemist and a

travel agency. Sutherland followed him.

'They should try Kylie,' said Shepherd.

'Kylie?' said Sutherland, frowning.

'There were these drugs guys holed up with hostages in

South America, I forget where, and the local cops got them

out by playing Kylie Minogue singing "I Should Be So

Lucky" non-stop for three days.'

' Sutherland chuckled. 'Urban myth, right?'

'True as I'm standing here, Mike.'

'I'll let you pitch it to the sarge.'

To the right of the door there was a rusting intercom with

two buttons and Shepherd pressed both. There was no reply.

'I'll get the Enforcer.' He went back to the Vauxhall and

opened the boot. It was packed with equipment, including

237

a first-aid kit, Kevlar ballistic blanket, ballistic shield, a

firearms make-safe kit, to preserve weapons for forensic

analysis, a ballistic bag for safely unloading weapons, and

the red hammer-like ram nicknamed the Enforcer. Shepherd

grabbed it and returned to the door.

'I'll do the honours,' said Sutherland. 'The paperwork's a

bitch but I've got the forms in my desk.' He took the ram

from Shepherd and slammed it into the door by the lock.

The wooden frame splintered and Shepherd finished the job

with a hard kick.

Beyond the doorway was a narrow staircase. On the first

floor a door led to a flat and the stairs twisted to the left up to the second floor. Sutherland was about to use the ram on

the second-floor flat when Shepherd pointed to a hatch in the ceiling.

Sutherland propped the Enforcer against the wall and

nodded at Shepherd to give him a leg up. Shepherd grinned.

'Mike, I'm ten kilos lighter than you and about six inches

narrower around the waist. If you get stuck in that hatch

we'll be all day getting you out. I'll go first.' He put the ropes

and his carbine on the floor. Sutherland made a step with

his hands and pushed Shepherd up to the ceiling. The hatch

was just a piece of plywood painted the same colour as the

ceiling and lifted easily. Shepherd wriggled through. The

walls were bare brick covered with cobwebs, there were dusty

wooden beams supporting tiles, and thick layers of yellow

fibreglass insulation padding between the floor beams.

Shepherd lay down on a beam and took the equipment

from Sutherland, then leaned down and pulled up his

colleague. It was indeed a tight fit but Sutherland got through.

He wiped the dust off his overalls and grinned. 'See? I didn't

even need to take the vest off.'

Shepherd handed him his MP5 and picked up a rope.

There were two windows in the roof, encrusted with pigeon

238

droppings. Shepherd tried to open one but it had been painted

so many times it was jammed tight. The second was looser

and he slid it open. He clicked his transceiver to transmit.

'We're in, Sarge,' he said. 'We have a window to get on to

the roof.'

'Get above the pizza joint and sit tight,' said Rose. 'The

Specialist Firearms team's arrived and we've got two snipers

moving into position across the road from you.'

'Will do,' said Shepherd. He stood to the side so that

Sutherland could go through the window first. 'What did I

say wrong earlier?' he asked.

'About what?'

'About the sarge having kids.'

'Rosie's daughter's sick,' said Sutherland. 'It's not something

he talks about, and you being the new guy and all . . .'

'Shit,' said Shepherd.

'It's okay - we should have warned you. We ask him how

she's getting on but it's not good.'

'Poor guy.'

'Yeah, tell me about it.'

'What is it? Leukaemia?'

'Some sort of tumour on her spine. Inoperable.'

'Christ.'

'Yeah. She's a sweet kid, too, Kelly. Cute as a button. Seven

years old.'

'And she's dying?'

'Don't let Rosie hear you say that - he'll tear you a new

one.'

'Sorry. Thanks for setting me straight.'

Sutherland pulled himself through the window and

Shepherd pushed him up, then handed him the ropes and

followed. A lead-lined rain gully ran the length of the roof,

below a waist-high brick parapet. Sutherland knelt down and

looked over at the buildings opposite. Shepherd joined him.

239

Down below, close to the road block on their left, was the

black high-sided van of the Specialist Firearms team. A tall

thin man with close-cropped bullet grey hair was standing

with an MP5 slung over his shoulder, talking to a uniformed

constable. 'That's Ken Swift, the inspector in charge of Amber

team. Bloody good guy.'

Swift turned away from the constable and spoke into the

microphone clipped to his bulletproof vest. Shepherd looked

at the rooftops opposite and saw the two uniformed officers

who had the pizza place under surveillance. Two armed

policemen appeared, bent low behind the parapet. He

glimpsed the barrel of a sniping rifle. He dropped down and

called Rose on his radio. 'I see the shots opposite, Sarge,' he

said. 'They know we're here, right?'

'Affirmative,' crackled Rose's voice.

Shepherd peered over the parapet again. The two snipers

had taken up position at either side of the surveillance officers.

Shepherd waved, then indicated that he and Sutherland

were going to move along the roof. One of the snipers nodded.

Shepherd flashed Sutherland an 'OK' signal and they headed

down the gully, bent double, carbines clutched to their chests.

They stopped when they were directly opposite the snipers.

Shepherd hooked a rope round a chimney and attached a

karabiner. Sutherland did the same. Shepherd radioed to Rose

that they were in position, then the two men settled behind

the parapet.

'Have you been in hostage situations before?' asked

Shepherd.

'A few times,' said Sutherland. 'Usually domestics, though.

Criminals tend not to take hostages. They know it always

ends badly and the judge will throw away the key.'

'Sounds like they were forced into it this time,' said

Shepherd. 'With any luck they'll be talked out of it.'

'Don't bank on it,' said Sutherland, laconically. 'There's a

240

punter bleeding on the floor, remember. That could be

attempted murder. Life if the guy dies.'

Shepherd's earpiece crackled. 'Negotiator's arrived, but it's

not looking good,' he said. 'They're refusing to send the

injured man out until they get a coach or a minibus. They

want to take the hostages with them.'

Down below, more area cars were arriving. Sutherland

popped a stick of gum into his mouth and offered the pack

to Shepherd. Shepherd took a piece.

'I've got a bad feeling about this,' said Sutherland.

Shepherd chewed thoughtfully. Rose's plan was for the

two of them to drop down the front of the shop. But there

were two sawn-off shotguns below and at close range they

could do a lot of damage. The robbers would see them and

the first shots from the MP5 would only smash the windows.

It was impossible to fire through glass with any accuracy.

They could use the snipers to smash the windows and, hopefully,

the robbers would have their heads down but even so

Shepherd and Sutherland would be facing two men with

shotguns who knew they were under attack.

'Negotiators know what they're doing,' said Shepherd.

'They're professionals.'

'So are we, mate, but things sometimes turn to shit no

matter how well trained you are.'

'Two shots from Amber team are going to be joining

you,' said Rose in Shepherd's earpiece. 'How did you get

access?'

Shepherd told the sergeant about the hatchway.

To their right an ambulance arrived. Two paramedics

opened the rear doors, took out a trolley and pushed it to

the road block.

'What about going down?' said Shepherd.

'Not until Rosie gives the say-so,' said Sutherland.

'I mean downstairs. See if we can get into the flat below.

241

Not so far to jump. We might even be able to get through

the ceiling. You saw what it was like in the attic'

'Bounce it off the sarge, if you like. He can put it to

Cockburn.'

Shepherd called up Rose, who told him to stay put.

A minute or so later Cockburn was on the radio. 'Chief

Inspector Cockburn here, Marsden. What's your plan?'

'It's not really a plan, sir, it's just that we've less of a drop

if we go from the first floor instead of the roof, and there's

an outside chance that there might be a way in through the

ceiling.'

'You can get access to the first-floor flat?'

'We've an enforcer with us, but the lock didn't look too

strong so we could probably shoulder it.'

There was a long silence. 'Okay, give it a go,' Cockburn

said, 'but keep the noise to a minimum. The negotiator isn't

making much progress so it's likely we'll have to go in.'

'Will do, sir.' Shepherd nodded at Sutherland. 'Let's get

to it.'

They untied their ropes, coiled them and shuffled back

along the gully. As they reached the window, they met the

two armed police from the Specialist Firearms team.

Sutherland knew them and introduced them to Shepherd as

Brian Ramshaw and Kevin Tapping. Both were in their late

thirties, calm and unruffled. Shepherd briefed them on what

they were going to do.

The four men went back down through the hatch into the

hallway, picked up the ram and hurried down to the first

floor. Shepherd examined the lock. It was a simple Yale with

a metal plate to protect it from being jemmied. Sutherland

prepared to use the ram but Shepherd called up Rose and

asked him to get one of the area cars to rev its engines, so

that the men in the pizza place would be distracted.

A couple of minutes later, when the engine was revving,

242

Shepherd kicked the door hard. It crashed inwards, and a

few seconds later the engine went quiet.

Shepherd tiptoed into the flat. It was cheaply furnished

with worn carpets and woodchip wallpaper painted a pale

yellow. In the hallway there was a teak-effect low table with

a phone on it and a framed print of a bowl of fruit above

it. The furniture in the sitting room was shabby, and an ashtray

overflowed with the butts of hand-rolled cigarettes. The faint

smell of marijuana hung in the air.

Sutherland grinned. 'Whoever lives here is going to piss

themselves when they find out that the Old Bill's been in,'

he said.

Shepherd was already pushing the sofa towards the television.

'Roll back the carpet - let's see what we've got,' he

said to Ramshaw and Tapping.

The two men ripped away the carpet from the wall. Instead

of underlay newspapers lay on the floorboards, dated ten

years earlier. Sutherland went to the sash window and opened

it. He flashed an 'OK' sign to the snipers opposite, then called

up Rose and told him they were inside the flat.

Shepherd studied the floorboards, which were in as bad a

condition as the carpets. He knelt down and used his Swiss

Army knife to lever one up. Ramshaw and Tapping helped

him take up several more. Thick beams ran the length of the

room from the window to the doorway, about shoulder width

apart. If the men went through side on, there should be room

to spare, even wearing their bulletproof vests. Shepherd used

' his knife to make a small hole in the plasterwork and bent

down to peer through it. He couldn't see anything so he

widened the hole and took his torch from his belt and shone

it through. There was a space almost a foot deep, then sheets

of plasterboard. He widened the hole so that he could stick

his head through. Close to the walls he could make out air

conditioning ducts and electrical wiring.

243

He sat up and switched off the torch, then signalled for

the three men to keep quiet.

He went back into the hallway outside the flat to radio

Rose. 'It's definitely a goer, Sarge,' he said. 'They've put a

suspended ceiling below the plaster. It'll be a tight fit but I

reckon we can crash through, two of us with guns, two

playing out the rope. If we get the positioning right we'll

drop down behind them.'

'Sit tight while I bounce it off the OIC,' said Rose. 'Good

work.'

'I need to know where the targets are. We'll be going in

blind.'

'Got that,' said Rose.

A couple of minutes passed before he came back on the

radio. 'Do the prep,' he said. 'Negotiator's going around in

circles.'

'Affirmative,' said Shepherd.

'The surveillance guys say they're both behind the counter,

which is eighteen feet back from the wall and four feet wide.

The customer who was shot is being attended to by a female

hostage. One of the robbers is covering her with a gun.

Everyone else has been taken behind the counter and the

second guy's guarding them. The kitchen's empty.'

Shepherd closed his eyes and recalled the ground plan in

the estate agent's. 'Give us five minutes and then have the

cars hit the sirens. We'll be lifting the floorboards.'

'Affirmative.'

Shepherd waved for the three officers to join him in the

hallway, whispered instructions to them, then went back to

the window and paced eighteen feet. It took him into the

bedroom at the rear of the property. Ramshaw and Tapping

moved the bed and rolled back the carpet. As soon as they

heard the sirens, all four men eased up the floorboards.

Shepherd poked another hole in the plaster and checked with

244

I

his flashlight. The layout was the same as it was below the

sitting room. Outside the sirens died.

Shepherd carefully hacked away chunks of plaster with his

knife and placed them on a sheet he'd taken from the bed.

When he'd finished they were staring at the back of a plasterboard

ceiling.

'It'll be a tight fit,' said Sutherland.

'Best if you let me and Kevin go down,' said Shepherd.

'We're the thinnest.'

'Are you saying I'm fat?'

'You're not fat, but we're thinner.'

Sutherland patted his bulletproof vest. 'It's the vest. Makes

me look fatter than I am.'

'You're not fat,' repeated Shepherd. 'Kevin, you up for it?'

'Absolutely,' said Tapping.

'Lose the equipment belt.'

'Including the Glock?'

^'If the MP5S don't do it, the Glocks won't be any use.'

'Everything okay?' asked Rose, in Shepherd's earpiece.

'We're in position,' Shepherd whispered into his mike. 'I'm

going down with Tapping.'

'Hang fire until I give you the green light,' said Rose. 'The

negotiator's still talking.'

Shepherd and Tapping removed their equipment belts and

stood by the gaping hole in the floor, their MP5S close to

their chests. They were about eight feet apart.

'The counter should be there,' whispered Shepherd,

pointing down between two of the joists. He pointed four

feet to the left. 'That's where the kitchen starts. Dropping in

won't be pleasant.'

'I'll do it,' said Tapping.

'No offence, but I'm a bit smaller. Less chance of me

hitting something.'

Tapping nodded. 'Go for it.'

245

Ramshaw was holding the rope attached to Shepherd's

waist and Sutherland had Tapping's.

'Brian, let me go five feet down, then take the strain, just

in case there's an oven or something below. Give me a count

of two to get my bearings, then let the rope go.' Ramshaw

flashed him a thumbs-up. Shepherd winked at Tapping. 'Okay,

Kev?'

'Just want to get it over with,' whispered Tapping.

'We'll be fine,' said Shepherd. 'It's the last thing they'll be

expecting. Just so long as Mike and Brian don't let go of the

ropes.'

They heard sirens in the distance, and overhead the thudding

beat of a helicopter rotor. Then silence.

'They're still demanding a coach in return for letting the

injured hostage go.' Rose's voice crackled in Shepherd's

earpiece. 'We've got a vehicle ready to go, but there's no way

we're letting them drive away. We reckon one target will come

out with hostages to check the coach, with the other remaining

inside until he's sure everything's okay. As soon as Target

One is at the door and the snipers have a clear shot, I'll

green-light you two. You take out Target Two, and we take

out Target One.'

'Affirmative,' said Shepherd.

'Affirmative,' echoed Tapping.

'Good luck, guys,' said Rose. 'Once things start moving,

I'll talk you through it.'

The radio went quiet.

'There's got to be more to this than pizzas,' whispered

Shepherd.

'What do you mean?' said Tapping.

'If it was druggies they wouldn't have shotguns and they

wouldn't be giving the negotiator a hard time. They'd be

freaking out by now.'

'So.'

246

'So why knock over a pizza place? There are three building

societies and a jeweller in the street.'

Tapping frowned. 'You think they're selling drugs, is that

it?'

'I don't think they went in with guns to steal a few pepperoni

pizzas. Drugs or money-laundering would be my bet.'

Shepherd's earpiece crackled. 'We have more details of

what's going on inside,' said Rose. 'Targets are IC Three

males. Not masked. Both have sawn-off shotguns, one appears

to be double-barrelled but let's not make any assumptions.

The wounded customer is about six feet from the door being

attended to by an IC One female wearing a dark blue coat.

One of the targets is between the counter and the door, but

keeps the woman as a barrier. The second target is in the

doorway that leads from the kitchen to the area behind the

counter. He has three employees with him, all in uniform.

There are two customers also behind the counter, both IC

One males in their early twenties, casually dressed.'

There was no need to spell it out. Shepherd would take

the man behind the counter, Tapping the other.

'The coach is driving towards the shop,' said Rose. 'We

have two men on board plus the driver. They're moving

through the road block now.'

Shepherd's heart beat faster and a surge of adrenaline entered

his system. Time seemed to slow, as it always did when he

faced combat. All his senses became more alert, more focused.

¦ 'The coach is going to park in the middle of the road to

give the snipers a clear shot,' said Rose, 'but we want to do this inside if we can.'

|| 'Affirmative,' said Shepherd. He nodded at Tapping and

pressed his MP5 close to his chest, finger outside the trigger

guard.

They heard the hiss of air brakes. Then silence.

'The negotiator's talking to them,' said Rose.

247

Ramshaw was holding the rope attached to Shepherd's

waist and Sutherland had Tapping's.

'Brian, let me go five feet down, then take the strain, just

in case there's an oven or something below. Give me a count

of two to get my bearings, then let the rope go.' Ramshaw

flashed him a thumbs-up. Shepherd winked at Tapping. 'Okay,

Kev?'

'Just want to get it over with,' whispered Tapping.

'We'll be fine,' said Shepherd. 'It's the last thing they'll be

expecting. Just so long as Mike and Brian don't let go of the

ropes.'

They heard sirens in the distance, and overhead the thudding

beat of a helicopter rotor. Then silence.

'They're still demanding a coach in return for letting the

injured hostage go.' Rose's voice crackled in Shepherd's

earpiece. 'We've got a vehicle ready to go, but there's no way

we're letting them drive away. We reckon one target will come

out with hostages to check the coach, with the other remaining

inside until he's sure everything's okay. As soon as Target

One is at the door and the snipers have a clear shot, I'll

green-light you two. You take out Target Two, and we take

out Target One.'

'Affirmative,' said Shepherd.

'Affirmative,' echoed Tapping.

'Good luck, guys,' said Rose. 'Once things start moving,

I'll talk you through it.'

The radio went quiet.

'There's got to be more to this than pizzas,' whispered

Shepherd.

'What do you mean?' said Tapping.

'If it was druggies they wouldn't have shotguns and they

wouldn't be giving the negotiator a hard time. They'd be

freaking out by now.'

'So.'

246

'So why knock over a pizza place? There are three building

societies and a jeweller in the street.'

Tapping frowned. 'You think they're selling drugs, is that

it?'

'I don't think they went in with guns to steal a few pepperoni

pizzas. Drugs or money-laundering would be my bet.'

Shepherd's earpiece crackled. 'We have more details of

what's going on inside,' said Rose. 'Targets are IC Three

males. Not masked. Both have sawn-off shotguns, one appears

to be double-barrelled but let's not make any assumptions.

The wounded customer is about six feet from the door being

attended to by an IC One female wearing a dark blue coat.

One of the targets is between the counter and the door, but

keeps the woman as a barrier. The second target is in the

doorway that leads from the kitchen to the area behind the

counter. He has three employees with him, all in uniform.

There are two customers also behind the counter, both IC

One males in their early twenties, casually dressed.'

There was no need to spell it out. Shepherd would take

the man behind the counter, Tapping the other.

'The coach is driving towards the shop,' said Rose. 'We

have two men on board plus the driver. They're moving

through the road block now.'

Shepherd's heart beat faster and a surge of adrenaline entered

his system. Time seemed to slow, as it always did when he

faced combat. All his senses became more alert, more focused.

'The coach is going to park in the middle of the road to

give the snipers a clear shot,' said Rose, 'but we want to do

this inside if we can.'

'Affirmative,' said Shepherd. He nodded at Tapping and

pressed his MP5 close to his chest, finger outside the trigger

guard.

They heard the hiss of air brakes. Then silence.

'The negotiator's talking to them,' said Rose.

247

There was a long silence. Shepherd spat out his chewing

gum and took a deep breath.

'Okay, they're going to move to the coach,' said Rose.

'Target One is going to go outside with one hostage to check

the coach. Target Two will remain inside. As soon as Target

One opens the door, you move. Target One is still in the

kitchen doorway. All the hostages are lying down.'

Shepherd nodded at Tapping again. Tapping grinned and

spat out his gum.

Shepherd played it out in his head. He would drop down

behind the man in the doorway. He would shout for the man

to drop his weapon. If he complied, it was game over. If it

looked like he was going to fire, Shepherd would fire first.

Tapping would drop behind the man at the front of the shop.

The biggest risk, so far as Shepherd could see, was of the

man in the doorway shooting Tapping in the back.

'The coach door has opened,' said Rose, in Shepherd's

earpiece. 'Target One is moving towards the door. The hostage

is an IC One male wearing a black-leather motorcycle jacket.

Go, go, go!'

Shepherd stepped forward, keeping his elbows tight against

his sides. He dropped and his feet broke through the plasterboard

with the sound of tearing paper. There was a jolt around

his waist as the rope held but he continued to fall. His instinct

was to close his eyes but he forced himself to keep them

open. He saw stainless-steel ovens, a hotplate, a large refrigerator,

work surfaces thick with flour, plastic containers full

of tomato sauce, green peppers, sliced pepperoni and the

man standing in the doorway, starting to turn. There was a

second ripping noise as Tapping broke through the ceiling.

The rope bit into his waist and Shepherd jerked to a halt.

He was hanging a few feet from a metal preparation table

with half a dozen pizzas ready to go into the oven. 'Armed

police!' he yelled. 'Drop your weapon.'

248

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1

I

The man kept turning. The barrel of the shotgun was

pointing at the ceiling.

'Drop your weapon!' Shepherd yelled.

'Armed police!' shouted Tapping, from the front of the

shop. There was the deafening sound of a shotgun blast

followed by the crack of a 9mm round. A woman screamed

and a man yelled.

Almost immediately Ramshaw let the rope slide and

Shepherd dropped to the floor. He bent his knees to absorb

the impact but his eyes never left the man in front of him.

He caught a glimpse of a hostage just behind the target, a

man in his twenties wearing a blue baseball jacket, but he

kept focused on the man with the shotgun.

The shotgun barrel swung down. The man's mouth was

open in surprise, eyes wide and staring. Shepherd slid his finger

inside the trigger guard. One pull and he'd hit him dead centre.

His finger tightened on the trigger, but he could see how frightened

the man was. Shepherd rushed forward, the rope trailing

in his wake, and slammed the stock of the carbine against the

man's chin. His eyes turned up in their sockets and he fell to

the ground. Shepherd kicked the shotgun to the side and rushed

through the door. He shouldered the man in the baseball jacket

to the side, his MP5 at the ready, but it was all over.

The air was thick with dust from the ceiling. The second

target was on the floor, the shotgun several feet away, blood

oozing from his left thigh. He was clutching his leg and

wheezing. Through the shop window Shepherd saw two

armed police running from the coach, handguns held high.

Tapping was standing by the counter, breathing heavily.

'You okay, Kev?'

Tapping nodded.

Shepherd spoke into his radio mike. 'All clear, Sarge. Two

targets, one unconscious, one bleeding from a leg wound.

We need paramedics.'

249

'They're on their way, Stu. You okay?'

'We're fine.'

The two armed officers burst into the shop. One picked

up the shotgun and made it safe.

'There's another in the kitchen,' said Shepherd.

Two paramedics arrived with a trolley. Tapping and

Shepherd ushered the hostages outside. One of the members

of staff, a middle-aged West Indian, was insisting that he be

allowed to stay but Tapping told him it was a crime scene

and pushed him outside. The woman who had been looking

after the injured hostage was sobbing and a WPC took her

to an ambulance.

The paramedics dealt with the injured hostage who was

bleeding from the stomach and barely conscious. Shepherd

knelt beside the robber Tapping had shot and used his Swiss

Army knife to cut away the man's bloody trouser leg. There

was an entry wound six inches above the knee and a larger

exit wound at the back. It was bleeding but Shepherd could

see it wasn't life-threatening.

Two more paramedics rushed in. Tapping and Shepherd

moved away to give them room to work on the man's injured

leg. Sutherland and Ramshaw appeared at the shop doorway.

'Everything okay?' asked Sutherland.

'We're fine,' said Shepherd.

The armed officer who'd gone into the kitchen reappeared

with two uniformed officers who'd come in through the fire

exit. They had handcuffed the robber Shepherd had knocked

out. The man was still dazed but he could walk.

'How did you manage that?' asked Sutherland.

'He was slow,' said Shepherd, 'and I almost landed on top

of him.'

'Mine fired by mistake,' said Tapping. 'Shat himself when

I dropped through and the shot went into the ceiling but I

couldn't take the chance of him firing again.'

250

'I'd forget the "by mistake" bit if I were you,' said Shepherd,

keeping his voice low. 'He fired, end of story. There were too

many civilians around to take chances.'

Rose appeared at the door. 'You guys okay?'

'Not a scratch,' said Tapping. 'The one on the ground shot

at me so I fired. Stu here didn't bother with his gun, took

his guy out with a flying drop kick.'

'I hit him with the stock,' said Shepherd.

Rose clapped him on the shoulder. 'Not bad for a first

day on the job,' he said.

Swift jogged down the street. He stood aside for the paramedics

to wheel out the injured hostage. 'Is he going to be

okay?'

'Stomach and intestine perforated and he's lost a lot of

blood,' said a paramedic. 'It doesn't look good.'

'No one else hurt?' asked Swift.

'Just a leg wound,' said Rose, indicating the robber on the

floor.

'Brilliant, lads,' said Swift. 'Might have a photocall for you

later, turn you into heroes.'

Shepherd grimaced. 'If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd

rather keep a low profile. A guy did stop a bullet. He might

have relatives who'll take offence if they see us grinning on

the front page of the Evening Standard!

'Maybe you're right,' said Swift, 'but the OIC's going to

be putting you up for a commendation.'

Shepherd forced a smile. He knew he wouldn't be getting

a commendation for ending the siege. Stuart Marsden didn't

exist. If Shepherd got a commendation it would be for

exposing the bad apples in SO 19. And he doubted that Ken

Swift or any other cop would be lining up to shake his hand

when that happened.

'You know the drill, Kev,' said Swift, putting his hand on

Tapping's shoulder. 'SOCO will take the weapon and you'll

251

have to talk to the Internal Investigation Command. You're

removed from firearms duty, pending the result of the investigation,

but it looks righteous to me. I don't see you having

any problems.'

'I do my job and I get to ride a desk for six months,' said

Tapping, bitterly.

'You saved lives today,' said Swift, 'but there's a procedure,

you know that. You did well, and you'll be back on duty before

you know it.'

'Might be worth giving this place a going-over, sir,' said

Shepherd. 'The owner seemed pretty keen to stay and it

seems a funny place to stick up with shotguns.'

A uniformed constable picked up a red nylon bag with a

Nike swoosh that had been lying behind the counter. He

unzipped it and whistled softly. It contained rolls of banknotes

and a Ziploc plastic bag filled with polythene packages of

white crystals.

Swift walked over and picked up the Ziploc bag. 'Crack

cocaine,' he said. He looked at Shepherd. 'You were right.'

'Explains the artillery,' said Shepherd.

'There must be thirty grand there,' said Sutherland.

Swift put the drugs back into the nylon bag and zipped it

up. 'It just gets better and better for you two,' he said. 'You

rescue the hostages and bust a major drugs operation.'

'All in a day's work.' Shepherd grinned and winked at

Tapping. Then he looked at Rose. The sergeant was gazing

at the nylon bag with a thoughtful look on his face.

Shepherd glanced over his shoulder to check that no one

was paying any attention to him, then slipped the three

mobile phones out of his locker and into the pockets of his

jacket. He didn't want anyone asking why he was carrying

so many. When he worked undercover among villains it was

common practice to have numerous mobiles, usually with

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I

I

pay-as-you-go Sim cards that were thrown away regularly.

But cops weren't villains. Most of them, anyway.

Shepherd left the building and headed for the underground

car park. He took one of the phones out of his pocket

and switched it on.

Rose and Sutherland caught up with him and slapped his

shoulder. 'Drinks,' said Rose.

'Right, Sarge,' said Shepherd.

'First round's on the new guy,' said Sutherland. 'Tradition.'

'Where?'

'Bull's Head, down there on the left,' said Rose, pointing

along Leman Street. 'Landlord used to be in the job so we

can have a lock-in whenever we want. Tonight's gonna be a

heavy night.'

'I'm driving, Sarge.'

'That's what minicabs are for.' He pointed down the road.

'Second left.'

'I'll catch you up,' said Shepherd. 'I just want to check my

messages.'

Rose and Sutherland headed down the road, deep in

conversation. Shepherd looked at the mobile. A voicemail

message was waiting on the Tony Nelson phone. Shepherd

put it to his ear and listened. It was Angie Kerr, asking him

to call her back. Her husband was away for the night so he

could call any time.

Shepherd dialled her number.

'It's me,' he said, when she answered. 'Is it okay to talk?'

'He's away all night,' she said. 'When are you going to do

it?'

'This isn't the sort of conversation I want to have on the

phone,' said Shepherd.

'I've got some details of where he'll be over the next few

days,' said Angie. 'I thought it might help to meet up.'

Shepherd raised his eyebrows. He'd thought he was going

253

to have a problem persuading her to meet him, but now she

was the one pressing for a face-to-face.

'Okay,' he said. 'That works for me.'

'Tomorrow?'

'Morning should be okay.' Shepherd did a quick calculation

in his head. He could get to Manchester in four hours,

but getting back to Leman Street for two o'clock would be

a taller order. A helicopter would be the fastest way, but

even Major Gannon would draw the line at Shepherd using

the SAS as his personal taxi service. If he drove he'd have jj

to leave Manchester at ten to stand a chance of getting to «

Leman Street in time for his shift. He'd have to talk to

Hargrove and see if they could come up with a suitable i

reason for him being late on his second day with the unit.

'How about early?'

'Nine? Same place as before? The supermarket?'

'Okay,' said Shepherd.

'And you won't do anything before then, will you?'

'As soon as I'm ready to move I'll let you know. That way

you can get your alibi sorted. Anyway, like I said, this isn't

a conversation for the phone.' Shepherd cut the connection

and phoned Hargrove.

'I hear you've had a busy day,' said the superintendent.

'It's helped me bond, that's for sure,' said Shepherd.'Angie

Kerr's been in touch. She wants a meet and I've fixed up

for tomorrow at nine. The supermarket car park again.'

'She wanted the meet?'

'Said she wanted to give me some info about his movements.' I

'That's

perfect. We'll have the Volvo wired again, get her J

on video handing you the info then bust you both. She gets

taken to the nick and you go back to SO 19.'

'I'm going to need a reason for getting to Leman Street

late. Medical, maybe. Can you fix it up?'

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I

'I'll take care of it. What's your plan now?'

'I'm off for some more bonding with the guys, then I'll

drive up to Manchester. The flat's still free, isn't it?'

'Sure.'

'I'll catch a few hours' kip there. Just hope tomorrow's a

quiet shift.'

Shepherd put away the phone and walked to the pub. He

heard booming laughter and clinking glasses as he went into

the main bar. He wasn't proud of what he was doing: he was

lying to fellow cops, and that made him feel sick. There was

a good chance that Keith Rose was bad, but he had no way

of knowing who was helping him, which meant he had to lie

to everyone. He forced himself to smile. He was Stuart

Marsden and he was among friends.

Ken Swift was standing at the bar surrounded by half a dozen men from Amber team. Rose was in a booth with

Sutherland, the two men deep in conversation. The sergeant

looked up as Shepherd walked in and raised his glass in

salute. Shepherd nodded and headed for the bar.

Ken Swift had bought a round and ordered lager for

Shepherd. 'Nice work, Stu,' he said. 'You done that fallingthrough-the-ceiling

trick before?'

'I've abseiled, but never gone through a ceiling.'

The inspector introduced Shepherd to Amber team.

Shepherd shook hands with them all, committing to memory

the names and faces he hadn't already memorised from

Hargrove's files. They were all easy in each other's company,

men who had worked and drunk together for months, if not

years, but they made sure he felt at home, including him in

their conversation and jokes. They were a good mix: a couple

were older than Shepherd, the old hands of the team, but

the rest were about his age or younger. They all worshipped

Swift, deferring to him whenever he spoke, watching him

even while they were joking and knocking back their pints.

255

Ramshaw and Tapping came in together. Everyone cheered

Tapping and Shepherd took the opportunity to buy a round,

dumping his first pint in the process. With the drive to

Manchester ahead, he didn't want to drink more than a few

mouthfuls.

He stood with Amber team for half an hour, but kept a

watchful eye on Rose and Sutherland. The two men were

still deep in conversation, Rose doing most of the talking and

Sutherland nodding.

Swift came to stand next to Shepherd. 'How are you

getting on with Rosie?' he asked.

'So far, so good,' said Shepherd.

'What about the map work? Must be a lot harder than

Glasgow.'

'No problems,' said Shepherd.

'You ever use the rifle?'

'Not really,' said Shepherd. 'I never liked the long-distance

stuff. Always seems too impersonal.'

'A good sniper can take out a problem without putting

lives at risk,' said Swift.

'No argument there,' said Shepherd. 'I just prefer to be

up close and personal, that's all. Why do you ask?'

'One of our snipers has just made sergeant and he'll be

moving from SO 19. I'm looking for someone to fill the slot.'

Shepherd took a sip of his pint. The last thing he needed

was to be moved from the ARV. 'I prefer to be on the

ground,' he said.

'Yeah, but you get all the false alarms as well. The Specialist

Firearms teams only get called out for the big stuff.'

'Horses for courses,' said Shepherd.

Rose came over to the group by the bar and put his arm

round Swift. 'Don't let this guy talk you into joining Amber,'

he said to Shepherd. 'You'd hate it, driving around in a furniture

van, turning up late.'

256

'Don't listen to him. It's his lack of ambition that's kept

him a sergeant all these years,' said Swift.

'I didn't kiss the right arses, is what he means,' said Rose.

He ordered a round. Shepherd took the opportunity to slip

his three-quarters full glass on to the bar.

'There's a lot to be said for military training,' said Swift.

'Maybe we should be recruiting more ex-army guys.'

'Were you army?' asked Shepherd, although he knew that

Swift had never been in the armed forces. His file had been

on Hargrove's CD.

'Nah, I was a fireman, way back when. Got fed up with

climbing ladders. I was at Hendon the same time as Rosie

here. A few years older and a lot better-looking.'

'That's why you've been divorced three times, I suppose,'

said Rose.

'The grass is always greener,' said Swift. 'That's been my

problem.'

'You married now?' asked Shepherd. The file had said

Swift was being sued for divorce by his third wife.

'Just about to get loose from wife number three,' said Swift.

'Good riddance. What about you? Bitten the bullet?'

Shepherd grinned. 'I'll give it a few years before I settle

¦ down.'

'Wish I'd done that,' said Swift. 'My first wife got her claws

into me when I was eighteen. Dragged me kicking and

screaming down the aisle a year later. Still, we had three good

years.'

'You got divorced after just three years?'

'Nah,' said Swift. 'The three good years were followed by

five hellish ones. Then she divorced me.'

Rose groaned. Clearly it was a joke he'd heard many times

before.

Sutherland was sitting on his own now, legs stretched out,

staring up at the ceiling with his beer glass balanced on his

257

stomach. Shepherd walked over and sat down next to him.

'All right, Mike?' he said, clinking his glass against

Sutherland's.

'Ace,' said Sutherland, sitting up. 'One hell of a day. Like

Rosie said, you might be a Jonah. You can go a week without

a big one breaking and you get two in one day.'

'You'd rather spend all day dealing with false alarms? Kids

with airguns and robbers with cucumbers in brown-paper

bags?'

'Oh, Christ, an adrenaline junkie.' Sutherland groaned. 'Just

what we need.'

'We're trained to deal with armed criminals,' said Shepherd.

'Anything else is a waste of our time.' He stretched out his

legs. 'I'll sleep well tonight,' he said. 'Damn near broke my

hip dropping through that ceiling.'

Tapping was being toasted noisily by Swift and half a

dozen members of Amber team. 'It's Kev I feel sorry for,'

said Sutherland. 'That's him off firearms duties until the

shooting's investigated.'

'It was by the book.' Shepherd grinned. 'At least it was

once we bust through the ceiling.'

'Doesn't matter if it was by the book or not. He's on desk

duties until it's investigated. We've one guy who's still on hold

four years after a shooting.'

'Shit,' said Shepherd.

'Shit's right. Shot an armed robber during a raid on a

supermarket. Robber's gun turned out to be a replica and

now he's trying to sue the Met for everything from lost wages

to infringement of his human rights. He was terrorising a

pregnant woman, for God's sake, yet he's the one suing us.

Until it's resolved, our guy isn't allowed to pick up a gun.'

'Lucky I didn't get off a shot,' said Shepherd.

'I'm serious, Stu. The world's gone bloody mental. You

have to work your balls off to get into SO 19, then you train

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and train to do the job right, but the minute you fire your weapon you're treated like a criminal. In fact, the criminals

get more leeway than we do.' He drank some lager. 'You

know Swift's serious about getting you and Kev a commendation?'

he said.

'Screw that. I'd rather have a pay rise,' said Shepherd. 'You

j£ can't spend a commendation.'

'You short?' asked Sutherland.

'Who isn't, these days?'

'I can bung you a few quid until you're sorted.'

'Cheers, Mike, but I need more than that.' He leaned closer

to Sutherland and lowered his voice to a whisper. 'That thirty

« grand would have come in handy.'

'" 'What thirty grand?'

'In the pizza place. The drugs money. There was thirty

grand in that bag.'

Sutherland looked stunned. 'Fuck me, Stu, don't even say

that as a joke.'

'Come on, it's drugs money. What's going to happen to

it? Unless the Drugs Squad can make a case against the guys

running the pizza place, they get the money back. How sick

is that?'

'So crime pays. What's new?'

'I'm just saying, I could do a lot with thirty grand.'

'I think we should drop it, mate. Walls have ears, right?'

I

Shepherd shrugged carelessly. 'Okay, forget I said anything.

What happened to the guy I took over from? What was his

name? Hornby?'

'Ormsby. Andy Ormsby. Good guy.'

'Did he move on to better things?'

Sutherland shifted in his seat and took several gulps of

his lager. Shepherd tried to appear relaxed. It was a reasonable

question and he waited to see what Sutherland would

say.

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'Bit of a mystery,' said Sutherland, eventually. 'He just

went.'

'Walked off the job?'

'Just went. No one knows what happened. Some say it was

girl trouble, some say he had a nervous breakdown. You know

the stress that comes with the job. He was quite young.'

'Couldn't take the pressure?'

'I guess.'

'But he was in your vehicle, right? Didn't you see the

signs?'

'You a psychiatrist now?'

'You can tell when someone's not handling the pressure you

don't need a degree in psychology to spot the signs.

Short temper, loss of appetite, nail-biting, all the usual cliches.'

'He was a good guy,' said Sutherland.

'Yeah, you said. You don't think there'll be a problem, me

stepping into his shoes?'

'It's not like you pushed him out of his job, is it?'

'Yeah, I know, but some guys are a tough act to follow.'

'You carry on like today and no one'll have any problems

with you,' said Sutherland. 'You're a bloody hero, you are.'

Shepherd didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a man who

was being friendly to a fellow police officer so that he could

betray him. He felt like a rat.

Rose dropped his kit-bag by the kitchen door, went over to

the sink and drank from the cold tap.

'That's disgusting,' said his wife, coming up behind him.

Rose straightened and wiped the back of his mouth with

his hand.

'Sorry, love.'

'You've been drinking.'

'Celebrating.'

'You drove like that?'

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'Three pints, love. It's not a crime.'

Tracey folded her arms. She was wearing her pink dressing

gown but it had fallen open at the front and he could see

she was naked underneath. 'Actually, it is a crime. And you

know that.'

Rose held out his arms. 'It was a one-off. Two big jobs

today and we came out covered in glory.'

'I saw the Houses of Parliament thing on the news. Those

men were lucky they weren't shot.'

'Give me a hug,' said Rose.

'I can smell you from here.'

'Ditto,' said Rose. He stepped forward and took her in his

arms. She slipped her arms round his neck and he kissed

her.

'You were a hero, were you?' she said, as she broke away.

'My guys were,' said Rose. 'How's Kelly?'

Tracey's lips tightened. 'She didn't eat much. And she says

her back hurts. I just wish I could take the pain away.'

'I'm working on it,' said Rose.

'It's so bloody unfair. She's only seven - she hasn't even

started her life. It should be me lying up there. I'd die happy

knowing she was okay.'

Rose pressed his face into her long, dark hair. He knew

exactly how his wife felt. When Kelly had first been ill he'd

knelt at the side of her bed and promised God anything if

He'd just spare his daughter. But his prayers had been ignored,

and as his daughter's health had deteriorated he'd lost faith

in God. 'I'll get it sorted. I promise.'

Tracey hugged him and Rose kissed her neck. 'I'll just

check my emails, and then I'll see you in bed,' he whispered.

Tracey pinched him. 'You'll shower first and clean your

teeth,' she said. 'I'll bring you up some cocoa.'

Rose went upstairs and crept into Kelly's room. His

daughter was lying on her back, her mouth open. For a few

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seconds she was totally still and Rose's heart pounded as he

waited for her to breathe. When she did, the quilt barely

moved. Rose checked the drip, then sat on the edge of the

bed. The local hospital had said it was okay for Kelly to be

at home - a tacit admission that there was nothing else they

could do for her. She'd get gradually weaker until one day

they'd take her back into hospital, the intensive-care unit with

its paintings of teddy bears and balloons, the smell of bleach

and death, and they'd wait for the end.

Rose took his daughter's hand and pressed it to his cheek.

'It's not going to come to that, sweetheart,' he said. 'Daddy's

going to make it better.'

He kissed her forehead, then went along the hallway to

the boxroom he used as a study. He sat down at his computer

and switched it on, twiddling a Biro as he waited for the

machine to boot up. He scanned the emails in his inbox and

saw one from the surgeon in Chicago. He had a slot in three

weeks' time and wanted to know if Rose could get Kelly to

America by then. He specialised in tumours of the spine

and had pioneered a new treatment that used chemotherapy

to shrink the tumour, then laser surgery. The chemotherapy

was experimental but had been successful in more than

eighty per cent of cases, and the computer-controlled laser

would destroy the tumour without damaging the spinal cord.

Rose had discovered the doctor on the Internet and had

already sent him the NHS X-rays and reports. Unlike the

doctors in the UK, the Chicago surgeon was optimistic that

he could save Kelly. He couldn't make any promises, but he

stood by his eighty per cent success rate. However, his

expertise didn't come cheap and the NHS had refused to

pay.

Rose checked his bank account online. He had a little over

fifteen thousand pounds in his savings account, a few hundred

in his current account. His drugs money was wrapped in

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I

polythene bags and tucked away behind the water tank in

the attic. A hundred thousand euros.

He looked at the figures he'd jotted on the notepad. Getting

Kelly to Chicago, paying for the treatment and the surgery,

then the month's recuperation and monitoring, was going to

cost a minimum of two hundred thousand dollars. And that

was if there were no complications. He tapped on his calculator,

converting the currencies. He was about sixty thousand

pounds short. He was close, so damn close. They'd

bought the house just six months before Kelly had fallen ill

so he only owned about twenty thousand pounds' worth of

it. If he sold he'd lose a big chunk of that in estate agent and

legal fees. He'd already asked the bank to increase his mortgage

but they'd turned him down, even when he'd explained

why he needed the money.

Rose sat back in his chair. There was no way round it. He

needed a big score. Forty grand was the minimum, but to

make sure Kelly got the shot she deserved he'd want a hundred

grand. He chewed the ballpoint pen. A hundred wasn't impossible.

He just needed a plan.

He sent an email to the surgeon, telling him to expect

Kelly in three weeks.

Shepherd let himself into the house and went upstairs. Liam

was asleep. Shepherd kissed him and tucked the quilt under

his chin. He went across to his own bathroom where he

showered and changed into a clean pullover and jeans. Then

he went down to the kitchen and made himself a mug of

black coffee. He was okay to drive - he'd drunk less than a

pint. In one of the kitchen cupboards he had a stack of payas-you-go

Sim cards. He took one out and slotted it into one

of his spare mobiles, a fairly new Nokia, then stored the

number in one of his own mobiles.

He went back upstairs and knocked on Katra's door. She

263

didn't answer and he knocked again, louder this time. He

heard her get out of bed and the door opened. She looked

at him bleary-eyed. 'Is Liam okay?'

Shepherd was touched by her concern and realised once

more that he'd made the right choice in hiring her.

'He's fine,' he said, 'but I have to go to Manchester tonight.

I won't be here when he wakes up.'

'I'll tell him,' she said. She brushed her hair out of her

eyes. 'Drive carefully.'

'I will,' said Shepherd. He winked. 'Thanks.' He gave her

the mobile and told her there was a charger in the kitchen.

'So I can call you while I'm out,' he explained.

He went downstairs, finished his coffee, then went out to

the Toyota.

Angie Kerr lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her husband

was beside her, snoring softly. She felt like crying but she

knew that if she did he would wake and hurt her. He'd raped

her again before he fell asleep. He'd put his hands round her

throat as he came and she had seen the hatred in his eyes.

He was going to kill her, she was sure of it. It was just a

question of when. He'd dragged her down to the wine cellar

and shown her what he'd done to Larry - he'd pushed her

down so that her face was only inches from the plastic

wrapped corpse. 'See what happens to anyone who crosses

me,' he'd hissed. 'See what you made me do? This is down

to you.'

He'd kept her in the house all day. Anderson had driven

him away first thing in the morning, then returned an hour

and a half later. He and Wates had followed her around the

house, standing guard outside the bedroom door when she

went to lie down, sitting at the kitchen table while she made

them coffee. She'd tried to go down to the shops but Anderson

had said no, Charlie didn't want her to go out. She knew

264

there was no point in trying to press the point. Charlie's

word was law.

Anderson had gone out at four o'clock and returned with

Charlie, who had brought a box with him. He didn't tell her

where he'd been. He'd ordered pizza and made her eat two

slices, even though she wasn't hungry. They'd sat in the main

dining room, underneath the chandeliers he'd imported from

Italy, and he'd opened a bottle of Dom Perignon, made her

match him drink for drink. Afterwards they'd watched TV

while Wates and Anderson stayed in the kitchen. At just after

ten, he'd ordered her to phone Nelson. He'd told her what

to say and had stood by her while she made the call. Then

he'd taken her upstairs and raped her.

Angie rolled over and pulled her knees to her stomach.

He'd killed Larry, he was going to kill Nelson and then he'd

kill her. There was nothing she could do, no one she could

turn to for help. Even if she could get to the police, what

could she tell them? That her husband had gone on the

rampage because she'd hired a hitman to kill him? Besides,

he always boasted that he had the police in his pocket. He'd

once taken her out for dinner with a chief inspector and his

wife, followed by a night's drinking in the VIP section of

Aces. Twenty grand a year he paid the man, Charlie had

said. Brown envelopes every few months. Charlie said he

paid off half a dozen cops regularly and that, as far as the

law was concerned, he was untouchable. Angie didn't know

who she could trust. Any cop she spoke to might be on

Charlie's payroll. The tears ran down her cheeks and she bit

her lip hard so that she made no sound.

Shepherd had four hours' sleep before the alarm woke him

at eight thirty. He made a call to Hargrove to check that everything

was geared up for the surveillance. Hargrove told him

he'd arranged for New Scotland Yard's personnel department

265

to call SO 19 and tell them Stuart Marsden had to report for

a medical that morning; he wasn't expected at Leman Street

until late afternoon.

Shepherd changed into Tony Nelson's clothes, drank two

cups of black coffee, then went into the bathroom and stood

in front of the mirror. He was a hired killer. A man who took

lives for money. A man with no conscience. He ran through

his legend, checking and cross-checking all the information

he'd given Angie. One mistake could ruin everything.

The Volvo was where he'd left it in the underground car

park. He did a quick check of the cameras and transmitters,

then drove to Altrincham and parked in the corner of the

supermarket furthest from the entrance. The blue Transit van

was already in place. Shepherd switched off his engine. 'Sound

check,' he said.

The Transit's lights flashed once. Shepherd settled back

in his seat. The clock in the dashboard said 8:55. He put on

his black leather gloves.

A couple of dozen other vehicles were in the car park.

Shepherd couldn't see where the armed police were but he

knew they'd be close by. They'd make it look as real as possible,

moving in with guns and shouts, and he'd be dragged out

of the car and thrown face down on the ground. They probably

wouldn't have been told that Shepherd was a cop. The

fewer people who knew he was undercover, the better. He'd

be taken into custody, then Hargrove would make sure he

was released quietly while the GPS put together a deal with

Angie.

He saw Angie's Jaguar enter the car park and drive slowly

towards him. Shepherd took a deep breath. It was the end

phase of the operation. He only had to be in Tony Nelson's

skin for a few more minutes. He'd be glad to leave the character

behind.

266

f

Angie saw the grey Volvo at the far end of the car park. Tony

Nelson was sitting with his hands on the steering-wheel. She

drove slowly towards him, parked and got out of her Jaguar.

Charlie had told her to get into Nelson's car and plant the

transmitter under the seat. She knew what he would do to

her if she let him down.

She grabbed the door handle and slid into the passenger

seat. Nelson looked as calm as ever, jaw set tight, eyes like

flint. He was the opposite of Charlie, who wore his emotions

on his face: when he was angry his cheeks flushed and his lips

vanished into slits. When he was happy he grinned from ear

to ear. Nelson's face was a blank mask. 'Thanks,' she said.

'For what?'

'For coming.'

'You said you had his movements for me.'

'Yes. That's right.' She opened her handbag, took out a

folded sheet of paper and handed it to Nelson.

Nelson looked at it.

Charlie had told her what to write. It showed that he was in London and would be returning the next day. That he

would be at a football match on Wednesday night, and having

dinner with her on Thursday. Friday he was going to be at

Aces.

'Can I smoke?'

'Sure,' said Nelson.

Angie took out her cigarettes and lighter. She fumbled with

her bag and the contents spilled into Nelson's lap. 'I'm sorry,'

she said. Nelson grabbed for the bag but a perfume spray,

breath mints and a comb tumbled on to the floor. 'It's okay,'

he said. He bent down and picked up the items. Angie slipped

her left hand into her jacket pocket and pulled out the transmitter

her husband had given her. She lowered her hand

between the door and the seat and flicked the metal cylinder

sideways.

267

Nelson straightened and handed her her things. She

thanked him, lit a cigarette and offered him one. He shook

his head. 'You've never smoked?' she asked.

'It's a drug, the nicotine,' he said. 'I don't have an addictive

personality.'

'Do you have any personality at all?' she asked quickly.

Nelson raised an eyebrow. 'Is something on your mind,

Angie?'

She looked out of the side window. Charlie had said he

would be close by, listening to everything she said. She

couldn't see him, but she knew he was there. 'When will you

do it?' she asked, still looking out of the window.

'Wednesday maybe. Or Friday, if you're not going to the

club. I'll call you in advance to give you a chance to get your

alibi fixed. The casino's still the best bet. So make sure your

mobile's on.'

Sweat was beading on Angie's forehead. She took out a

tissue and dabbed herself with it.

'You're going to have to relax,' said Nelson. 'At some point

the police are going to talk to you.'

'I'll be okay.'

'You'd better be because they'll be looking for signs that

there's anything fishy.'

'Even with my alibi?'

'The cops aren't stupid,' said Nelson, 'but if you keep

calm, they'll have to believe you.'

Angie took a deep breath. She couldn't go to the police

because she didn't know if she could trust them. But Nelson

was a hired gun, whose sole motivation was money. Provided

she paid him enough, she could trust him.

'Do you have a gun, Tony?'

'Of course I've got a gun.'

'I mean now? In the car?'

'Why?'

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Angie took a long pull on her cigarette. Charlie was listening

so she had only one chance, and she needed an immediate

answer from Nelson. They'd have to drive - and drive fast.

She'd throw the transmitter out of the car and they'd have to

leave Manchester. But how much money would a man like

Nelson need to become her protector? Five hundred pounds

a day? A thousand? The only money she had was in joint

accounts and it wouldn't take Charlie long to close them. And

he would cancel her credit cards. She had her watch and her

jewellery, but once those were gone she'd have nothing. What

could she offer him? He hadn't shown the slightest interest in

her as a woman. She was a client, nothing more. The only

thing he'd ever expressed an interest in was her money.

A white van drove into the car park and headed towards

them. Angie opened the passenger side window and blew

smoke out of the car. 'Sorry,' she said.

'It doesn't bother me,' said Nelson. He was looking at the

white van. He put his gloved hands back on the steering

wheel.

'I keep trying to give up, but sometimes I just need a

smoke, you know?'

'I guess so.'

The van was slowing. Angie looked at Nelson. If she was

going to ask him, she'd have to do it now. If he said no, she

was finished. She took another pull on the cigarette. She was

finished anyway. Charlie had killed Larry. He was going to kill

Nelson. And she knew everything, which meant he'd kill her.

Eventually. He'd kill her in the wine cellar, wrap her in a sheet

of polythene and bury her somewhere, then shack up with

one of the teenage waitresses from the club. Charlie was using

her now to get Nelson, but once he had Nelson he'd have no

further use for her. Not after what she'd tried to do. And what

she knew. She had no choice. She had to run.

'Tony?' she said, her heart pounding.

269

'Yes?' He turned to her, his hands still on the steering

wheel.

She opened her mouth to speak but before she could say

anything the white van screeched to a halt and the back doors

were flung open. Four men dressed in black, waving handguns,

jumped out and surrounded the car. 'Armed police!'

shouted one. 'Keep your hands where they are.'

'It's the police!' shouted Angie.

'Just do as they say,' said Nelson, calmly.

'Oh, Christ, I'm dead,' said Angie.

'Armed police!' shouted another officer.

Slowly Angie raised her hands. 'Don't shoot, please don't

shoot,' she whispered.

An officer yanked open the door on the driver's side and

pointed his weapon at Nelson's head. 'Keep your hands on

the steering-wheel where I can see them,' he said.

'I'm not moving,' said Nelson. "

Another officer opened the door on Angie's side with his

left hand while keeping the gun in his right aimed at her

head. 'Hands in the air, don't make any sudden moves!' he

shouted.

Two officers were standing at the front of the Volvo, both

hands on their weapons, one aiming at Nelson, the other at

her.

Two police cars roared into the car park and pulled up

on either side of the white van. Uniformed officers piled out

of the cars and stood waiting for the armed police to finish

their job. They were followed by two dark saloons each

containing three big men in plain clothes, cheap suits and

dark raincoats.

Angie's hands were shaking. She looked atNelson.The armed

officer grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him

out of the Volvo. 'I'm sorry,' said Angie. 'I'm so sorry.'

270

'What the hell is this?' said Kerr. In the distance an armed

policeman was pointing a gun at Nelson who was on his

knees by the side of the Volvo. Another cop was pulling Angie

out of the car.

'Cops,' said Anderson. He was sitting in the front of the

Range Rover, with Wates in the passenger seat.

'I can see it's the fucking cops, shit-for-brains. What the

hell are they doing here?'

One of the cops used a plastic tie to bind Nelson's wrists

behind his back, then he was hauled to his feet and over to

one of the police cars.

'Shall we do a runner?' asked Anderson.

'Sit tight,' said Kerr. 'We're far enough away. If it was

anything to do with us there'd be armed cops here too.'

The cops made Angie stand against the Volvo with her hands on the roof as they patted her down. A uniformed

inspector walked up to her and said something to her. Kerr

had the receiver in his lap but the cop was too far away from

the transmitter for him to hear what was said. He was probably

giving her the caution in case she said something stupid

on the drive back to the station.

Another officer used a plastic tie to bind her wrists, then

took her to one of the patrol cars. He helped her get into

the back and slammed the door. The armed police were

returning to the white van, laughing and joking.

A plain-clothes officer in a dark blue raincoat took the

ignition keys out of the Volvo and locked the car.

'What's on your mind, boss?' asked Anderson.

'I'm just wondering who the cops were there for.'

'What do you mean?' asked Anderson.

'Were they there for Angie or Nelson?'

'Does it matter?'

Kerr sighed. Of course it mattered, but there was no point

in explaining it to Anderson or Wates. If they were there to

271

arrest a hired killer and his wife had been caught up as an

innocent bystander, that was one thing. But if they had

arrested Angie and Nelson for conspiring to kill him, it was

another. Something wasn't right, but Kerr couldn't work out

what it was. He was getting a headache.

'Let's just sit here for a while, boys,' he said. 'We'll see

what develops.'

The two patrol cars drove out of the car park, followed

by the dark saloons. The armed cops climbed into the back

of the white van, then it, too, drove away, heading in the

opposite direction to the patrol cars.

Kerr lit a cigarette and stared at the Volvo. It was almost

as if it had never happened, as if it had been a figment of

his imagination. A huddle of customers stood at the entrance

to the supermarket, staring after the patrol cars and gossiping,

but after a few minutes they went inside. A blue Transit van

drove out of the car park. Kerr blew smoke, and frowned.

Something was lurking on the edge of his consciousness but

every time he tried to focus on it, it evaporated. It was like

grabbing mist.

Shepherd sat in the back of the patrol car. There were two

uniformed cops in the front and a plain-clothes detective on

his right. He said nothing. He didn't know if the cops knew

he was an undercover officer, but reckoned they probably

didn't. As far as they were concerned he was Tony Nelson,

hitman for hire, and he preferred it that way. The fewer

people who knew who he was, the better.

He looked over his shoulder, just once, and saw the car

containing Angie Kerr following some distance behind. They

were being taken to the same police station, but that was to

be expected. Hargrove would want her to see Nelson taken

into custody. He'd want her to know that he was in an interview

room being grilled by detectives, and that her only

272

chance of avoiding prison would be to co-operate. Hargrove

would probably go in heavy first, play her the recordings

from the Volvo, tell her she was going to prison for a long

time and then, finally, he would offer her the way out. He'd

probably start talking about her husband, asking her why she

I wanted him dead. Then he'd suggest there were other ways

of dealing with Charlie Kerr that didn't involve her spending

a dozen or more years in a prison cell.

Shepherd took a deep breath. It would soon be over and

he could turn his back on Tony Nelson.

The plastic tie was cutting into his wrists but he knew

there was no point in saying anything to the detective sitting g next to him. Once fitted, the ties couldn't be loosened, only

¦ cut off.

He sat in silence until they reached the police station. A

metal gate rattled back and the two patrol cars rolled into

the car park. The detective manhandled Shepherd out of the

I car and up a concrete ramp to the entrance. He looked at

1 Angie. Tears were streaming down her face, but he glared at

her, playing the part. Tony Nelson, killer for hire, would

probably blame her for the police raid. And if she thought

Nelson was angry with her, she'd be more likely to take any

offer the police made.

A uniformed officer opened a metal door and stood to the

side to allow Shepherd through. The detective took him along

a corridor and put him into an interview room with a single

barred window. There was a tape-recorder with two slots for

tapes and an alarm strip running along two of the walls. A

II metal table stood against one wall, two chairs on either side

of it. The detective pointed at a chair and Shepherd sat down.

'Any chance of a coffee?' he asked.

'About as much chance as I have of giving Britney Spears

one,' said the detective.

'She's a looker all right, but a bit young for you,' said

273

Shepherd. He sat down. All he could do now was to wait.

The detective grinned at him. 'Okay, how do you want it?'

'Thanks. Black. No sugar.'

The detective's grin widened. 'Got you,' he said, laughed

harshly and left the room.

Kerr stabbed out his cigarette. 'They didn't check the fucking

car,' he said.

'Sorry, boss?' said Anderson.

'They didn't look in the Volvo. Good news for us because

they didn't find the transmitter, but Nelson's a hired killer

so why didn't they toss the car looking for a weapon?'

There were deep furrows in Anderson's brow and he

scratched his chin.

'Because they were told to take the two of them in, full

stop,' said Kerr. 'They were just following orders. Take the

two of them in, forget the motor. Why? Because he's going

to come back for the motor.'

It had all clicked into place. It had been there, right from

the start, staring him in the face, Kerr thought. Nelson was

a cop. He hadn't killed Larry Hendrickson's partner. The

Polaroids had been faked. The partner wasn't dead, but he'd

screwed up and gone roaming the Internet. The cops must

have put him on ice because Hendrickson had introduced

Nelson to his wife. They were letting the job run and today

they'd moved in. Nelson was a cop and Angie had hired him,

thinking he was a hitman. They had all they needed to put

her away on conspiracy to murder. Kerr lit another cigarette.

Except that Angie Kerr wasn't just a wife with a chip on her

shoulder. She was his wife. She knew how he earned his

living and where a good chunk of his money was hidden. If the cops could turn Angie, she'd do him a lot of damage.

He lit another cigarette. It was all clear now. From A to B

to C. Hendrickson had been set up by an undercover cop

274

pretending to be a hired killer. At some point Hendrickson

had passed the cop on to Angie. The cop had decided to

run with Angie so Hendrickson hadn't been arrested. The

problem was, where did the cops go from there? Did they

charge Angie and pat themselves on the back for performing

a public service? Would they send a couple of Manchester's

finest to his house to tell him they'd saved his life and ask

for a donation to the widows and orphans fund? Or would

they try to turn Angie because what they really wanted was

to put Charlie Kerr behind bars? The cops had been after

his scalp for years. He had a detective sergeant in the Drugs

Squad on his payroll so he always knew when they were

gunning for him, but whoever was running Nelson must be

doing it without telling the local boys. This had come out of

the blue.

Kerr stared at the Volvo. What to do? He could run away

with his tail between his legs. A few minutes on the phone

would be all it took to clear out his bank accounts and he

could be on a plane to Spain or South America that afternoon.

He had more than enough to buy himself a new identity

and all the protection he needed, and even with Angie's

co-operation it would take them months to put a case against

him. If he left the country, they'd probably decide not to go

after him. That would pretty much screw up any deal Angie

made. If he ran, they'd probably make do with putting her

away.

'Are we going to sit here all day?' asked Wates.

'Yes, Ray, that's exactly what we're going to do,' said Kerr.

'If that's okay with you.'

Wates said nothing but looked anxiously at Anderson.

They were clearly uneasy, but he couldn't be bothered to

explain the situation to them. They were just the hired help.

He wasn't going to run. If he did, everything he'd built up

in Manchester would count for nothing. He had respect in

275

the city, he was a face, and he was damned if he was going

to throw that away just because Angie had turned against

him. At the moment the police had nothing: they'd have to

get her to agree to co-operate. Angie's father had died of a

heart-attack three years ago but her mother was living in

Lytham St Anne's in a nice little flat with a sea view. Angie

had a sister, too, a sour-faced cow who'd married an estate

agent. They lived in a pokey terraced house in Stretford with

their two young sons. Angie would have a few home truths

explained to her: if she helped the police, Kerr would stamp

on her relatives - hard. And if she still sided with the filth,

she'd only be useful if she stood in the witness box and gave

evidence against him: she'd have to take a bullet in police

custody. Difficult, but not impossible. It was just a question

of paying the right man the right amount of money.

Kerr relaxed and took a long drag on his cigarette. Things

weren't as bad as he'd first thought. The cops must have

reckoned he was stupid, and Kerr resented that. How dare

they assume they could get his bitch of a wife to roll over

on him? He wanted to teach them a lesson they'd never

forget.

Shepherd looked up as the door opened and grinned when

he saw a familiar face. It was Jimmy 'Razor' Sharpe, a twenty

year police veteran who had worked with him on several

undercover cases. He was a small, heavy-set Scotsman with

a mischievous grin. 'You've been a naughty boy again, have

you, Nelson?' said Sharpe.

Shepherd caught sight of two uniformed constables in the

corridor behind him. 'I've nothing to say,' he said.

'I don't give a monkey's either way,' said Sharpe. 'Come

on, it's back to Glasgow for you.' He pulled Shepherd to his

feet and held his arm as he took him along the corridor.

They were joined by a second detective and went out into

276

the car park. A blue Vauxhall was waiting, engine running.

Sharpe climbed into the back with Shepherd.

Shepherd waited until the Vauxhall was away from the

police station before he spoke. 'How's it going, Razor?' he

asked.

'Bloody fed up with babysitting you,' said Sharpe.

'Where's Hargrove?'

'Talking to your woman in there. He wanted me to tell

you the tapes are fine.'

'Are you going to keep me like this all day?' said Shepherd.

'I was waiting for you to ask nicely,' said Sharpe, taking a

small penknife from his pocket.

Shepherd twisted to the side and pushed his bound wrists

towards Sharpe. 'Pretty please,' he said.

Sharpe cut the plastic tie, and Shepherd massaged his

wrists. 'Those things hurt,' he said.

'Cost effective,' said Sharpe. 'Have you got time for a drink?'

'I wish,' said Shepherd, 'but I've got to get back to London.'

'No rest for the wicked,' said Sharpe.

Eddie Anderson looked at his watch. 'Eddie, if you do that

one more time I'll chop your bloody hand off,' said Kerr.

He opened the Range Rover's window and flicked out the

cigarette butt. The Volvo was where the police had left it, in

the far corner of the supermarket car park. Kerr had phoned

one of his police contacts and asked him to check out the

registration number. The officer had promised to get back

to him but said it might take a while. All checks on the Police

National Computer were recorded so he'd wait until he could

get on using another officer's logon.

They'd been sitting in the Range Rover for the best part

of two hours when a blue Vauxhall parked next to the Volvo.

After thirty seconds or so Tony Nelson climbed out, waved

to its occupants and got into the Volvo.

277

'What the fuck . . . I' exclaimed Anderson.

'Boss, did you see that?' said Wates.

Kerr looked at the GPS unit in his hand. 'Follow him,

Eddie, but keep your distance.'

'What's going on?'

'We'll see where the rat runs to,' said Kerr.

'Why did they let him go?' asked Anderson.

'Just drive, will you?' said Kerr, tersely. 'Leave the thinking

to me.'

Shepherd drove into the underground car park and reversed

the Volvo into the space next to the white Toyota. He took

the lift up to his apartment and changed into his Stuart

Marsden clothes. He left the Volvo keys in the kitchen, went

back to the car park and got into the Toyota. He was dog

tired but he had to get back to Leman Street and report for

duty. He'd left his kit-bag in the boot so he could go straight

to work. It would be at least eleven o'clock before he got

home.

He slotted his mobile into the hands-free kit, then drove

out of the car park and headed for the M6. He called Katra

first. She said Liam was fine, that she was cleaning the bathroom

and planned to do the kitchen. Later she was going

food shopping.

His second call was to Hargrove. 'Nice work, Spider,' said

the superintendent.

'Has she rolled?'

'She's thinking about it,' said Hargrove. 'She's asked for a

lawyer so until he turns up we can't question her.'

'You can't let her see a lawyer - he'll just report back to

Kerr.'

'We can't stop her,' said Hargrove. 'We've explained that

we'll need her to gather evidence against her husband, and

that he can't know what's going on, but she says she wants

278

a lawyer to advise her on the legality of any deal we make.'

'I don't like this at all.'

'We've no choice. And you can see her point of view she's

got no reason to trust us. We could be planning to use

her, then throw her to the wolves. She called her own lawyer,

a guy who doesn't work for her husband. We're waiting for

him to come in now. We've told her you're spilling your guts

and that we've got the whole thing on tape anyway.'

'She doesn't know I'm a cop?'

'Absolutely not. I can't see her lawyer advising her to do

anything other than co-operate with us, so as soon as she

agrees the Drugs Squad and the GPS move in. Your name

won't come up.'

'And Hendrickson?'

'We'll pick him up this evening. It's open and shut so I

can't see him doing anything other than copping a plea. Job

well done, Spider.'

Shepherd thanked the superintendent and ended the call.

Technically it had been a job well done. Hendrickson was a

scumbag who had deserved what was coming to him, but

Shepherd was less convinced about Angie Kerr. Her husband

had beaten her and threatened to have her killed. What sort

of man would stub out a lighted cigarette on his wife's breast?

Charlie Kerr was the villain, but his wife was going to be

punished.

Keith Rose sat down opposite Mike Sutherland, who was

working his way through a fry-up and a stack of bread and

butter. 'Do you ever measure your cholesterol?' said Rose.

'There's good and bad cholesterol, so there's no point. Six

of one, that's what I figure.'

'Shot in the dark, I think sausages are probably heavy on

the bad sort.'

Sutherland jabbed his fork at Rose's plate. 'Cornish pastie

279

and chips is healthier, is it?' He looked around the canteen.

'Where's Stu?'

'Some sort of medical. He never had a chest X-ray up in

Strathclyde but the Met insists on it.'

'He's not a smoker, shouldn't be a problem.'

'Rules is rules,' said Rose. 'Dave Bamber will be map man

today. Stu'll report to Ken and Amber team when he gets

in.' Rose leaned across the table. 'The guy in Chicago's given

me a date for Kelly's operation.'

'Brilliant,' said Sutherland.

'Three weeks,' said Rose. 'I'll put in for the leave and we'll

all fly out together.'

'That's great,' said Sutherland.

'Yeah, but I'm still short, money-wise.'

'Fuck.'

'Yeah.'

Sutherland leaned across the table, a chunk of sausage on

the end of his fork. 'If there's anything you need, Rosie, all

you have to do is ask.'

Rose nodded. 'Thanks, Mike.'

They almost lost the Toyota just outside Birmingham. The

M5 split off the M6 and they were too far away to see which

fork the Toyota took. 'Head for London,' said Kerr. It was a

gamble, but they caught up with Nelson just before the junction

with the M42.

There were two other cars on the Toyota's tail: a BMW

driven by two brothers from Chorlton-cum-Hardy who

worked for Kerr when he needed extra muscle, and Sammy

McEvoy, who ran security at Aces, in his Audi T4. The Audi

was a conspicuous car so the Range Rover and the BMW

did the close work with the Audi either hanging back or overtaking

and staying half a mile ahead of the Toyota. They kept

in touch by mobile, switching position every few minutes.

280

The man pretending to be Tony Nelson was either an undercover

cop or worked for one of the intelligence services. Either

way he'd be trained to spot a tail so they gave the Toyota a

lot of space.

He was a conscientious driver, never exceeding the speed

limit and only using the outside lane to overtake, so they

could keep well back until they were near an intersection.

Twice the Audi took a wrong turn while it was ahead of the

Toyota but McEvoy was able to get back on the motorway

and make up lost ground.

'Looks like London all the way,' said Bill Wallace, in the

BMW. He was a couple of hundred yards behind the Toyota

in the inside lane.

'Looks like it, but stay on your toes,' said Kerr. 'If we lose

him he's gone for good.'

Kerr had phoned his police contact and told him not to

bother checking the registration number of the Volvo. No

undercover cop would be stupid enough to use his own vehicle

on a job, and if his man discovered that the Volvo was a

plain-clothes police car alarm bells would ring.

Kerr had called in McEvoy and the Wallace brothers when

he'd seen the Volvo drive into the underground car park of

the city-centre warehouse conversion. His first thought was

that Nelson lived in the block but when he drove out in a

second vehicle he realised it was merely a staging-post. As

soon as the Toyota had driven on to the motorway, Kerr

knew Nelson wasn't local. He was going home.

Shepherd swiped his ID and pushed through the revolving

door into the main building. The inspectors who headed the

Specialist Firearms teams shared an office at the rear of the

building, and Ken Swift was sprawled in his chair with his

feet on his desk when Shepherd opened the door. 'I'm to

report to you, sir,' said Shepherd.

281

'How was the medical?' asked Swift, looking up from the

tactics manual in his lap. He was wearing his black overalls

and rubber-soled boots.

'Just an X-ray,' said Shepherd. 'The docs in Scotland were

supposed to give me one two years ago but it slipped by.

Personnel department at the Met spotted it and said I couldn't

be active until it was sorted. All done now, anyway.'

'The guys are at the range,' said Swift. 'Get changed and

join them.'

'Anything happening?' asked Shepherd.

'We've got a briefing from British Transport Police about

an operation in Central London. Other than that, it's all quiet

on the Western Front.'

'This is getting bloody weird, boss,' said Anderson, scratching

his head. They had pulled in at the side of the road when

they saw Nelson drive into the underground car park, and

when he'd walked out he'd been carrying a large black kit

bag. From where they'd parked they'd seen the building

Nelson had walked into. 'That's a cop shop, right?'

Kerr nodded. The six-storey concrete and glass building

looked like a seventies police station, but there was no sign on

the front. There was no wheelchair access either, which was

virtually compulsory in the politically correct twenty-first

century. It wasn't a regular police station, that was for sure.

Two police cars, white with orange strips down the middle,

were parked in the roads. Jam butties, they called them in

Manchester. In the corners of the windscreens there were yellow

dots the size of a saucer. Kerr knew what they meant: the cars

were armed-response vehicles, so the cops inside the building

carried guns, which meant they were SO 19, the SWATrype

units that went up against armed criminals. Why would they

use an armed policeman to work undercover? It didn't make

sense. 'Okay, let's go home. We know where to find him now.'

282

I

I He called McEvoy and the Wallace brothers and told them to

go back to Manchester. He'd deal with Tony Nelson in due

course, but first he was going to sort out his wife.

Shepherd and the men on Amber team filed into the briefing

room. Yellow team were already there. One of the Yellows

was a woman, her face devoid of makeup and her hair cropped

short. She was chewing gum, her Glock in a holster high on

her hip. Shepherd was surprised to see an armed woman,

not because they were less capable than men, but because

most of the women he knew would have hated the idea of

carrying a weapon.

A man in plain clothes was standing next to Ken Swift at

the front of the room. On a table behind them were a television

and a video-recorder.

Swift waited until the last man was in before he raised his

hand. 'Okay, guys,' he said, then nodded at the female officer.

'And girl'

She flashed Swift a humourless smile.

'This is DS Nick Wright of the British Transport Police. % He's running Operation Wingman,' said Swift. 'He's going

to fill you in on the details, but basically we've got a gang

of armed thugs running riot on the tube. BTP want us to

provide armed back-up so it'll be a joint operation. The big

problem is that Met radios don't work down the tube. When

we go in, each group will have to be shadowed by a BTP

officer.' There were several groans. 'I thought you'd like the

sound of that.'

Wright was in his late thirties with dark hair, greying at

the temples. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather

'| patches on the elbows, dark brown trousers, a grey flannel

I

shirt and a featureless brown tie. To Shepherd he looked like

a uniformed cop trying to dress like an accountant on his

day off.

283

'It's something we're stuck with, I'm afraid,' said Wright.

'You're saying that our guy up top has to talk to one of

your guys, who relays the message to your guy underground,

who tells our guys?' The question had come from a sergeant

standing by the door.

Wright shrugged apologetically. 'We think it's as crazy as

you do,' he said.

'Bloody madness, is what it is,' said the sergeant.

'It's a budget issue, I'm told. The Met thinks London

Underground should pay for the upgrade to the system. My

bosses want the Met to pay. It's going to cost millions so

God knows when it'll be resolved. Until then, one of our

guys has to shadow you wherever you go.'

'And what happens if shots are fired?' said Swift. 'I can't

have my people looking over their shoulders worrying if

there's a BTP officer about to get his balls shot off.'

'We can issue them with protective vests,' said Wright, 'and

they'll be told to keep out of the way.'

'It's a recipe for disaster,' said Swift.

Wright didn't respond. Shepherd felt sorry for the guy.

He'd turned up to give a briefing and ended up taking the

flak for departmental budgeting constraints.

Wright took a deep breath. 'I've got some CCTV footage

of the suspects.' He pressed play and the screen flickered

into life. A group of youngsters was huddled on a tube station

platform, casually dressed in cargo pants, football shirts and

flashy trainers. The oldest was barely out of his teens.

'This is the leader of the group,' said Wright, tapping a

girl in a combat jacket whose hair was tied in a ponytail and

fed through the back of a baseball cap. 'IC One female, five

six or seven, blue eyes. She usually wears her mobile phone

on a camouflage strap around her neck.' He grinned at the

assembled armed officers. 'The less politically correct of our

officers refer to her as Snow White, and her gang as the

284

I

Seven Dwarfs. Sometimes there are seven, but there have

been as many as two dozen in some of the attacks. To date,

she's the only female involved. She's been at each incident

we've looked at.'

There was another ten seconds of footage from the cameras

on the platform, then the viewpoint changed. This time it

was footage from a camera in a busy shopping centre. It was

obviously taken on a different day because the blonde girl

was wearing a pink top now. 'They gather at the Trocadero

in Piccadilly Circus, then head for one of the tube stations.

They've been seen going into Piccadilly Circus, Leicester

Square and Tottenham Court Road. That gives them direct

access to the Piccadilly, Bakerloo and the Northern Lines.

We don't have video of them in action because they only

strike on trains.'

On the screen the teenagers were working purposefully

towards the exit. The picture jumped to a viewpoint from a

camera in Piccadilly Circus, the statue of Eros in the background.

Dozens of tourists, mostly backpackers, were sitting

on the steps at the base of the statue, munching fast food

from Burger King and KFC.The picture jumped again, and

now the group were hurrying down the steps into the tube

station, elbowing an elderly couple out of the way.

There was a view of a platform. The group was gathered

together at the far end, close to the tunnel entrance. Wright

froze the picture. 'This is them at Leicester Square.' He tapped

| the screen with his pencil. 'Here's Snow White. This is a

I

Bangladeshi guy. These three are IC Threes who are always

with her. This is a twelve- or thirteen-year-old of mixed race.

The IC One male has been involved in at least half a dozen

robberies and is always wearing an Arsenal shirt. These two

are also of mixed race and have been identified at several

robberies. The two IC Threes here have been involved in at

least two steamings. Ten minutes after this was taken they

285

boarded a southbound train. Between Leicester Square and

Charing Cross they attacked two girls, stole their mobiles

and bags. One girl was slashed across the face with a Stanley

knife, the other was punched repeatedly in the face and almost

lost an eye. That's what makes this so bloody nasty. It's not

about theft - they get a few quid out of the bags but next

to nothing for the phones - they get their kicks from terrorising

people. And they've been getting progressively more

violent. We think they've been responsible for fifteen separate

attacks over the past month.'

He ran the video for a few seconds. The view changed to

a different platform and a different group of youngsters,

although the blonde girl was still at the centre. Wright tapped

the face of a tubby young man in a light blue hooded jacket.

'He's been involved in several incidents and we believe he

has a gun.' He froze the picture. 'We haven't seen anything

on video, but three of the victims say he had one. A woman

who was robbed ended up with a broken jaw and says she

was pistol-whipped. We've no idea if it's a real gun or a

replica.'

He pressed play again and the video showed the group

getting on to a train. Another station. Another group of

youngsters. 'There's Snow White again,' said Wright. He

paused the video and tapped the girl's face. 'Their attacks

start in different ways. If there's a large group they steam

along a train, terrorising everyone, shouting, screaming and

grabbing what they can. Sometimes they target individuals.

One ploy is for this young lad to start a conversation with

the victim.' He tapped the face of a young mixed-race boy.

'While he's distracting them, the rest pile in. They put an

American tourist in hospital last week - beat him to a pulp

and didn't even steal anything. A lot of the time it's not

about theft, it's about humiliation. They slash clothing, slap

and punch.'

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Wright faced the SO 19 team. 'We don't know where they'll

strike - that's our main problem. They don't seem to have a

game plan. Snow White is their focus, but she doesn't give

orders. They act like a pack of hyenas. We'll have an undercover

team in the Trocadero so we'll be able to follow them

down into the system, then we can track them with CCTV.

We'll know which train they board, but it's a question of

getting our guys on to the same train and calling it in once

they attack. That's when we'll be needing SO 19 assistance.

We'll stop the train between stations and crack on there's a

mechanical problem, just long enough to get you guys in

position at the next station. Then we let the train roll and

arrest them.'

Wright opened a briefcase and handed out a stack of

sheets of photocopied stills taken from the CCTV footage.

'These are the fifteen guys we've seen with Snow White. Two

already have criminal records for assault and theft, Foday

Gbonda and Leeroy Tavenier. They are the only two we can

identify by name.'

The SO 19 officers passed round the sheets.

'We plan to start this afternoon in the Trocadero. We have

six male officers and three females on standby. They'll follow

the group if and when they leave and notify our control room

which station they go to. We'd like two of your guys with us

in plain clothes in case the gun is produced.'

'What about our teams? Where should they lie up?' said

Swift.

'I'd suggest they stay mobile,' said Wright. 'One should be

near Piccadilly Circus because that's closest to the Trocadero,

and of the fifteen attacks we know the group has carried out,

they boarded at Piccadilly Circus in nine cases.'

'Do they attack as soon as the train moves off?' asked

Swift.

'Unfortunately not,' Wright said. 'On one occasion, they

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went as far as Hammersmith and on another to Caledonian

Road.'

'So the idea is that the Specialist Firearms teams shadow

the train above ground?'

'That would be our game plan,' said Wright. 'By holding

up the train in a tunnel we should be able to give you time

to get in position.'

'You're going to lock down a train after a robbery has been

committed when there's a chance that a firearm might be

involved?' asked Swift.

'We'll have our officers on board, plus your plainclothes

armed officers.'

'And if they start shooting? You want a firefight in a train

in a tunnel?'

'I'm assuming there won't be a firefight,' said Wright, 'and

that our officers will be able to contain the situation. If there

is a firearm, the presence of armed officers should prevent

it being used.'

'Should, would, could,' said Swift. 'If it goes wrong, civilians

may get caught in the crossfire.'

'Like I said, if the boy has a gun, he hasn't fired it yet.'

Brian Ramshaw passed the photographs to Shepherd, who

took a set and passed the rest to the officer on his left. The

pictures were grainy but clear enough to aid in identification.

Shepherd memorised the faces.

'That's the state of play,' said Wright. 'We'll kick off at about

six this evening. BTP will have six plain-clothes officers, including

myself. There'll be a chief inspector running the operation at

our Management Information and Communications Centre in

Broadway just opposite New ScotlandYard. He'll have access

to all the CCTV cameras and can liaise with us in the tunnels

and with your guys above ground. Two uniformed officers

with radios will be here later today and they can ride with

the Specialist Firearms teams. Any questions?'

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Heads shook.

'I'm going to suggest Stu Marsden and Brian Ramshaw

as the undercover officers from SO 19,' said Swift. 'Have you

guys got suitable casual clothes?'

Shepherd was already wearing a leather jacket and jeans

with a blue denim shirt. He glanced at Ramshaw, who was

nodding.

'That's it, then,' said Swift.

'Don't suppose I can take my Heckler, can I?' asked

Ramshaw.

'Only if you can hide it down the front of your trousers,'

said Swift, deadpan.

A uniformed WPC opened the cell door and smiled at Angie.

'Your lawyer's here.'

'Thanks,' said Angie. The WPC took her along a corridor

to an interview room. When the woman opened the door

and Angie saw who was sitting at the metal table her face

fell. It wasn't the lawyer she'd phoned. It was Gary Payne,

who worked for Charlie. She hesitated but Payne got to his

feet and held out his hands, a broad smile on his suntanned

face. He spent a lot of time in his villa in Marbella, a stone's

throw from Charlie's. 'Angie, love, what a nightmare,' he said.

She took his hand, and he squeezed it hard enough to make

her wince. His lips were smiling, but his eyes were flint hard.

'Sit down and let's see what we can do to get you out of

here.'

'Would you like some tea or coffee?' asked the WPC.

'Tea with milk and two sugars,' said Payne. 'Bit of a sweet

tooth. Angie'll have the same.' He swung his slim Gucci briefcase

on to the table.

'I don't want anything,' said Angie.

'Nonsense,' said Payne, jovially. 'Hot sweet tea will do you

the world of good.'

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The WPC left the room, closing the door behind her.

The smile vanished from Payne's face. 'You stupid, stupid,

cow,' he said.

Angie put her head in her hands.

Payne leaned over her, so close she could smell the garlic

on his breath. 'Did you think you'd get away with it? That

Charlie wouldn't find out?'

'Can you tell him I'm sorry?'Tears poured down her face.

'You're sorry?' Payne sneered. 'Sorry doesn't cut it, Angie.

Don't you understand what you've done?' He sat down

opposite her, interlinked his fingers on top of his briefcase

and waited for her to stop crying.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, and Payne

handed her a crisp white handkerchief with his initials in one

corner. 'Use this. What have they said to you so far?'

'Gary, please, I've got my own lawyer coming--'

Payne's grey eyes burned into hers. 'Listen, you stupid

bitch, your life is over, the trick you've tried to pull. All we're

trying to do now is minimise the damage you've done. If

you don't help Charlie you're going to bring more grief on

your family than you can believe.'

Angie felt as if she'd been slapped across the face.

'What did they offer you?' he snapped.

'They said they'll forget what I did if I help them put

Charlie away.'

'Specifically?'

'Deals he's done. People he's met. Where his money is.'

'You know the guy you paid was a cop?'

Angie's jaw dropped.

'You paid off an undercover cop.'

'No.'

'Yes.'

'He killed someone else. There were photographs.'

'It was a set-up, Angie.'

290

She slumped in her chair.

'The cops set you up because they needed you to help

them put Charlie away. You were never going to get what

you wanted. The game was rigged from the start.'

'Oh, God.'

'He can't help you now. No one can. Do I have to spell it

out for you, Angie? There's your mother, your sister, your

nephews. Do you want them hurt because of your stupidity?

It's over for you. Charlie won't let you take him down. You

know that. The cops will end up putting you on trial for trying to have him killed. If you get sent down, Charlie will

have you done in jail. And if you don't go down, you know

what he'll do to you. Heads or tails, Angie, it's over for you.

You paid a guy to kill Charlie. He can't let that lie.'

Angie nodded.

'You know what you've got to do, don't you?'

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she blew her nose.

'Look at me, Angie.' Her eyes locked with Payne's. 'You

do know what you have to do, don't you?' he repeated. 'You

have no choice.'

She nodded again.

'Better to get this sorted now, rather than dragging it out.

Because if you do drag it out, others are going to get hurt.'

'Okay,' she whispered.

Payne reached into his pocket and took out a small polythene

bag, containing two dozen capsules. He slid the bag m across the table. 'These are barbiturates, Angie. Sleeping

tablets. When you get back to your cell, take them with that

cup of tea. Flush the bag down the toilet. Then lie down, go

I to sleep and everything will be okay.'

Angie reached for the bag. She picked it up and slipped

it into her pocket.

'You know it's for the best, don't you, Angie?'

'Yes,' she said, her voice barely a whisper.

1 291

'Good girl,' said Payne. He stood up, picked up his briefcase

and patted her shoulder. 'Your will's all sorted. Your

mum will want for nothing, there's money for your nephews,

your sister gets your jewellery. Everything will be neat and

tidy. Don't worry about a thing.'

Payne opened the door. The WPC was waiting there, her

back to the wall. 'Everything okay?' she said.

'Everything's fine,' said Payne, cheerfully. 'Mrs Kerr might

need a few seconds to get herself together. She's had an

emotional time.'

'Superintendent Hargrove would like a word with you on

your way out, sir,' said the WPC. 'Third door on the left.'

Payne walked down the corridor, knocked on the door and

opened it without waiting for a response. There were three

men in the room. Payne knew one, Christopher Thornton, a

portly lawyer who worked for the Crown Prosecution Service.

'Christopher, hi, I'm looking for Superintendent Hargrove.'

'That would be me,' said the tallest of the three. He was

in his mid-forties, his hair greying at the temples, a professional

smile on his lips. He was wearing a dark blue pinstripe

suit with a pale blue shirt and gold cufflinks in the shape of

cricket bats. His grip was firm when he shook Payne's hand.

'Christopher Thornton you know, and this is Chief Inspector

Wainer of the Drugs Squad.'

'I've heard of the chief inspector, of course,' said Payne.

Wainer nodded curtly, but didn't offer his hand.

'May I assume that your client will be co-operating fully?'

said Hargrove.

'She wants to sleep on it.'

'I was hoping for something a bit more concrete,' said the

superintendent. 'We'd like to put things in motion as quickly

as possible.'

'I have a question, actually,' said Thornton. 'You are acting

for Mrs Kerr and solely for Mrs Kerr?'

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1

'What are you suggesting?' said Payne.

'Because any deal we make with Mrs Kerr depends on us

proceeding in secrecy,' said Thornton. 'We'll need her to help

collate evidence.'

'You want her to wear a wire?'

'Possibly,' said Wainer. 'It's one of our options.'

'You know what her husband will do if he finds her with

one?'

'It might not come to that,' said Hargrove. 'She could give

us the numbers of any mobiles he uses and we could access

them through GCHQ.'

'But back to the point I was making,' said Thornton.

'Anything you've heard today has to stay within these four

walls. Angie Kerr's life is on the line.'

Payne gave Thornton a withering look. 'I'm well aware of

the danger my client is in,' he said, 'and I don't need to

remind you that it was the police who put her in the firing

line. What you've done was perilously close to entrapment.'

'What do you mean?' asked Hargrove.

'Please don't insult my intelligence, Superintendent,' said

Payne. 'You have my client and the hitman on tape, which

means you knew about the meeting in advance. That suggests

either very long-term surveillance of the man in question, or

that he was co-operating with you. Either way, you were

clearly giving my client enough rope to hang herself.'

'She paid fifteen grand up front to have her husband

killed,' said Wainer.

'Which begs the question, why didn't you arrest her then?'

said Payne.

'This isn't getting us anywhere,' said Hargrove, impatiently.

'Your client is on tape commissioning a murder. If

she co-operates with us, she can walk away from that. But

she has to help us nail her husband. The ball's in your court

and, frankly, I'm losing my patience.'

293

'And, as I've already told you, my client will sleep on it.

We'll talk again in the morning.' Payne smiled. 'Maybe things

will be a little clearer then. Now, I've got another meeting so

I'll bid you farewell.' He left the room. Things would definitely

be clearer in the morning.

The two teenage girls blasted away at the Zombies, cheering

as skulls exploded and green slime splattered across the

screen. 'Die, you bastard!' yelled one. She was a blonde in

khaki cargo pants and a tight black top, clearly braless. Her

friend was a brunette, hair cropped. Shepherd watched.

The girls were skilled at the game, chatting to each other

as they fired. Flying monsters swooped down and the girls

blew them away, giggling as they exploded into bloody

segments.

'You want something, Granddad?' said the blonde, looking

over her shoulder at Shepherd. She couldn't have been more

than fourteen but even so he thought it was an unfair thing

to say.

'Enjoy yourselves, girls,' he said.

'Wanker,' said the brunette.

Shepherd walked away, his hands in his pockets. At the

far end of the amusement arcade there was a line of football

video games. Shepherd walked slowly along them, scanning

the faces of the teenagers playing them. None matched

those on the CCTV pictures. One scowled at him, and he

headed for the exit. He knew that a man in his thirties prowling

around an amusement arcade could easily have people

drawing the wrong conclusions.

He popped in his radio earpiece, then walked out to a

mezzanine area where he could look down at the ground

floor. A mother and father were buying ice creams for their

three children, the whole family wearing backpacks decorated

with the Stars and Stripes.

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I

His earpiece crackled. 'I have a visual on Snow White,'

said a voice. It was Nick Wright. 'She's with two IC Three

males on the second floor.'

There was another huge amusement arcade up there.

Shepherd headed for the escalator, slipping out the earpiece.

He found Wright at the entrance to the arcade. He looked

as out of place as Shepherd felt. The Trocadero was a known

haunt of paedophiles and rent-boys, and several teenage boys

had smiled invitingly at Shepherd as he'd been wandering

around.

Shepherd took a ten-pound note out of his wallet and went

to a change machine. As he fed in the note he looked around

casually. Snow White was watching two black teenagers

dancing to a rap tune on a dance machine, matching their

movements to instructions on two video screens. She was

wearing the same camouflage top she'd had on in one of the

CCTV pictures and her phone was on a strap round her

neck.

Shepherd scooped up his pound coins and walked round

the arcade, looking at the games machines. He strolled out

and saw Brian Ramshaw at the far side of the mall, eating

an ice cream.

Shepherd took the escalator to the first floor. According

to Wright, the gang waited until they were at critical mass

before they headed into the tube station. He found a spot

where he could watch the escalators and propped himself

against a guardrail. His Glock was in a nylon shoulder holster,

pressed against his left side. A BTP radio that would operate

throughout the Underground system was clipped to his belt;

it was connected to his earpiece and a microphone in his

cuff.

Another BTP plain-clothes officer was on the ground

floor. Tommy Reid was a detective sergeant, the same rank

as Wright, but a good ten years older. He'd dressed down

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for the operation and was wearing a shabby coat tied at the

waist with a piece of string, scuffed workboots and a shapeless

Burberry-pattern hat with a red fishing fly stuck into the

side. He was carrying a brown-paper bag that looked as if

it held a bottle. A uniformed security guard had twice asked

him to move away from shop fronts and now he was standing

just inside the main entrance.

He made brief eye-contact with Shepherd and raised his

bag in salute, then sat down with his back against the wall.

Reid's disguise was faultless, and the broken red veins on his

nose suggested he was no stranger to strong drink.

Then Shepherd stiffened. He had recognised two boys on

the escalator. One was an IC Three male in an Arsenal

T-shirt. The other was the mixed-race thirteen-year-old. The

youngster was wearing a light blue top with the hood up but

Shepherd had glimpsed his face. He raised his cuff to his

mouth. 'First floor, two suspects on the escalator heading for

the second floor,' he whispered.

'I have them,' said Wright.

At the bottom of the escalator, also going up, was a young

woman in tight jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket.

She was one of the BTP's undercover officers.

Shepherd stayed where he was for five minutes, then

wandered around checking reflections in shop windows. He

saw another female undercover officer walking out of an

amusement arcade.

'They're on the way down,' said Wright's voice in

Shepherd's ear.

A few seconds later Shepherd saw Snow White and half

a dozen young men standing in a group on the down escalator,

blocking it so that no one could walk past them. They

were laughing and Snow White was smoking a cigarette.

Down below, Reid got to his feet and walked out of the

mall.

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As the group reached the ground floor they were joined

by two white teenagers in casual sports gear, Nike sweatshirts, tracksuit bottoms and gleaming white trainers. They

both had thick gold chains round their necks and wrists.

They gave Snow White high fives, then the group moved

towards the exit.

Shepherd walked towards the escalator. Wright was already

on his way down and Shepherd saw another plainclothes

BTP officer walk out of a mobile-phone shop, pretending to

read a brochure.

The group left theTrocadero and walked through Piccadilly

Circus, threading their way through crowds of tourists having

their photographs taken in front of Eros.

'They're heading for Piccadilly Circus station,' said Reid,

over the radio.

'This is Control. We're ready for them,' said a Scottish

voice in Shepherd's ear. The BTP chief inspector in the

Management Information and Communications Centre was

a Glaswegian. He was sitting at a work station that allowed

him immediate access to any of the six thousand CCTV

cameras on the London Underground system.

Shepherd walked out of the Trocadero. Nick Wright

followed him into the street without acknowledging him. The

two female BTP officers fanned out to either side and worked

their way purposefully towards the station.

'They're at the entrance now,' said Reid.

Shepherd started to jog. He put the microphone close to

his mouth. 'Brian, where are you?'

'Twenty metres behind you,' said Ramshaw, in his earpiece.

Shepherd upped the pace. It was vital that at least one

armed officer was close to the group in case a firearm was

produced on the tube.

'They're inside the booking hall now,' said the chief

inspector over the radio, 'passing through the barriers.'

297

Shepherd reached the tunnel entrance at the same time as

Wright, who already had his tube pass in his hand. Shepherd

cursed under his breath. He didn't have a ticket. He stuck

his hand in his pocket and grabbed a handful of change, but

Wright pointed at a blue-uniformed member of staff to let

him through.

'Down escalator heading for the Piccadilly Line,' said the

chief inspector.

'I'm on the Piccadilly platform, southbound,' said Reid,

over the radio.

Shepherd was impressed. Either the DS was lucky and

had played a hunch, or he'd assumed that the Piccadilly Line

was the most likely place for the gang to go. Either way, he

was ahead of the game.

Shepherd walked down the escalator behind Wright. Below

he could see Snow White talking to the kid in the light blue

top. Shepherd took out the earpiece. Now that he had them

in sight he didn't need the chief inspector's commentary.

Shepherd and Wright reached the foot of the escalator.

Snow White and her gang were standing in the hallway as if

they weren't sure whether to go north or south. Shepherd

headed north. So did Wright.

Shepherd glanced over his shoulder. Ramshaw was on the

escalator, trapped behind a slow-moving student with a

massive rucksack. He nodded almost imperceptibly. He could

see that Shepherd was going north, so he'd go south.

Shepherd waited halfway down the platform, close to the

tunnel that led to where Snow White and the gang were

waiting, laughing and pushing each other around. He looked

up at the electronic sign that announced the train arrivals.

There was one minute to go before the next train arrived.

Wright was pacing up and down, arms folded, head down,

as if he was deep in thought. Surreptitiously Shepherd slid

the earpiece back in. 'Suspects are in the hallway,' said the

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chief inspector. 'No way of knowing which way they'll move.'

'Ramshaw, I'm on the south platform,' said Ramshaw.

Shepherd raised his cuff to his mouth. 'Marsden, I'm on

the northbound platform.'

He felt the breeze of an approaching train. One of the

female undercover officers walked on to the platform. She

was in a long coat, holding a Marks & Spencer carrier-bag.

The rails rattled and the train burst out of the tunnel into

the station. Shepherd caught a glimpse of the driver, then

the carriages flashed by. The brakes shrieked and the train

juddered to a halt. The doors slid open and several dozen

passengers got off. Shepherd caught Wright's eye.

'North, north, they're heading north,' said the chief

inspector.

Shepherd walked to the train, and as he stepped on board

Snow White and her gang ran on to the platform and jumped

on. Wright got into the adjoining carriage and took a seat

close to the connecting door. The female officer got in and

sat down, her carrier-bag on her lap. The doors clunked shut

and the train lurched along the platform.

Shepherd was at the far end of the carriage. Snow White

and her gang were standing at the mid-point, swinging from

the handles set into the roof. They were looking around and

laughing, and even from where he was sitting Shepherd

could detect the predatory look in their eyes. He sat with his

arms folded. He could feel the gun pressing against his side.

Could he draw it against children? He took a deep breath

and said a silent prayer that it wouldn't come to that. The

plan was to stop the train as soon as the gang struck and to

get Ken Swift and his team into position at the next station.

The train rushed into the tunnel. Shepherd counted the

passengers in the carriage. Most were sitting, but three

businessmen in dark suits were standing to his left, discussing

a sales conference. A West Indian woman sat opposite, with

299

a wicker shopping basket on her lap. Next to her a teenage

girl was listening to a Walkman as she ate a Sainsbury's salad

with a plastic fork. On the other side of the West Indian

woman a workman in paint-stained overalls and a floppy hat

was reading the Sun.

Shepherd glanced at the gang. The youngster in the light

blue top was bending over a middle-aged woman, his face

only inches away from hers. 'Give me a kiss, darling,' he said.

She was sitting next to a little girl of seven or eight. Same

age as Liam.

The woman looked embarrassed.

'Come on, darling, slip me the tongue,' said the teenager.

He opened his mouth and waggled his at her.

The little girl laughed, but the teenager glared at her. The

woman put her arm round her daughter and drew her close.

Two black teenagers moved to stand behind the young

thug. 'Go on, give him a kiss,' said one. 'He don't have Aids

or nuffink.'

'Please, leave me alone,' said the woman. The little girl

looked scared now.

The teenager reached out to stroke her cheek. The woman

flinched, and glanced round the carriage, but no one met

her gaze. No one wanted to get involved. Shepherd knew

that was why the gang had been so successful in their attacks.

They picked on one victim and focused all their attention

on them; the rest of the passengers were relieved that they

weren't under attack and did nothing.

Snow White and one of the white teenagers moved to join

the group who were intimidating the woman.

Shepherd saw Wright stand up and move towards the

connecting door.

'Give us yer bag, darling,' said Snow White.

'Please, I don't want any trouble,' said the woman, close

to tears.

300

The teenager pulled out a Stanley knife. So did Snow

White. 'Give me your fucking bag, you bitch!' screamed the

teenager.

Snow White lashed out with her knife and cut the woman's

coat. 'Come on, come on!' she shouted.

Shepherd saw Wright talking into his radio microphone,

notifying the control centre that the attack had started.

The little girl screamed and pressed herself to her mother.

The teenager grabbed her blonde hair and twisted it

savagely.

'Leave her alone!' shouted the mother.

Snow White slapped her face. 'Let go of the bag, bitch!'

Shepherd stood up. One of the black teenagers stared at

him menacingly. The woman BTP officer also got to her

feet, waiting to see what Shepherd would do.

The mother released her bag and Snow White tossed it to

one of the gang.

The rest of the passengers were frozen now with horror.

Shepherd took a step towards the group. Three of them

moved to block his way.

Shepherd took out his warrant card and held it up. 'Police!'

he shouted. 'Put down those knives!'

The teenager with the Stanley knife pulled the little girl

to her feet and held it to her throat. 'I'll cut her!' he yelled.

The mother screamed and Snow White punched her in

the mouth.

'No, you won't,' said Shepherd. The little girl struggled

but the teenager held her tight.

Wright was trying to open the connecting door but two

of the gang members were pushing against it.

The train roared out of the tunnel and into Leicester Square

station. Faces flashed by but Shepherd concentrated on the

teenager. The blade of the Stanley knife had pierced the little

girl's neck and a dribble of blood ran down her shirt.

301

The doors opened and the passengers scattered. Shepherd

moved to allow an overweight businessman to waddle by,

clutching his briefcase to his chest, but kept his eyes on the

boy with the knife. 'Just drop the knife on the floor and this

will all work out just fine,' he said.

The boy pulled back the little girl's hair. Til cut her!' he

yelled again.

'No, you won't,' said Shepherd. Passengers started to get

on to the train but stopped when they saw what was

happening. The teenager stabbed the knife into the child's

throat and blood spurted.

The mother screamed, her hands over her face.

Snow White ran out on to the platform, cursing at passengers

to get out of her way. The two black teenagers ran after

her. The boy with the knife spat at Shepherd, then pushed

the child down the carriage and bolted on to the platform.

The little girl staggered against Shepherd. Her shirt was

soaked with blood but she was still conscious, eyes wide with

fear. She tried to speak but all that came out was a gurgle.

Her mother ran towards Shepherd, arms outstretched. She

fell to the floor and grabbed her daughter.

Shepherd looked at the teenagers running full pelt down

the platform, then at the child. It was no contest. 'Put her

down gently,' he said to the mother. He examined the cut.

It was about two inches long and deep, but blood wasn't

pumping out, which meant that a major artery hadn't been

severed. The mother was sobbing.

Wright burst through the connecting door. 'I'll radio for

a paramedic'

'Go!' said Shepherd. Wright hurried on to the platform.

The female officer was preventing passengers getting on

to the train.

The child coughed and blood splattered out of her mouth. Shepherd needed something to stem the bleeding. She

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coughed again and more blood spurted over her chest.

Shepherd's medical training was basic, and mostly concerned with broken limbs and bullet wounds. The way her mouth

kept filling with blood suggested he should get her head up.

He propped her against a seat, then took off his leather jacket

and the holstered Glock.

Wright appeared at the carriage door. 'Paramedics on their

way,' he said.

'Okay.' Shepherd tore off his shirt and pressed it to the

little girl's throat. He smiled at her. 'The paramedics will be

here in a minute. It's going to be okay.' Blood seeped into

the shirt and he increased the pressure on the wound.

The child stared wide-eyed at him. Her mother stroked

her hair. 'Hang on, honey, you're going to be all right,' she

said. She turned to Shepherd, eyes brimming with tears.

'What can we do? We've got to stop her bleeding.'

'What's your daughter's name?' he asked.

'Emily. Emily McKenna.'

Emily coughed and more blood gushed from her lips. Her

chest heaved and Shepherd could see she was having trouble

breathing. Blood was flowing down her windpipe and

Shepherd knew he had to do something quickly.

'Where are the paramedics?' he asked Wright.

Wright shrugged helplessly. 'They know the situation,' he

said. 'They said they'll be right here.'

'We need them now'

'The chief inspector said they're on the way.'

Emily's chest was heaving as she fought for breath. She

was choking to death. 'Have you got a Biro?' Shepherd

asked.

Wright fumbled in his pocket and pulled one out. 'Are

you sure about this?'

'The blood's running into her lungs,' said Shepherd.

'What are you talking about?' said Mrs McKenna.

303

'We have to help your daughter breathe,' said Shepherd.

He put his hands on Emily's shoulders. He could see the

panic in her eyes. 'Listen, Emily. You have to lie down again,

okay?' She nodded. 'Then I want you to close your eyes and

imagine you're somewhere else.'

Emily made a gurgling sound as her mouth tried to form

words. 'Don't talk,' said Shepherd, and lowered her to the

floor.

'What are you doing?' said Mrs McKenna.

'Close your eyes, Emily,' said Shepherd. He reached into

his pocket and took out his Swiss Army knife, flicked out a

blade and wiped it on his shirt. There was no time to worry

about infection - they could pump antibiotics into her later.

If he didn't fix her breathing Emily would be dead within

minutes.

'Oh, God, no,' whispered Mrs McKenna.

'It has to be done,' said Shepherd. 'It won't hurt, I promise,

and it will save her life.'

Emily coughed and more blood gushed from her lips.

'Hold her hands, Mrs McKenna. Keep talking to her keep

her calm.' He pulled the ink cartridge out of the Biro

and tossed it on to the seat behind him.

Mrs McKenna looked wildly at Wright as if he might have

an alternative suggestion.

'Do it now!' said Shepherd.

Mrs McKenna knelt down beside her daughter and took

her hands. 'It's okay, sweetheart, I'm here.'

Shepherd took the child's throat in his left hand and gently

squeezed the windpipe.

'I'll check where they are,' said Wright. He ran on to the

platform, talking into his radio.

'You can't stick that in her throat!' said Mrs McKenna.

'She won't feel it,' said Shepherd, 'and if we don't let her

get air into her lungs . . .' He pressed the tip of the blade

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between the cartilage ridges of her windpipe until it popped

through, pulled it out, then pressed with his fingers. The hole

opened wide. He put the knife on to the seat and pushed

the plastic tube into the hole. Air sucked in through the tube

and Emily's chest stopped juddering.

'It's okay, darling,' said Mrs McKenna.

Emily's mouth moved soundlessly. Her chest was moving

up and down, and air was whistling through the tube.

Shepherd sat back on his heels and wiped his forehead on

the back of his arm.

Wright appeared at the carriage door. 'They're here,' he

said. 'One minute.'

'Do you have a clean handkerchief, Mrs McKenna?' asked

Shepherd.

Mrs McKenna didn't take her eyes off her daughter but

fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief.

Shepherd took it and wrapped it round the base of the

Biro tube.

'Hang on, precious,' said Mrs McKenna.

Emily's breathing had settled down. Blood was still trickling

out of her mouth but she wasn't choking now.

Shepherd heard rapid footsteps. Two men in green and

yellow fluorescent jackets dashed into the carriage. He stood

up to give them room to work. 'Throat wound, no major

arterial damage. Her mouth was filling with blood so I did

a tracheotomy,' he said.

One of the paramedics checked the tube. 'Good work.'

The second paramedic felt for a pulse while the first went

to work on Emily's neck.

Shepherd helped Mrs McKenna to her feet. There was

blood on her hands and smeared across the front of her coat.

'She'll be okay,' he said.

Tears were running down the woman's face. 'How could

they do that to my little girl?' she asked.

3O5

r

Shepherd said nothing. It was a question he couldn't

answer.

The hatch in the cell door clanged open and a face appeared

in the gap. It was the WPC who'd taken her to see Gary

Payne. 'Are you okay, Mrs Kerr?' she asked. She had a sweet

face, thought Angie. Her eyes were a blue so pale that they I

were almost grey and she had used mascara on her lashes.

'I'm fine,' said Angie, in a monotone.

'I'm off my shift in a few minutes. Do you want me to get

you some food before I go?'

'I'm fine,' repeated Angie. rl

'It'll be your last chance before morning. And the night

custody officer is a bit of a grouch.' ' ¦

Angie forced a smile. 'Really, I'm fine.'

'What about some tea?'

Angie nodded at the polystyrene cup on the floor. 'I've

still got the one you gave me before.'

'That was hours ago,' said the WPC. 'It'll be stone cold.'

Angie shrugged. 'It'll do.'

The WPC smiled and closed the hatch. Angie opened her

right hand and counted the barbiturate capsules. Twenty

four. She put them on the grey blanket, then picked up the

polystyrene cup. A brown scum had formed on the tea. She

took a sip and grimaced. She didn't take sugar.

She sat down on the bed, popped one of the tablets on to

her tongue, took another sip of tea, flicked her head back

and swallowed. One down, twenty-three to go. She sipped

the cold tea. It wasn't so bad.

Ken Swift tossed the T-shirt to Shepherd. It was grey with

NYPD on the front. 'Got this on an exchange visit with the

New York SWAT guys,' he said. 'I wouldn't mind having it back.'

'Thanks, sir,' said Shepherd.

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'Shift's over,' said Swift. 'It's Ken.'

Shepherd pulled on the T-shirt. The paramedics had taken

his shirt when they wheeled away the little girl. They'd

stabilised her and put her on a saline drip.

'Where did you learn to do that throat thing?' asked Swift.

Shepherd shrugged. 'Army, first-aid training. I'm just glad

I was paying attention that day.'

'Saved her life,' said Swift.

'The way the world is, the mother will probably sue me,'

said Shepherd. 'I still don't know if I did the right thing by

not pulling my gun.'

'They only had knives - you couldn't have shot them. Not

without a shit-load of trouble from the civil-liberty groups,

and the press would have had a field day.'

'They were kids, but the way they behaved . . .'

'Animals,' said Swift.

'The one who stabbed the little girl wasn't more than thirteen.

What was he doing with a knife? Why aren't his parents

asking where he is?'

'They probably don't care,' said Swift. 'Father's probably

run off. Mother's got no money. Schools are too busy maintaining

order to get involved.'

'Have you got kids?'

'Three - and no matter what happened to the marriages

I was always a father to them. Saw them whenever I could,

went to school events, took them on holiday. When there

were problems, I nipped them in the bud. I was a good dad,

Stu. A shit husband, I'll put my hands up to that, but I was

always there for my kids.'

'I can't believe they got away,' said Shepherd. 'We were

there on the bloody train. I was six feet away. If they hadn't

stabbed the little girl . . .'

'That's why they stabbed her. They knew you'd have to

stop and help.'

307

The chief inspector was right: they'd made a calculated

decision to knife a child because anyone with humanity

would help her rather than give chase. It was the sort of

behaviour Shepherd would expect from a professional criminal

or a soldier, not from teenagers.

'By the time we got to Leicester Square they were well

gone,' said Swift. 'CCTV footage shows them getting the

Northern Line to Charing Cross. They left the station, probably

walked back to their stamping ground.'

'So what next?'

'BTP want to try again in a couple of days. Thursday

evening, maybe, or Friday. All we have to do now is find

them. With you and the BTP detectives as witnesses, we have

a case.'

Tm up for it,' said Shepherd. 'I want another crack at

them.'

Swift slapped him on the back. 'Job's yours,' he said. 'Now,

let's go get a pint. We've earned it.'

Shepherd set his alarm for seven thirty so that he could have

breakfast with Liam before he went to school, but he was

awake before the alarm went off. He heard Katra get up and

go down to the kitchen, and later he heard her getting Liam

ready. He grabbed his dressing-gown and went downstairs.

Liam was sitting at the kitchen table, eating toast and drinking

orange juice.

Katra had a mug of coffee ready for him.

'What time did you get home, Dad?' asked Liam.

'About eleven,' said Shepherd. 'I came in to say goodnight

but you were asleep. Did you do your homework?'

'Katra helped me,' said Liam.

'It was maths,' said Katra. 'I was always good at that.'

'Thanks,' said Shepherd. 'I'm working late all this week,

but I'll be able to do my bit at the weekend.'

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I

'What was work like yesterday?' asked Liam.

Shepherd shrugged. 'Boring office stuff,' he lied.

'Why do you have to work at night, then?'

'There's office stuff to do all day,' said Shepherd. He didn't

like lying to his son, but he certainly didn't want to tell him

he'd stuck a knife into a little girl's windpipe. 'Did you

manage the drive all right?' he asked Katra.

'She's great, Dad,' said Liam. 'Better than you.'

'Thanks, kid.'

'Come on, Liam, it's time to go,' said Katra. She helped

Liam on with his blazer and handed him his bag. Til cook

breakfast for you when I get back,' she said to Shepherd.

'That's okay, I'm fine with coffee,' said Shepherd, raising

his mug.

'It's the most important meal of the day,' said Liam, and

grinned.

Katra giggled and they left.

Shepherd went through to the sitting room and waved as

they drove off. Then he went upstairs, shaved, climbed into

the shower and turned it on cold, gasping as the icy water

washed over him.

The doorbell rang as he was rinsing shampoo from his

hair. Shepherd swore, grabbed a towel and wrapped it round

his waist as he rushed downstairs. It was Kathy Gift. He'd

forgotten she'd said she'd be round on Wednesday morning.

He wanted to ask her to reschedule but he knew that if he

avoided her she'd tell Hargrove. All he had to do was sit

down and talk to her. He could do that. And he could show

her he was on an even keel, that all was well with the world.

He spent half of his undercover life pretending to be something

he wasn't.

'I seem to be making a habit of getting you out of the

shower,' she said.

'It isn't even eight yet,' he said.

309

'The early bird,' she said. 'Is someone with you? Is this a

bad time?'

Shepherd smiled ruefully. 'No. I'm alone.'

'Liam's still with his grandparents?'

'He moved back in at the weekend but he's just gone to

school.'

'So you solved your au pair problem?'

'Looks that way,' he said. He held the door open for her.

'I've just had coffee, but if you want one, you know where

everything is.'

He hurried upstairs, dried himself and put on a grey

pullover and black jeans. When he got back downstairs she

was studying the framed photographs in the bookcase. There

were two mugs of coffee on the table by the sofa.

'He's a good-looking boy,' she said, peering at a snap of

Liam in his school uniform.

'Takes after his mum,' said Shepherd.

Gift smiled at a silver-framed photograph of Shepherd and

Sue standing in the garden, their backs to the house. Liam

had taken it the previous year on Sue's birthday and he'd

kept them smiling at the camera for almost two minutes

before he eventually pressed the shutter. Sue had burst out

laughing just as Liam took the picture and her eyes were full

of life, full of joy. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Gift sat down in an armchair and opened her briefcase.

She took out a clipboard with a ballpoint pen.

'No tape-recorder?' he asked.

'It's my impressions I want to record, rather than what

you say.'

'The opposite of a police interrogation,' said Shepherd.

'That's one way of looking at it.' She crossed her legs

and rested the clipboard on her knee. 'But I'm not trying

to trap you or get you to admit anything that you don't

want to.'

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I

'Just a chat between friends?'

The psychologist chuckled. 'I'm here to help, Dan,' she said. 'I just want to get a feeling for how you're handling the

job. I talk to everyone on the unit at least once a year.'

But Shepherd knew her visit wasn't just an annual service.

Hargrove had asked her to talk to him, which meant the

superintendent was concerned.

'I couldn't help noticing the scar on your shoulder when

you answered the door.'

'I stopped a bullet a while back. It was nothing.'

'Before you joined the police?'

'In my previous life.'

'Do you mind talking about it?'

'Being shot, or being in the SAS?'

Gift looked at him with a slight smile on her face. 'Which

do you feel most comfortable talking about?'

Shepherd folded his arms, then realised she might think

his body language defensive. He put his hands on his knees

but that felt too posed so he moved them to his lap. 'That's

such a psychologist's question,' he said.

'I didn't mean it to be. I'm just interested.'

'In what specifically?'

'What it was like to be shot, I guess.'

Shepherd rubbed his chin. 'It doesn't hurt, if that's what

you mean. Not at first, anyway. It's like been punched really

hard. The endorphins kick in and you're aware that you're

losing blood and you just go weak.'

'Who shot you?'

'He didn't leave a card,' said Shepherd.

'You didn't see him?'

'He was over a rise. We weren't in combat, he just took a

shot.'

'A sniper?'

'Or a coward. One shot and he was off. It was in

3ii

Afghanistan. Never found out if he was a soldier or just a

villager with a gun.'

'You were lucky.'

'Everyone says that, but if I'd really been lucky I wouldn't

have been shot in the first place,' said Shepherd.

'I meant lucky you weren't killed.'

'It hit bone and went downwards, missed an artery by half

an inch. I was in a four-man team and the medic did his

stuff. I was helicoptered to hospital and a week later I was

back in the UK.' There were other details he didn't want to

tell her. Like the fact that he had been cradling a dying SAS

captain who had lost a good-sized chunk of skull and brain

when the sniper's bullet had slammed into Shepherd's

shoulder.

'You didn't leave the SAS on medical grounds, though,

did you?' she asked.

'That's in my file, is it?'

She smiled reassuringly. 'I'm not trying to trick you, Dan,'

she said. 'Your file only says you spent six years in the regiment

before leaving to join the police. It wasn't a bad enough

injury to have you RTUd?'

RTU. Returned to Unit. It was every SAS trooper's worst

nightmare: being told that the Regiment didn't want or need

them any more and they were to return to their original unit.

Shepherd hadn't been RTUd. He'd walked out for Sue. 'I

heal quickly,' said Shepherd.

'What's it like, being in a firefight?'

'It wasn't a firefight, it was an ambush.'

'But when you're under fire, what's that like?'

'If you have to ask, you'll never know,' he said.

'That's an easy answer,' she said.

'It's a difficult question. Unless you've had bad guys blasting

away at you you're never going to understand what it feels

like.'

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I

'But you're scared?'

Shepherd frowned as he tried to find words to explain. It

wasn't fear: he had fought alongside regular soldiers and he'd

seen fear in their eyes when the bullets were flying but he'd

never seen it in the eyes of SAS troopers. The men of the

SAS relished combat: it was what they trained for, what they

lived for. They had the same look when they prepared to

jump from a Hercules two miles up. Excitement. Elation.

Adrenaline pumping, heart pounding. 'It's like they say, you're

never so alive as when you're close to death.'

'They say, too, that time seems to slow down?'

Shepherd nodded. 'It's not that things go slowly, more that

everything is clearer. Sounds are sharper, colours more

vibrant.'

'It sounds like a drug.'

'I've never taken drugs so I wouldn't know.'

'Really?'

'Really. Not so much as a whiff of a cannabis. And even

if I had I'd be pretty damn stupid to tell a police psychologist,

wouldn't I?'

She nodded slowly. 'But combat is addictive, I suppose?'

Shepherd wondered where she was heading.

'It enhances sensation,' she said. 'That's what many drugs

do. Even runners feel the same effect, don't they? The chemicals

released during a marathon run induce a feeling of

euphoria.'

'Have you ever run a marathon?'

'Three times. Twice here in London and once in New York.

I don't run as much as I used to, but in my twenties you'd

have been hard pushed to keep up with me.'

Shepherd took a quick look at her legs. She crossed them

and when he looked back at her face she was smiling. 'So,

am I right?' she asked. 'Does combat give you a similar high?'

It was, Shepherd realised, another good question. But Kathy

313

Gift was paid to ask searching questions and evaluate the

answers she was given. 'For some people, I suppose it is.'

'It's an interesting thought, isn't it?' she said. 'Most people

would be scared witless if they were shot at. But for some

maybe the excitement outweighs the fear. Wouldn't they be

the ones selected to join the SAS?'

Shepherd shook his head emphatically. 'The selection

process weeds out the thrill-seekers and the wannabe James

Bonds. The ones who make it aren't adrenaline junkies.'

'So what sort of people do make it?'

'You've got to be physically fit, but it's mental toughness

that gets you through.'

'There's a type, is there?'

'I guess so. Most are working class, from pretty tough

backgrounds, and they're all driven.'

'Driven?'

'To show that they're the best. That's what keeps you going

through selection. You reach a point where you're physically

exhausted. From then on it's a matter of willpower.'

'And having gone through all that, having shown that you're

among the best of the best, you walked away?'

'I was a father.'

'There are married men in the Regiment, aren't there?'

'Some. But it puts the marriage under strain. We're off

having adventures around the world and the wives sit at

home changing nappies.'

'Is that how you see life in the SAS, having adventures?'

Shepherd sat back and folded his arms, no longer caring

about his body language. He could see where she was going.

She wanted to show that he was hooked on the excitement

of dangerous situations. 'I think that's how the wives see it,'

he said. 'They think it's all fun and games, and that's partly

our fault - we tend to downplay the dangerous aspects.'

'Because you don't want them to worry?'

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Shepherd nodded.

'But your wife was still worried. Was that why she wanted

you to leave the SAS?'

'It wasn't so much the danger, more that I

was away for

long periods. She had a point.'

'So you agreed to leave?'

'We talked about it and decided it was for the best.'

'And you went straight into undercover work?'

'That's right.' It would all be in Shepherd's file. He'd applied

to join the Met, but his potential had been spotted almost

immediately. Instead of being sent to the Police Training

College at Hendon he'd been interviewed by Superintendent

Hargrove and offered a place on his unit.

'Out of the frying pan into the fire?'

It was a phrase Sue had used. An armed criminal could

be every bit as dangerous as an Afghan tribesman or an Iraqi

soldier. 'I got to spend more time at home,' he said.

'And what about you? Was the job as challenging?'

Another good question. Kathy Gift had the knack of getting

to the heart of the matter. 'It's different,' he said, choosing

his words carefully. 'In the Regiment you're part of a team.

There's the Regiment, then your troop, then your four-man

brick. You always have mates to rely on who'll pull your balls

out of the fire if necessary. Working undercover, most of the

time you're on your own. You might be under surveillance,

but they're always on the outside, looking in.'

'It must be stressful.'

Of course it was stressful. She was a psychologist who

worked with a specialist undercover unit: she knew exactly

how much stress there was in the job. What did she expect

him to say? Ask for some Valium? 'You deal with it,' he said

eventually.

'How?'

'I run.'

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315

'Running clears the mind, doesn't it?'

'It can.'

'It must be difficult, being undercover for long periods.'

'Sure. But that's the job.'

'Not everyone can deal with the stress for ever.'

'I know.' It wasn't unusual for undercover agents to turn

to alcohol, or even drugs, to relieve the pressure. Shepherd

wasn't averse to a drink, but he never drank to excess.

'Do you find it getting easier or harder?'

'The more time I spend undercover, the better I get at

it.'

Gift brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. 'I meant

the stress,' she said. 'Is it easier to deal with it?'

Shepherd exhaled slowly. 'I don't know,' he said. 'It's not

something I think about.'

'But do you sleep okay, for instance?'

'Like a baby.'

'Panic attacks, shortness of breath, dizziness?'

'Never,' said Shepherd, emphatically.

'Do you lose your temper easily?'

'No.'

'Loss of appetite?'

'I eat like a horse.'

'So, you're fine?'

'That's what I've been telling you.'

'No problems?'

'None.'

'And the new job?'

'I'm not supposed to divulge operational details, you know

that.'

'Of course I do. I was just asking how it was going. Is it

straightforward? Is it stressful? How are you coping with it?

That was all I meant.'

'It's as straightforward as undercover assignments ever can

316

be, no more stressful than previous jobs and I'm coping just

fine.'

'Okay,' she said. She stood up and bent down to pick up

the briefcase.

Shepherd found himself looking at her legs again. He

could believe she was a runner. 'That's it, then?' he asked.

'For the moment.' She slipped the clipboard and pen into

the briefcase, then snapped the twin locks shut. 'I'd like to

see you again in a few days. I'll phone.'

'I'm really busy on this case,' he said, as she left the room.

He hurried after her. 'I have to work shifts, two till ten this

week, and I'm on nights next week.'

'I'm flexible time-wise,' she said. 'I'll try not to catch you

in the shower next time.'

Shepherd got to the front door before her and opened it.

She flashed him a smile and walked towards her black Mazda,

high heels clicking on the paving-stones. Shepherd closed the

door and leaned his forehead against it. He took a deep breath.

He'd been on his guard throughout the interview, wanting to

appear co-operative but without giving away too much of

himself. The psychologist was there to help, but she also had

the power to remove him from operational work if she felt he

was a danger to himself or others. The interview had gone

well, he thought. He had answered most of her questions truthfully.

But the one thing he'd been expecting her to talk about

she hadn't mentioned: Sue's death and how he was dealing

with it. Shepherd knew she was too smart to have forgotten

to bring it up. That meant she'd deliberately avoided it - for

the time being at least. But Shepherd had no doubt that Kathy

Gift would be back and that she'd want him to open up about

it. It wasn't something to which he was looking forward.

Rashid Malik was British. He had been born in Britain and

he had a British passport. He spoke English with a Birmingham

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317

accent and supported Birmingham City Football Club. He

even had a season ticket to the St Andrews stadium. The

British state had educated him, looked after his health, even

paid him when he didn't feel like working. But now Malik

was prepared to die to strike at the heart of the British establishment.

And to kill as many people as he could.

He lay down in the bathtub and allowed the warm water

to rise over his face. He held his breath and pretended he

was already dead. It felt good. He was at peace, relaxed.

Malik had only been in London for two days and he hadn't

left the studio flat. There was food in the cupboard, fruit

juice and bottled water in the fridge, a prayer mat and a copy

of the Qur'an in the corner of the room. That was all he

needed while he prepared himself.

Malik had been starting primary school in a lower middle

class suburb of Birmingham when the Palestinians announced

their first intifada and began sending suicide bombers against

the Israelis who had stolen their land. When he was ten he

watched the news as the American and British forces invaded

Kuwait in Operation Desert Storm and listened to his father

curse the Saudis for allowing the infidels to use their soil as

a base from which to attack a Muslim nation. Malik moved

to his secondary school during the civil war in Bosnia, and

watched television in horror as the Serbs butchered Muslims

in their thousands while the world did nothing. He left school

when he was seventeen. His teachers said he was clever

enough to go to university, but there was nothing he wanted

to study. He loathed the thought of working in an office or

programming computers. It all seemed so pointless when

fellow Muslims were being murdered around the world. He

tried raising it with the imam at his local mosque but he had

said only that Malik should be grateful to live in a country

where everyone had a place and a voice.

Malik had spent three years either filling supermarket

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r

shelves or on the dole. He had been at home watching television

when two planes slammed into the World Trade Center

in New York and a third hit the Pentagon. When it was revealed

that Muslims had carried out the attacks, he had cheered,

then rushed to his mosque where other young men were

equally excited that someone had stood up to the Americans.

The older members of the mosque had tried to calm them,

tried to tell them that Islam was a peaceful religion, that any

form of killing was wrong and that terrorism against innocent

men, women and children was a sin, no matter what

the provocation. Malik would not listen.

He joined street protests calling on the government not to

join in the invasion of Afghanistan, and helped make petrol

bombs when it became clear that Britain was going to back

President Bush. It was when he saw images of a children's

hospital in Kabul destroyed by an American missile that he

decided protests were not enough. He told his parents he

wanted to spend time in Pakistan, discovering his roots. They

welcomed his decision as an opportunity for him to find a

suitable wife and even paid for his ticket. They gave him a

list of the phone numbers and addresses of family and friends

and cried as he walked through the departure gates at

Heathrow's Terminal Three. It was the last time they had

seen him.

Malik spent a week in Pakistan and didn't call any of the

numbers his parents had given him. He headed north to the

frontier town of Peshawar and met a group of young Muslims

who were as keen to fight American imperialism as he was.

He was taken to a camp where Muslims who wanted to fight

the infidel were recruited and trained. There, they were

desperate for recruits to send to Afghanistan to fight with

the Taliban, but the men who ran the camp were suspicious

of the clean-shaven young man who spoke only English. But

the fact that he had a British passport intrigued them and

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319

they kept him under observation for three weeks, during

which time he did nothing but study the Qur'an, grow a

beard and perform basic exercise drills. Once they were

convinced of his good intentions he was trained in the use

of explosives, light weapons and communications. Malik was

a quick learner, and enthusiastic. He had finally found something

he considered worth studying.

His instructors monitored his progress and were about to

send him to join the Taliban when word came from an alQaeda

aide that Malik was to be moved to a training camp

in the Yemen. There, he was given further intensive training

in terrorism techniques but he spent the bulk of his time

studying the Qur'an and the Hadiths, texts based on the life

of the Prophet Muhammad. Without realising it, Malik was

being nudged towards the passages that glorified martyrdom,

that promised everlasting joy in the shadow of Allah for those

who fought and died in the name of Islam. He was shown

videos of other young volunteers who had sacrificed themselves.

He was told how the shahids - the martyrs - would

never be forgotten on earth and would live for ever in heaven.

Malik watched the videos of bright-eyed men and women,

some not even in their teens, eager to give their lives for the

fight against the infidel.

Afghanistan fell to the Americans, and then it was Iraq's

turn. Malik watched on CNN as the infidels slaughtered

Muslims, then pillaged the country's resources. He saw photographs

of American and British soldiers torturing Iraqi prisoners-of-war

and begged his instructors to send him on a

mission. He was told to wait, that his time would come, that

he was too valuable a resource to be wasted. He was special,

and Allah had a special place for him in heaven.

Bombs exploded in Spain and the Spanish government

pulled its troops out of Iraq; once again, Malik begged his

instructors to use him. Finally his time came. He was told

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I

to shave off his beard and return to the United Kingdom,

not to Birmingham and his parents but to a bedsit in

Derby, where he was to speak to no one other than a man

who would bring him food and clean clothes. He stayed

in the bedsit for two weeks and left the room only once,

at night. He walked to a local graveyard and climbed over

the wall. He found a space between two graves and lay

there, his arms crossed over his chest, trying to imagine

what it would be like to be dead. He closed his eyes under

the star-sprinkled skies and realised he was at peace. Death

was nothing to be scared of. Malik knew that it wouldn't

lead to eternal sleep. The death of a shahid was rewarded

with eternal paradise for himself and his relatives. Death

was to be embraced.

Eventually a second man collected him and drove him to

London in a van that smelt of curry. In London he was

shown into another bedsit and told not to go out. He spent

the days studying the Qur'an and the nights sleeping.

One day the Saudi came to the bedsit, wearing a suit that

looked made to measure and carrying a slim leather briefcase.

Malik didn't know the Saudi's name, nor did he want

to.The Saudi explained that Malik would be given the chance

to strike at the British, to punish them for their actions, to

make a statement that would be heard across the world.

Malik listened to him, then hugged him and thanked him for

the opportunity he was being given. 'Allahu akbar,' he said.

'Allahu akbar,' the Saudi echoed. God is great.

The Saudi told Malik to cleanse himself and prepare for

his mission. When the time came Malik would be given only

an hour's notice. He was to be ready at all times, day or

night.

Shepherd had three mobile phones on the seat of his Toyota.

One rang as he pulled away from the house. It was Hargrove.

321

'Bad news, Spider,' said the superintendent. 'Bad news, and

really bad news.'

'I'm listening,' said Shepherd.

'Where are you?'

'En route to Leman Street. I'm on the two to ten shift.

What's happened?'

'Angie Kerr's dead.'

'What?' It was the last thing Shepherd had expected to

hear.

'She killed herself.'

'She was in custody. How the hell could that have

happened?'

'Sleeping tablets. The custody officer thought she was

asleep. They didn't try waking her until eleven and by then

she was cold.'

Shepherd indicated and pulled over to the side of the road.

'Spider, are you there?'

'How the hell did she get sleeping tablets? Wasn't she

searched when she was taken in?'

'They patted her down but I'm not sure how thoroughly.

It's not as if they expected a weapon. But she had two visitors

yesterday so we think it was one of them.'

'Her husband?'

'Her husband's lawyer and her own lawyer.'

'For God's sake, this is getting worse by the minute. Why

the hell did her husband's lawyer come in?'

'We didn't know the man was his lawyer. She made a call,

said she wanted legal advice before she agreed to any deal

with the GPS. A couple of hours later a lawyer called Gary

Payne turned up and spent ten minutes with her. An hour

later she spent five minutes with her own lawyer, then asked

to go back to her cell.'

'So Payne told her what Kerr planned to do to her and

gave her the tablets?'

322

'That's the way I read it, but it's one thing knowing and

another proving it.'

Shepherd closed his eyes. He'd liked Angie Kerr and,

directly or indirectly, he'd been responsible for her death.

Hargrove wouldn't see it that way, of course, but Shepherd

had made the decision to extend the Hendrickson investigation,

Shepherd had set her up, and Shepherd had been in

the car when she was arrested. If she'd never met him, she'd

still be alive.

'There's more,' said Hargrove. 'Hendrickson's disappeared.'

'He's what?'

'He hasn't been in the office since Friday.'

'For God's sake, this is Wednesday. Wasn't he being

watched?'

Hargrove didn't reply, which meant no.

'So the Kerr case has turned to shit, and Hendrickson's

done a runner?' said Shepherd.

'With the wife dead we've got nothing on the husband,'

said Hargrove.

'So I've wasted the last two weeks,' said Shepherd.

'If we get Hendrickson, he'll go down. Look, I know we

should have had the lid on him, but the local cops have budgetary

considerations. They took the decision to leave him be

until we were ready to move in.'

'This is a bloody nightmare,' said Shepherd. 'What's the

point of me working my balls off if it all turns to shit down

the line? Angie Kerr should have been watched - she was

supposed to have been an asset. Jesus H. Christ, we were

promising her witness protection and we let her husband kill

her.'

'She killed herself,' said Hargrove.

'That's semantics, and you know it,' said Shepherd, bitterly.

'There'll be an inquiry, of course, but life goes on.'

'Yeah,' said Shepherd. 'Life goes on.'

323

'Anything turns up on Hendrickson, I'll let you know,' said

Hargrove.

Shepherd ended the call. He sat in silence, staring through

the windscreen with unseeing eyes. He thought about the

first time he'd met her. The way she'd sat in the car, smoking

and flirting with him. The fear in her eyes when the armed

police had charged out of the van. And now she was dead.

Not only that, she'd killed herself because of the position

he'd put her in. It had been Hargrove's plan, but Shepherd

had forced her into a corner with only one way out. Except

that Angie had found another option. He swore under his

breath. Her husband had killed her, as surely as if he'd put

a gun to her head and pulled the trigger.

Shepherd was drinking a polystyrene cup of strong tea when

the call came in over the main set. An IC One male with a

handgun in MaidaVale. He tossed the cup out of the window

as Sutherland started the car. Rose entered the address, a

council estate off the Harrow Road, into the computer while

Shepherd checked it in the street directory.

'Indian country,' said Rose. 'The locals aren't averse to

taking pot-shots out of spite.'

The three men listened as a female officer relayed the

details of the incident over the radio. 'Neighbour saw a man

with a gun enter number twenty-eight. He forced his way

in. Occupant is a Sharon Jones, estranged from her husband

Barry. He has convictions for assault and there's a restraining

order against him.' Rose scribbled on his clipboard.

'Anyone confirm that it's the husband in the house?' Rose

asked.

'Negative,' said the female officer. 'We have no description

other than IC One.'

'Can you confirm that Barry Jones is IC One?'

'Affirmative,' said the female officer.

324

I

Rose pulled a face. 'It's like pulling teeth sometimes,' he

said.

'I hate domestics,' muttered Sutherland. He flashed the

main beams and cut in front of a double-decker bus. 'Give

me a Yardie with an Ingram any day of the week. You know

where you are with a Yardie. Guy with a grudge against his

wife can do anything. Shoot her, shoot himself, shoot us. It's

like trying to second-guess a rabid dog.'

'Nice analogy,' said Rose.

'You know what I mean,' said Sutherland. 'Criminals with

guns, you can generally figure what they'll do. Citizens are

just plain dangerous.'

They reached the Harrow Road and Sutherland killed the

blues and twos. The traffic was light and there was no point

in announcing their arrival.

They pulled up in front of the housing estate. There were

no police cars, no paramedics. A middle-aged man was sitting

on a small patch of grass in front of number twenty-eight.

Rose frowned and asked the control room who else was

attending.

'A local car is en route] said the female officer.

'Shit, we're first on the scene,' said Rose. 'Come on, break

out the big stuff. Mike, you stay on the main set.'

'Will do,' said Sutherland.

The man on the grass was sitting perfectly still, his hands

in his lap.

Shepherd unlocked the Hecklers and handed one to Rose,

then a magazine. 'Don't you think these'll spook him?' asked

Shepherd.

'My experience, amateurs take one look at an MP5 and

throw their hands in the air,' said Rose.

'Or panic and do something stupid,' said Shepherd. 'It

could go either way. He's got something in his hand and I

reckon it's a gun.'

1

325

'We have to contain the situation,' said Rose.

'Let me talk to him,' said Shepherd.

Rose shook his head emphatically. 'No bloody way,' he

said. 'You're not trained in hostage negotiation.'

'He doesn't have a hostage,' said Shepherd.

'Same difference,' said Rose. 'There are guys trained to

talk to these psychos, and guys trained to shoot them. We

wait for a negotiator.'

'Sarge, the way I see it, one of two things is going to

happen. He's going to pull the trigger or he's going to start

waving that gun around. Either way, he's leaving here in a

body-bag.'

Rose stared at Shepherd. 'You done this sort of thing

before?'

'A couple of times,' lied Shepherd.

'If he even looks like he's going to point his weapon at

you, I'll take him out,' said Rose.

'I'd want you to,' said Shepherd.

Rose nodded slowly. 'Keep out of my line of fire.'

'Will do.'

'And if I tell you to get out of there, you do it.'

'Cheers, Sarge.'

'I just hope you know what you're doing.'

Shepherd put the MP5 into the boot of the Vauxhall and

reached for his Glock.

'You're not going in without a gun,' said Rose.

'I want to show him I'm no threat.'

'So leave it in your holster.'

'If it's holstered, I won't have time to draw it anyway,' said

Shepherd.

'You do understand why they call us armed police, don't

you?'

'If he sees a gun, be it an MP5 or a Glock, he'll panic'

'Take the Taser, then.' The ARVs were equipped with

326

Taser guns capable of firing electrode-tipped wires up to

twenty-one feet and delivering a debilitating 50,000-volt electric

shock that would drop a man in less than a second.

'Any sort of weapon could set him off,' said Shepherd. He

made the Glock safe and put it into the ballistic bag in the

boot with his CS spray and retractable baton. He took a deep

breath. 'Into the valley of death,' he said, then winked at

Rose. 'It'll be fine, Sarge.' He turned and walked towards the

house, his arms out at his sides, palms open to show that he

wasn't carrying.

Jones was sitting cross-legged on the grass. As Shepherd

approached, he lifted the barrel of his handgun and pressed

it against his right temple. Shepherd stopped a dozen paces

in front of him. 'Barry, I'm going to need you to do something

for me,' he said quietly.

'Fuck off,' said Jones. He looked as if he hadn't washed or

shaved for several days and Shepherd could smell the man's

body odour.

'Listen to me, Barry. I need you to keep that gun exactly

where it is, jammed up against your head.'

IJones frowned. 'What?'

Shepherd nodded at Rose. 'See that guy over there? If you

start waving that gun around, he'll shoot you.'

'He'll be saving me the trouble.'

'Just so you know,' said Shepherd. 'As long as you keep

— the gun where it is, we'll all be okay.'

'Just piss off and let me get on with it,' said Jones.

'You want to tell me what's made you so angry?'

'What are you? A shrink?'

¦ 'I'm the guy who's going to have to write the report if this

turns to shit,' said Shepherd, 'and I hate writing reports.'

Jones stared at him. 'You're wasting your time establishing

a rapport with me. I'm not interested.' His finger tightened on

fl the trigger. The gun was a Chinese knock-off of a Colt .45.

I

327

It was old but it was in good condition and the barrel glistened

with fresh oil.

'Where did you get the gun from, Barry?' asked Shepherd.

'Using my first name isn't going to win me over,' said

Jones.

'Just curious,' said Shepherd. 'You don't see too many of

those. Practically a collector's item.'

'I brought it back from Afghanistan. Souvenir.'

'You were in the army?'

'Sort of. Look, piss off and let me get this done, will you?'

Shepherd sat down slowly, taking care to make no sudden

movements. 'I need to take the weight off,' he said. 'Been on

my feet all day.' He stretched out his legs. 'The missus giving

you grief, is she?' he asked.

'Ex-missus. As of yesterday.'

'And what's this about? Winning her back?'

'You don't know what you're talking about.'

Tyres squealed and a second ARV came round the corner.

Shepherd couldn't see who was inside it. The Vauxhall braked

and stopped behind Rose's car.

'Reinforcements,' said Jones. 'The more the merrier.' He

took the gun away from his head.

'Keep the gun where it is, Barry,' said Shepherd. 'They

won't do anything while I'm here.'

'You think I'm scared of a few Robocops?'

'No, but if you do anything threatening, they'll blow you

away.'

'So long as I'm dead I don't see it matters who does the

job,' said Jones.

Shepherd glanced over his shoulder. Rose was behind the

Vauxhall, his MP5 targeted on Jones's chest. The doors of

the newly arrived ARV opened and two men hurried over

to Rose, bent at the waist.

'What were you doing in Afghanistan?' asked Shepherd.

328

'That's classified,' said Jones. 'I could tell you, but I'd have

to kill you.'

Shepherd smiled. So long as the man had his sense of

humour, there was less chance of him pulling the trigger.

'Must have been hairy,' said Shepherd.

'It was no picnic' Jones took a deep breath, then let it out

slowly.

'You were in the Sass?' Jones was almost a decade older

than Shepherd so it was just about possible that they had

served at the same time. Shepherd was sure he'd never met the man, though.

Jones shrugged. 'What's it to you?'

'I'm just trying to understand why you're doing this, that's

all.'

'Post-traumatic stress syndrome, is that what you think?'

said Jones, contemptuously. 'You really are an amateur shrink,

aren't you?'

'If it's not stress, what is it? What you're doing isn't rational

- you've got to admit that, right? Sitting on the grass with

a gun pointed at your head.'

'Quicker than hanging or slicing my wrists.'

'Unless the gun jerks and you only blow off a piece of

your skull. Then you spend the rest of your life being fed

through a tube.'

'It won't jerk,' said Jones. He nodded at Rose. 'Is he any

good with that thing?'

'Probably not as good as you,' said Shepherd.

Jones grinned ruefully. 'Not fired a Five for years,' he said.

'Like riding a bike,' said Shepherd. 'Why did you leave the

Regiment?'

'RTUd. Just couldn't hack it any more.'

Life in the SAS was tough, and while some troopers

served virtually their whole career in the Regiment, others

burned out after just a few years. Shepherd had always felt

329

he could have done a full twenty years, but that was before

Sue had become pregnant with Liam. Children changed

everything.

'Couldn't hack the regular army either, not after being in

the Sass. Went back to Civvy Street and it was pretty much

downhill from then on.'

Shepherd's earpiece crackled. 'We've got you covered, Stu.

Any sign that he's getting aggressive and you hit the ground.'

Rose's voice was close to a whisper so there was no chance

of Jones overhearing.

Shepherd nodded towards the house. 'Sharon's an army

wife?'

'Met her after I left. She got pregnant first time we slept

together and that was it. Game over.'

'Boy or girl?'

'Girl. You got kids?'

'No.'

'Keep it that way,' said Jones. 'They bring you nothing but

grief and misery, wives and kids.'

'You don't mean that,' said Shepherd.

'You don't know what I mean.'

'I know most people say that kids are what life is about.'

'Yeah? And what if your wife uses your kid as a weapon

to beat you over the head with? What if she poisons the kid

against you so that she won't even talk to you on the phone

because she's been told that you're the meanest bastard on

God's earth?'

'I'm sorry,' said Shepherd, but regretted the words as soon

as they'd left his mouth.

'No, you're not,' said Jones. 'You're trying to connect so

that you can talk me out of doing what I'm going to do.'

'That's my job,' said Shepherd. 'It's what I'm paid to do.'

'Yeah, well, enjoy it while you can because when they've

no more use for you you'll be out on the streets.' Jones took

330

another deep breath. 'You should leave now before you get

blood on that nice clean Robocop uniform.'

'At least tell me why you're so keen to end it all. I thought

the Sass never gave up. Fought to the last man. Never give

up, never leave a man behind.'

Jones narrowed his eyes as he looked at Shepherd. 'Do I

know you?'

'No.'

'What did you do before you were a cop?'

'Always been a cop.'

'Never been in the army?'

'Never wanted to sleep in a barracks,' said Shepherd.

'You look the type, that's all.'

'What type?'

'The type who passes selection, gets badged.'

'Is it as tough as they say it is?'

'Tougher than you can ever imagine. The Regiment has

never lowered its standards. Your lot, they let anyone in now,

right? Height restrictions went, then they lowered fitness

levels. Now, providing you've got a pulse, you can be a cop.

But the Sass, if you're not the best, don't even think about

it.'

'And how do you get from there to here?' asked Shepherd.

An ambulance turned into the street. No siren, no flashing

lights. Softly, softly.

'You mean how did my life turn to shit? Reality, mate. A

wife who thought she was marrying a hero, a daughter who

thinks I hate her, a world that doesn't give a shit about who

I was or what I did. You'll find out the same, once you leave

the police. You are what you do, and when you stop doing

it, your life stops too.' He gestured at the house. A curtain

flickered at an upstairs window. 'Think she even cares what

happens to me? She's got a restraining order against me. I'm

not supposed to come within half a mile of her.'

331

'Why's that?'

'Because she lied, told the judge I beat the crap out of her.

I never did. On my daughter's life I never lifted a finger to

her. I've never hit a woman. Never have and never will. Now

she's got herself another man and I'm still paying her half

of everything I earn. Which is half of fuck-all.' Jones took a

deep breath. 'This is a waste of time,' he said. 'Mine and

yours.'

'I'm not going anywhere,' said Shepherd.

'You talk me out of doing this now, I go to jail for a few

months and I'll still end up topping myself. Might as well

let me get it over with.'

'What is it you want, Barry?'

'I want you to tell my daughter I loved her,' said Jones.

'Can you do that for me?'

'Barry--'

The gun went off and the top of Jones's head exploded.

Blood splattered across Shepherd's cheek but most of the

brain and skull fragments sprayed over the grass. Jones's

shoulders hit the ground with a dull thud. For a second or

two Shepherd thought Rose had fired but his ears were ringing

and he realised Jones had pulled the trigger.

'Stu, are you okay?' Rose's voice crackled in Shepherd's

ear.

Shepherd nodded but didn't say anything. The gun lay on

the ground, the barrel pointing towards him. Jones's eyes

were wide open. His left leg twitched once, then was still.

There was a faint gurgling sound in his chest, which stopped.

Boots thudded across the grass. Shepherd felt a hand on

his shoulder. 'Stu, are you hit?' It was Rose, but he sounded

as if he was talking through water.

Shepherd continued to stare at Jones. A fist-sized chunk

of his skull was missing and blood pooled on the grass. There

were shouts in the distance and a woman screamed.

332

?

Rose knelt in front of Shepherd, put his hands on his

shoulders and looked into his eyes. 'Come on, mate, it's okay.'

'It's not okay,' said Shepherd flatly.

'You did everything you could. It wasn't your fault.'

'Who's fault was it, then?'

'He shot himself - no one forced him to pull the trigger.

Just be grateful that no one else got hurt.'

Rose pulled Shepherd to his feet. Two paramedics rushed

across the grass with a trolley but slowed when they saw the

damage to the man's skull.

Rose put an arm round Shepherd and guided him away

from the body. 'You need a drink,' he said.

'I'm fine,' said Shepherd.

'First time you've seen a kill?'

'No, but it's the first time I've seen anyone kill themselves,'

he said. 'He was talking to me and then . . .'

'Did he mean to do it? It wasn't an accident?'

'He knew what he was doing. The gun he had doesn't have

a hair trigger. You don't fire it by mistake.' Shepherd looked

over his shoulder at the paramedics who were zipping Jones

into a black plastic body-bag. 'I fucked up,' he said.

'No, you didn't,' said Rose. 'He was hell-bent on doing it.

There was nothing you could have said or done.'

Shepherd wondered if that was true. Maybe if he'd told

Jones that he, too, had been in the SAS, maybe if he'd made

that connection Jones would have talked for longer. And if

he'd kept talking maybe Shepherd could have persuaded him

not to take his life. But Rule Number One of living undercover

was that you never told an outsider who you really were.

Rose put his arm round Shepherd's shoulders. 'You did

the best you could, Stu. There aren't many guys who would

have gone out there the way you did.'

Shepherd gestured at the house. 'The guy's daughter, is

she in there?'

333

'Yeah. Emma, her name is.'

Shepherd shook off Rose's arm and headed for the house.

'Where are you going?' asked Rose.

'I've got something to tell her,' said Shepherd.

Charlie Kerr poured himself a large measure of gin, splashed

in tonic water and dropped in a slice of lemon. He drained

half, then poured in more gin and belched.

He took a roll of black rubbish bags from one of the

kitchen drawers and went upstairs. He put the glass between

the twin basins in the master bathroom, then picked up

Angie's cosmetics and dumped them into one of the bags.

He took her sanitary towels from the cupboard under the

sink, her soap, her shampoo, her medicines, her cotton buds,

everything she had ever touched, and tossed them into the

bag. He took a long pull at his gin and tonic, checked that

he hadn't forgotten anything, then smiled at his reflection in

the mirror. He'd be able to bring back all the women he

wanted now. There was no nagging wife to bitch and moan.

He carried the bag into the bedroom and dropped it on

to the king-size bed. He pulled open the drawers in the

dressing-table, grabbed handfuls of her underwear and thrust

it into the bag with her brushes, combs and hair spray. The

book she was reading - the latest John Grisham - went in,

with her alarm clock and slippers. He'd barely started on her

wardrobes before the bag was full. He knotted the top, opened

the bedroom window and threw it out. It landed on the lawn

with a thump. He cursed when he saw it had burst and the

contents were strewn across the grass.

Eddie Anderson appeared from behind the garage. 'You

okay, boss?'

'Sort that out, Eddie.' He went back to the wardrobes and

filled the rest of the bags with Angie's clothing. Gary Payne

had told him she was dead. But the moment she had climbed

334

r

into the car with Tony Nelson, she'd signed her own death

warrant. No way could he have let her live. She'd wanted

him dead so badly she'd been prepared to pay a stranger to

put a bullet in his head. 'Stupid cow,' Kerr muttered. Stupid

to have thought she could ever get the better of him. Stupid

not to have spotted that she was dealing with an undercover

cop. Stupid to have thought he would let her live. Now she

was dead and soon Tony Nelson would be, too.

He finished filling another bag with Angie's clothes and

tossed it out of the window. Tony Nelson had it coming,

whether or not he was a cop. He must have known who Kerr

was. He must know who he was dealing with. And despite

that, despite Kerr's reputation, he'd still tried to entrap Angie.

That was what riled Kerr more than anything: the fact that

Nelson, or whatever his real name was, thought he was so

much smarter than Kerr. Til show you,' muttered Kerr. Til

fucking show you what happens when you mess with Charlie

Kerr.'

There'd be an inquest, of course, but there was no doubt

that Angie had taken her own life. The cops would want to

know how she got hold of the sleeping tablets and they'd be

looking for someone to blame. Payne would never tell, of

course. Kerr paid him handsomely for his loyalty.The custody

sergeant would probably end up taking the blame for not

searching her properly. And if that happened, Kerr would

take pleasure in suing the police for millions. He smiled malevolently.

Sutherland

drove the ARV into the car park from East Tenter

Street and parked next to an undercover van belonging to

the Specialist Firearms teams. It had the name of a fictitious

florist on the side and a stencilled bunch of flowers that looked

as if it had been done by a five-year-old.

Shepherd unlocked the gun-holder and handed the MP5S

335

to Rose and Sutherland, then he climbed out and stretched.

The heavy bulletproof vest played havoc with his spine but

it had to be worn. He followed Rose and Sutherland through

the rear entrance and along to the armoury. Two Specialist

Firearms officers were already making their MP5S safe, the

barrels pointed into Kevlar-lined metal containers with sand

at the bottom while they pulled out the magazines and checked

there were no rounds in the breech. The police were safety

conscious to a fault. It was a far cry from the laid-back attitude

of the SAS where live weapons were carried as casually

as mobile phones.

Rose and Sutherland unloaded, checked their carbines and

Glocks, then handed them over to the armoury officer. As

Shepherd cleared his weapons, Rose and Sutherland counted

their ammunition and handed it in. 'You okay, Stu?' asked

Rose.

'Knackered,' said Shepherd.

'You need a pint at the Bull's Head,' said Rose.

'Nah, raincheck,' said Shepherd. 'I need some kip.'

'What happened today, there's people you can talk to here.

I don't know how they did it north of the border but we've

got psychiatrists and occupational health advisors on tap.'

Shepherd gave his Glock and ammunition to the armoury

officer. 'We had them in Glasgow, but they're more trouble

than they're worth. I'll go for a run when I get home.'

'At night?'

'Best time,' said Shepherd. 'Not so many cars around. A

few miles will clear my head.'

'What you did today, it was above and beyond, you know?'

'Didn't do any good, did it?'

'You tried, and that was more than a lot of guys would

have done.' Rose patted Shepherd's shoulder. 'He was going

to do it anyway, no matter what you said to him. He just

wanted an audience.'

336

Shepherd knew Rose was right, but that didn't make it

an5' easier to deal with. He looked down at his bulletproof

vest. There were still spots of Jones's blood on it.

Shepherd woke with a start. His heart was pounding and he

swung his feet off the bed. He sat with his head in his hands,

trying to work out why he had been so affected by Barry

Jones's suicide. He had seen men die at close range, and

some had been friends and colleagues. Jones was a stranger

- yet he was the one giving him nightmares. He stood up

and took deep breaths. He was wearing only pyjama bottoms

and padded down the landing to the bathroom. He drank

from the cold tap.

The door to Liam's bedroom was open and the glow of

his nightlight seeped out. Shepherd went into the room and

found Liam on his side, mouth open, hair over his eyes.

Shepherd knelt beside the bed and brushed it off his face.

He couldn't imagine what it was like for an eight-year-old

boy to lose his mother - to see her die. He shook his head,

trying to kill the train of thought.

Shepherd rested his forehead against his son's cheek and

swore silently that he'd never put Liam through the pain that

Emma Jones was now going through. He had lost one parent

and that was enough. Liam murmured in his sleep, and

Shepherd kissed him, then returned to his room and lay down.

He pulled the quilt up to his chin but he doubted that he'd

get any more sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes

he was back on the housing estate, waiting for Barry Jones

to pull the trigger.

Eddie Anderson wasn't happy about the way things were

going, but he knew there was no way he could tell Kerr.

Charlie Kerr didn't listen to anyone except maybe Gary

Payne, but even the lawyer had to tread carefully. Eddie drove

337

in the outside lane at a steady ninety miles an hour, flashing

his headlights at anyone in front of him. It wasn't the way

he preferred to drive, but it was what Kerr wanted. Kerr

hated being overtaken, so Anderson kept his foot hard on

the accelerator and checked the rear-view mirror every couple

of seconds.

He was sorry about what had happened to Mrs Kerr. She

had never seemed the type who'd want to kill herself, but

he'd never thought she'd be stupid enough to try to have

Kerr killed. Charlie Kerr was a face, and anyone she hired

to kill him would soon realise they'd bitten off more than

they could chew.

Anderson didn't approve of the way that Kerr had treated

his wife, but it wasn't his place to say anything. What Kerr

had done, throwing her stuff out of the window before her

body was even cold, that was wrong, too, but Anderson still

hadn't said anything. Kerr had made him burn the lot at the

end of the garden. He'd had to siphon petrol from the Range

Rover to get it going, and he'd used a garden fork to keep

turning the clothes until there was nothing left but ashes.

The brushes and combs had melted and he'd smashed the

perfume bottles.

Anderson had reservations about why they were driving

to London, but he could tell that Kerr was in no mood to

take, or even tolerate, any advice. He would have to hold his

counsel. He looked across at Ray Wates. It was obvious from

the way he was grinding his teeth that he was as unhappy

as Anderson about what was happening. Kerr sat in the back,

chain-smoking. A sawn-off shotgun and two silenced automatics

were in the boot.

It was madness, thought Anderson, as the Range Rover

powered past a coachload of Japanese tourists. They were

driving to London to kill a cop. It made no sense at all. If

Kerr wanted the cop killed, he could pay a professional,

338

7

someone who could take the time to do it right. Kerr was

behaving irrationally and had been since he'd watched Angie

get into the car with the undercover cop. There was a glazed

look in his eyes, and he kept smiling to himself. He'd been

taking cocaine, too, and in the rear-view mirror Anderson

saw Kerr sniff and wipe his nose with the back of his hand.

Anderson had a bad feeling about the way Kerr was

behaving. If they succeeded in killing the cop, the police

would do whatever it took to track them down and bring

them to justice. If they failed, God alone knew how it would

end.

'You okay, Eddie?' asked Kerr.

'Sure, boss,' said Anderson.

'Something on your mind? You're breathing like a train.'

'Nothing, boss.'

'Glad to hear it.' Kerr opened the rear window, flicked out

the butt, then lit a fresh cigarette.

It had been a quiet shift: the ARV had spent most of its time

cruising around Central London. They had been called out

to Hamp stead Heath in the early evening by nervous gays

after there had been reports of two men with guns prowling

around. It turned out to be two teenagers with airguns,

shooting squirrels, which had prompted Sutherland into an

hour of anti-gay jokes. Towards the end of the shift they

helped a team of CID officers from Paddington Green police

station arrest two suspected terrorists, but the men weren't

armed and went quietly, protesting their innocence.

They drove in through the East Tenter Street entrance five

minutes before their shift was due to end. Sutherland noted

the mileage and fuel details as Rose and Shepherd went inside.

They unloaded their weapons and handed them in at the

armoury, then went together to the locker room and changed

into civilian clothing.

339

'Quick one before you head off?' asked Rose.

'Sure,' said Shepherd. He wanted to go home but it was

important to keep building bridges with Rose and Sutherland.

Several times he had dropped hints about being short of

money but he couldn't do it too often. Soon after he'd joined

Hargrove's undercover unit, Shepherd had memorised a host

of sports statistics going back five years and could talk knowledgeably

about football, horseracing and boxing. He wasn't

interested in sport but most villains were, and the information

was useful to back up his legend as an enthusiastic, and

unsuccessful, gambler.

They waited for Sutherland, then walked together out of

the main entrance. Immediately next door was a pub called

Mr Pickwick's, a green frontage with a restaurant upstairs.

'What about here?' asked Shepherd.

'Too close to home,' said Sutherland. 'Every man and his

dog walks by. Can't relax.'

They headed down Leman Street and into the Bull's Head,

where half a dozen Specialist Firearms officers were standing

at the bar. 'White team,' said Rose.

Sutherland and Shepherd went over to a table and sat

down. Rose carried over their drinks and they toasted each

other.

'Any news of Andy?' asked Shepherd.

Sutherland frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'Just wondered if there was any news, that's all'

'I don't think we're expecting any,' said Rose. 'He's done

a bunk - I don't see how he can show his face here again.'

'Strange business, all said and done,' said Shepherd. He

raised his glass. 'What the hell? It got me back to London,

didn't it?'

Anderson twisted in his seat. The Range Rover was parked

down the road from the Leman Street building and they had

34O

r

watched Nelson and two of his colleagues walk to the Bull's

Head.

'We wait for him to come out,' said Kerr. He had a silenced

automatic on his lap. 'Then we teach the bastard a lesson.'

'That pub's full of armed cops,' saidWates. He was holding

the sawn-off shotgun between his legs. Anderson had a

silenced automatic at his feet.

'They don't take their guns home with them, Ray,' said

Kerr. 'It's against the rules. That's the great thing about doing

what we do. There are no rules.' He rubbed his nose and

sniffed.

Anderson wasn't happy about his boss snorting cocaine,

especially not when he was going to be waving a gun around.

Drugs and guns were a dangerous mix. And drugs, guns and

Charlie Kerr were about as dangerous a mix as you could

wish for.

Shepherd and Rose left the Bull's Head at just after eleven.

They walked back to the underground car park where the

SO 19 officers kept their cars, arguing over who was the

best boxer of all time, a conversation that had started in

II the pub.

Shepherd drove out first, beeping his horn and waving

goodbye to the sergeant. He didn't see the black Range Rover

pull away from the kerb and follow at a safe distance.

Kerr looked around. The streets were deserted. 'We should

do this now,' he said. 'He's gonna see us if we leave it

much longer.' He clicked off the safety. 'Let's do the bastard

now.'

Anderson glanced at Wates. He looked as worried as

Anderson felt. Attacking a cop in the street was just plain

stupid, but Kerr had taken it personally, and that, with the

cocaine, had pushed him over the edge. There was nothing

34i

T

they could say to him - or nothing that wouldn't make him

as angry with them as he was with Nelson.

'Whatever you say, boss,' said Anderson.

'Don't fire that unless you have to,' Kerr said to Wates.

'Let's try to do this as quietly as we can.'

Ahead, the Toyota was stopping at a set of traffic-lights

turning from amber to red.

'Okay, let's do it,' said Kerr. 'Let's do the bastard.'

Rose was about a hundred yards from the traffic-lights when

he saw the Range Rover pull up next to Marsden's Toyota.

He was braking when he saw the rear passenger door of the

Range Rover open and a man get out. At first Rose thought »

the man was going to ask directions but then he saw the gun

in his hand. A large automatic with a silencer.

The man took a step towards the Toyota just as the front

passenger door opened and a second man got out with a M

sawn-off shotgun.

Shepherd sat with his fingers loosely on the steeringwheel, M

deep in thought. Liam would be asleep when he got home. I

The way things were going, he was seeing as little of his son

as he was when Liam was in Hereford with his grandparents.

The sooner he got on the day shift the better, because

then he could spend the evenings with him. Help him with

his homework. Read him a story. Do some real father-and

son stuff.

He heard car doors open and turned. Two men were in

the road, staring at him, a black Range Rover behind them.

Shepherd experienced a surge of adrenaline as he recognised

them. Charlie Kerr and Ray Wates. And they had guns.

Rose banged on his horn. He was reacting instinctively, not

caring who the men were or why they had guns. All he knew

342 i

was that Stu Marsden was in danger and he had to help.

Ahead of him, the first man out of the Range Rover was

bringing his gun to bear on the Toyota.

Shepherd bent down and groped under the front passenger

seat for his SIG-Sauer. As he sat up again he saw Kerr

turning to look at the rear of the Toyota. He heard a horn

blare and an engine roar. He pushed open the door.

Kerr heard the car roar up behind them, then a squeal of

brakes. He swore. Some interfering busybody was about to

get what was coming to them if they weren't careful. He

pointed the gun at the car and gestured with it so that the

driver could see he was armed. Most people pissed themselves

at the sight of a gun. In another life Kerr had been

an armed robber and he'd only ever had to fire his gun once

in anger. Banks, post offices, jewellers, it didn't matter: as

soon as he produced a shooter everyone dived for cover.

As Shepherd opened the Toyota's door, Wates swung round

the shotgun, but he was too slow. Shepherd whipped the

barrel of the SIG-Sauer across his face and heard the cheekbone

crack. Wates didn't go down, though, and he brought

the gun up again. Shepherd grabbed at the shotgun with his

left hand and brought his knee up into Wates's stomach.

Wates doubled over, blood streaming from the cut on his

cheek. Shepherd brought the butt of the gun down on the

side of his head and kicked the shotgun under the Range

Rover. Wates slumped to the ground.

Rose saw the gun in the man's hand. There was a silencer

on the end. He hit the main beam sending a tunnel of dazzling

light down the road. There was little an unarmed man could

do against a man with a gun but he was damned if he was

343

going to let Marsden take a bullet. He gunned the engine

and moved the car forward.

Anderson watched, horrified, as Wates fell, blood pouring

from his face. Now Kerr was turning towards Nelson, his

upper lip curled back in a sneer, the barrel of the gun pointing

up at the night sky. Anderson groped around for his weapon.

He knew it had been a bad idea from the start, but now he

had to see it through.

Kerr heard Wates go down and faced the Toyota. He brought

up his gun. The headlights had dazzled him but he could

make out Nelson standing over Wates. His finger tightened

on the trigger and he aimed the gun at Nelson's head. He

gritted his teeth, blinking rapidly. The gun fired but the bullet

went way over Nelson's head. Kerr bellowed in frustration

and took aim again.

Anderson heard a dull pop and realised Kerr had fired. He

transferred his own gun to his left hand and fumbled for the

door handle with the other. His bowels felt liquid and he

feared that he was going to wet himself. The door opened

and he stumbled out into the road.

Rose saw the man lurch out of the driver's side of the Range

Rover. Marsden had hit one of the men but it was still two

against one and unless Rose did something, Marsden would

die. Then he realised he had a weapon he could use against

the men. He stamped on the accelerator and the car leaped

forward.

Shepherd heard the roar of the engine as he dropped into a

crouch. The first shot had missed his head by inches and

Kerr was about to fire again. Shepherd swung up his SIG

344

Sauer and fired twice in quick succession. Both shots hit

Kerr in the chest and he fell backwards, mouth working

soundlessly.

Shepherd turned sideways and saw Anderson taking aim,

his face contorted by fear or hatred. Shepherd swung his

gun round but Anderson had him in his sights. All he had

to do was pull the trigger and it would all be over.

Rose gripped the steering-wheel and pressed his foot on the

brake, not too hard because he wasn't wearing his seatbelt.

The car smashed into the man with the gun, hurling him

against the door of the Range Rover with such force that it

broke off its hinges. The man fell back on to the door, arms

flailing. The gun fell out of his hand, and he slumped to the

Tarmac.

Rose climbed out of the car. Marsden was leaning against

his Toyota, both hands on the butt of his gun.

'What the hell's going on?' asked Rose.

'We've got to get out of here.'

'You just shot a man,' said Rose.

'Rosie, I can't be caught here,' he said. He tucked the gun

into the waistband of his trousers. 'I'm not going down for

this.'

Rose glared at him. 'Okay, follow me,' he said. He got back

into the car, reversed away from the Range Rover, then sped

off down the road.

Shepherd followed Rose as he drove off the main road and

zigzagged through side-streets, his eyes constantly checking

the rear-view mirror. They weren't being followed. Rose

parked behind an overflowing builder's skip, got out of the

car, jogged to the Toyota and climbed into the front passenger

seat. 'What the hell was that about, Stu?'

Shepherd couldn't tell Rose the truth about Kerr, because

345

Shepherd was an undercover cop and Rose was his target.

'Just leave it, Rosie,' he said. If Rose reported what had

happened, Shepherd's assignment was over. If Shepherd told

Rose who Kerr was, his assignment was over. The only way

out would be to use what had happened to his advantage.

'Leave it?' said Rose. 'You just shot a man and I hit one

with my car.'

'They attacked me, remember?'

'So why aren't we calling this in?' asked Rose. 'Why did

we run? And what the hell were you doing with a gun?'

Shepherd shrugged and avoided eye-contact. The pressure

had to come from Rose. 'Just forget it ever happened.'

'What the hell is wrong with you?' asked Rose. 'Have you

any idea how much shit we're in?'

Shepherd's mind was racing for a workable story. It was

always best to go in with the legend in place so that all contingencies

could be anticipated. In a good undercover operation

every move was planned in advance so that nothing

could go wrong. Thinking on your feet got the adrenaline

going but it could lead all too easily to disaster.

'I mean it, Stu. Tell me what the fuck you've got yourself

into, or I call this in, right now.'

Shepherd took a deep breath. 'I owed them money.'

'So they were from the Halifax, were they? You behind on

your mortgage?'

Shepherd flashed him a sarcastic smile. 'Good to see you've

kept your sense of humour,' he said.

'It must be one hell of a lot of money for them to come

after you with guns.'

'Thirty grand, and some,' said Shepherd.

Rose raised his eyebrows. 'How the hell did you run up a

debt like that?'

'I don't want to get into this. It was my own fault, and

now I've got to sort it.'

346

'Yeah, regular Gary Cooper, you are.' Rose leaned towards

him and dropped his voice to a low whisper. 'Think of this

as a confession. You have sinned, my son, but by repenting

you will be saved.'

'I'm not a Catholic,' said Shepherd.

Rose's voice hardened. 'And I'm not a fucking priest. I

saved your life back there, so spill your guts.'

'It's a gambling debt,' said Shepherd, slowly. 'At least,

twenty grand is. There's more than ten grand of juice. Interest.'

'And you can't pay?'

'For fuck's sake, Rosie, didn't you hear what I just said?

Thirty grand. Could you lay your hands on thirty grand

cash? That's more than a year's salary after tax and insurance

and all the rest of the shit they take off us.'

'Haven't you got a house you could have mortgaged?'

'The only asset I've got is the car.'

'How bad a gambler are you? You're what, thirty-three,

thirty-four, and the only thing you've got to your name is a

three-year-old Toyota?'

'I had a bad year,' said Shepherd. 'Okay, a couple of bad

years.'

'Horses?'

'Some horses. But football recently. Long-odds stuff.

Liverpool to win three-one with Owen scoring twice, that

sort of stuff.'

'Is that why you had to leave Scotland?'

Rose had taken the bait. Shepherd had set up the story

and Rose was filling in the gaps, which was always the best

way. He nodded.

'And you thought by moving to London they wouldn't

find you?'

Shepherd nodded again. 'My father's here, though, and he

does need me around. But, yeah, I thought they wouldn't be

able to find me down here.'

347

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the engine click

as it cooled.

'The gun,' said Rose, eventually. 'Where did it come from?'

'I bought it from a guy in Glasgow. It's untraceable. I

needed protection.'

'Suppose I offered you a way of getting thirty grand. And

more.'

Shepherd knew what was coming next. 'I'm listening,' he

said.

'We can help each other, two birds with one stone.'

'What did you have in mind?'

'What happened out there, we're in this together.'

'No arguments there,' agreed Shepherd.

'Are you prepared to take it a step further? Become proactive?'

'If

the rewards are there, sure. Depends what you have in

mind.'

'Remember the pizza place? Mike was saying you made

a crack about the money.'

'It was just that. A crack.'

'But it was a good point. Drugs money is fair game. You

take it, who loses out? Drugs-dealers. Do we care? Of course

we don't. Does anyone?'

'What are you saying?' said Shepherd, although he knew

exactly what Rose was proposing. It was what he'd been

working towards over the past week. The attack on his life

had been unforeseen, but it had shown Rose that Shepherd

had the qualities to take Andy Ormsby's place.

'I'm saying that if the circumstances were right, we could

help each other. I need a lot of cash.'

'For Kelly?'

Rose's eyes narrowed. 'Who told you about her?'

'Mike said she was ill.'

'That was none of his business. Or yours.'

348

Shepherd held up his hands. 'It came up in conversation.

But it gives you a reason for needing money, so I see where

you're coming from.'

'You've no idea where I'm coming from,' he said. 'You 11 haven't the faintest idea.'

'She's really sick?'

'She's going to die unless I do something. But that's not

the issue. The issue is how far you're prepared to go. I've

got the weaponry, I'm in the process of gathering the intel.

All I need is the manpower.'

'You mean there's more than you and me?'

* 'It takes a three-man team.'

'You, me and . . . ?'

Rose smiled tightly. 'Let me talk to the third party first.

Just in case . . .'

'Just in case he doesn't trust me?'

'It's like being in the ARV. We all have to trust each other

one thousand per cent. We've all got too much to risk.'

'Assuming he's okay with me, what's the next step?' '') 'We work out where and when.'

] 'And we rip off a drugs-dealer?'

'That's the plan.'

Shepherd whistled softly. 'You are one hell of a dark horse.'

'I'll fix up a meet tomorrow and call you.'

Shepherd ran a hand through his hair. 'How soon before

we move?'

'Next week. I've got a deadline, money-wise.'

«> Shepherd sat in his car for a while, looking at his house. His

heart was still racing. He felt guilty, but not because of what

he'd done to the men who'd attacked him. He'd reacted

instinctively, as he'd been trained.The guilt came from having

lied to Rose. He liked the man. He was a good cop, too, reliable

and disciplined, and he'd crossed the line because he

349

wanted to provide for his daughter. He'd helped Shepherd

in the street, with little or no thought for his own safety. If

Rose hadn't turned up there was a good chance that he

would have been killed. Rose had saved his life, but Shepherd

didn't want to dwell on that. Rose's reward was going to be

a long prison sentence, and Shepherd didn't want to think

what that would mean for his daughter.

He let himself into the house. There was a light on in the

kitchen and Katra was at the sink, washing up. 'Hiya, Katra,'

he said. She was wearing a white dressing-gown. For a

moment he thought it was Sue's, but then he realised it fitted

Katra perfectly and she was smaller than his wife had been.

He switched on the kettle.

'I'll make you coffee,' said Katra. 'And I have a beef and

paprika stew and baked potatoes in the oven.'

'It's nearly midnight!' exclaimed Shepherd.

'You have eaten already?' she asked.

'No, but I worry about you staying up so late on my

account when you've got to take Liam to school. How was

he today?'

'He is a good boy,' she said. 'He wants to spend more time

with you.'

'I know. I won't always be as busy as this. These shifts are

unusual.' Even as the words left his mouth, Shepherd knew

he wasn't telling the truth. He often worked late, no matter

what case he was on, and sometimes he was away for days

on end. Villains didn't work nine to five, and neither did

undercover cops. 'I've got to make a call first,' he said. 'Thanks

for the food.'

She beamed.

'You go to bed. I'll get it out of the oven.'

Shepherd waited until she had gone upstairs, then phoned

Hargrove. 'I'm in,' he said. 'Rose tried to recruit me tonight.'

'Excellent,' said Hargrove. 'That was quick work.'

350

I

'I had help,' said Shepherd. He explained to the superintendent

about Kerr's attack and how he'd reacted.

'What state are the casualties in?' Hargrove asked.

'Kerr's dead, I'm sure. Shot in the chest. I hit Wates hard.

Anderson was hit by Rose's car. I'm sorry it got so messy.'

'Not your fault, Spider. I guess what we need to worry

about is how the hell Kerr found out who you are.'

'He could have followed me from Manchester. But if he

did, shame on me for not spotting it.'

'The Manchester operation was over and Angie Kerr was

in custody. You were heading home.'

'And I let my guard down.' It was something he was going

to have to think about. If Kerr had followed him to Leman

Street, he could just as easily have gone to his home. His

carelessness had put his son at risk. That was unforgivable.

'What happens next?' asked Hargrove.

'Rose is going to call me tomorrow and set up a meet with

his partner.'

'We'll arrange surveillance,' said Hargrove.

'No,' said Shepherd quickly. 'They're cops, they'll know

what to look for. I'm not even going to wear a wire for this

first meeting.'

'I don't think you should go in alone,' said Hargrove.

'Rose is convinced I'm with him,' said Shepherd. 'He

saw me shoot Kerr and I spun him a yarn about gambling

debts in Glasgow. Tomorrow's just about meeting this other

guy.'

'And who do you think it is?' asked Hargrove.

'If I had to name a name I'd say Mike Sutherland, but

only because he's so close to Rose. And they were both in

the ARV with Ormsby.'

'We could put a tail on Sutherland.'

'I wouldn't,' said Shepherd. 'I'd rather see what they've got

planned.'

35i

'Catch them red-handed?'

'Maybe not. But I'd like to know who they're planning to

rip off.'

'It's your call, Spider.'

'As soon as I've had the meet I'll fill you in.' Shepherd cut

the connection, then went upstairs.

Liam was fast asleep, hugging his pillow. It scared

Shepherd, how much he loved his son. He would do anything

for him. He wondered if Keith Rose was sitting by his

daughter, watching her sleep, wanting to be a good father,

promising to do whatever it took to ensure that she'd be

healthy and happy. He felt uncomfortable. He kissed his

son then went to his bathroom. He felt dirty and wanted

to shower.

Shepherd got up early and had breakfast with Liam, who

asked his father if he could drive him to school. Shepherd

said yes. 'Great!' shrieked Liam.

'I could drive you both,' said Katra.

'Nah, that's okay,' said Shepherd. 'I'll take the Toyota.'

'That's a horrible old car,' said Liam. 'Why are you driving

it?'

'It's for work.'

'The Golf's much better--' Liam stopped and put down

his knife and fork. His lower lip was trembling.

Shepherd laid a hand on his son's arm.

'I'm sorry,' said Liam.

'I keep doing the same thing.'

Liam pushed away his plate and stood up. 'I'll get my bag.'

He ran out of the kitchen and thumped up the stairs.

'What's wrong?' asked Katra.

'His mum drove a black VW Golf,' said Shepherd. 'It was

the car they were in when they crashed.'

Katra looked horrified. 'When his mother died?'

352

Shepherd nodded.

She wiped her hands on a tea-towel. 'I'll go and talk to

him.'

'I will,' said Shepherd. He hurried upstairs. Liam was sitting

on his bed, clutching his schoolbag. Shepherd sat down next

to him. 'I miss her, too,' he said.

'I miss her all the time.'

'We'll always miss her. That's what happens when someone

you love goes away.'

'She didn't go away,' said Liam. 'She died.'

'I know'

'Why do people say that? Why do they say she went

away when that's not what happened? Gran says that. So

does Granddad. They say she went away but if she went

away she'd come back. But she's never coming back, is

she?'

Shepherd felt tears prick his eyes and fought them back.

'No,' he said, 'but that doesn't mean she's not in our hearts,

because she is. She'll always be with us.'

'But not really, right? She's never going to hug me again,

is she?'

Shepherd felt a tear run down his right cheek and brushed

it away. 'No,' he said. 'But I'm still here. I can hug you.'

Suddenly Liam reached for him, and buried his head in

his father's chest. 'I don't want you to die, Dad,' he sobbed.

'I won't,' said Shepherd. 'Not for a long, long time.'

Shepherd held Liam until he stopped crying, then wiped

his eyes and told him to go and wash his face. He carried

Liam's schoolbag into the hallway and waited until Liam was

ready to go.

Katra was standing at the bottom of the stairs and ruffled

Liam's hair as he went by. She looked up at Shepherd, who

mouthed, 'It's okay.'

He went after Liam and gave him his bag. As they walked

353

to the Toyota, one of Shepherd's mobiles rang - his Stuart

Marsden phone. He told Liam to go back into the house

while he took the call. It was Rose.

'Where are you?'

'Home,' said Shepherd.

'You up for a meet?'

'Where?'

'Wapping High Street. Outside the tube station. In an

hour.'

Shepherd glanced at his watch. 'I'll be there,' he said.

As he put away the phone he saw Liam standing at the

front door. Katra was behind him, her hand on his shoulder.

Shepherd could see from the look on Liam's face that he

knew what he was going to say. 'I'm sorry,' he said.

'Work?' said Liam.

Shepherd nodded.

'You can drive me to school, can't you, Katra?'

'Of course. I'll get changed,' said Katra. She went inside.

Liam walked over to the CRY.

'Liam, I'm sorry,' said Shepherd.

'It doesn't matter.'

'I'll take you to school tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow's Saturday,' said Liam.

'Well, we'll do something tomorrow. It's my day off, too.'

Liam climbed into the back of the CRY. He fastened his

seatbelt and deliberately avoided his father's eyes.

Shepherd waited at the front door until Katra came downstairs.

She was wearing the green parka and sand-coloured

cargo pants she'd had on the first time they'd met.

'I'll phone you later,' he said. She waved and got into the

car. Shepherd watched them drive away, hoping that Liam

would wave. He didn't.

He set the burglar alarm and locked the house, then drove

the Toyota across town. He found a parking space about ten

354

minutes' walk from Wapping High Street. He sat for a few

minutes, staring at his reflection in the rear-view mirror,

preparing himself mentally for what he was about to do. He

was going to lie to a man who thought he was his friend. It

wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last. He put the

Stuart Marsden phone into his jacket pocket and the others

into the glove compartment.

He got out of the Toyota and walked slowly towards

Wapping tube station. Rose was already there, wearing a long

black coat over blue jeans and a black polo-neck sweater. He

nodded at Shepherd and started walking down the street.

Shepherd caught up with him and the two men walked in

silence. Rose turned into a side-street and they went between

two warehouse conversions, ornate black metal grilles over

the windows, CCTV cameras covering all angles. Fortresses

for City workers.

Rose made a left turn and walked up to a modern block.

Concrete stairs led to the entrance. Someone had spraypainted

'homes for locals not yuppie scum' across the

glass door that led into the building. A line of thirty doorbells

was set into a stainless-steel intercom system, covered

by a CCTV camera above the door. Rose pressed one of the

bells. Rat twenty-seven. Shepherd heard a tinny voice but

couldn't make out what was said. Rose smiled apologetically

at him. 'He wants me to pat you down.'

'He what?'

Shepherd tried to look surprised - and angry. It was a

narrow line to tread but one he'd trodden dozens of time in

the past. A search meant a lack of trust, and anyone would

take offence at not being trusted. But protesting too much

could be as dangerous as not protesting at all. The trick was

to call it just right: righteous indignation followed by annoyed

resignation. 'You approached me, remember?' said Shepherd.

'I didn't come knocking on your door.'

'Just humour him,' said Rose. 'It's his flat we're going into.'

'What does he think I'm carrying? A gun?'

Rose looked uncomfortable.

'He thinks I'm wearing a wire} For God's sake, why would

I?'

'Like I said, humour him. Please.'

Shepherd sighed and raised his arms. Rose patted him

down quickly and efficiently. He made Shepherd take out

his mobile phone and examined it carefully.

'It's a phone, Rosie.'

'They can bug them so they transmit all the time,' said

Rose, 'with or without your co-operation.' He pulled off the

back, took out the battery and the Sim card, then handed

the pieces back to Shepherd and continued his search. He

missed nothing, even patting Shepherd's groin and running

his hands up and down his inner thighs. If Shepherd had

been wearing any sort of transmitter or recording device,

Rose would have found it.

'Satisfied?' said Shepherd.

'Don't get ratty,' said Rose. 'We get caught doing this and

they'll throw away the key.' He went back up the stairs and

pressed the bell again. 'He's okay,' Rose said, into the intercom.

The glass door buzzed and Rose pushed it open. Shepherd

followed him into the hallway. There was a lift to the right

but Rose headed up the stairs. The flat was on the second

floor and the door was already open.

'Out here,' said a voice.

Shepherd walked through what was clearly a rented property.

Cherrywood laminated flooring, a beige sofa, a glass

topped coffee-table, a small television and DVD player. There

was nothing of a personal nature. The framed prints on the

cream-painted walls were as bland and nondescript as the

sofa. At the far end of the room, open french windows led

to a large square balcony, overlooking the Thames. There

356

were three white plastic chairs and a matching round table

on which stood a cafetiere, mugs, a carton of low-fat milk,

a box of sugar cubes, and a basket of croissants. The occupant

of the flat was standing with his back to the window.

He turned as Shepherd walked out. It was Ken Swift.

'Do you want coffee, Stu?' he asked.

'That would be good,' said Shepherd, casually. Swift was

watching him closely, trying to gauge his reaction, but

Shepherd played it cool. Swift poured coffee into the three

mugs.

'Milk?' he asked Shepherd.

'Black, no sugar.'

Swift poured a dash of milk into Rose's coffee and handed

it to him, then he and Rose dropped on to the chairs.

'Nice place,' said Shepherd.

'I can walk to Leman Street, which is a plus,' said Swift.

'Just the one bedroom, but the balcony makes up for it. All

I can afford at the moment.'

'Three divorces?'

'First wife got fifty per cent, second wife got fifty per cent

1 of what was left. Wife number three is aiming for the house

and everything in it, which doesn't leave me much. You're

better off being single, Stu. And don't get me started on kids.

I'm responsible for them right through university, and at the

moment I'm lucky to see them twice a month.'

Shepherd sipped his coffee.

¦ 'Rose says three guys attacked you. Three guys from

Glasgow.'

'They might have been from Manchester. I borrowed the

money in Glasgow but it was a Manchester bookie.'

'You were lucky.'

; 'Rosie helped me. If it hadn't been for him, we wouldn't

be having this conversation.'

'You had a gun?'

357

'For my own protection.'

'You know the guy you shot is dead?' said Swift. 'There's

a full-scale murder inquiry on the go.'

'No one saw us. No forensics. Rosie and I can alibi each

other if necessary. No way will they pin anything on us.'

'And you owed them money?'

'Thirty grand.'

'Gambling debts, Rosie said.'

'I was a twat, I know. I just kept getting in deeper and

deeper.'

'So you're up for what we're planning?'

'I don't know what it is,' said Shepherd. 'Ripping off a

drugs-dealer is all I know.'

'But in principle?'

'In principle I'm more than happy to relieve them of their

ill-gotten gains. So long as we don't have to go in with guns

blazing.'

'We don't intend to hurt anyone,' said Rose. 'We're not

vigilantes. It's not about putting them out of business. It's

solely about money. They have it. We take it.'

'Count me in,' Shepherd said. 'But I could do with knowing

one thing.'

'What's that?'

'You've done this before, haven't you?'

Swift and Rose exchanged a look. Then Swift nodded.

'Once. We hit a crack-dealing crew in Harlesden.'

'And was Andy Ormsby involved?'

Swift's eyes narrowed to slits. 'Who the fuck told you about

Andy?'

Shepherd returned the man's stare. 'Andy disappeared.

You and Rose barely mention his name. You're a man short,

which means you're a man down, and you don't have to

be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that Andy's the missing

link.'

358

1

1

'He took a bullet. We did what we could but he died before

we could get him to a doctor. We buried him.'

'Just like that?'

'No/' Rose had raised his voice. 'We thought long and hard

about what to do.'

'And if he hadn't died, would you have taken him to

hospital?'

'There was nothing we could do,' said Rose.

'That wasn't what I was asking,' said Shepherd. 'If you

screw up again and I get shot, what happens to me?'

'We didn't screw up,' said Swift.

'Every time shots are fired, someone's screwed up,' said

Shepherd.

Swift stood up. 'This isn't about what happened to Andy.

It's about where we go from here.'

'I understand that, but I need to know exactly what I'm

getting into,' said Shepherd. 'Where did you bury him?'

'Why do you want to know?' asked Swift.

'If there's a body out there that could lead back to me, I

want to know it'll never be found.'

'The New Forest,' said Swift. 'And don't worry, no one

will find him.'

'He didn't have anyone close,' said Rose. 'It's not like he

was married or had kids.'

'Like me,' said Shepherd. 'No one would miss me either.

But that's not to say I want to end up buried in the New

Forest.' He sipped his coffee. 'I don't mean to sound negative,

but it's not every day you get an offer to take part in

an armed robbery.'

'We don't look at it that way,' said Swift. He picked up a

croissant. 'We're stealing from drugs-dealers. Bad guys. The

money we take is drugs money. If we didn't take it, they'd

only be using it to wholesale more drugs.'

'So we're sort of Robin Hoods?' said Shepherd.

359

'The only way it can go wrong is if someone gets hurt,'

said Rose. 'If we get away clean there's no way they can

report it.'

'And three is enough?' asked Shepherd.

'Three's best,' said Rose. 'Two to go in, one to drive.'

'And my role would be?'

'You come with me, Ken stays with the car,' said Rose.

'And weaponry?'

'We've an Ingram, there's a Python .45 and a Glock. We're

well sorted. Whatever happens, you should ditch your gun.'

Rose drank his coffee and Swift put another chunk of

croissant into his mouth.

Shepherd put down his mug. 'And what would my take

be?'

'Three-way split,' said Swift. 'How much we get depends

on who we turn over.'

'How much did you get from theYardies?' asked Shepherd.

'It didn't work out as planned,' Rose said awkwardly.

'In what way?'

'The cash wasn't there. They'd done a coke deal, so we

took the drugs.'

Shepherd raised his eyebrows. 'There's no way I'm being

paid in gear,' he said.

'I sold it to some Paddies,' said Rose.

'You did a drugs deal?'

'It was a one-off.'

Shepherd was astounded. He was sitting opposite two

long-serving police officers who had admitted to murder,

armed robbery, and drugs-dealing. 'One more question,' he

said.

'This is turning into Mastermind^ said Swift.

'It's a big step,' said Shepherd.

'Except that you killed a man last night,' said Swift, 'and

put two more in hospital.'

360

I

'Self-defence,' said Shepherd.

'Self-defence or not, you'll be off the force if it comes out.

Maybe worse.'

'No argument there,' said Shepherd.

'So, what's the question?'

'Knowing what I know, what happens if I turn you down?'

'After what happened last night, we know enough about

each other to cause everyone a whole lot of grief.'

'So if I say no, I just walk away?'

'Like I said, you killed a guy last night. Rosie and I did

what we did. We don't have to force you to do anything

against your will. It's your choice.'

Shepherd picked up his mug. 'It's good coffee,' he said.

'I don't like instant,' said Swift. 'It's all about grinding it

fresh each time.'

Shepherd took a sip. 'I'm in,' he said.

Rose looked at Swift and nodded enthusiastically. 'Great,'

he said.

'The three musketeers,' said Shepherd. 'All for one and all

that shit.'

I Swift leaned over and shook his hand. 'Good to have you

f aboard, Stu.'

'It's just the one job,' said Rose. 'I need one more hit. So

does Ken. One hit and we walk away.'

'One hit,' repeated Shepherd. 'That's all I need.' He put

his mug on the table and stood up.

'Can you find your own way out?' asked Rose.

'Sure.'

As Shepherd stepped through the french windows, Swift

called after him, 'Hey, haven't you forgotten something?'

Shepherd turned. 'What?'

'That SWAT shirt I lent you, the one from New York. I

want it back, you know. Sentimental value.'

'I'll get it cleaned,' said Shepherd. He went back through

36i

the sitting room and out of the front door. He knew the two

men were talking about him, but that was to be expected.

He replayed the conversation in his head as he walked along

Wapping High Street. It had gone well. He'd played it just

right. Not too keen, not too suspicious, not too eager to break

the law. They thought they could trust him because of what

had happened the previous night, that he was as much of a

criminal as they were. A cold wind was blowing off the Thames

and Shepherd shivered.

He went back to his car, taking a circuitous route to

check that he wasn't being followed. He reassembled his

mobile phone as he walked. As it was the Stuart Marsden

phone he didn't use it to call Hargrove. When he was in

his car, he took his other two mobiles out of the glove

compartment and used one to phone Hargrove. 'It's Ken

Swift,' he said, 'the inspector with Specialist Firearms Team

Amber.'

'You met with him?'

'He's got a rented flat in Wapping High Street.'

'And what's the plan?'

'He and Rosie are putting together a robbery. Drugs

dealers, same as they did in Harlesden. I'll be taking Andy

Ormsby's place.'

'They talked about him?'

'Shot by one of the Yardies. Died in the back of the van

they were using. Buried in the New Forest.'

'So that's it, then?'

'You want to move in on what I have?'

'Did they mention the Python?'

'They're going to use it on the next job.'

'We need that gun, Spider. The icing on the cake. We'll

get dogs looking for Ormsby's body. With what we've got,

Rose will roll on Swift. You won't be involved.'

'They're cops, and they're not stupid,' said Shepherd. 'You

362

bust them straight after they've talked to me and they'll put

two and two together.'

'What are you suggesting?'

'Let it run for a few days. Rose has to move soon because

he needs the money for his daughter's medical bills. Swift

said they were putting something together now, so let them

fill me in on it and bust us en route. Take me in with them,

then they'll assume I've cut a deal. That way I stay as Stuart

Marsden, bent cop, and don't show my hand.'

'You're okay with that?'

Shepherd grimaced. He wasn't happy about setting up

Rose and Swift but he had to keep his undercover status

secret. The more people who knew who he was and what he

did, the harder it would be for him to operate in future. And

the greater the risk to Liarn. 'It's the best way,' he said.

'Still no wire?' asked Hargrove.

'I don't want to show out on this case,' said Shepherd.

'I understand,' said Hargrove. 'Swift needs money, does

he?'

'Two ex-wives and one on the way.' Shepherd cut the

connection, then tapped in another number. The major

answered. 'Gannon.'

'It's Spider. Don't suppose you're free for a chat?'

'Where are you?'

'Wapping.'

'I'm in Westminster, on my way to talk to a select committee

who want reassurance that all's well with the world. It isn't,

of course, but I'm supposed to sound confident that we can

handle anything that's thrown at us. This afternoon I'm over

at New Scotland Yard to meet their anti-terrorism guys. All

good stuff.'

'No sweat. If you're busy it can wait.'

'If you can get to the Embankment within half an hour

we'll talk before I go in to the great and the good.'

363

'Do you know a guy called Barry Jones? From the

Regiment? He just killed himself.'

'Doesn't ring a bell. But I'll check. Is that what you want

to talk about?'

'That's part of it.'

Shepherd ended the call and drove westwards. He parked

in a multi-storey near Charing Cross station and walked down

to Victoria Embankment. It wasn't a problem for him to be

seen with the major: Stuart Marsden was an armed policeman

not a drugs-dealer or a gangland hitman, so it wouldn't be

out of character for him to know a member of the SAS. The

worst that would happen was that he'd have to lie, but lying

was second nature.

Shepherd headed along the paved walkway on the north

side of the river. It felt good to be out in regular clothes

rather than driving around in the ARV in his combat gear.

He wasn't used to working regular hours. His usual roles

involved passing himself off as a career criminal, and one of

the perks of the criminal fraternity was being able to choose

your hours.

Shepherd spotted the major looking out over the river, a

metallic attache case in his left hand.

'Good to see you're not in uniform, Spider,' he said as

they shook hands. His was the size of a shovel and he wore

the Regimental signet ring on his little finger.

They walked together towards Westminster Bridge.

'Thanks for this, Major.'

'I was early, anyway. I hate these briefings to politicians,

but at least they get me out of the barracks.' He hefted the

metal case. 'All I do is wait for the sat phone to ring, and

when it does all hell breaks loose. But until it rings, it's just

me and four walls. With a staff sergeant who still can't make

a decent brew.'

'It's like that in the ARV. We spend hours driving around

364

waiting for something to kick off. But when it does, there's

all sorts of rules and regulations about what we can and can't

do. It's like going into battle with one hand tied behind your

back.'

'Any idea how long you'll be undercover this time?'

'I've almost cracked it.'

j 1 'Hell of a job, Spider.'

'If they're bent, they deserve what's coming to them.'

'I meant a hell of a job for you. Winning their trust so that

| j you can betray them. Especially when they're cops.'

'I try not to think of it that way,' said Shepherd. 'I'm just

gathering evidence. If they weren't bad, they wouldn't have

anything to worry about.'

'It would do my head in,' said Gannon. 'We tried using

our guys undercover in Ireland, but it never worked.'

'Different skills,' said Shepherd.

'Yeah. They grew their hair long, wore the right clothes

and got the accent, but they just didn't fit.'

'Everyone knows everyone else over the water. You were

trying to blend into an incestuous community.'

'The UK criminal fraternity's not that big - aren't you

worried you'll be rumbled by someone you've come across

before?'

'I'm good with names and faces,' said Shepherd. 'I can

usually spot trouble before it happens. And, more often than

not, I leave an operation before the bad guys are busted so

no one's the wiser.'

'But you're doing okay?'

Shepherd knew Gannon wasn't talking about work. Was

he okay about Sue? 'One day at a time,' he said. 'That's what

they say, isn't it? You take each day as it comes, and after a

while it doesn't hurt as much. Eventually life gets back to

normal.'

'It's easy to say, I know.'

365

'I miss her so damn much.'

'That'll never change.'

'It would be easier if there was someone to blame.' Shepherd

took a deep breath. 'There's no one I can talk it through

with,' he went on. 'Liam's too young, Sue's parents are trying

to deal with their own grief. The unit's given me a psychologist

but she's more interested in knowing if I'm up to the

job.'

They sat down on a bench beside the London Eye.

Shepherd grinned. 'Let me give you a crap analogy.' He

pointed to the giant wheel. 'That's life, in a way. We all get

one circuit, then it's someone else's turn. But with the whole

world to experience, most people never get beyond the pod

they're born in. Once round and then off into the long

night.'

'Fuck me, Spider, how depressed are you?'

'Don't worry, I'm not after the meaning of life. It's just

that there are times when you wonder what the point of it

is.'

'Life? Or the London Eye?' Gannon smiled. 'The London

Eye's a tourist attraction - but life? Who the hell knows?'

'The guy who topped himself in front of me - Barry Jones.

We'd started on a meaning-of-life conversation before he

pulled the trigger.'

'He had a history of depression. That's why he was RTUd.

He was a loose cannon, waiting to go off.'

'His life had turned to shit, was what he said. Wife had

left him, found a new man, wouldn't let him see his daughter.'

'He used to knock her around. That's what I was told. Any

problems he had, he brought them on himself.'

'That's not the way he saw it. He said he loved his kid,

that his wife was turning her against him, and that he'd never

laid a finger on her.'

'He had a short fuse - it was in his file. He decked an

366

officer once but it was in the field and the officer was due

to move on so nothing came of it.'

'I tried to see the little girl afterwards,' said Shepherd.

'Jones asked me to tell her that he loved her, but her mother

wouldn't let me into the house. Said I was a murderer she

seemed to think we'd killed him. I had his blood all

over me.'

'Probably best that you didn't see the child, then. It would

have been pretty traumatic for her. The gear that SO 19 wear

is as intimidating as our kit, with or without bloodstains.'

'I keep having dreams that she was at the window watching

her dad shoot himself. She wasn't - I know she wasn't.'

'Small mercies,' said Gannon. 'You wouldn't want a kid

seeing something like that. Probably wouldn't benefit from

seeing you, either, to be honest. She's always going to

remember you as the man who was there when her dad died.'

'Yeah, you're probably right. Maybe I'll write her a letter

or something.' He scowled. 'Nah, the mother would just

throw it away. But she has to know her dad loved her. If I

don't tell her, she'll go through life thinking he didn't.'

'You're not responsible for his actions,' said Gannon. 'You

don't owe him anything.'

'He was Sass, and it was his last request,' said Shepherd.

'And if I don't carry it out, who will? Jeez, what state must

he have been in to pull the trigger? We were talking and then, bang, he was gone.'

'Jones lived for the Regiment. It was his be-all and end

all. When he was RTUd, he fell apart. It happens.' Gannon

took a packet of Wrigley's gum from his pocket and offered

a piece to Shepherd. Shepherd shook his head. Gannon

popped a stick into his mouth and chewed. 'It's like greyhounds.

They're bred for one reason. To win races. As soon

as they're past their best, they're surplus to requirements.

Twenty-five thousand healthy dogs are put down every year

367

just so that the punters can bet a few quid on a Saturday

night.'

'It's a better analogy than my London Eye.'

'It's the way it is. Greyhounds aren't bred as family pets,

they're bred to win races. The Sass doesn't train men to be

good fathers or husbands or to run businesses. It trains them

to jump out of aeroplanes, march through hazardous terrain

with back-breaking loads and kill people. Once your Sass

days are over, those skills aren't especially useful. You know

what most guys used to end up doing after they left the

Regiment?'

'The building trade.'

'Dead right. Brickies or scaffolders. I've had guys end up

as gravediggers and lollipop men. Most leave thinking they're

going to earn a living as mercenaries or security consultants,

but most end up on building sites or guarding car parks. Iraq

has thrown up job opportunities but not everyone's suitable

for close-protection work. And the ones who've been out of

the Regiment for a few years have lost their edge. Life's

tough, and it's even tougher for our guys out in the real

world. I'm sorry Barry Jones took his life, but he's one of

half a dozen former members of the Regiment so far this

year.'

That was news to Shepherd. 'And there's nothing anyone

can do?'

'It's a rough old world. We're the SAS, not the Samaritans.

I'm not happy about the way it is, Spider, and I do what I

can. But I've enough on my plate with the Increment. So,

tell me about the trick-cyclist.'

'My boss reckons I might be stressed out. It was tough

going undercover in a high-security prison. Then there was

Sue's accident. And I've been pretty much flat out since I

started with the unit.'

'You seem straight and level to me.'

368

'Thanks.'

'You were never the most relaxed of guys, but that's the

nature of our job.'

'Thanks again. I'll tell her when I see her next.'

'Ah, the plot thickens. A woman?'

'Oh, yes.'

'I guess it's difficult for her to relate to, right?'

'She's a smart girl but, yeah, she's never fired a gun in

anger.'

'Not many people have.'

'I don't see why they should expect me to spill my guts

to a stranger, someone who has no conception of what it's

like to be in combat or to work undercover.'

'I doubt they'd be using her if she wasn't qualified.'

'Oh, she's good all right. Downright bloody devious. Keeps

trying to get me to talk about Sue without asking me full

on.'

'Why's she interested in Sue?'

'She reckons I'm not dealing with her death. I get the

feeling she thinks I should be crying my eyes out.'

'We all deal with death in our own way,' said Gannon.

'There's nothing wrong with me just because I'm not

bursting into tears every other day.'

'I didn't say there was,' said Gannon. 'I know how much

she meant to you. You gave up the Regiment for her.'

'For her and Liam,' said Shepherd. 'She wanted the quiet

life. Me at home with a pipe and slippers.' He smiled ruefully.

'Out of the frying-pan and into the bloody fire. She didn't

realise the cops would have me undercover. She saw more

of me when I was with the Sass.'

'How's Liam handling it?'

'How does any kid deal with the death of his mum? She

was the world to him.'

'Have you talked to him about it?'

369

'It's like pulling teeth.'

'Like father, like son,' said Gannon.

'You think he gets it from me?' said Shepherd.

'You're his role model,' said Gannon. 'If you're the strong,

silent type he'll try to be the same.'

Shepherd stared up at the cloudless blue sky. 'Maybe that's

it.'

'What's eating you, Spider?' asked Gannon, quietly.

High overhead a 747 banked towards Heathrow. 'I'm not

sure. There's something not right but I don't know what it

is.' He wasn't used to telling people how he felt: his whole

undercover life was spent masking his true feelings.

'Maybe Jones made you aware of your own mortality.'

'I'm not suicidal,' said Shepherd. Too quickly: he'd sounded

defensive. 'And I've seen men die. Hell, I've killed them close

up, too.'

'Yeah, but they were the enemy. You didn't get to know

them before you pulled the trigger. You had a chance to talk

to Jones, to get inside his head - you let him get inside yours

too. And there were obvious similarities to your own situation.'

'Maybe.'

Shepherd was unconvinced. He was no stranger

to death. He'd killed on missions and slept the sleep of the

just. He'd seen friends and colleagues die, too - a young

trooper had died after a snake bite in the Borneo jungle during

a training exercise. He'd seen another fall to his death in a

climbing accident. He would never forget the men's faces,

but they didn't haunt his dreams as Jones did.

'You and Jones both left the Regiment and both have one

child,' said Gannon. 'Maybe you saw a bit of yourself in him.

Seems to me that if you really want to get to the bottom of

what's troubling you, you should try opening up to the

psychologist.'

'But you think I'm okay?'

37O

r

'You keep asking me that, and you seem fine - but what

the hell do I know?'

His head hurt. His throat hurt. His left knee felt as if it was

on fire. His right hand ached and the slightest movement of

his thumb sent pain lancing down his arm. The only good

thing was that at least it meant he was alive. Eddie Anderson

would have smiled except he was missing his front teeth and

moving his lips was agony.

He heard movement at the side of his bed. He didn't

open his eyes. A nurse came to check on him every fifteen

minutes. Sometimes they changed his dressings. There was

a drip in his left arm and sometimes they did something

with the bag.

'You're in a right state, aren't you?'

Anderson opened his eyes a fraction and squinted up at

his visitor. He expected a doctor but the man looking down

at him wasn't wearing a white coat. He was wearing a black

raincoat over a dark blue suit. He was a tall, thin man with

close-cropped bullet grey hair and he was holding a warrant

card six inches from Anderson's nose.

'No comment,' said Anderson, wincing because it hurt to

speak.

'I admire your loyalty but your boss is dead,' said the detective.

'Dead?'

'Deceased.

No more. Dead on arrival. He is an ex-boss.

Am I getting through to you?'

'What about Ray?'

'Wates is in a worse state than you, Eddie. They're taking

his spleen out this afternoon.'

'Shit,' said Anderson.

'You can live without a spleen. They say.'

Anderson closed his eyes.

37i

'Three against one and two of you are in intensive care

while one's on a slab. And the other guy, not a mark on

him.'

Anderson said nothing.

'You knew he was a cop, right?' said the detective.

'No comment.'

'This is just you and me, Eddie. There's no tape. Whatever

you tell me stays in this room.'

'Who the fuck are you?'

'I'm a cop who hates mysteries,' said the detective. 'You,

Charlie Kerr and Ray Wates go charging in with guns. Kerr

gets shot dead, Wates gets beaten to a pulp and you get hit

by a car. That's a mystery.'

'How do you know what happened?' said Anderson. He

opened his eyes. 'You weren't there.'

'No, but I know a man who was,' said the detective.

'So why no caution?' asked Anderson suspiciously. 'You

caution me, I get a brief. Piss off and leave me alone.'

The detective leaned over the bed, his face a few inches

from Anderson's. 'The way things stand at the moment,

they reckon you're the victim here. Crazy as it seems, the

plods think you, Charlie and Ray were attacked. So, you tell

me what I want to know and I walk out of here and maybe,

just maybe, you get to go home to your wife and kid in

Chorlton-cum-Hardy. But you screw me around any more

and I'll put the plods right. You'll go down for attempted

murder.'

Anderson glared at the detective. 'It sounds like you know

everything anyway.'

'The guy you attacked, you knew he was a cop?'

'Fucking right.'

'And that didn't worry you?'

'It worried me and Ray, but Charlie wanted him dead.'

Anderson frowned. 'No comebacks, right?'

372

'On my mother's life,' said the detective.

'Nelson tried to fuck with Charlie's missus. Charlie, not

surprisingly, took it personal. That's why he was there. I told

him it was a mistake.'

'Nelson?' said the detective. 'Who the fuck is Nelson?'

'Nelson's the undercover cop. That's the name he was

using anyway. Tony Nelson.' A wave of nausea washed over

him and Anderson closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the detective was staring at

him. 'How do you know he was an undercover cop?'

'Because he was cracking on he was a fucking hitman,

that's why. And we followed him to a cop shop in the City.'

'Leman Street?'

'I don't know what road it was. Near Aldgate station.'

'And Nelson was pretending to be a hitman?'

Anderson fought another bout of nausea. 'I need a doctor,'

he said.

'No, you need me,' said the cop. 'I'm the only one standing

between you and a life sentence. You tried to kill a cop,

remember.'

'A fucking supercop, that's what he is. Who the hell is he

anyway?'

'Kerr didn't tell you?'

'When we followed him from Manchester, we thought he

was a hitman. Angie had paid him to put a bullet in Charlie.

We saw her and Nelson get busted, then Nelson got a getout-of-jail-free

card. We followed him to London and he

reported to a cop shop.'

'That was when?'

'Tuesday.'

'And what time did he arrive at the cop shop?'

'Four o'clock. Four thirty, maybe.'

'And you left it until Thursday before you made your

move?'

373

'Charlie had things to do up north.'

The ward doors crashed open and a middle-aged Chinese

man in a white coat hurried over the linoleum floor towards

Anderson's bed. 'What the hell is going on here?' he asked,

in a perfect Home Counties accent.

'I'm just having a few words with Mr Anderson,' said the

detective.

'He's a sick man,' said the doctor.

'He almost killed a policeman.'

'And once he's stabilised you can charge him. But at the

moment he's my patient.'

'I'm done anyway,' said the detective.

'Yes, you are,' said the doctor.

The detective stared at him, long and hard. The doctor

tried to meet his gaze but his face reddened. He began to

busy himself with the equipment monitoring Anderson's vital

signs.

'So that's it?' said Anderson. 'I'm in the clear?'

'Fingers crossed,' said the detective. He left the ward, his

black leather shoes squeaking with each step.

It was only as the detective barged out through the double doors that Anderson realised the man hadn't identified

himself, and the warrant card had been too close to his face

to read.

The name on the passport that the man was using was

Muhammad Zahid. It was a good name, but it wasn't the

name that he had been born with. The passport was Iraqi,

but the man was Palestinian. When he had joined the ranks

of the shahid a video would be shown on Arab TV stations

across the Middle East proclaiming his love for the

Palestinian people and his hatred for the infidels who aided

the Israeli murderers. The man calling himself Zahid hadn't

been in Palestine for five years and hadn't seen his family

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1

for six. Ever since his Arab brothers had achieved

martyrdom during the attacks on the World Trade Center

and the Pentagon, the West's intelligence service had gone

into overdrive. Suspected terrorists were watched, hunted

and held without trial. Phones were tapped, emails were

read, letters were opened. There was no such thing as secrecy

any more. The Americans wanted to photograph, fingerprint

and take DNA samples from every human being on

the planet, but until they did, all that a man like the

Palestinian needed was a valid passport with a valid visa. The immigration officer at Heathrow's Terminal Three was

underpaid and overworked: he had only seconds to look at

the passport and compare the photograph in it with the

man in front of him. The resemblance was close enough

and the passport was genuine, so the Palestinian was waved

through. The immigration officer even welcomed him back

to the United Kingdom. It had been so easy. The British

were so trusting, so gullible.

The passport the Palestinian was using belonged to an

Iraqi whose brother had been murdered by Saddam Hussein.

The man had fled with his wife and two young sons before

the Iraqi secret police could visit him in the middle of the

night. The British had granted the family asylum, and permanent

residency in the United Kingdom. The Iraqi hated the

British as much as the Palestinian did, but he was happy to

take advantage of them. He had received a new hip, courtesy

of the National Health Service, lived in a spacious threebedroomed

council flat in Notting Hill, with a balcony and

use of a communal garden, his children were receiving a free

education and would, hopefully, go to university one day.

The Iraqi didn't need his passport any more. He had no

plans to leave the country. Iraq was a hellish place run by

the infidels, but even if it wasn't he wouldn't want to return.

In Britain he was richer than he would ever be in Iraq. His

375

children would soon be granted British citizenship, and they

already spoke with British accents.

The Iraqi wasn't grateful for what the British had done

for him. He saw it as his right. The British helped the

Americans, who murdered and tortured Muslims around the

world. He owed the infidels no loyalty. His only loyalty was

to Islam and his Arab brothers. When he was approached by

the Saudi one summer afternoon as he strolled through a

pretty London square, he didn't take much convincing to

hand over his passport. He didn't even want to know how

it would be used. All he knew was that his Arab brothers

were preparing to strike at the heart of the infidels and

lending his passport was the least he could do. Even if the

authorities ever traced it, all the Iraqi had to do was say it

had been stolen. That was one of the benefits of living in

Britain: it was so easy to lie to the police. Unlike in Iraq,

where the secret police could torture and kill with impunity,

the British police had to call him 'sir' and would get him a

lawyer, free of charge, if he needed one.

The Palestinian had been in the UK for two weeks, and

he had spent all that time in the bedsit that had been found

for him. Food and drink was brought to him by a man who

never spoke. Another man - a Saudi, the Palestinian thought

- came after a week, took measurements of his chest and

waist and gave him some newspaper cuttings about the latest

atrocities on the West Bank. Five schoolchildren killed by an

Israeli rocket. A baby shot in crossfire. A student killed by a

rubber bullet that hit him in the throat. The Palestinian didn't

need the newspaper stories to fuel his hatred for the West.

That had been forged more than ten years earlier when the

Israelis had thrown him and his family out of their house,

then bulldozed it. His father had fought back and been shot

in the leg. The doctors had amputated it above the knee and

he had never worked again. A year later, the Palestinian's

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1

elder brother had died when Israeli soldiers had fired into a

crowd of protestors, and his mother had died of a broken

heart six months later. The Palestinian hated the Israelis, he

hated the Americans, who funded the Israelis, and he hated

the British, who kowtowed to every demand the Americans

made. It was time to hit the British, to show them what it

was like to have people die in the streets. To make them suffer

as the Palestinians had suffered.

There was a knock and the Palestinian got up off the

prayer mat. He unlocked the door. It was the Saudi.

The Saudi opened his bag and took out a canvas vest with

bulky packages in pockets spaced around it at even intervals.

Red and blue wires ran from the pockets.

The Saudi helped the Palestinian fit the vest and tightened

it with straps and buckles. The button to detonate the

explosives was at the end of a white wire. The Palestinian

tucked it away in one of the pockets. He knew how the vest

worked: he'd been on a training course that was part technical,

part indoctrination. He hadn't needed brainwashing:

he'd welcomed the opportunity to join the ranks of the shahid. Once he had given his life for the jihad, he would be with

his mother and brother in heaven, his father, too, when his

time came.

The Palestinian put on his coat over the vest and fastened

the buttons. The Saudi walked round him several times. He

made a small adjustment to the shoulders, then handed the

¦ Palestinian an envelope. He picked up his bag and left.

'Allahu akbar,' he whispered, as the door closed. God is great.

The Palestinian opened the envelope. Inside, there was a

single sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of a map of the

London Underground system. One station had been circled

1 in red ink. King's Cross. And written in the margin was a

time: five o'clock.

IThe Palestinian looked at the cheap clock on the wall by

377

the door. It was a quarter to one. He had plenty of time. He

knelt to pray.

Ken Swift swiped his card and pushed through the revolving

door. His boots squeaked as he walked down the corridor,

head swivelling to left and right. He popped his head into

the comms room and saw Mike Sutherland checking a radio.

'Seen Rosie?' he asked.

'On the range,' said Sutherland. 'He's not happy with the

sights on his Glock.'

Swift turned on his heel. He heard the cracks of 9mm

rounds as he went down the stairs to the range, single shots,

evenly spaced. He barged through the door and saw Rose

firing at a bullseye target ten metres down the range. Rose

was in his black overalls, wearing orange ear-protectors.

'Rosie!' shouted Swift.

Rose carried on firing. When he'd emptied the magazine

he pressed the button that brought the target closer so that

he could see exactly where his shots had gone.

Swift walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

Rose pulled off his ear-protectors. 'What?' he said.

'Where's Marsden?'

Rose frowned. 'He's with BTP this afternoon. They want

him undercover on Operation Wingman. Why?'

'We're in deep shit,' said Swift. 'Deep, deep shit.'

The Palestinian pulled the door to his bedsit shut behind

him and walked slowly down the stairs. He heard loud rock

music from one of the rooms on the first floor. Whoever was

living there played music all day long and well into the night.

Some nights the Palestinian had been unable to sleep but he

had never gone down to complain. He hadn't wanted to draw

attention to himself. He just hoped that whoever was in the

room would be at King's Cross station at five o'clock.

378

At the bottom of the stairs a glass door led to the street.

The Palestinian pulled at it but it wouldn't open. Then he

realised he had to press a button to unlock it. He stared at

it. It was exactly the same as the one on his vest. It was an

omen, he decided. An omen that everything would go as

planned. 'Allahu akbar,' he whispered. He pressed the button

and the lock buzzed. It would be just as easy to press the

other button, when the time came. Click, and he would be

in heaven. He pulled open the door and walked into the

street. He was just five minutes' walk from Brixton station

in South London, the terminus of the Victoria Line.

The sky was overcast, another good omen. He had to wear

the coat to cover the vest and it would have looked out of

place on a warm, sunny day. Allah was smiling on him because

what was about to happen was Allah's will.

The streets were busy with afternoon shoppers. Music

blared from an open window. Reggae this time, not rock, but

it was just as offensive to the Palestinian's ears. He walked

past a travel agency, whose windows were plastered with

posters offering cheap holidays - one for two weeks in Israel.

The Palestinian shook his head sadly. Why would anyone

want to holiday with murderers? he wondered. Had the Nazis

offered package holidays to their extermination camps?

London was full of tourists, coming to spend their money

in a country that aided the persecution of Muslims. It was

time to show those tourists that they would have been better

to stay at home.

He walked under a railway bridge and a train rattled overhead,

making him flinch. Brakes squealed with the sound of

a tortured animal. He walked along a street filled with market

stalls selling cheap clothes, flimsy luggage and counterfeit

batteries. Most of the shops catered to the Afro-Caribbean

community, supermarkets with open boxes piled high with

vegetables the Palestinian had never seen before, butchers

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}

offering halal meat, posters advertising phonecards to make

cheap calls to Jamaica and West Africa. The Palestinian moved

through the shoppers, trying to avoid physical contact with

those around him.

He turned right on to Brixton Road. He was only yards

from the tube entrance. He was so busy with his thoughts

that he didn't see the two men blocking his way until he had

almost bumped into them. He mumbled an apology and tried

to step to the side, but a hand gripped his right arm just

below the shoulder. He looked up to see two big black men.

One had dreadlocks tumbling from under a red, green and

yellow woollen hat. The other was shorter but wider, with a

large medallion on a thick gold chain. Both stared at him

with undisguised hatred.

'Give us your mobile,' said the man with dreadlocks.

'Excuse me?' said the Palestinian.

'I don't want your fucking apology, I want your fucking

phone. You speaka da fucking English, don't you?' He pushed

the Palestinian in the chest and he staggered back against a

shop window. He was facing a bus stop where half a dozen

housewives and old men stood with bags of shopping. They

didn't intervene: they knew from experience that it brought

only grief and a trip to the local Accident and Emergency

department.

The Palestinian was confused. 'I understand English, but

I don't have a phone.'

'Everybody's got a fucking phone,' said the shorter of the

two men. He pulled a small knife out of his pocket, a shiny

blade with a brown wooden handle. 'Now, give us your fucking

phone or I'll stick you.'

'I don't have a phone,' said the Palestinian. 'Please, I have

to be somewhere.'

'Give us your wallet, then.'

'I don't have a wallet,' said the Palestinian. He had nothing

380

in his coat pockets and only a handful of coins in his

trousers, just enough to buy his tube ticket to King's Cross.

He had been told to carry nothing that might identify him.

The Palestinian tried to push between the two men. 'Excuse

me, please,' he said. The knife flashed in and out and he felt

a searing pain in his side. He gasped.

'You fucking Arab piece of shit,' hissed the man with the

medallion. He stabbed the knife into the Palestinian's side

again. And again. The Palestinian staggered back against the

window and it rattled from the impact. He felt blood flow

under his vest and his legs went weak. He tried to reach

under his coat so that at least he could die with honour, with

glory, but his arms were like lead.

'Think you're better than us, do you?' hissed the man with

the knife. The knife struck again, in his chest this time. The

Palestinian's breath gurgled in his throat and he sank to his

knees, a red mist falling over his eyes. His last thoughts were

of the shame he would bring upon his family when they heard

he had died in the street, that he had failed in his mission,

that he had died for nothing, murdered by an infidel for not

having a phone. He slumped forward and slammed face down

on to the pavement, bloody froth spilling from his lips.

Shepherd took a drink from his plastic bottle of water, sat

down under a map of the Underground system and stretched

out his legs. He had been walking around Piccadilly Circus

tube station for the best part of an hour, moving from platform

to platform. His radio was clipped to the back of his

belt under his leather jacket and there was a microphone

inside his right cuff.

Nick Wright, Tommy Reid and four other British Transport

Police undercover officers were on the same frequency, as

were Brian Ramshaw and a controller at the Management

Information and Communications Centre in Broadway. She

381

was monitoring the CCTV cameras at Piccadilly Circus,

where Wright and a female BTP officer were with Shepherd,

Leicester Square, where Ramshaw was with Reid, and

Tottenham Court Road, where the rest of the BTP officers

were staked out.

'How's it going, Stu?' asked Wright, through the earpiece.

'Bored rigid,' said Shepherd.

'You can pop up for a coffee,' said Wright.

'Maybe later,' said Shepherd. The BTP had wanted Wright

and Ramshaw on the operation because they had seen Snow

White and her crew up close. But they'd decided not to stake

out the Trocadero again in case the steamers recognised any

of the undercover officers. Four new BTP undercover officers

were hanging around the amusement arcades while the

officers from Wednesday's operation were in the tube system.

Shepherd was wearing his leather jacket, blue jeans and a

grey pullover. Wright had been more creative and was dressed

as a priest, complete with dog collar and a shabby document

case with the name of an East London church stencilled on

the side.

Shepherd folded his arms, and felt the Glock hard against

his left side. He couldn't get over the fact that armed police

were going up against teenagers, but Shepherd couldn't forget

how the boy had casually knifed the little girl. There had

been no fear in his eyes, no regret. He'd smiled as he stuck

the blade into the child's flesh. Shepherd wasn't happy about

being taken off ARV duties, but he was glad to have another

crack at the Snow White gang. This time he'd be quicker off

the mark.

Eric Tierney had seen it all on the streets of Brixton. On

a good day it could be a heart-warming, lively place, vibrant

in its ethnicity. On a bad day it was a cross between a third

world slum and a war zone. Over the six years that Tierney

382

had been a paramedic, he'd tended teenage boys with bullet

wounds, twelve-year-old girls after back-street abortions,

drug overdoses, young men who'd had pub glasses thrust

into their faces, underage prostitutes who'd been slashed

with razors. On a bad day, Brixton was the closest thing to

hell that Tierney could imagine. But it was never dull.

Tierney would have hated a nine-to-five job in a factory

or office. Not that he'd ever tried one. He'd joined the army

from school, and trained as a medic. He'd done ten years

in uniform and served in Iraq, then decided that if he didn't

leave before he was thirty he never would. The Ambulance

Service had snapped him up and sent him to work in South

London where his skill in patching up bullet wounds was

a welcome bonus.

Today Tierney had started work at two and it was only

four fifteen but already he had dealt with two heroin overdoses

and a toddler who had been knocked out of her pushchair

by a bus driver who had the dilated pupils of a drug-user.

The police had taken the man for a blood test and the little

girl was in intensive care with head injuries.

The fourth call of the day was to a man lying face down

in the street. That was all the information they had. He could

be drunk, on drugs, or dead. The driver had the siren and

lights flashing but the traffic was heavy and there was no

room for the cars ahead to pull to the side, so they had to

wait it out.

The ambulance crawled along the road. Eventually Tierney

saw a small crowd of onlookers and a police car with its blue

light flashing. He grabbed his resuscitation kit, opened the

door and ran down the street. As he got closer to the police

car he slowed. The body was on the pavement, close to the

road. One uniformed officer was holding back the onlookers,

the other was on the radio. Tierney could see why neither

was attending to the man on the ground. There was a large

383

I

pool of blood around him: a body couldn't lose that much

and still be alive.

Tierney knelt down beside the body, taking care to avoid

the blood. He couldn't see a wound, but there was no doubt

that the man had been stabbed or shot. There were no ¦

cartridge cases on the pavement and the local gang-bangers

tended to use semi-automatics because that was what they

used in the movies. The man had probably been stabbed. |

Tierney put a hand on his back, preparing to turn him

over.

'CID's on the way,' said one of the officers. 'Best leave the

body where it is.'

Tve got to confirm that it is a body,' said Tierney, 'check

for a pulse.'

'Waste of time,' said the officer.

'Them's the rules,' said Tierney, although he knew the

officer was right. He felt something hard and oblong under a

the coat, and frowned. He moved his hand round the body

and felt another object, the same shape as the first. He sat

back on his heels. His first inclination had been to turn the

man over, but now he was having second thoughts. Something

was not right - something that was making the hairs on the

back of his neck stand on end.

He remembered a poster he'd seen in Iraq, one of many

produced by the Americans. It warned of the dangers of

suicide bombers, and on it was a photograph of a vest with

pockets that held tubes of dynamite - not oblong blocks like

Tierney had felt but tubes like Blackpool rock. Tierney craned

his neck and looked at the man's face. It was pale but definitely

Middle Eastern.

'Get those people back,' Tierney said quietly.

'What's wrong?' asked the officer.

'Just move them back, get everybody as far away from here

as you can.'

384

Tierney reached for the bottom of the man's coat and

pulled it slowly up his legs. Then he rolled it up to the man's

waist. He saw grey canvas and knew his hunch had been

right. A few more inches and he could see three pockets,

each containing something oblong. Tierney swallowed. His

mouth was bone dry.

'Is that what I think it is?' asked the officer, his voice a

harsh whisper.

Tierney didn't reply. He eased the coat higher. It snagged on something and he cursed. He couldn't reach the coat

buttons without turning the body over, and he didn't want

to risk that. It was something for the bomb-disposal experts.

But Tierney wanted to be sure. He eased the coat from side

to side, then pulled it further up the body. He saw wires.

Red and blue. Now he was sure.

Major Allan Gannon enjoyed his monthly meetings with the

head of the Met's Anti-terrorist Squad. Commander Ronnie

Roberts was a career cop who'd worked his way up from the

beat in South London, with stints in Special Branch and the

Robbery Squad. His office on the eleventh floor of New

Scotland Yard overlooked Broadway, and as Gannon stood

at the window and looked through the bomb-proof curtains

he saw a group of Japanese tourists photographing themselves

in front of the famous triangular rotating sign.

'How does it feel to be a tourist attraction?' asked Gannon.

'It's a funny old world, isn't it?' said Roberts. 'On the one

hand we're supposed to be Dixon of Dock Green and walking

guidebooks for tourists, and on the other we've got machine

guns at Heathrow and surveillance operations on terrorists

trying to buy anthrax spores over the Internet.'

'I blame TV,' said Gannon. 'Newspapers make do with

words but TV needs pictures and sound. The Iranian embassy

siege did it for us. Once they saw us in action they wanted

385

to know everything. Next thing we know there's movies

about us, kill-and-tell books, the works.'

'I don't know who thought openness was a good thing,'

said Roberts, 'but they should have slapped a D Notice on

anything connected with you guys. Now every man and his

dog knows what weapons you have and how you train.'

'And everyone in the world knows where MI6 is,' agreed

Gannon. 'Never understood that. They're supposed to be the

Secret Service but they allow their HQ to be featured in a

James Bond movie. And they act all surprised when the IRA

takes a pot-shot at them with an RPG.'

There was a knock on the door and a secretary showed

in Greig Mulhern, number three at Special Branch. He shook

hands with Gannon and Roberts and sat on a sofa in the

corner of the room. He was a bulky man, almost square, with

a thick neck and bullet-shaped head.

'Coffee's on the way,' said Roberts. The meeting had no

agenda and no notes were taken. It was just an opportunity

to share information without having to go through multiple

layers of bureaucracy.

'Martin not here yet?' asked Mulhern. Martin Jackson was

the fourth member of the group and as he had furthest to

travel he was, more often than not, the last to arrive. He

worked for GCHQ, the government's eavesdropping facility

that monitored phone, satellite and Internet traffic around

the world.

'On his way,' said Roberts. 'How's business?'

'We've got the Yanks on our back, big-time,' said Mulhern.

'They want us to put undercover guys in the London

mosques. They're picking up intel that al-Qaeda's planning

a big one in the UK.'

'That's just them wanting to keep us on side,' said Gannon.

'Every time public opinion swings against what they're doing

in Iraci, they crack on that the whole world's in danger.

386

Remember what Bush said? You're either with us or against

us.'

Mulhern scratched at his shirt collar. He had short arms

and he always had trouble finding shirts that fitted. Either

the sleeves were too long or the collars too tight. 'They're

not talking specifics, but they rarely do in case they give away

their sources. But they say there's a big one being planned

and that they'll be using Muslims with British passports.

Invisibles.'

'That narrows it down to - what? About a million?' Gannon

laughed.

'Thing is, do you know how many Arabs we have in Special

Branch? Or how many could even pass for Arab or Pakistani?

The answer is a big fat zero.'

'Five's the same,' said Roberts. 'They've got Oxbridge graduates

who can speak the languages and who know everything

there is to know about the culture, but they're all whiter

than white, so undercover operations are out of the question.

We're only just getting black officers into our undercover

units. We don't have a single Arab we could put into

play.'

'What's the nature of the London threat?' asked Gannon.

Mulhern shrugged. 'No details. But there's been heavy

selling short of the UK market through New York from

clients out in the Middle East. That much is a fact. Someone

reckons the London stock market is going to plunge.'

'Not all terrorists play the market,' said Gannon, drily.

'Agreed, but there was a lot of selling short of shares in

the airlines whose planes crashed into the World Trade

Center,' said Mulhern. 'But it's not just the trading, there's

been phone traffic in which British Muslims were referred

to.'

'Do you think they've got intel they're not telling you

about?' asked Roberts.

387

Mulhern frowned. 'It's possible, but if they have they're

playing it close to their chest. They might well have an undercover

agent somewhere in the al-Qaeda network and don't

want to expose him by giving us the full details.'

'So what's the game plan?' asked Gannon.

'We've got sympathetic Muslims in most of the country's

mosques,' said Mulhern. 'We'll put out feelers. That's about

all we can do. Martin can tell us what GCHQ is doing. I'm

sure the National Security Agency has already been on to

them.'

A harsh beeping came from the metal case at the side of

the sofa. It was Gannon's satellite phone. He stood up and

went to it. As he reached for it, the pager on Mulhern's belt

went off. As Mulhern checked the message, one of the phones

on Roberts's desk rang.

The three men exchanged a worried look. It couldn't be

a coincidence that they were being contacted at the same

time. Something had happened. Something big.

Rose sat deep in thought as Sutherland drove the ARV away

from the traffic-lights. It was a cold day but the heater was

on too high and he could feel sweat running down his back.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and ran his hand over

his shaved head.

'You okay, Sarge?' asked Sutherland.

'Huh?'

'You're a million miles away. Something wrong?'

Rose forced a smile. 'Just bored. I hate these days when

nothing happens.'

Dave Bamber was sitting in the back by the MP5S. He

was a ten-year veteran of SO 19, a Welshman with a shock

of freckles across his nose and cheeks. 'I like a quiet day,

myself,' said Bamber.

'It's because we haven't got Jonah on board,' said Sutherland.

388

'Jonah?'

'Stu Marsden. Every time we have him in the back, shit

happens. First day on the job we get the call to Big Ben.

Then the shoot-up at the pizza place.'

'Yeah, bugger about Kev, right?'

'He'll be okay,' said Rose. 'The other guy let loose with a

shotgun first. Kev was lucky he didn't get a face full of shot.'

'He and Stu are up for commendations,' said Sutherland.

Rose stared out of the window, tight-lipped. If only he

hadn't driven down the road at the moment Marsden had

been attacked, he would never have told him about the

Harlesden job or taken him to see Swift.They'd have recruited

someone else and done the second job, Kelly would have

flown to Chicago and everything would have been all right.

Now it was turning to shit. Unless he did something fast he

was going to prison and his daughter would die.

Rose had replayed his conversation with Swift and Marsden

over and over in his head as he sat in the front seat of the

ARV. He and Swift had confessed to everything - the robbery,

disposing of Ormsby's body, the Dublin drugs deal. They'd

told him about their guns. It was open and shut.

'Commendations don't mean shit,' said Bamber.

'Yeah, that's what Stu said.' Sutherland laughed.

Rose and Swift had spent fifteen minutes before their shift

working out their options. That they hadn't already been

busted by IIC meant that the powers-that-be were waiting

for something. Marsden's evidence plus the gun would be

all that was needed to file charges against them both, so the

fact that they hadn't already been arrested meant that IIC

wanted more. Marsden hadn't been wearing a wire, so maybe

that was what they wanted: he would try to get them to

confess on tape. Maybe he'd even get them to talk about the

next job. If that was so they had a few days' grace, a few

days in which to dig themselves out of the shit they were in.

389

They could get rid of the guns. Rose could dismantle them,

screw up the barrels so that they'd get no usable forensics,

then throw away the pieces where hopefully they'd never be

found. They'd have to make sure they weren't being followed.

It had been a big mistake telling Marsden where Ormsby

was buried. The alarm bells should have rung when he'd

asked where they'd put the body, but he'd seemed so bloody

reasonable. He was a cop, for God's sake, an undercover cop,

and they hadn't spotted what he was up to. Rose gritted his

teeth.

They'd have to dig up the body and move it. Rose wasn't

looking forward to that. He wasn't looking forward to any

of it. The money would have to go, too. There was no way

he could pay for Kelly's operation now, not without showing

out. The best he could do was sit on the money until after

he'd retired, and by then Kelly would be dead. Rose stamped

on the thought. No way was he going to let his daughter die.

He took a deep breath. Sutherland flashed him a sideways

look. 'This vest is killing me today,' Rose said. 'Must be putting

on weight.'

'Take the plate out,' suggested Sutherland.

'Yeah, maybe,' said Rose, but he left it where it was.

So, they got rid of the guns, moved the body and took

care of the money. What then? They already had cast-iron

alibis for the night of the Harlesden robbery. Without a

recording of the conversation that had taken place on Swift's

balcony, it would be Marsden's word against theirs. Two cops

against one. They could try to pass it off as a joke, claim

they were just pulling the new guy's leg. That would leave

Swift in the clear, but Rose's situation was more complicated.

There had been the drugs deal in Dublin. He'd used

his own car to cross the water. And the biggest problem was

what had happened on Thursday night: the shoot-out. One

man dead and two in hospital. That was the part that made

39O

I

I

I

no sense to Rose. If Marsden, or whoever he really was, was

an undercover cop, then why had those three guys driven

down from Manchester to kill him? And if Marsden's bosses

had heard about the shoot-out, why hadn't he been pulled

out? The big question, the one that Swift and he still had to

deal with, was what to do with Stuart Marsden.

Major Gannon strode into the Management Information and

Communications Centre. He was carrying his grey metal sat

phone case. Two uniformed officers were behind him and

Commander Roberts brought up the rear. 'Who's in

command here?' shouted Gannon.

A uniformed inspector in shirtsleeves stood up at a workstation.

'Who are you?' asked the inspector.

Tm the guy with a direct line to the prime minister, and

as of now I'm in charge,' said Gannon. 'Major Gannon, SAS.

I need you to do exactly as I say over the next few minutes.'

He looked up at a large clock on the wall behind the inspector's

desk. It was four thirty-one.

Commander Roberts flashed his warrant card at the BTP

inspector. 'Roberts, Anti-terrorist Squad,' he said. 'Just follow

Major Gannon's instructions.'

Gannon swung his sat phone on to the BTP inspector's

desk and held up his hands. There were some twenty men

and women in the control room, all wearing headsets and

each facing three flat computer screens. Most were talking

into their microphones but all were looking at Gannon.

'Would you all please stop what you are doing, right now?'

Gannon shouted. 'No matter who you're talking to, cut them

off.'

Most of the officers did as Gannon said but some continued

to talk. Gannon waved at the uniformed officers who had

arrived with him. They walked over to those who were talking

and unplugged their headsets.

391

'As of now we are dealing with a category-one emergency,'

said Gannon. 'This has priority over everything else until I

tell you otherwise. You will not answer the phones, you will

not deal with any other enquiries. I can tell you that a man

wearing a vest full of high explosive has been found on the

pavement in Brixton with a map of the tube, and we believe

that King's Cross station was the intended target.'

The inspector's jaw dropped. 'What?'

'It's unlikely that King's Cross would have been the only

target, which means we have to assume that there are other

person-borne explosive devices heading towards others.'

Gannon smiled grimly. 'That's what we call suicide bombers

these days - person-borne explosive devices. I want every

CCTV camera on the tube system checked now. We are

looking for Arabs wearing bulky clothing, or anyone who

looks suspicious.'

'You can't--' began the inspector.

Gannon silenced him by pointing a finger at his face. 'If you

say "can't", "won't" or "shouldn't" to me again, one of the

men with me will throw you through that window over there,

and I don't care what floor we're on. You will listen to me, you

will answer my questions and you will carry out my orders,

because if you don't a lot of people will die. Are we clear?'

The blood had drained from the inspector's face. 'Yes, sir.'

'Good man. I need you to contact the manager of every

station on the Underground system and tell them to send

their staff to the platforms. If they spot anyone suspicious

they are to radio in here and notify you. We will then view

the person on your CCTV screens. Got that?'

The inspector nodded.

'How many stations are there on the system?'

'Two hundred and eighty-seven,' said the inspector.

Gannon did a quick calculation in his head. Even if each

call could be completed in a minute, it would still take one

392

man almost five hours to contact every station. They would

have to split the workload. There were twenty officers here.

Even with all of them on the case, it would still take about

fifteen minutes. 'Split your officers into teams and divide the

stations between them. Cover the ones with mainline terminals

first.'

'Yes, sir.'

Gannon pointed at the BTP sergeant who had been sitting

to the inspector's right. 'Show me how this equipment works,'

he said, and sat in the inspector's chair. 'Get me one of those

headsets.'

Rose looked at Sutherland. 'I wouldn't mind a coffee, Mike,'

he said.

Before Sutherland could say anything, the main set burst

into life. 'MP to allTrojan units. Possible Operation Rolvenden

in Central London, location unspecified. All Trojan units to

report to nearest mainline rail station and await further

instructions.'

Sutherland frowned. 'That's a bit bloody vague,' he said.

'Ours not to reason why,' said Rose. 'What would our

nearest station be?'

Sutherland looked across at his visual display.

'Six of one,' he said. 'Victoria, Charing Cross. Waterloo if

you want to cross the water. They're all five minutes away,

max.'

'Victoria,' said Rose. 'I can get a decent coffee there.' He

picked up the main set microphone. 'Trojan Five Six Nine, en route to Victoria Station.'

Shepherd's earpiece crackled. It was the female control officer

at the Management Information and Communications Centre.

She sounded blonde and thirtyish but that might have been

Shepherd's imagination in overdrive.

393

'PC Marsden, please switch channels to three-seven.'

'Will do,' said Shepherd, but that was easier said than done

with the radio in the small of his back. He got up and walked

to the far end of the platform where there were fewer passengers

and retuned it to channel thirty-seven. 'Marsden

receiving,' he said, into his cuff.

'Bloody hell, Spider, you said you were in deep cover but

I didn't think you meant going underground literally.'

'Major?' said Shepherd. 'Where are you?'

'The BTP control centre. I asked what resources they had

in play and when they said they had a couple of SO 19 officers

undercover I asked for a description and put two and

two together.'

'No one can hear you, can they?' asked Shepherd.

'I've got one of those headsets on and everyone's working

so hard they don't have time to eavesdrop on me,' said

Gannon. 'At four twenty-four today a suicide bomber was

found on a Brixton street, knifed. He was on his way to

King's Cross and we know he was looking to detonate at

about five. If he was alone, all well and good and we've had

a narrow escape, but if there are others the chances are they'll

be primed to go off at the same time, a few minutes either

way at most.'

Shepherd was hardly able to believe what he was hearing.

He looked at his watch. It was four thirty-five.

'We're checking CCTV cameras and station staff are

checking their platforms. Where are you now?'

'Piccadilly Circus,' said Shepherd.

'We think mainline stations are the most likely targets,

followed by intersections. Have a look around. And forget all

that PC crap spouted by the civil libertarians. We're not

looking for ninety-year-old Catholic nuns. You know the

profile.'

'Got you,' said Shepherd.

394

Two middle-aged women were staring at Shepherd. He

walked past them, scanning the faces of the passengers waiting

for the next train. He knew the profile. Young, male and

Muslim. Middle Eastern or Asian. Late teens a possibility.

Twenties most likely. Thirties and above, possible but unlikely.

Wearing clothing capable of hiding explosives. Blinking or

staring. And as the deadline drew closer, probably muttering

phrases from the Qur'an.

Malik stood up, even though there were empty seats in the

carriage. The raincoat looked fine as long as he was standing

but if he sat down the vest would press against the coat and

somebody might notice the outline of the blocks of explosive.

The

train stopped at Oxford Circus and half a dozen people

got off. Two Japanese tourists got on, clutching a street directory

and peering at the route map above the doors. The man

was wearing a Burberry golfing hat and squinted at Malik.

'Baker Street?' he asked.

Malik tried to ignore the man.

'Baker Street?' repeated the Japanese.

Malik forced himself to smile. 'You need to go north.'

'North?' repeated the man. He looked at his wife. 'North?'

The doors clunked shut and the train lurched towards

the tunnel. Several of the seated passengers were looking

at Malik, waiting to see what he would say next. Malik swallowed.

He wasn't supposed to be noticed. He was supposed

to move unseen through the crowds until he detonated the

explosives.

He tapped the Bakerloo Line map. 'This is Oxford Circus.

You're going south. Baker Street is here.You need to go north.'

The man's frown deepened and he spoke to his wife in

rapid Japanese. More faces were turning to watch.

'You need to get off at the next station,' added Malik.

395

'Piccadilly Circus. Then find the platform for northbound

trains. Bakerloo Line. North. Okay?'

'North. Thank you.'

A couple of teenagers in combat trousers and camouflage

patterned coats were whispering and smirking. Malik fought

to keep calm. It didn't matter who saw him. At precisely five

o'clock he would press the button that would activate the

bomb that would send him to heaven and take with him

dozens if not hundreds of infidels. He looked across at the

teenagers. Maybe they would get off at Charing Cross. Maybe

they would be on the platform at five o'clock. He hoped so.

Malik smiled. It was all going to be just fine.

It was, thought Major Gannon, like looking for the proverbial

needle in a haystack. There were some six thousand

CCTV cameras covering the tube system. In any one hour

a hundred and fifty thousand people were heading underground,

more at rush-hour - and it was rush-hour now.

There were too many cameras to monitor. With twenty workstations

in the control room, even a ten-second look at each

camera would take fifty minutes. And there were no cameras

on any of the trains criss-crossing the system. The bomber

in Brixton had been on his way to King's Cross on the

Victoria Line. If others were en route, they would probably

be travelling by train too, so they wouldn't be visible until

they stepped out on to a platform. The cameras would have

to be checked every time a train pulled in. It was an impossible

task. Even if they had a face recognition system they

could run in conjunction with the CCTV cameras, they didn't

know who they were looking for. And there was a good

chance that whoever had planned the operation had recruited

Invisibles, men or women who held British citizenship in

their own right and who were able to move around under

the intelligence service's radar.

396

[

A phone rang and the inspector answered it, then handed

the receiver to Gannon. It was Commander Matt Richards,

who was running the GT Ops room at New Scotland Yard,

the main control room in the event of a major terrorist incident.

Richards was in direct communication with COBRA,

the Cabinet Office briefing room, and the prime minister.

'How's it going there, Major?'

'Ronnie Roberts and I are checking the CCTV cameras

but there are too many people down there. Can we evacuate?'

'Sorry,

Major, that's not an option. Every scenario we've

ever run shows that evacuation causes more problems than

it solves. Crowds form outside the stations and if a bomb

goes off there we have more casualties than if the explosion

takes place below ground.'

'The good of the many outweighs the good of the few?'

'We've run the numbers, Major. Evacuation of the system

doesn't save lives. If we have a specific threat, place and time,

we can shut down a section of line or run trains through a

station without stopping. But shutting the whole system is

just not on.'

'No clues on the Brixton bomber?'

'Just the Underground map. Only King's Cross was circled,

so there's a possibility that he was a lone wolf,' said Richards.

'If it's al-Qaeda, multiple targets are more likely,' said

Gannon.

'God be with us,' said Richards, and cut the connection.

The commander was a regular churchgoer and fond of

quoting from the Bible. Gannon doubted that God would

be of much help over the next half an hour. He sat back in

his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin. King's Cross

was an obvious target because so many tube lines intersected

at the station. But Victoria was the busiest station on the

system. Gannon wondered why the man was travelling from

397

Brixton to King's Cross when Victoria was only four stops

away. King's Cross was four stops further on. Why risk travelling

the extra distance? Because someone else was going to

Victoria. Someone who would be using a different tube line.

Gannon jumped to his feet. He pointed at the sergeant. 'I

want Victoria station evacuated,' he said.

Shepherd's earpiece crackled. 'Spider, you there?' It was

Gannon.

'Receiving,' said Shepherd.

'Victoria station, how quickly can you get there?'

'It'll have to be on foot, there's no direct line.'

'There's going to be a bomber at Victoria. I've got guys

heading over from the barracks but you might get there first.'

'On my way,' said Shepherd.

Shepherd saw Nick Wright at the far end of the platform

and jogged over to him. 'Nick, I've got to get to Victoria

now.'

'You'll have to go through Green Park. Piccadilly Line to

Green Park, then Victoria Line south.'

'I don't have time, what about running through the tunnels?'

'Other than that it's pitch black and there's a live rail that'll

fry you if you touch it, it sounds like a plan. Over ground

is the only way.'

'Cheers,' said Shepherd. He rushed for the escalator and

ran up the moving stairs two at a time.

Gannon put his hand on the shoulder of the young WPC

and peered at her screen. On the display was a view of the

southbound Victoria Line platform at Victoria station and a

map of its CCTV cameras.

The platform was deserted except for a uniformed member

of staff who was pacing up and down with a radio pressed

to his ear.

398

'How's the evacuation going?' he asked.

The WPC was wearing a lightweight headset. She reached

for her computer mouse and clicked on to a CCTV camera

in the main ticket hall. The screen showed four staff members

holding back a crowd of frustrated passengers.

She clicked to another view, this time of the escalators,

both running upwards. Then a passenger walkway, which

was deserted. She flicked from camera to camera. Other than

a few stragglers the station was empty. 'So far, so good,' said

the WPC. 'As each train comes in the passengers are shunted

upstairs.' She looked up at the major. 'I know it's none of

my business, but why don't you just close the station and

not allow the trains to stop?'

'Because if I'm right, there's a bomber on one of those

trains. We need him out in the open.'

'And then what?' asked the WPC.

'We just hope we can take him out before he blows himself

to kingdom come.'

The tube train slowed to a halt. Malik wondered what was

happening. Several passengers swore. Malik glanced at his

wristwatch. It was a quarter to five. The Saudi had said that

Malik should be on a platform when the bomb went off.

Malik wondered what he should do if the train remained in

the tunnel. Should he press the button at five o'clock, or wait

until the train got to the station? He counted the people in

the carriage. Twenty-six. Not enough. There would be

hundreds on the platform. He would wait until the train

reached the station, even if it meant going over the deadline

by a few minutes. The Saudi had insisted that Malik pressed

the button at exactly five p.m., but he hadn't known that the

train would be stuck in a tunnel. Malik was the man on the

spot, and he would decide when to activate the bomb. Why

kill only twenty-six when he could kill hundreds?

399

His pulse raced at the thought of the explosion. The Saudi

had said it would happen so quickly that there would be no

sensation, just the bright light, and then he would be with

Allah, one of the revered shahids, and he would receive all

the rewards that were the right of those who gave their lives

for Islam. Those closest to him would feel no pain. They

probably wouldn't be aware of the explosion: their lives

would just wink out. There would be no place in heaven for

the unbelievers. But that wasn't Malik's problem. They were

infidels, no better than animals.

The train lurched and started moving again.

'Thank God,' murmured a middle-aged man, cradling a

briefcase.

Malik wondered if the man really believed in God. And if

he did, would that God save him from what was about to

happen?

The train arrived at Charing Cross. The two Japanese

pushed in front of him, eager to get off. The man with the

briefcase also pushed ahead. Malik let them go, then stepped

slowly off the train. A housewife knocked his shoulder as she

got on to the train. She gave him a bright smile and apologised.

Malik watched her as the doors closed and she

mouthed, 'Sorry,' again.

The train pulled out of the station. There were only a

dozen people waiting for the next, but more were arriving.

At the far end of the platform a CCTV camera seemed to

look accusingly at him, but he knew he was just one of

millions of passengers passing through the station every

day. No one was looking for him. He had nothing to fear

from the surveillance, but he didn't want to stand on the

platform for too long: someone might wonder why he didn't

board a train. He started to walk, following signs for the

Northern Line.

400

Shepherd's jacket flapped behind him as he ran and he kept

his arm pressed to his left side so that no one would see the

Glock in its holster. His feet pounded on the pavement and he

breathed deeply and evenly. Ahead of him the Mall separated

Green Park from St James's Park. Shepherd upped the pace.

It was virtually a mile from Piccadilly Circus to Victoria as the

crow flew but Shepherd wasn't a bird and he wasn't flying.

He'd run along Piccadilly, which was crowded with shoppers

and office-workers heading home, then turned down St James's

Street. It was no distance, compared with his normal running

schedule, but he was sweating in his pullover, jeans and jacket.

He ran past St James's Palace and turned on to the Mall.

In the distance he could see Buckingham Palace. The Royal

Standard was flying, indicating that the Queen was in residence.

A girl was throwing a Frisbee for a barking cocker

spaniel. Two teenagers were kissing on a bench. A crocodile

of Chinese tourists was walking down the Mall towards the

palace, their faces impassive. Two policemen looked over at

Shepherd, but dismissed him as just a man late for an appointment.

Shepherd ran on. He was halfway there.

Malik walked on to the Northern Line platform. It was

crowded and he smiled inwardly. Perfect. He looked up at

the electronic board and saw that a train was due in four

minutes, then another five minutes after that. Malik looked

at his wristwatch. It was four fifty-one. Passengers were

piling on to the platform, their faces falling when they saw

how long they had to wait. Malik walked slowly to the middle,

his hands in his pockets. The button was still tucked into the

vest so that it could not be pressed accidentally. He wouldn't

hold it until the last minute.

He moved back to stand by the wall. There was a chocolate

machine to his left. Malik looked at it, his mouth watering.

It would be good to taste chocolate one last time. Maybe

401

even to have a piece in his mouth as he pressed the button.

He had some coins in his pocket and ran them through his

fingers. He felt the milled edges of a pound, and took that

as a sign that Allah meant him to have the taste of chocolate

in his mouth when he went to heaven.

He went to the machine and slotted in the coin. He chose

a bar of mint chocolate, then went back to the wall. He

unwrapped it and popped a piece into his mouth. There were

over a hundred people along the platform.

Malik let the chocolate melt in his mouth. It reminded him

of the mint tea his mother had made for him. Would there

be chocolate in heaven? Yes. All his needs would be taken

care of. Malik hadn't seen his mother and father since he

returned to England, but when it was over and the media

reported what had happened, they would realise where he

had been and what he had done. Whether or not they understood

why he had given his life for the jihad, they would

know that he had earned them a place in heaven and they

would thank him for all eternity.

Malik felt a tug at his coat and he flinched. Then he saw

it was a little girl of five or six and smiled. Blonde curly hair,

blue eyes, wearing a grey overcoat with toggles and bright

pink Wellington boots. 'Can I have some?' she asked.

'Go away, little girl,' he whispered.

'I want some chocolate.'

'Didn't your mother tell you not to talk to strangers?'

The child nodded solemnly.

'Well, go away.'

'I just want some chocolate.'

A young woman rushed up to him. Her hair was the same

colour as the child's and she had the same big blue eyes. She

grabbed the child's hand. 'I'm so sorry,' she said.

'She wanted some chocolate,' said Malik. 'Is it okay if I

give her a piece?'

402

'I don't like her to eat chocolate,' she said. 'It's bad for her

teeth.' She looked down at her daughter. 'What have I told

you about bothering people?'

'Really, it's no bother,' said Malik.

The woman's brow creased as she looked at Malik. 'Are

you all right?' she asked.

'What do you mean?'

'You look hot. Like you might be ill. I have a flu powder,

the sort you can take without water.' She fumbled in her

handbag.

'I'm not sick, but thank you,' said Malik. 'It's the air down

here. It's always so stuffy.'

'I know what you mean,' she said. 'I hate it but it's the

easiest way to travel around, especially when you have children.

So much safer than the roads.'

'Yes,' said Malik, quietly. 'So much safer.'

He felt a breeze on his cheek, heralding the arrival of the

train. The lines vibrated and then he heard the train powering

through the tunnel. Several passengers moved back but most

stayed close to the edge, not wanting to lose their place. The

little girl reached up for her mother's hand and Malik felt a

surge of relief that they were getting on to the train.

'No, pet, it's too crowded,' said the woman. 'Let's wait for

the next one.' She smiled at Malik. 'We're going to see my

parents. It's my father's birthday.' Malik saw she had a prettily

wrapped package in a carrier-bag, tied with a gold bow.

The train roared into the station and its brakes squealed.

Malik kept his back to the wall as the door opened and passengers

flooded out. Many stayed on, though, heading south to

Waterloo, and the train was still too full for those on the platform

to get on. Some tried, but the carriages were filled to

capacity. Malik looked up at the electronic display. Five

minutes until the next train.

The little girl waved at Malik but he turned his back on

403

her and walked away, holding the chocolate. He passed two

Canadians, their rucksacks emblazoned with red and white

maple-leaf logos. They were holding hands and whispering

to each other. An Indian woman was sitting with three young

children, her arms around them protectively. She smiled at

him and looked into his eyes. For a second Malik felt as if

she could see right into his mind. He averted his eyes and

hurried past.

He could barely breathe. His way was blocked by a group

of students standing guard over a line of suitcases. They were

talking excitedly in Italian. Malik tried to get through them,

apologising. One, a teenage boy, put his hand on Malik's

back. Malik twisted away. More passengers were pushing

their way on to the platform. Malik saw a gap by the wall

and moved into it. There were hundreds of people on the

platform with more arriving all the time, parents with children, businessmen carrying briefcases, couples holding hands.

He couldn't see the little blonde girl now, but he knew she

was there, and that she was still holding her mother's hand.

Malik's mind was racing. This wasn't how it was supposed

to be. They were the enemy. The infidel. They weren't people

- they were targets. But now he couldn't stop seeing them

as people. Men, women and children who would soon be

lying broken and bleeding on the platform. Dead and dying.

Those still alive crying out for their loved ones. Begging their

gods to save them.

Malik's hands were soaked with sweat and he wiped them

on his raincoat. He felt the bulky packages of explosive.

Three Arab women moved down the platform, clothed from

head to foot in the traditional black jibab, only their eyes

visible. They were all carrying bulging Marks & Spencer

carrier-bags. Malik stared at them in horror. Muslim women.

He looked around frantically. There were two Pakistani

women to his left. It wasn't how he'd pictured it when he'd

404

lain on his back in the graveyard. In his dreams he'd been

surrounded by men when he'd pressed the button. Evil men,

who hated Islam and everything it stood for, who murdered

innocent Muslims, slaughtered women and children. But as

Malik stood on the station platform he realised that he was

the one who'd be killing innocents. He would be as bad as

the infidels he hated. And how could he live in heaven for

eternity knowing he had earned his place with Allah by killing

women and children? The three Muslim women stopped

next to Malik. He rubbed a hand over his face. This wasn't

right, he thought. What he was doing wasn't right.

The ARV pulled up in front of Victoria station. BTP officers

had drawn up a cordon and were preventing passengers

entering the station. A manager was using a megaphone

to tell the crowds that the station was closed until further

notice. Rose radioed in that they had arrived. They were told

to wait for further instructions.

'What's the story?' Rose asked the controller.

'When we know, you'll know,' said the controller. 'All we're

being told is that it's a possible Operation Rolvenden.'

'If it's those Fathers for Children nutters again, I'll shoot

them myself this time,' said Sutherland.

Suddenly Rose saw a man running at full pelt towards the

station. He frowned. It was Stu Marsden.

'What's he doing?' asked Sutherland.

'Who is it?' asked Bamber.

'Stu, our observer,' said Sutherland. 'He's on attachment

with BTP today. Undercover.'

Rose climbed out of the ARV. 'I'll have a word with him,'

said Rose. 'Maybe he knows what's going on.'

Shepherd saw the crowds at Victoria station long before he

reached the tube entrance. He forced his way through,

405

holding up his warrant card and identifying himself as a

policeman. There was a uniformed BTP officer at the

entrance. He checked Shepherd's ID and waved him

through.

Shepherd headed for the turnstiles. A tube employee in a

blue uniform and peaked cap opened a gate to let him

through. He ran for the escalator. Three tube lines operated

through the station: the District, Circle and Victoria lines. As

he reached the top, he heard the sound of boots behind him.

Shepherd looked over his shoulder. It was Rose. 'What's up,

Sarge?' he asked.

'I was going to ask you the same,' said Rose.

The two men stood looking at each other. Rose's hand

moved towards the butt of his Glock. 'You're going to take

me down, aren't you?'

'What do you mean?'

'You know what I mean. Don't fucking lie to me. You're

an undercover cop.'

Shepherd looked at Rose for several seconds without saying

anything. Then he nodded.

Rose screwed up his face. 'Shit.'

'It's my job,' said Shepherd. 'It's what I do.'

'You're a cop investigating cops,' said Rose bitterly. 'Scum

of the earth.'

'You're the first police officer I've ever gone up against,'

said Shepherd, 'and I'm as happy about it as you are.'

'I goddamned liked you, Stu,' he said fiercely. 'I thought

you were my friend.'

Shepherd didn't know what to say.

'You know why I did it.'

'Sure. Your daughter.'

'My daughter's got a name. Kelly. She's seven years old,

Stu. Seven.'

'I know'

406

'Have you got kids?'

Shepherd stared at Rose. As Stuart Marsden, he didn't,

so the answer was no. He was in character, and it was against

every rule in the book to step out of role. But Keith Rose

deserved better than a lie. 'A boy. Eight.'

Rose smiled grimly. 'So you know exactly how far a father

will go to save his child. If you were in my position, you'd

do whatever you had to.'

'You killed two people, Keith.'

'They were drugs-dealers. And they started shooting first.'

'You sold drugs.'

'They were on the streets anyway. I just changed their location.'

'You

broke the law.'

'Whose law?' said Rose. 'The state's? Fuck the state, Stu.

My daughter's dying and the state isn't lifting a finger to

help her. So I'm doing what I have to do. End of story.'

'It's not like I don't understand,' said Shepherd.

'Do you understand, Stu? Do you really} Do you know

what's it like to see your little girl getting weaker by the day

and to be told by some pen-pushing bureaucrat that there

aren't the resources to treat her? And when I go hunting on

the Internet and find a guy in Chicago who might save her

the same fucking bureaucrat tells me that the health authority

can't afford it. Can't afford it? I pay my taxes. I pay National

Insurance. And the one time I need something from the state,

they tell me they don't have the money. The specialist here who

we waited three months to see - says her tumour's inoperable.

The guy in Chicago says he can operate and there's an

eighty per cent chance she'll be okay. But will the state pay?

It'll pay to rehabilitate child-killers but it won't to save my

daughter.'

'What do you want me to say? That life's not fair?'

'Life isn't fair,' said Rose. 'We cops know that better than

407

anyone. We know that the biggest villains never go down

because we don't have the resources to take them down. And

they have enough cash to buy the best lawyers and pay off

anyone who needs paying off. Cops, GPS, judges, juries. You

know how it works. Speed cameras generate revenue, but

putting drugs barons behind bars doesn't. So millions of

motorists send off cheques every year while the biggest,

hardest bastards live lives of luxury. The state chooses the

soft targets. Always has and always will.'

'So you started ripping off drugs-dealers to redress the

balance?'

'By hook or by fucking crook, my daughter's going to live.

I'll do whatever it takes.'

'I don't have time for this,' said Shepherd. 'There are terrorists

on the tube system. Suicide bombers.'

'Bollocks there are,' said Rose.

'They got one at Brixton. They think Victoria's a target.'

Malik walked up to the two constables. They were deep in

conversation, close to the tube-station exit. One of the

policemen nodded curtly when Malik approached them.

'Yes, sir?' He was young, maybe a year younger than Malik.

He was good-looking, thought Malik, handsome, even. A

man who would have no trouble winning the hearts of pretty

girls. 'I have done a terrible thing,' he said.

The second constable was in his early thirties, with a

square jaw and unfriendly eyes. 'What would that have been,

sir?' he said.

'I have followed the wrong path. I know that now. I need

to repent.'

The second constable raised his eyebrows at his colleague.

'What exactly have you done, sir?'

Malik stepped closer to the two policemen, unbuttoning

his raincoat.

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'Not a bloody flasher,' muttered the older policeman.

'You must take me somewhere safe,' said Malik, 'somewhere

I can take this off.' He opened the raincoat so that

they could see the vest and its pockets of explosives.

The two policemen froze. 'Jesus fucking Christ,' said the

younger constable.

'It's okay,' said Malik. He held up his hands to show that

he was not holding a trigger. 'It will not go off.'

'Jesus fucking Christ,' repeated the constable, taking a step

back.

'It is safe,' said Malik. 'I don't want to harm anybody.'

'Who are you?' said the older constable.

'My name is Rashid Malik. I was to explode this bomb in

the Underground but I cannot be a murderer. I cannot kill

women and children.'

The younger constable reached for his radio mike but the

older one grabbed his arm. 'No!' he said. 'Radio frequencies

can set them off.' He looked at Malik. 'How does that thing

go off?'

Malik opened his coat wider so that the policemen could

see the button tucked into one of the vest pockets. 'I have

to press that.'

'What about if you take it off? Is that okay?'

'I think so.'

'We're not going to touch it, are we?' said the younger

constable, his voice shaky.

The older constable gripped his shoulder. 'It's going to

be okay, Chris. We have to start moving people back, just

to be on the safe side. Can you do that?'

Chris nodded.

'Okay. I'll sit him down here.'

Malik smiled encouragingly. 'It is okay, really,' he said. 'It

is safe now. Nobody is going to get hurt.'

409

Rose's hand was still on the butt of his Glock but he made

no move to take it from the holster. 'Your name isn't really

Stu, is it?'

Shepherd shook his head.

'What is it? Or are you undercover guys not allowed to

say?'

'Dan. Dan Shepherd.'

'At least I got one truthful statement out of you - but it's

your job, isn't it, to get close to people and then shit on

them?'

'It's not like that, Rosie.'

Rose's earpiece crackled. 'MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, what

is your location?'

Rose kept his eyes on Shepherd as he took the call. 'Trojan

Five Six Nine, still at Victoria station.'

'MP, we need you at Charing Cross station concourse,

suspected suicide bomber.'

Rose's eyes widened.

'What's wrong?' asked Shepherd.

'They've found one. Charing Cross.'

Shepherd frowned. 'You mean it's gone off?'

Rose shook his head. 'They want us there now.'

The two men stared at each other. 'That's it, then,' said

Rose, eventually. 'Whatever happens, it's over for me, isn't

it?'

Shepherd said nothing. Rose started walking towards the

tube entrance.

'Rosie?'

Rose stopped. 'What?'

'I'm sorry.'

Rose held Shepherd's eyes for two seconds, then jogged

away. Shepherd watched him go. Then his earpiece crackled.

It was the major. 'Where are you, Spider?'

'Just got here, heading downstairs now.' Shepherd ran down

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the escalator. A train must have arrived because passengers

were heading up. Several looked at him curiously, wondering

why he was the only person going down.

Major Gannon used the mouse to change viewpoints. There

were tube staff and BTP officers on the platforms, and each

time a train arrived they ushered the passengers quickly out

of the carriages. He flicked from platform to platform. There

were just too many passengers, too many possibilities. He

looked up at the clock. Four fifty-six. If there were multiple

bombers, they would almost certainly be under orders to

detonate at about the same time. As soon as one device

exploded, the authorities would have to evacuate and all

advantage of surprise would be lost. If Gannon had been

planning it, he'd have them primed to explode at the same

time. The chances were that if there was another bomber,

he would also be working to a five p.m. deadline. It meant

that if Victoria was a target, he would be arriving within the

next four minutes.

He flicked to the westbound District Line. A train burst

out of the tunnel. There was no sound on the monitor. The

doors opened and passengers stepped out, confused when

they saw that the platforms were empty. Three CCTV

cameras were covering the platform and Gannon skipped

from view to view. When he clicked on the camera covering

the rear of the train, something caught his attention. He leaned

forward, staring at the screen.

The ARV pulled up in front of Charing Cross station. Bamber

unlocked the MP5S. 'Stay with the car, Mike,' said Rose.

'Monitor the main set.' He stripped off his personal radio.

'Dave, you stay between me and the car. I won't be able to

use the radio because it might set the thing off. Anything I

should know, shout. Keep at least fifty metres from me.'

411

'Sarge, I don't--'

Rose cut Bamber off with an impatient wave. 'Just do as

you're told.'

Bamber held out an MP5 but Rose shook his head. At the

entrance to the station a uniformed sergeant was standing

next to a young Pakistani man in a long raincoat with his

hands on his head. He was talking animatedly to the sergeant.

Rose looked at the huge station clock. It was almost five

o'clock.

He put on his ballistic helmet and fastened the chinstrap

as he walked towards the two men.

There were crowds on the pavement, standing and staring.

'Can you all move back, please?' shouted Rose, but no one

paid him any attention. 'Keith Rose, SO 19,' he said, as he

drew level with the sergeant.

'Ben Harris. Are you bomb disposal?'

'They're on their way.' Rose nodded at the Pakistani. 'You've

seen it?'

The sergeant nodded. There was no colour in his face. 'He

opened his coat. I made him stay like that so he can't touch

the button.'

'It's okay,' said the Pakistani. 'I don't want to hurt anyone.'

Rose was surprised at the man's nasal Birmingham accent.

'What's your name?' asked Rose.

'Rashid Malik.'

'Okay, Rashid. Just stay where you are. We'll get this fixed,

don't worry.'

Malik smiled eagerly. 'It is okay. The bomb is safe.'

A uniformed constable and two rail employees were trying

to stop people leaving the station as they would have to walk

past the Pakistani. Commuters were shouting angrily. 'Ben,

go and help your colleague over there. Keep everyone at least

a hundred metres away.'

'The bomb is safe,' said Malik.

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The sergeant looked as if he was going to argue so Rose

pointed in the direction of the station concourse. 'If more

people arrive, we'll have major crowd problems over there.

Find another way for them to leave.'

'Everything is all right,' said Malik.

The sergeant hurried off to shout at the crowds.

Rose waved at Bamber. He pointed at the crowds on the

pavement. 'Dave, get them moving towards Trafalgar Square.'

'Right, Sarge!' shouted Bamber. He ran over to the

commuters and yelled at them to move away. He was faced

with a wall of blank faces. The office-workers wanted to go

home and they weren't prepared to budge.

Rose took one of the plastic ties from his belt and moved

behind Malik. 'I'm just going to fasten your wrists, Rashid,'

said Rose, matter-of-factly. 'It's for your own safety.'

'There is no need,' said Malik, but he didn't resist as Rose fastened the tie.

'Now, stand very still, Rashid. Let me see what we're dealing

with.'

Shepherd scanned the northbound Victoria Line platform as

the passengers rushed out of the carriages and registered

surprise when they saw the platform was empty. Blue

uniformed members of staff cajoled them towards the escalators.

Shepherd saw two Pakistani teenagers, young men

with gelled hair and gold chains, but they were wearing loose

sweatshirts with designer labels. No threat.

He walked back down the platform. He saw anxious faces,

nervous faces, angry faces, but he didn't see the face of a

man prepared to kill himself and dozens of others. There

were businessmen with briefcases, secretaries wearing drab

office suits and white trainers, schoolchildren with ties at half

mast, tourists looking bemused and holding maps of the Underground system.

413

'Spider, I have a possible. Just got off the westbound District

Line,' said the major in Shepherd's ear.

Shepherd started to thread his way through the passengers.

Gannon

moved his face closer to the monitor. The man

was an Arab and he'd been in the second to last carriage

of the westbound train. He was walking slowly down the

platform, wearing a brown raincoat that looked several sizes

too big for him. The coat had attracted Gannon's attention,

but the man's body language also suggested something

wasn't right. He was tense: his eyes darted from side

to side, and he was clenching and unclenching his fists.

Gannon clicked on to a camera closer to the man. It was

clear that the man was Middle Eastern: skin the colour of

weak coffee, clean-shaven with a hooked nose. Gannon

clicked back to the distant view. The man had a scrawny

neck but the coat looked bulky round his chest. Or was he

imagining it? Gannon had to be sure. 'Ronnie,' he said.

'Have a look at this.'

The commander came up and stood behind him.

'What do you think?' asked Gannon.

Roberts exhaled. 'Maybe.'

'Maybe' wasn't good enough. Gannon clicked back to the

close-up. 'Not a face you recognise?'

Roberts shook his head. 'He's not right, though. Look at

his eyes - he's hyper.'

As they watched, the man began to mutter to himself. He

looked as if he might be praying.

Shepherd ran through the pedestrian tunnel. Half a dozen

office workers using the tunnel as a short-cut glared at him

even though they were the ones heading in the wrong direction.

Shepherd pressed in his earpiece.

414

'Arab male, late twenties, wearing a long brown raincoat.

Clean-shaven. He's on the platform about eighty feet from

the exit tunnel.'

Shepherd pulled the Glock from its holster as he ran. A

middle-aged woman opened her mouth wide in astonishment

and Shepherd had a glimpse of black fillings as he ran

past her.

'Where are you, Spider?'

'Tunnel leading to the platform,' said Shepherd.

'He's just passed it. You'll come out behind him. He's

stopped.'

Shepherd raised his gun so that the barrel was pointing at

the ceiling. The tunnel curved to the right and ahead of him

he saw the platform.

There could be no mistake, Gannon knew. If he called it

wrong and an innocent man was shot in the head for no

other reason than that he was an Arab, his career would be

over, Shepherd's too. Gannon stared at the CCTV picture,

Roberts at his shoulder. 'It's a definite maybe,' said Roberts.

'I think so.'

The man was still muttering to himself, hands by his sides.

Commuters were bumping into him as they passed but he

showed no reaction.

Gannon linked his fingers and continued to stare at the

screen, unblinking. The man's hands were empty, he was

sure. He wasn't holding a trigger. Gannon's eyes flicked to

the wall-mounted clock. It was four fifty-nine. The timing

was right. The location was right. The man fitted the profile.

But was that enough? Was that enough to order a man to be

killed?

The Arab stopped. Commuters passed by him like river

water flowing around a rock. He raised his head until he was

staring into the CCTV camera. His eyes bored into Gannon's.

415

The Arab smiled. A cruel, knowing smile. His right hand

moved to unbutton his raincoat.

'It's him,' said Gannon, calmly. 'Green light.'

Shepherd ran out on to the platform. There were a dozen

or so passengers still there: stragglers in no rush to get home,

tourists who weren't sure if they were heading the right way.

A woman in the light blue uniform of the station staff was

hurrying them along.

Shepherd dropped into the firing position, legs shoulder

width apart, left foot in front of the right, toes turned inward.

He brought up his left hand to cup the right and took aim

with the Glock.

The man was fifteen feet ahead. Brown raincoat, black

trousers, black shoes. His hair was jet black and glistened

under the tunnel lights. Shepherd couldn't see any facial

features. The man's left hand was hanging by his side; he

couldn't see the right. Shepherd was all too aware of the

enormity of what he was doing: he was shooting a man in

the back of the head, with no warning, giving him no chance

to surrender. It was a cold kill, done for no other reason than

that Major Gannon was telling him to do it. Shepherd didn't

even consider that the major might be wrong. He trusted

him.

Shepherd pulled the trigger and the Glock kicked. The

front of the man's forehead exploded in a shower of blood, brain matter and bone fragments. Immediately Shepherd fired

again and this time a chunk of skull blew across the tracks.

The shots were deafening in the confined space, followed

by screams of terror. Passengers scattered, bent double and

running for the exit. Shepherd ignored them. He stayed

focused on the target. A BTP officer rushed out on to the

platform, saw what was happening and dashed back into the

pedestrian tunnel.

416

The man's legs started to go. The right hand appeared at

his side, fingers fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird.

Shepherd fired a third shot, which blasted away most of what

was left of the top of the skull.

As the body slumped to the floor Shepherd kept the gun

trained on the man's head and started walking. He fired

again. And again. He had to be sure.

The body hit the ground, blood seeping from the gaping

head wounds. The legs were twitching. Shepherd pumped

two more rounds into the head at close range. Gobs of brain

matter splattered across the platform.

Shepherd was breathing heavily and his heart was

pounding. It hurt when he swallowed. If the man he and

Gannon had killed was just an innocent bystander, all hell

was about to break loose.

Slowly he knelt beside the body.

The phone on Gannon's desk rang. He kept his eyes on the

monitor as he took the call. It was Commander Richards at

the New Scotland Yard control centre.

'The vests have timers,' said Richards. 'The EOD boys

have defused the one in Brixton. It was set to go off at fiveohtwo p.m.' Gannon's eyes flicked to the wall clock. It was

exactly five o'clock.

'Any other circuits?'

On the monitor, Shepherd was using his Swiss Army knife

to cut the raincoat up the middle. He stripped it away as if

he was skinning a rabbit.

'Just the timer and the manual switch,' said Richards.

'I'll call you right back,' said Gannon, and replaced the

receiver. 'Spider, you okay?'

On the monitor Gannon saw Shepherd's hand go to his

mouth. 'Good call, Major,' he said.

'Listen to me, Spider. There's a secondary circuit. The

I

417

EOD guys at Brixton called it in. If it's not detonated by

hand, a timer kicks in.'

'What do I do?' Shepherd seemed unfazed by what he had

been told.

'The EOD guys say there are no booby traps so you can

just pull the detonators out of the explosives. Then rip the

clock out of the circuit. Easypeasy.'

The man was one of the Invisibles, but after he had fulfilled

his destiny he would be invisible no longer: his name would

join the long list of martyrs to the cause of Islam. He was

British-born of Iranian parents who had fled their country

when it was known as Persia, but the man had never felt

British. He was a Muslim, first and foremost. It was as a

Muslim that he lived and it was as a Muslim that he would

die.

He stepped off the train and groped inside his coat for

the button. He looked left and right down the platform. It

was packed with commuters rushing to get upstairs and on

to their trains home. Liverpool Street station, five o'clock in

the evening. The place and time of his destiny. The place

and time that would be remembered for ever.

He walked along the platform. People were still pouring

off the train. The exits were blocked and the man heard sighs

of annoyance and frustration. He was nudged in the back,

his shoulders were pressed tight on either side; all around

him, men and women were pushing and shoving, like cattle

rushing into an abattoir.

'Attaint akbar,' whispered the man. His thumb was on the

button. God is great.

No, he thought. It wasn't something to be whispered, as

if he was ashamed of what he was doing. There was no

shame. He was proud to die in the service of Allah. It was

something to be shouted with pride.

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'Allahu akbarF he screamed. Angry faces glared at him. 'Allahu akbarF he cried, and pressed the button.

Shepherd ran his hands down the vest. There were four

pockets in the back, each with a slab of explosive wrapped

in nails. Wires led from the front to the explosives. Shepherd

tugged at one and a thin metal cylinder the size of a cigarette

eased out. Shepherd quickly pulled out the other three

detonators, then rolled the body over. There were six pockets

on the front of the vest, three on each side of the chest.

Shepherd used both hands to pull out the detonators. Then

he grabbed the wiring cluster and yanked it away from the

vest. A digital clock emerged from a pocket. Shepherd grabbed

it and pulled out the wires. He stared at the digital readout: 17:01.

The main set burst into life. 'MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, are

you receiving?' A man's voice.

Sutherland reached over and picked up the microphone.

'Trojan Five Six Nine, receiving.'

'Trojan Five Six Nine, we've just received intel on the

bomb in Brixton. There is a secondary circuit attached to

the device, activated by a timer.'

Sutherland stared through the windscreen at Rose. He was

holding the Arab's raincoat open.

'What do we do?' asked Sutherland.

'Is there an EOD team there yet?'

'Negative,' said Sutherland.

'The detonators can be removed from the explosive,' said

the controller. 'Just slide them out. What is your situation

there?'

'Trojan Five Six Nine, hang on . . .' Sutherland got out of

the car and waved both hands above his head. 'Sarge! Sarge!'

Rose turned, still holding open the raincoat.

419

Before Sutherland could say more, Malik and Rose were

engulfed by light. The two men were vaporised as the ten

kilos of Semtex exploded. A hundred yards away, Sutherland

was flung back against the car by the force of the explosion.

The Saudi watched the BBC reporter detail the casualties.

Forty-seven dead, including a police officer. Over a hundred

injured. Third time lucky. Only two explosions, and one

had been above ground, but it had been more than enough.

The TV images of the dead and dying were winging their

way round the world. There would be more pressure on

the British government to pull out of Iraq. More protests

in the streets. More recruits eager to join the ranks of alQaeda,

willing to sacrifice themselves in the war against the

infidel.

The Saudi knew it was time to move on. He had done his

work in London. He already had his ticket for Thailand. It

would soon be the peak tourist season in Phuket, the island

in the south of the country. Much of the population in the

south was Muslim and the Saudi already had three cells in

place, planning his next operation. The bar area of Patong

was a prime target, packed every night with Australians,

Americans and Brits. It was a soft target, the sort the Saudi

preferred.

He would be travelling on a British passport so he wouldn't

need a visa. He would automatically be granted a month's

stay on arrival. The Saudi had held British citizenship for

more than twelve years. His father had invested heavily in

the country and had made large donations to both major

political parties. He had offered his hospitality to MPs from

across the political spectrum, and over the years several

dozen had enjoyed themselves on yachts in the South of

France, in hotels in Dubai and on the family's stud farm in

Ireland. His application for citizenship for himself and his

420

I

family had gone through smoothly, boosted by the fact he

had signed a half-billion-pound contract with a British

construction company. The government had bent over backwards

to welcome the Saudi's father, even though in private

the man made no secret of his hatred for the British. They

were there to be used, he said. They granted citizenship to

anyone willing to pay for it, allowed outsiders to live in their

country without paying taxes, allowed foreigners to buy everything

from land to their football teams. They had no pride

in their country and were prepared to prostitute themselves

to the world. They deserved what they got.

The Saudi had been educated at a top public school, his

entrance facilitated by his father's multi-million-pound donation

towards a new science wing. No bribe had been necessary

to get into the London School of Economics: the Saudi

had won his place on merit. With his perfect English, first

class degree and wealthy family, the world was at the Saudi's

feet. But his hatred of the West matched his father's, and he

had devoted his life to bringing the West to its knees.

The Qur'an promised unlimited sex with seventy-two

black-eyed virgins to the martyrs who sacrificed their lives

for Islam. Virgins as beautiful as rubies, with complexions

like diamonds and pearls. The Qur'an said that martyrs went

straight to heaven and that places would be saved for seventy

relatives. There would be eighty thousand servants to take

care of them. And they would see the face of Allah Himself.

It was all nonsense, the Saudi knew. The Qur'an also said

that suicide was wrong. A sin. And it forbade the killing of

women, children and old people, even for jihad. The Saudi

didn't believe in the virgins and didn't believe in heaven. But

he did believe in punishing America and her allies, striking

where it hurt until they removed their forces from Muslim

territories around the world.

He walked over to his prayer mat and knelt facing Mecca.

421

For the next hour he bowed and prayed, offering his life to

the jihad and asking to be lucky again.

Shepherd and the superintendent walked together along the

path through the gravestones, some more than a hundred

years old. The superintendent's driver stood by the official

Rover at the entrance to the churchyard, ready to open the

rear door. 'It was a good service,' said Hargrove.

'He was a good cop,' said Shepherd.

'A good cop gone bad.'

There was going to be a headstone, but there had been

no coffin and no body. Rose's Kevlar vest had been found

intact, and there was some metal from his weapons but not

a fragment of bone or soft tissue.

'Rose did what he did for his family,' said Shepherd.

'He killed two people for money.'

'They were drugs-dealers and they shot first.'

'That was his story,' said Hargrove.

'I believe him.'

'He was ripping off drugs-dealers, and because of that

Andy Ormsby died along with the two Yardies, don't forget

that.'

'I won't,' said Shepherd. 'But he was still a good cop.'

'And as far as the world's concerned that's all he was,' said

Hargrove. 'His family gets the insurance, his pension and a

medal for the sideboard.'

'No one gets to know?'

'Just you and me. And the commissioner. He figures we

should let sleeping dogs lie.'

'That's one hell of a decision.'

Hargrove shrugged. 'Rose is dead. The money's probably

hidden offshore where no one will ever find it. What's served

by going public? We tell the world that the capital's armed

police can't be trusted? The way it is now, Keith Rose was

422

a hero. And the way things are at the moment, we need all

the heroes we can get.'

Ken Swift walked out of the church in full uniform. With

him was Rose's widow, dressed in black and clutching a shiny

black handbag. She had her arm through his and as they

walked he bent down to whisper something in her ear.

'And Rose's daughter gets to go to America for her operation?

On the insurance money?'

'The Met is footing the bill. She's the daughter of a dead

hero. They didn't have a choice. So all's well that ends well.'

'Depends which way you look at it,' said Shepherd.

'If he hadn't died as he did there'd have been a court case

followed by life in a cat-A prison and the kid would have

died in an NHS hospital. Given the choice, I know which

I'd prefer.'

Shepherd sighed. 'Maybe you're right.'

Swift helped Mrs Rose towards a waiting limousine. Briefly

he locked eyes with Shepherd, then nodded, almost imperceptibly,

and got into the car with her.

'Swift?'

'We can't charge him without revealing Rose's wrongdoing.

He's taking early retirement next week.'

'Keeps his pension?'

'Let it go, Spider.'

The limousine drove away.

'He told us where Ormsby was buried,' Hargrove added.

'Now the lad can have a proper funeral.'

'What about Ormsby's family?'

'There isn't one. He was an only child. Parents died when

he was a teenager. No wife.'

'Swift knows who I am. And what I did.'

'He can't say anything. He knows what will happen if he

does. You did a good job, Spider.'

'I'll take some convincing of that.'

423

'Take some time off. Go and be a dad for a while.'

'For a while? It doesn't work like that and you know it.

You're either a good father or you're not. Over the last few

months I've been a crap one.'

'That's why I said take some time off.'

'And then what? I come back to investigate more cops?

Hound some other poor bastard until he decides that his

only option is to kill himself

'Keith Rose didn't kill himself. He died trying to save lives.'

'You can keep telling yourself that,' said Shepherd, 'but we

know what really happened.'

'It was his choice,' said Hargrove.

'I know,' said Shepherd. 'But you know as well as I do,

sometimes choices aren't really choices at all.'

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