‘Let me know what happens,’ said Shepherd. ‘If I don’t hear from them within twenty-four hours, I’ll make the call.’
It was just after five when Shepherd got home. Liam was in the sitting room, on his PlayStation. Shepherd patted his head. ‘Have you had your dinner yet?’ he asked.
‘Katra’s cooking.’
‘What about homework?’
‘Done it.’
‘When?’
‘This afternoon when you were out. I had maths, and I had a book report, and I had to write a poem.’
‘What – “Roses are red, violets are blue”?’
Liam gave Shepherd a withering look. ‘There’s a bit more to it than that, Dad.’
‘I didn’t know you wrote poetry,’ he said.
‘I don’t. But that was the homework. So I did.’
‘Can I read it?’
‘Da-ad!’
‘What?’
‘It’s homework!’
Shepherd dropped down into an armchair. ‘I just like to know what you’re up to at school.’
‘School’s school.’
‘You always say that.’
‘Because it’s true. What was school like when you were a kid?’
Shepherd shrugged. His son had a point: school was school. You went, they told you stuff, and then you went home.
‘See?’ said Liam. On the television screen, a high-powered car ran over two elderly pedestrians.
Shepherd raised his eyebrows. ‘Did you just run over them?’
‘You’re supposed to,’ said Liam. ‘That’s how you move up to the next level.’
‘By killing people?’
‘Dad! I’m trying to concentrate here.’ The car squealed round a corner on two wheels and knocked a cyclist into the air.
Katra popped her head round the door. ‘Hiya, Dan. I’m doing fried chicken, rosemary potatoes and broccoli.’
‘Perfect,’ said Shepherd. He expected the boy to quibble about the broccoli but Liam went on with his game. Sue had always had a problem getting any green vegetables into him, but he ate whatever Katra put in front of him.
The doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Katra, and headed down the hallway.
‘What’s this about you wanting piano lessons?’
Liam shrugged.
‘Why the piano? Why not the guitar?’
‘I don’t want to play the guitar.’
‘Pianos are expensive.’
‘We don’t have to buy one. There’s one at school and I’d have lessons there.’
‘You know what’s a great instrument?’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know what it’s called but it’s shaped like a triangle and you hit it.’
‘It’s called a triangle,’ said Liam. ‘And you’re taking the mickey.’
Katra reappeared at the door. ‘It’s one of your colleagues,’ she said.
It was Jimmy Sharpe and Shepherd gave him the holdall.
‘Nice,’ said Sharpe, nodding towards the kitchen, where Katra had disappeared.
‘She’s a kid,’ said Shepherd.
‘I only said she was nice.’
‘She’s an au pair.’
‘I don’t care what her religion is – I’d give her one.’
‘You’re a real gentleman, Razor.’ He jerked a thumb at the holdall. ‘Be careful with that. It’s been counted.’
‘Very funny,’ said Sharpe. He lowered his voice. ‘Have you heard anything about Sam Hargrove moving on?’
‘Moving on where?’
‘Bigger and better things.’
‘It’s news to me.’
‘It’ll be a bugger if he goes,’ said Sharpe.
‘Why would he? The unit’s his baby and we’ve had a string of successes.’
‘I’m just telling you what I heard,’ said Sharpe. ‘Keep your ear to the ground. Forewarned is forearmed.’
‘Any more cliches or are you done?’
Sharpe winked and headed for his car.
Shepherd went back into the sitting room. The car was driving at full speed along a crowded highway. The driver kept leaning out of the window to fire a shotgun. ‘Is he doing what I think he is?’
‘ Dad! ’
A mobile phone rang in the kitchen. ‘Dan, it’s one of yours!’ shouted Katra.
Shepherd hurried into the kitchen. It was his work phone. Shepherd picked it up. It was Hargrove.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Shepherd, by way of a greeting. He never used his boss’s name or rank, either on the phone or when they were together in case he was overheard.
‘We’ve got an address in Tower Hamlets,’ said Hargrove. ‘A three-bedroom council flat. We’re working through the databases now but, as always at weekends, we’re not getting much co-operation from the local council or the utility companies.’
‘I can’t believe they’re smuggling in that much cash and living in a council flat,’ said Shepherd.
‘They might just be clever,’ said Hargrove. ‘Staying below the radar. Look, something’s come up and we need to talk. Face to face.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Tomorrow will be soon enough. I’ve got to pop into the Yard, then see someone at Waterloo. How about I meet you by the London Eye at eleven?’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Shepherd. ‘Anything I should worry about?’ Hargrove’s tone had told him something was wrong.
‘Nothing earth-shattering. I’ll talk it through with you tomorrow.’ He ended the call.
Shepherd put his phone on the kitchen counter. He hoped the investigation hadn’t run into problems.
Shepherd took a Piccadilly Line train from South Ealing to South Kensington, where he changed platforms and waited for an eastbound Circle or District Line train. He let the first two trains go by to check that he wasn’t being shadowed. The third was on the Circle Line and he sat opposite two Italian tourists, facing the platform. There was a copy of Metro, the free newspaper, on the seat next to him and he flicked through it as the train headed east, but couldn’t concentrate and soon tossed it aside. The Italian couple were pointing at the Tube map above his head and murmuring to each other.
Shepherd folded his arms and closed his eyes. He knew why he was tense: Victoria station was down the line. It had been more than six months since he’d shot the would-be suicide-bomber on the westbound platform, then left the station unchallenged and been picked up by one of Gannon’s men in an unmarked car. The CCTV footage of the fatal shooting had been erased, and the body removed by MI5 technicians, who had also sanitised the area. An hour after Shepherd’s last shot had echoed around the tunnel it was as if nothing had happened.
The train stopped and Shepherd opened his eyes. Sloane Square. The Italian tourists got off and three black teenagers got on, baseball caps, Puffa jackets and baggy jeans. They sat opposite Shepherd and started talking about football. Shepherd closed his eyes again. The killing ran through his mind in slow motion. Running through the tunnel on to the platform. The man, his back to Shepherd, wearing a brown raincoat, black trousers and black shoes, his hair jet black and glistening under the lights. Shepherd raising his Glock, the gun kicking, the front of the man’s forehead exploding in a shower of blood, brain matter and bone fragments. Firing again. And again. The man slumping to the floor. Shepherd pumping more rounds into his head at close range.
The train moved off again. He didn’t feel guilty about what he’d done. There was no way he could have called a warning, not when the terrorist had his finger on the trigger. He had done the only thing he could, and neutralised the threat. The American at the Special Forces Club sprang to his mind and he smiled. The terrorist had been well neutralised.
One of the youths glared at him, showing a gold tooth. ‘What you laughing at?’ he sneered.
Shepherd smiled amiably. ‘Nothing, really,’ he said.
‘Someone might wipe that grin off your face,’ said the youth, leaning forward. His companions were snigger
ing maliciously and clenching their fists.
Shepherd shrugged. ‘You could try, I suppose,’ he said.
A man in a suit with a shiny leather briefcase turned away pointedly, not wanting to get involved.
‘That a real Rolex?’ asked the young man, jerking his head at Shepherd’s watch.
‘I hope so,’ said Shepherd.
‘I want it!’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Shepherd.
The train swayed as it rattled through the tunnel. The youth’s hand disappeared into the pocket of his Puffa jacket and reappeared with a flick-knife. ‘Give me your watch and your mobile,’ he said, and got to his feet. His thumb depressed the silver button on the handle and a gleaming blade snapped out.
Shepherd’s left hand grabbed the boy’s wrist and twisted savagely. At the same time he hit his throat with the back of his right hand, hard enough to cause intense pain but not to splinter the cartilage. The knife dropped from the youth’s fingers and clattered on the floor of the carriage. His hands went to his throat, as his mouth opened and closed like that of a stranded goldfish. Shepherd grabbed his jacket and lowered him on to his seat. The others sat where they were, too stunned by the violence to move. Shepherd kept his eyes on them as he bent to pick up the knife. He retracted the blade, then slid it into the back pocket of his jeans and sat down.
The train burst out of the tunnel and into Victoria. The injured youth’s two friends helped him out on to the platform. They jeered at Shepherd as the doors closed and made obscene gestures, but he could see the fear in their eyes.
The train moved off. The businessman with the briefcase nodded approval but Shepherd ignored him: he took no pride in his ability to use violence, even when it was controlled – he could easily have put the youth in hospital, or worse. But now he’d attracted attention, and that was never a good thing. He felt the knife pressing into his backside. It was an offensive weapon: just carrying it could have earned the boy a prison sentence. Shepherd had seen from the look in his eyes that he would have used it without any thought of the consequences. It made no sense to stab someone on the Tube for a watch and a mobile: every platform and exit was covered by CCTV cameras.
The train plunged into the tunnel. Did he really make a difference? Shepherd wondered. Would anything he did as an undercover cop make the world a better place? He’d stopped a suicide-bomber, but al-Qaeda continued to wage war against the West. He’d put drug-dealers behind bars, but cocaine and heroin continued to flood into the country. He’d put away armed robbers, murderers and fraudsters, but for every one he put away there were a dozen more to take their place. As a soldier he’d fought in wars, and wars could be won and lost. But the war against crime was never-ending because the fight was against human nature. He sighed. What the hell? It was his job, and he could only do it to the best of his ability. If the world was going to hell in a basket, that was the world’s problem, not his.
He got off the train at Embankment, walked out of the station and down to the Thames, where he stood and watched the London Eye, the huge ferris wheel that dominated the South Bank. He glanced around, searching for any faces he might recognise from the train but saw none and began to walk slowly across Westminster Bridge, with the Houses of Parliament to his right. The wind tugged at his hair and he turned up the collar of his leather jacket.
Hargrove preferred to meet in public places – sporting events were a favourite, or tourist attractions. In the unlikely event that either of them was followed, a watcher would stand out among sports fans or tourists.
Hargrove was sitting at a table outside a cafe with a cup of coffee, wrapped up against the cold in a long black coat and a scarlet scarf. Shepherd ordered a cappuccino and sat next to him.
‘Everything okay?’ asked Hargrove.
Shepherd told him what had happened on the Tube.
‘Bastards,’ said the superintendent.
‘It’s the way of the world,’ said Shepherd. ‘Kids with no hope and nothing to lose. Crime is pretty much their only option and once they take that route they either end up in prison or dead.’
‘By choice, Spider. Let’s not forget that. Everyone makes choices.’
‘Maybe.’ He sighed. ‘He pulled a knife on me in a Tube train.’
‘He was lucky you only winded him. You could have done a lot worse.’
Shepherd smiled. ‘Yeah. I’m sure he sees it that way. He’ll be on liquids for a week.’ A pretty blonde waitress brought him his coffee and he waited until she’d left before he leaned towards Hargrove. ‘Any joy identifying the guys from yesterday?’
The superintendent took two photographs from the inside pocket of his coat and laid them in front of Shepherd. They were surveillance pictures, taken from high up with a long lens. In one the thickset Asian was taking the rucksack from Shepherd. In the other, the taller, thinner man was watching as Shepherd flicked through the banknotes in the sports bag. Hargrove tapped the man with the rucksack. ‘Salik Uddin,’ he said. ‘British passport, but born in Bang ladesh. Like ninety per cent of Bangladeshis in this country, he’s from the Sylhert region.’
‘One of the world’s wettest climates,’ said Shepherd. He grinned. ‘Just one of those stupid bits of information I can’t forget.’
‘Married with four children,’ continued Hargrove. ‘Runs several bureaux de change in and around the Edgware Road.’ He tapped the second photograph. ‘His older brother, Matiur Uddin. Not British yet, but he has leave to remain through marriage to a Bangladeshi woman who does have citizenship.’
‘ Bureaux de change? Makes sense. They ship in the counterfeit euros, run them through their shops and into the banking system.’
‘We’re going to put the bureaux under surveillance, see who else they’re dealing with. We’ll run checks on their banks and contacts, put their whole operation under the microscope.’
‘I guess the notes alone aren’t enough to bust them.’
‘We don’t have any evidence that they’ve opened the cans. Anyway, we’d like them for conspiracy and to bust the French end so that we can find out where the notes are coming from.’
‘I’ll make a call this afternoon, see if I can get them to bite on the boat plan. If they agree, I’m going to need a crash course in driving the bloody thing.’
‘It’s in hand,’ said Hargrove. He picked up the photographs and slipped them back into his pocket.
Shepherd sipped his coffee. ‘I get the feeling there’s something else,’ he said.
‘Something else?’
‘Some other reason for you getting me here. Or am I being paranoid?’
The superintendent smiled. ‘I’m that transparent, am I?’ He exhaled through pursed lips. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Spider, but I’m leaving the unit. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more warning’.
‘What happened?’ asked Shepherd. ‘I thought everything was hunky-dory.’
‘The unit’s being co-opted into the Serious Organised Crime Agency.’
‘The British FBI, right?’
‘That’s the plan,’ said Hargrove. ‘Targeting drug-traffickers, people smugglers, paedophile networks, international fraudsters. The sort of stuff we do at a local level. SOCA’s going to go after the big fish and they want to hit the ground running. They figured the best way to do that was to absorb our unit.’
Shepherd scowled. ‘Why fix something that’s not broke?’ he said.
‘We’re a victim of our own success,’ said the superintendent. ‘SOCA’s going to need some major successes to justify its funding and they reckon a few good undercover operations will do that.’
‘The reason we’ve been so successful is because we’ve never blown our own trumpet,’ said Shepherd. ‘We always let the local cops take the credit. We’re never in the papers. We never give evidence.’
‘I explained all that,’ said Hargrove, ‘but the world is changing. The powers that be need to show they’re being effective.’
‘So we’ll be dragged
out at press conferences, will we? It doesn’t work like that, and you know it.’
‘No one’s going to blow your cover, Spider,’ said Hargrove, ‘but SOCA wants to be able to show that it’s doing its job.’
‘This is madness.’
‘It could be a major step up for you,’ said Hargrove. ‘Bigger operations, bigger targets. Bigger challenges. SOCA will have more resources than my unit. More manpower.’
‘The more people involved, the more chance of a leak,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s why your unit works so well. Hell, I don’t even know half the guys who work for you and they don’t know me. Once we’re part of a bigger bureaucracy, who knows who’ll be looking at my file?’
‘What do you want, Spider? You want them to put you in uniform? You’re still employed by the Met, remember. Officially they can put you where they want you.’
Shepherd’s jaw dropped. ‘Is that what they’re saying? I join SOCA or I start wearing a pointy helmet? Fuck that.’ He grimaced, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ said the superintendent. ‘But it’s a done deal. In two months’ time my unit becomes part of SOCA and there’s nothing you or I can do about it.’
‘And you can’t get some form of autonomy for the unit? Special circumstances and all that.’
The superintendent looked pained. ‘That’s the second bit of news,’ he said. ‘I’m moving on. Promoted, finally. And I won’t be in SOCA.’
Shepherd slumped in his chair. The undercover unit had been Hargrove’s brainchild, his baby. He had hand-picked the undercover operatives and had been involved in every assignment. He had personally persuaded Shepherd to join the unit when Shepherd had applied to join the Metropolitan Police, offering him the chance to use his specialist skills rather than pounding a beat. Shepherd had trusted Hargrove from the outset and the superintendent had never once let him down. The sort of work Shepherd did required him to have absolute faith in his controller, and it couldn’t be transferred at short notice. ‘How long have you known?’ he asked.
‘It was first raised last year,’ said Hargrove. ‘As a suggestion. I made my views clear, that we functioned best as an autonomous unit. I was overruled, but they took their time doing it. That was why I was over at the Yard today. You’re the first person I’ve told, Spider.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I haven’t even told the wife yet.’
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