Cold Kill dss-3

by Stephen Leather

  ‘And the promotion was to make the transfer smoother, was it?’ said Shepherd, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  ‘I was due one anyway,’ said Hargrove. ‘Don’t get paranoid on me, Spider. You’ll be up for sergeant before long. Look, I didn’t expect you to be happy about this, but there was no way I could have told you earlier. Button’s appointment won’t even be confirmed until this afternoon.’

  ‘Button?’

  ‘Charlotte Button. She’s heading up undercover operations.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. She’s MI5.’

  Shepherd groaned. ‘Oh, terrific! A spook and a woman. Anything else I should know?’

  ‘Only that she’s a damn fine operator. I know you SAS boys tend to be disparaging about women and the intelligence agencies, but Charlotte Button has a track record second to none, both in the field and as a controller. SOCA is only recruiting the best, Spider. That goes for you and for her. Between you and me, three guys in my unit won’t be joining SOCA. They’re not even being considered.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because SOCA’s standards are higher. That’s all I’ve been told. I’d put my men up against anyone but MI5 has been positively vetting all of you and three got the thumbs down.’

  ‘But if I move to SOCA I stay as a cop, right?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, no. At the moment you’re employed by the Met, same as I am, although the unit has always been answerable to the Home Office. The individual police authorities are funded by local councils. SOCA will be funded by central government.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll become a civil servant, with pay, pension and the like being handled by the new agency.’

  ‘But the work will be the same?’

  ‘My understanding is that the various forces around the country will still be able to call on the resources of the undercover unit by making an application to the Home Secretary, exactly as they do now.’

  Shepherd watched a crocodile of Korean tourists walk by, following a tour guide holding aloft a furled red umbrella. ‘I suppose I should congratulate you,’ he said, ‘on the promotion.’

  ‘It’s a big hike in salary,’ said Hargrove. ‘My wife’s been hankering for a villa in Tuscany and it looks like she’ll get it now.’

  ‘You’re not retiring?’

  Hargrove shook his head. ‘I think she plans to be in the villa on her own, actually. I’m being co-opted on to the emergency planning committee – national disasters and all that. Deskbound until the shit hits the fan.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ said Shepherd. ‘This can’t be happening. Why fix something that isn’t broke?’

  ‘Think of it as an opportunity,’ said Hargrove. ‘A bigger playing-field for you.’

  ‘It’s a question of trust,’ said Shepherd. ‘If I put my life on the line, I need to trust my back-up one hundred per cent.’

  ‘You’ll be able to meet Button before you sign up,’ said Hargrove. ‘You’ll see that she’s sound.’

  ‘You’ve met her?’

  ‘No, but I know her reputation. She’s rock solid, Spider.’

  Shepherd put his head into his hands. ‘I really don’t need this, not now.’

  ‘It was going to happen one day, we all knew that,’ said Hargrove. ‘Nothing lasts for ever. Especially in the police. They move us around to stop us getting stale.’

  ‘How do you think the rest of the unit will take it?’

  ‘About the same as you, I suppose. No one likes change.’

  Shepherd sat back in his seat. ‘Maybe it’s time for me to move on, too.’

  Hargrove frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been spending too much time away from Liam – and there was that business on the trawler… If anything had happened to me, Liam would’ve been on his own.’

  ‘Time for a quieter life?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Shepherd said. ‘Maybe it’s for the best.’ High overhead a passenger jet banked right and headed for Heathrow. He stared up at the plane. ‘Maybe I need a holiday,’ he mused.

  Shepherd caught a black cab back to Ealing. He went upstairs to change into his running gear. As he took off his jeans he realised he still had the mugger’s flick-knife in his pocket. It was about seven inches long with fake pearl insets on either side of the handle and a chrome button on one side. Shepherd pressed it with his thumb. The blade flicked out and clicked into place. It was a vicious weapon, long and sharp enough to kill with one thrust, even in the hands of an amateur. He put it down by the basin. He’d destroy it: a few blows with a hammer would render it useless.

  He pulled on an old sweatshirt and shorts, went downstairs and picked up his rucksack. He ran for the best part of an hour, pushing himself harder than usual, and was drenched with sweat by the time he got back to the house.

  Katra was in the kitchen, ironing. She laughed as he walked into the kitchen and took off the rucksack.

  ‘What?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘You’re laughing at something,’ he said, as he took a bottle of Evian water from the fridge.

  ‘It’s those bricks,’ she said.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘In Slovenia they would think you were crazy, running with bricks.’

  ‘They might be right.’ He twisted the top off the bottle and drank half of it.

  ‘It makes you stronger?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘But you don’t look strong.’

  Shepherd wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You are not big.’

  ‘Size isn’t everything,’ said Shepherd, looking at her playfully.

  Katra looked perplexed.

  ‘Strength and size aren’t the same thing,’ he explained. ‘A lot of big people aren’t strong. I train for stamina. I want to be able to run long and hard, and the bricks help me do that. They make my heart stronger.’

  ‘You trained like that in the army, yes?’

  ‘A lot of the time. Being a soldier is often about moving a lot of equipment from place to place in the shortest possible time. It’s all very well being able to run in shorts and expensive trainers, but in the real world you’re wearing heavy clothes and boots, and carrying a pack on your back.’

  ‘But you’re not a soldier any more.’

  ‘Old habits,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Old habits?’

  ‘It’s an expression. Old habits die hard. It means that once you’ve done things one way for a long time, it’s hard to do things differently.’

  Shepherd went upstairs to shower and change. He pulled on a denim shirt and black jeans, then grinned as he caught sight of his reflection in the wardrobe mirror: his own taste in clothes pretty much matched Tony Corke’s.

  The three mobiles were lined up in their chargers by the bedside table. Shepherd picked up the Tony Corke phone, then paced up and down for a few minutes, getting into character. He connected the digital recorder, then hit ‘redial’. The Uddin brothers’ number was the only one in the phone.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Shepherd. ‘Is that Ben?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Salik.

  ‘Everything okay with the cans?’

  ‘They were fine.’

  ‘Still not going to tell me what was inside them?’ He kept the tone light, chatty.

  ‘You were paid.’

  ‘Thanks for that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Though to be honest, it’s going straight into the pockets of my lawyer. Look, have you thought about what I said about my boat?’

  ‘I have thought about it, yes.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We should talk.’

  ‘That’s why I called.’

  ‘Not over the phone,’ said Salik. ‘We must sit down and talk. You and me and my brother.’

  ‘The guy with the money was your brother?’

  ‘I don’t want to discuss anything on the phone,’ said Salik. ‘Today’s Monday. Let’s say we
get together on Wednesday. We’ll have dinner. You can tell me about this boat of yours.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Shepherd. ‘Where and when?’

  ‘I’ll phone you on Wednesday,’ said Salik. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Dover,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I can come in to London, no problem. Call me when you’re ready.’ He ended the call, pleased with the way it had gone. There was plenty of time for Hargrove to decide how to play the meeting, and Salik had seemed genuinely hooked.

  Shepherd put down the Tony Corke mobile and picked up his work phone. He called Hargrove and told him about the conversation with Uddin.

  ‘Well done,’ said the superintendent. ‘The timing’s perfect because I’ve just got the boat fixed up. Former SBS guy, now lives in Southampton, Gordon McConnell. Ever come across him?’

  ‘No,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘He’s expecting you tomorrow. I’ll text you his number. He’ll do a couple of night runs with you – that way you’ll be up to speed before your sit-down with the brothers.’

  Shepherd went downstairs. ‘I’m going to be away tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘Make sure Liam does his homework.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Katra. ‘Don’t forget you’re going to his grandmother’s this weekend.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ he said, ‘and I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.’ He could tell from her blank look that she had made as much sense of his sarcasm as she did of his humour. He winked.

  Shepherd drove down to Southampton in the ten-year-old Land Rover. The battered, mud-splattered vehicle was registered in the name of Tony Corke at the Dover address and was full of the sort of gear a sailor might need, including wet-weather clothing, boots, a tool-kit, and various sailing magazines.

  He phoned McConnell on the way and they arranged to meet at a pub on the outskirts of the city. ‘Keep an eye open for the big man with the beard and a look of bored contempt on his face,’ said McConnell, in a Northumberland accent.

  Shepherd spotted him as soon as he walked into the pub. The self-description was bang on, although McConnell wore an amused smile as he shook Shepherd’s hand. ‘So, I’m going to turn you into a sailor in twenty-four hours, am I?’ he said.

  ‘That’s the plan,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re Gordon?’

  ‘Gordy on dry land,’ said McConnell. ‘Skipper when I’m at the helm. Okay, lesson one. We need antifreeze in the system before we go anywhere near the water. What are you drinking?’

  ‘Jameson’s. Ice.’

  ‘On the rocks, as the Yanks say,’ said McConnell. ‘Bad bloody omen for a start.’ He pushed himself off the bench seat and ambled over to the bar. He had the rolling gait of a man used to a moving deck rather than solid ground. The beard made it difficult to place his age but Shepherd figured he was probably in his late fifties and that it had been a decade or so since he had last squeezed into an SBS wetsuit.

  McConnell returned with a double whiskey and ice for Shepherd, and a pint of beer for himself. They clinked glasses and McConnell drained half of his in one gulp. ‘I needed that,’ he said. ‘So, from the Sass to the cops. Like paperwork, do you?’

  ‘My wife wanted me out,’ said Shepherd. ‘Too many nights away.’

  ‘Ah, wives,’ said McConnell. ‘I’ve had four, bless them.’

  ‘A girl in every port?’

  ‘All local, as it happens. Kids?’

  ‘A boy. Nine.’

  McConnell grinned. ‘I’ve got five. Can’t remember how old they are.’

  Shepherd could see that McConnell was the competitive sort, but that was generally the way it was with men who had served in the Special Forces. You didn’t get into the SAS or SBS by hiding your light under a bushel.

  ‘So, what’s your sailing experience?’ asked McConnell.

  ‘I did a crash course in trawlers, but as I was only a deck-hand I didn’t have to do much. But I’m okay on navigation.’

  ‘And you’ve used night-vision equipment?’

  ‘Sure.’

  McConnell belched loudly. ‘Then the rest of it is like driving a car,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we have another round and then I’ll show you the boat? We can pop over to France and back to get the feel of it, then do a few night-runs.’

  The sea spray blew across his face like a light shower and Shepherd narrowed his eyes. High overhead, seagulls soared on the breeze coming in from the English Channel. Whichever way he looked he saw other boats. A huge cross-Channel ferry heading for France, as big as a skyscraper turned on its side. Flotillas of small sailboats, some barely bigger than bathtubs. Freighters caked with dirt. Gleaming white executive toys with massive outboard engines. Fishing boats with rusting hulls.

  ‘It’ll be quieter at night,’ shouted McConnell, over the roar of the massive outboard engine behind them. He was standing up, leaning back against his seat, legs planted like trees, shoulder-width apart. His right hand was on the wheel, his left on a chromium-plated throttle lever. ‘This is us doing thirty knots.’ He banked to the left to avoid a twin-masted sailboat ahead.

  Shepherd was standing next to the skipper, his left hand on a grab rail at the side of the boat. Even at thirty knots he could see the high degree of concentration necessary to keep the boat away from trouble. All the craft around them were heading at different speeds in different directions. Working out where they were all going in relation to one’s own boat was like some huge mathematical problem that required constant computations.

  ‘You want to divide the sea into three circles around you,’ shouted McConnell. ‘Far, near, and fuck-me-that’s-close. The far stuff, you have to be aware of where it’s heading and if it’s a potential problem. The near stuff, you need to know its speed and if you’re going to pass it to port or starboard. The other stuff shouldn’t be a problem, providing you’ve got the outer two covered. It’s all about anticipation. The big stuff is easy – you can see it from miles away. It’s the fair-weather sailors in their piss-pot fifteen-footers that you’ve got to watch out for. Or windsurfers who’ve gone out too far. Hit one of them at sixty knots and they’ll rip right through the hull. There’s flotsam and crap all around, too, everything from deckchairs to empty champagne bottles, so you can’t let your guard down for a second.’ He banked left again and increased the throttle. ‘That’s forty knots,’ he shouted, ‘and the engine isn’t even breaking sweat.’ He pulled the throttle back and the boat slowed to a little over ten knots. He grinned at Shepherd. ‘You take the helm, get the feel of it.’

  Shepherd put his left hand on the wheel in front of him. McConnell kept a loose grip on it, but Shepherd could feel that he had control of the boat. It was responsive, with far less play on the wheel than he’d had when he was at the helm of Pepper’s trawler.

  ‘Take it up to fifteen knots,’ said McConnell. ‘Nice and slowly.’

  Shepherd did as he was told. The boat kept slamming into the crests of the waves and the wheel bucked and kicked in his hand. He kept the speed steady at fifteen knots.

  ‘Okay, that’s us just before we start to plane,’ shouted McConnell. ‘We’re slamming into the waves rather than cutting over them. It’s a teeth-juddering ride, right?’

  Shepherd nodded. He was concentrating on the water ahead of the prow.

  ‘Take it up to twenty knots,’ roared McConnell. ‘Smoothly as you can.’

  Shepherd pushed the throttle forward. As the boat accelerated past sixteen knots the juddering stopped and it carved across the top of the waves.

  ‘That’s the planing,’ said McConnell. ‘You feel it?’

  ‘Awesome!’ It felt to Shepherd as if the boat was flying above the water now, barely skipping along the surface.

  ‘Keep it going!’ bellowed McConnell.

  Shepherd pushed the throttle forward until the speedometer registered forty knots. He was finding it harder to concentrate on all the ships in the vicinity. There was a freighter off to starboard that seemed to be on a collision course and he steered away
from it.

  McConnell grinned when he saw what Shepherd was doing. ‘We’ll miss him by a hundred yards, he’s only doing twelve knots. The thing to remember is that out here we’re the fastest bastards, by far.’

  It was like driving a motorcycle, Shepherd realised. Fast and furious, not worrying overmuch about what was behind you. Just keep focused on where you’re going and be ready to accelerate out of trouble.

  ‘Ready to put her through her paces?’ McConnell shouted.

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘Give it full throttle!’

  Shepherd took a deep breath and pushed the throttle forward. The edge of the seat pressed against the small of his back as the craft surged forward, and the air beat against his face like a living thing. He was panting like a dog and fought to steady his breathing. His left hand ached from gripping the wheel too hard and he forced himself to relax.

  ‘See the branch?’ yelled McConnell, but Shepherd was already steering the boat to port. ‘Nice,’ said McConnell, approvingly.

  Shepherd kept accelerating. The huge Yamaha outboard roared and the waves beat under the hull. The boat felt as if it was bouncing along the surface like a stone that had been sent spinning across a lake. The speedometer went past fifty knots. Fifty-five. Sixty. The throttle was in the full forward position.

  ‘Both hands on the wheel now!’ roared McConnell. ‘At this speed you have to steer your way out of trouble, so you need both hands.’

  Shepherd did what he was told.

  ‘Try a hard to starboard!’

  Shepherd turned the wheel right. The boat banked easily and he felt his body dragged to the left by the force of the turn. His eyes kept scanning the area ahead of the bow. There were a dozen craft close by, all yachts, none going at more than ten knots.

  ‘This is amazing!’ shouted Shepherd. ‘It’s as if everything else is standing still.’

  ‘Compared to us, they are! Come on, let’s go to France.’ McConnell pointed at the GPS screen mounted between the two wheels. ‘Just follow the dotted line.’

  Shepherd put a pint of beer in front of McConnell, who grunted his thanks. It was a little after six o’clock and McConnell had insisted that they retire to a pub ‘for a drop more antifreeze’ before nightfall. He had a sketch-pad in front of him and was drawing a rough map of the south coast and the French shore with a Biro whose end had been well chewed.