Cold Kill dss-3

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I don’t know where your office is, Salik,’ shouted Shepherd.

  ‘We’ll call you.’

  ‘You’d better,’ said Shepherd. He put the engine into reverse and edged away from the beach, then turned the boat, pulled on the goggles and made for Southampton.

  Shepherd took the boat to its mooring, then drove to the Best Western hotel, where he gave the transmitting equipment to Amar Singh. Hargrove was out with the surveillance team, on the trail of the Uddins.

  ‘You came over as clear as a bell,’ said Singh. ‘Hargrove called the French and they were there to see the whole thing. Captured it on film with infra-red cameras. Hargrove told me to tell you what a great job you did.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd, putting his shirt back on.

  ‘You heard he’s leaving, right?’

  ‘Onwards and upwards.’

  ‘Hard act to follow,’ said Singh.

  ‘No question.’

  ‘You heard about his replacement?’

  Shepherd shrugged. Singh was on attachment from NCIS and, as such, wasn’t a full member of Har grove’s team so he didn’t want to say too much. ‘I’ve only just found out he was moving on,’ he said. ‘Why? What have you heard?’

  Singh stashed the equipment in his briefcase. ‘Just that he’s going to New Scotland Yard. Office job.’

  ‘Promotion, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Chief super. At least we’ll have friends in high places.’

  Shepherd drank two cups of coffee and ate a beef-salad sandwich before he drove back to London. It was seven thirty in the morning when he parked in front of his house. Liam was sitting at the kitchen table, eating toast and jam.

  ‘What happened to the cheesy scrambled eggs?’ asked Shepherd, dropping on to a chair opposite him.

  ‘I fancied a change,’ said Liam.

  Katra appeared at the door. ‘You’re back!’

  ‘Well, if I’m not, a stranger just stole this kid’s toast.’ Shepherd grabbed a slice off Liam’s plate and stuffed it into his mouth.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted Liam.

  ‘I’ll make more,’ said Katra.

  ‘How were Gran and Granddad?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Okay. They’ve got a PlayStation Two.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And a load of games.’

  ‘Well, that must be for your benefit. I can’t see Tom and Moira playing video games.’ He frowned. ‘Hey, didn’t I say that losing your PlayStation was part of your punishment?’

  ‘It wasn’t my PlayStation, it was Gran’s PlayStation,’ said Liam, speaking slowly as if Shepherd was hard of hearing. ‘Anyway, it was a PlayStation Two, not a PlayStation One.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re going to be a defence lawyer when you grow up,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s happening about the piano lessons?’ he asked.

  ‘What piano lessons?’ said Liam.

  ‘You wanted to learn the piano, right?’

  Liam pulled a face. ‘The guitar’s better – bass guitar.’

  Shepherd leaned back in the chair, grinning. ‘She likes somebody else, right?’

  ‘I dunno what you mean.’

  ‘The piano girl. She’s not as pretty as she was a few days ago. Hey, I’m not complaining. A guitar is a tenth the price of a piano.’

  ‘You’re going to buy me one?’

  Shepherd held up a hand. ‘That’s not what I said. You’re grounded, remember? But you’ll be out on remission by Christmas, so unless you’ve fixated on the trombone by then, I don’t see why you can’t have one.’

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘Did your gran say anything about me?’

  ‘Asked how you were.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said you were okay.’

  ‘And am I?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Am I okay?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Yes.’

  Shepherd leaned over and gave him a hug.

  ‘But you don’t half smell bad.’

  Kathy Gift’s high heels clicked along the walkway as she headed towards the Starbucks outlet. Down to her left were the platforms of Paddington station, and below, harried-looking men in suits with briefcases next to their stools plucked small plates off the Yo Sushi conveyor belt. She smiled to herself. Fast food, literally.

  She took off her raincoat and shook it, then went into the coffee shop. A woman in her forties was already getting to her feet. Gift wasn’t surprised at the ease with which Charlotte Button had recognised her. As an MI5 high-flyer, she would have had access to Gift’s police file, and more.

  Button smiled and extended her hand. ‘Good to meet you, Dr Gift.’

  ‘Kathy, please,’ said Gift.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Button. ‘Titles do get in the way, don’t they? I’m Charlie.’ They shook hands. Gift noted the elegantly painted nails and the thin gold bracelet with half a dozen charms. It was a strangely old-fashioned piece of jewellery for an intelligence officer to wear, she thought, especially one who was meeting a psychologist.

  ‘My grandmother’s,’ said Button. ‘She left it to me and I always wear it on her birthday. What can I get you?’

  Gift asked for a low-fat latte. As she sat down she wondered if she’d been staring at the charm bracelet. She was sure she hadn’t, but even a glance hadn’t gone unnoticed. Gift was normally the one who did the observing, picking up on the body language and subtle signals, spoken and unspoken, that gave her the clues she needed to assess the personality of her clients. It made her feel uneasy to be in the presence of someone equally adept at reading people. She was sure that Button had already noticed the Star of David on the gold chain round her neck, and the absence of a ring on her wedding finger.

  She watched Button order the coffee. The other woman looked like the naturally slim type. Her heels weren’t low enough to be frumpy, or high enough to be tarty. Bally, perhaps. Or Gucci. Good legs, a skirt that ended a few inches above the knee, and a long jacket, a blue so dark it was almost black. Her hair shone glossily, black without a trace of grey. Her make-up was expertly applied, a touch of eye-shadow, mascara and lipstick, which might be Lancome’s Chilled Rose. Gift used the same colour. Button could have been a merchant banker or a sales director: efficient, confident, with an accent that suggested a Home Counties childhood and a public-school education. No wedding ring. A Rolex watch. Her money could have come from her inheritance or she might have a wealthy husband who didn’t mind that she didn’t wear a ring.

  Button returned with the latte and placed it on the table, then sat opposite Gift. ‘I’m sorry to ask you to meet me here, but I’ve got a train to catch and I thought I’d kill two birds, as it were.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Gift. ‘Actually, I’m a caffeine addict.’ She smiled brightly but kicked herself mentally for the slip. Addiction was a weakness, and she didn’t want to show any in front of this woman.

  Button raised her mug. ‘Me too,’ she said. She took a sip and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. ‘So, Dan Shepherd.’

  ‘Right,’ said Gift.

  ‘Superintendent Hargrove has told you about the new arrangement? The undercover unit is being co-opted into the Serious Organised Crime Agency and he’s moving on to pastures new. I’m taking some of his operatives into the agency. Others will return to regular police work.’

  Gift nodded but didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’m interested in your assessment of Dan, as a person and as an undercover officer.’

  ‘You’ve seen my reports.’

  ‘I never rely solely on written reports,’ said Button. ‘People are always so much more careful when they commit to paper, aren’t they?’

  ‘The written word encourages accuracy and precision, of course.’

  Button smiled encouragingly. ‘Of course. But we both know the world isn’t black and white. There are so many shades of grey. And it’s the grey I’m interested in.’

  ‘Specifically?’

  ‘You gave him a cl
ean bill of health after your last session,’ said Button.

  ‘He was fit for undercover work,’ said Gift.

  ‘Your report is pass or fail, isn’t it? An operative is either suitable or not suitable?’

  ‘If I have specific reservations, I make a note of them,’ said Gift. ‘In Dan’s case, I had no reservations.’

  ‘He’s very intelligent, isn’t he? A quick thinker?’

  ‘His IQ is high, and he’s helped by having a photographic memory.’

  ‘I read that,’ said Button. ‘Is it genuinely photographic?’

  ‘Total recall of anything he sees or hears,’ said Gift. ‘He can remember content but not necessarily context. He could memorise a physics book, for instance, but that wouldn’t mean he could explain the laws of relativity to you. Knowing something and understanding something aren’t the same thing, which is why he never did especially well academically.’

  ‘Faces?’

  ‘Perfect recall,’ said Gift.

  ‘A useful skill in undercover work,’ said Button. ‘That and his charm would keep him out of trouble, I’d guess.’

  ‘Charm?’

  Button laughed. ‘Come on, you know what I mean. He’s good-looking and he’s got that boyish-charm thing going.’

  Button was a skilled interviewer and Gift had the distinct impression that she was being tested. From the way the conversation was going, it felt as if she was being assessed as much as Shepherd. ‘I’m not sure that his looks have anything to do with his work,’ she said carefully.

  Button arched one eyebrow. ‘Really? In my experience people trust good-looking people more readily than ugly ones. It’s not fair, but it’s the way of the world. If you’re going to lie and deceive, you’ve a better chance of getting away with it if you’re attractive.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Gift.

  ‘The point I’m making is that, on paper at least, Dan is the perfect undercover agent. His SAS background, his trick memory, his charm.’

  ‘He’s good at his job,’ agreed Gift.

  ‘Not too good, though?’

  ‘Too good?’

  ‘Over-confidence can be as much of a liability as lack of ability,’ said Button. ‘Every year we have James Bond wannabes trying to join up, and we go to a lot of trouble to weed them out. They think that joining MI5 means they get a licence to kill.’ She looked expectantly at Gift, waiting for her to speak.

  Gift was adept at playing the silence game, leaving a long pause so that the other person would speak to fill the gap. It was a standard element in any psychologist’s armoury, but she doubted it would be effective against Button. She hated to let the MI5 officer win the mental game, but the alternative was to sit there in silence, which would only make her appear defensive. ‘Dan isn’t exactly an adrenaline junkie,’ she said. ‘He’d have stayed in the SAS if that was so. Police work is a lot more restrained than serving with Special Forces.’

  ‘But leaving the SAS was his wife’s idea, wasn’t it?’

  ‘She thought that it wasn’t the right career for a husband and father, and he agreed.’

  ‘Under protest?’

  ‘I don’t think he was happy about the move,’ said Gift. ‘He had visions of pounding the beat, but that’s not how it worked out. He didn’t even go through basic training.’

  ‘Straight into the undercover unit?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Which, I suppose, was out of the frying-pan and into the fire?’

  ‘That was how his wife saw it. He seemed to be at greater risk as an undercover policeman than he was in the SAS, where at least he was always with fellow soldiers. Working undercover meant he was alone most of the time.’

  ‘He was undercover in prison when his wife died, wasn’t he?’

  Gift nodded. It was a curious conversation. Button was telling her things she already knew from Shepherd’s file. She didn’t seem interested in the facts, more in Gift’s interpretation of them. Which meant that the meeting wasn’t about him, it was about her. ‘He was tasked with getting close to an international drug-dealer who was behind bars. While he was undercover in prison, his wife was killed in a car accident.’

  ‘And he decided to remain in prison to continue with the job, rather than abort and take care of his son?’

  ‘It was his decision,’ said Gift.

  ‘Heck of a call to make,’ said Button.

  ‘It was an important case. If he’d pulled out, the dealer would have got away with it.’

  ‘So Dan will put job before family?’

  ‘He tries to juggle them,’ said Gift. ‘Are you married, Charlie?’

  ‘Twelve years,’ said Button.

  ‘Children?’

  ‘A girl,’ said Button. ‘Ten.’

  ‘Then I suppose you can empathise with Dan, trying to mix parenthood with a career.’

  Button smiled, showing white teeth so perfect they could only have been the result of good genes or expensive orthodontic work. ‘You’ll need a much higher security clearance to start debriefing me, Kathy,’ she said.

  Gift returned the smile. ‘I wasn’t trying to analyse you,’ she said. ‘I was just making the point that you and Dan have something in common. I think he’s as capable as you are of mixing the two.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘What happens to me under the new regime? Do I continue to provide assessments on Dan and the rest of the undercover team?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And were you as sure of that prior to this meeting?’

  ‘You mean, was this an interview?’ Button shook her head. ‘No, absolutely not. Dan needs all the continuity he can get. It’s enough of a shock to his system that he’s losing Superintendent Hargrove. In fact, I’d like to start sending you more of my people. I’m impressed by your work.’

  ‘And will you be needing briefings like this, or will written reports be enough?’

  ‘Didn’t Superintendent Hargrove see you regularly?’

  ‘We met occasionally, but he was satisfied with written reports.’

  ‘I’ll need written reports, obviously, but I’ll also want to talk to you face to face.’

  ‘For the grey areas?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Button. ‘A lot of my operatives will be moving into a different league, and I need to know they can take the pressure.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

  ‘Take Dan, for instance. Until now he’s been working on basic criminal cases. He poses as a drug-dealer, a bank robber, a contract killer, and he gathers evidence against criminals. Hardcore, some of them, but the Serious Organised Crime Agency will go after bigger fish. The IRA’s criminal activities, for instance. The Russian Mafia. The Colombians. Al-Qaeda. If I’m putting Dan up against them I need to know he won’t crack under the pressure.’

  Gift raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s tough. He’ll cope.’

  ‘That’s my view, too,’ said Button. She glanced at her watch. ‘I must go,’ she said. She stood up and offered her hand, which Gift shook.

  She left the coffee shop and Gift moved with her coffee to a seat by the window. From there she could look down at the platforms below. Button went down the stairs, then walked away from the trains towards the taxi rank. Gift smiled to herself. She’d caught Charlotte Button in a deliberate lie. She wasn’t there to catch a train. It had been an unnecessary lie, too, because it was of no concern to her where Button was going. Gift wondered why she had lied. Habit, maybe. Instinct. Or because the lie was simpler than the truth, whatever it was. Perhaps the Lancome lipstick and the mascara weren’t for the office but for a lover. Perhaps there was more to Charlotte Button than met the eye.

  A phone woke Shepherd from a dreamless sleep. It was Tony Corke’s. He squinted at his watch – just after ten o’clock in the morning. He took a couple of deep breaths to clear his head. He was Tony Corke, seaman, with a son he rarely saw and a court case looming. Early mornings and late nights were always the most dangerous times, when he was most likely to let
his mask slip. He ran through his legend, ticking all the mental boxes. Dan Shepherd was pushed into the background. His feelings and memories had to be locked away because they might betray him. He took the call. ‘Yeah?’ he said.

  ‘Tony, it’s me. Salik.’

  ‘Hiya, Salik. How’s it going?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Salik. ‘Very well indeed. We have something for you, Tony.’

  ‘Music to my ears,’ said Shepherd. ‘So, where do we meet?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At home,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I’m coming in to London so it’s not a problem.’

  ‘Why don’t you meet us at our office at, say, five o’clock? We can have a chat.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Do you have a pen? I’ll give you the address.’

  Shepherd didn’t need a pen. He knew the address already. It was the bureau de change in Edgware Road.

  Shepherd walked into the pub. Hargrove was standing at the bar, staring at a television set on a shelf close to the ceiling. A cricket match. Shepherd didn’t care for cricket. He wasn’t a big fan of games – never had been, even at school. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy being part of a team: the SAS was all about teamwork. The police, too – even on undercover cases, Shepherd was always part of a team. He just couldn’t understand what was enjoyable about throwing a ball at three pieces of wood. Or hitting one with a piece of metal at the end of a stick and walking after it. He was even less convinced by the pleasure to be had in watching others play. Spending ninety minutes watching two groups of men chasing a ball seemed to Shepherd a total waste of time. But that wasn’t an argument he ever wanted to have with the superintendent, who was a diehard cricket and rugby fan, and always wore cufflinks with a cricket motif.

  ‘Job well done, Spider,’ said Hargrove. ‘Jameson’s and ice?’

  Shepherd nodded. Hargrove ordered it, and another pint of lager for himself. He was wearing a tweed jacket with a red waistcoat, dark trousers and brown brogues: his off-duty uniform. When he was working, he always wore a suit.

  ‘We’ve got all we need to put the Uddin brothers away on currency smuggling, and the French had the Albanians covered at every step of the way,’ said Hargrove.

  ‘Are they arresting them?’