Hard Landing

by Stephen Leather

  Shepherd felt a surge of anger and fought to quell it. He wanted to tell Gosden that Jurczak had paid for his job on the cleaning crew, that the spur was so corrupt that inmates could buy themselves an easy life and that the only way they could do that was because there was at least one corrupt officer on his staff. But Shepherd knew that the time to reveal the level of corruption in Shelton was after Carpenter had been dealt with. 'Governor, you have my word on this. I had nothing to do with whatever happened to Jurczak. Or the other two men.' Outright denial was the only option available to him. There had been no witnesses to any of the attacks, nothing caught on CCTV. All he had to do was stick to his story and there was nothing the governor could do.

  'So, it's just coincidence that a few days after you arrive, three other prisoners are in hospital?' said Gosden.

  'It's a violent place.'

  Gosden stared at Shepherd for several seconds. 'I could have you pulled out of the block,' he said eventually.

  'I doubt it would be as simple as that, sir,' said Shepherd quietly. 'My boss reports direct to the Home Office. I might be a bog-standard DC but this operation was sanctioned at a level way above your pay scale.'

  'Having you here risks a major riot. I can't be held responsible for what the prisoners do if they find out there's an undercover cop on the spur.'

  'And how would they find out, sir?'

  The two men stared at each other, neither prepared to look away.

  'The way I see it, the only man in here who knows my true role is you,' said Shepherd.

  'And let's hope it stays that way,' said Gosden.

  'I wouldn't want to think that I didn't have your full support,' said Shepherd, his voice barely above a whisper. 'If my cover should be blown, my superiors would be looking very carefully in your direction.'

  'That sounds like a threat,' said the governor.

  'No more than your suggestion that the inmates might discover I was an undercover police officer,' said Shepherd. 'Neither of us has anything to gain by threatening each other.'

  'I want your word that no more prisoners are injured.'

  'I'll do my best,' said Shepherd.

  Gosden rubbed the back of his neck. 'I'm going to talk to your boss. I've no choice. I have to make my reservations clear in case this all goes wrong.'

  'I understand that, sir. You have to cover yourself. It's what I would do if I was in your position.'

  'Do you have any idea yet if any of my officers are helping Carpenter?'

  'No, sir,' lied Shepherd. 'As soon as I know, so will you.'

  'I wish I could believe that, DC Shepherd,' said the governor. 'I really do.'

  That night Shepherd didn't sleep. He lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling. His mind wouldn't give him a moment's peace. All he knew of Sue's death was what Hargrove had told him. 'Jumped a red light. Hit a truck. It was an accident, pure and simple. The front of the car went under the truck.' That was all the information he had, but his subconscious kept playing it back in a thousand variations. Different trucks. Different crashes. But the ending was always the same. Sue in the wreckage, covered in blood, her eyes wide and staring. Liam in the back of the car, crying.

  At seven thirty Lee woke up, washed and ate his cereal while watching breakfast television. The spyglass clicked open and closed at seven forty and the cell door was opened at eight. Lee must have sensed that something was wrong because he said nothing to Shepherd before he disappeared on to the landing.

  Twenty minutes later, Amelia Heartfield appeared at the doorway. She was wearing a black pullover with epaulettes, and black trousers that were slightly too small for her. 'What's wrong, Bob?' she asked.

  'Just leave me alone,' said Shepherd. He knew he was out of character. Bob Macdonald wouldn't lie on his bed sulking: he would express his rage. He'd lash out, verbally and physically, make someone pay for what he was going through. 'I don't want food, I don't want to watch television, I don't want to clean floors or weave bloody baskets. I just want some peace and quiet.'

  'Swearing will get you on report, Bob,' she said, almost apologetically. 'You know that. Don't give me a hard time.'

  'I don't think "bloody" counts as swearing any more,' said Shepherd. 'Just leave me alone.'

  'You've got visitors,' said Amelia. 'Police.'

  'From where?'

  'Glasgow.'

  Shepherd swung his legs off the bed. They must be Hargrove's way of getting him out of prison. 'What do they want?'

  'You know the police, Bob. They treat us like mushrooms. But I think they're taking you up north for an ID parade.'

  Shepherd wanted to rush down the landing because the sooner he was off the spur the sooner he could be with his son, but it was vital to stay in character. Bob Macdonald wouldn't want to be driven up north by Scottish detectives. 'Shit,' he said, and grimaced.

  'Bad news?'

  'I've had better.'

  'Is that what the chat with your brief was about?'

  'He didn't mention it.'

  'If it is an ID parade, you've got the right to have your solicitor there. Word to the wise.'

  Shepherd was surprised at her concern for his welfare and smiled gratefully. 'Thanks,' he said.

  Amelia gestured with her chin. 'Come on, let's not keep them waiting longer than we have to,' she said.

  She walked him along the landing and down to the ground floor. Lee was there, playing pool with one of the West Indians. 'What's up, Bob?' he called, as Shepherd walked by.

  'Jocks are trying to pin something on me,' Shepherd called back, loud enough for several prisoners to hear him. He wanted the wing to know why he was being hauled out.

  Amelia walked Shepherd out of the remand wing and down the secure corridor to the reception area. Two men were waiting there, big men in dark raincoats. Shepherd recognised one but blanked him as Amelia dealt with the processing paperwork. He was Jimmy 'Razor' Sharpe, a twenty-year veteran of the Strathclyde Police who had worked with Shepherd on several undercover cases. Hargrove must have sent him so that Shepherd would see a friendly face.

  'When will you be bringing him back?' asked Amelia.

  The man Shepherd didn't know shrugged. He was over six feet tall with broad shoulders and a boxer's nose. 'We're running him to Glasgow, and then we've got to put him in front of a little old lady in intensive care. It'll take as long as it takes.'

  'If he's out overnight we have to ensure that the arrangements are in place for him to be fed.'

  The man walked up to Amelia and looked down his nose at her. 'There's a seventy-year-old woman up in Glasgow who got shot in the legs when three men held up her local post office with sawn-off shotguns. She's a grandmother who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and I think your sympathies would be better with her than with a scumbag like Macdonald.'

  'You're saying he shot her?' asked Amelia.

  'I didn't shoot anyone,' said Shepherd. 'This is a fit-up.'

  The man pointed a warning finger at Shepherd. 'You speak when spoken to, Macdonald,' he said.

  'Macdonald is here on remand,' said Amelia. 'Until his court case, he's innocent until proven guilty.'

  'Yeah, yeah, yeah,' said the man, 'and the Tooth Fairy gives me a blow-job every night.'

  'What did you say?' said Amelia, her eyes hardening.

  'Just do the paperwork,' said the man. 'We'll run him by the witness, and if he isn't our man we'll have him back in his cell before his sheets are cold.'

  Amelia looked as if she wanted to argue, but she countersigned two sheets of paper, put one into a file and closed it. She handed the other to the detective.

  'Are we all done?' he asked, folding it and putting it into his coat pocket.

  'He's your responsibility now,' said Amelia.

  Sharpe took out a pair of handcuffs and fastened his left wrist to Shepherd's right.

  'Remember what I told you, Bob,' said Amelia, as Sharpe took him towards the exit.

  'Will do, ma'am, and thanks,' r
eplied Shepherd.

  There was a blue Vauxhall Vectra in the courtyard, its engine running. Sharpe opened the rear door and let Shepherd slide in, then joined him. Even in the car Sharpe stayed in character, his face impassive, his body language suggesting that there were a million things he'd rather be doing than babysitting an armed robber.

  The other detective got into the front passenger seat and pointed towards the gate. The driver, a small, balding man with the collar of his leather jacket turned up, put the car into gear and pressed the accelerator.

  Shepherd twisted in his seat. Amelia was standing outside the reception centre, a clipboard in her hand, watching them drive away.

  The Vauxhall stopped at the gate. A prison officer in a padded jacket walked over to the driver and checked the paperwork through the open window. He stared at Shepherd. 'Date of birth?' he asked.

  Shepherd gave him the date in the Macdonald legend.

  'Prison number?'

  Shepherd told him.

  The officer asked to see the three detectives' IDs and one by one they held up their warrant cards. He checked their faces against their photographs, then stepped back from the car and waved at a colleague. The huge gate rattled back and the driver wound up the window. 'The sweet smell of freedom,' he muttered, under his breath.

  Sharpe waited until the car was on the main road, driving away from the prison before he said, 'Sorry about your loss, Spider.'

  Shepherd nodded, but didn't say anything. Sharpe introduced his two associates. The big man with the boxer's nose was Tim Bicknelle, a new addition to Hargrove's squad, and the driver was Nigel Rosser. 'We call him Tosser 'cos he once tossed a caber,' said Sharpe. 'That's what we tell him, anyway.'

  Rosser grinned good-naturedly and flashed a V-sign at Sharpe.

  'Just keep your eyes on the road and your foot on the pedal,' said Sharpe.

  'Thanks for putting the word out that I shoot little old ladies,' said Shepherd. 'That'll put me one step above the nonces.'

  'Don't worry. When we take you back we'll make sure the screws know you're not in the frame for the Glasgow job,' Sharpe told him.

  Bicknelle opened the glove compartment and took out a stainless-steel flask with two plastic-wrapped Marks and Spencer's sandwiches. He handed them back to Shepherd. 'Coffee,' he said. 'The boss said you liked it black with no sugar.'

  Shepherd put the flask between his legs. 'Thanks.' He studied the sandwiches. One was beef on brown bread, the other chicken salad on white.

  'Thought you might like a change from prison food,' said Sharpe.

  'Bloody right,' said Shepherd. He used his teeth to rip open the pack of beef sandwiches and bit into one.

  'Plan is to run you round the M25 and up the motorway, checking for tails,' said Sharpe. 'Assuming we're clear, we'll take you home. Liam and his grandmother are there. We've got a change of clothes and a washbag in the boot. We can stop at a service station and spruce you up.'

  Shepherd continued to chew. He was still wearing his burgundy prison tracksuit, which he'd been wearing when he was pulled out of the gym to see Hargrove, and he hadn't showered recently.

  'Story we've spun is that we're taking you to Glasgow so we'll have to stay overnight,' continued Sharpe. 'Figure we'll get you back inside by tomorrow evening. Gives you the best part of a day with your boy.'

  A day, thought Shepherd. Twenty-four hours. Sue had died and that was all Hargrove could give him with Liam.

  'I know that's bugger-all, Spider, but any longer than that and it's going to raise red flags.'

  Shepherd said nothing.

  Sharpe leaned over and undid the handcuffs. 'What's it like inside?' he asked.

  'Ninety per cent boredom, ten per cent on a knife edge,' said Shepherd. 'The inmates run it, pretty much. If anything were to kick off, there's nothing the officers can do except call for reinforcements, so they're given a fair bit of leeway.'

  'And how's the target?'

  'He's a hard bastard. I'm walking on eggshells.'

  'Rather you than me,' said Sharpe. 'I'd go stir-crazy.'

  'You get used to it.'

  Bicknelle offered Shepherd a bottle of Jameson's whiskey. 'Do you want a stiffener in your coffee?' he asked.

  Shepherd was tempted but he didn't want to turn up at home smelling of drink so he declined it. He unscrewed the top of the Thermos and poured himself some coffee.

  'Got it from Starbucks,' said Sharpe. 'None of that instant crap.'

  It smelt rich and aromatic, a far cry from the insipid brew Shepherd had got used to on the wing. Ahead of them two big motorcycles were parked at the roadside. One peeled away from the kerb and drove in front of the Vauxhall. The rider was dressed from head to toe in black leather with a gleaming black full-face helmet. The second waited until the Vauxhall had passed, then followed.

  'They're with us,' said Bicknelle. He took a small transceiver from his coat pocket and spoke into it. 'Bravo One, check?'

  The transceiver buzzed. 'Bravo One, loud and clear.'

  'Bravo Two, check?'

  The transceiver buzzed again. 'On your tail,' said the rider behind.

  Bicknelle put the whiskey into the glove compartment and settled back in his seat.

  'It's Elliott's funeral day after tomorrow,' said Sharpe.

  'I didn't know that,' said Shepherd.

  'He was a good guy, was Jonathan,' said Bicknelle. 'For a Spurs fan.'

  'You worked with him, didn't you?' Sharpe asked Shepherd.

  'Drugs bust, five years back. He was my introduction to a Turkish gang in north London, but we went back a long way. We were probationers together. You going to the funeral?'

  'Hargrove's vetoed all attendance,' Sharpe said. 'Carpenter'll probably have the funeral staked out.'

  'How did he die?' asked Shepherd.

  'Two guys on a motorbike pulled up next to him at a red light. Bang, bang, thank you and good night. Bike was trashed, a totally professional job.'

  'How's his wife bearing up?'

  'Sedated to the eyeballs. She was in the car with him when it happened.'

  'Christ,' whispered Shepherd. Hargrove hadn't gone into details, which was typical. He must have reckoned that Shepherd didn't need to know the manner of Elliott's murder. 'No kids, though, right?'

  Sharpe grimaced. 'She's pregnant. Two months. He didn't even know. She was planning to surprise him.'

  Shepherd shuddered. He hadn't opened the chicken-salad sandwich and he'd lost his appetite. He offered it to Sharpe, but the detective shook his head.

  'If that's going spare, I'll have it,' said Rosser.

  Shepherd passed it to him. 'Who's representing the squad?' he asked.

  'There'll be plenty of uniforms,' said Sharpe, 'but Hargrove isn't going.'

  'So the answer's no one?' said Shepherd. He hated the idea that none of Elliott's associates would be there to say goodbye but he understood the logic behind it. One of Carpenter's men with a long lens would be able to blow the cover of any undercover cop who turned up.

  'We're sending flowers, and Hargrove has been to see her,' said Sharpe. 'But we've got to make sure that bastard Carpenter spends the rest of his life behind bars.'

  'Amen to that,' said Rosser.

  The sun was high in the sky when the Vauxhall Vectra pulled up in front of the three-bedroom semi-detached in Ealing. It was a warm, sunny day. As Sharpe opened the car door and climbed out, Shepherd heard birdsong. He looked out of the passenger window at the house. It had been their home for almost six years. They'd moved into it when Liam had been crawling. There were so many memories of so many good times. Shepherd got out of the car. He'd washed at a service station on the M1 and changed into a denim shirt and blue jeans. He hadn't shaved because he couldn't afford to return to Shelton clean-shaven. Scottish cops wouldn't have bothered to let Bob Macdonald shave.

  'We'll leave you to it, Spider,' said Sharpe. 'We'll pick you up tomorrow. Give us a call if you need us.' He told Shepherd his mobile number.

&nb
sp; Shepherd continued to stare at the house as Sharpe got back into the car and it drove away. He looked up at the roof. There was a slate loose near the chimneys. He had promised Sue he would fix it. The gutters needed painting, another job she had been nagging him about. He felt a sudden urge to apologise to her for all the jobs he'd failed to do, the times he hadn't been there for her.

  He walked towards the front door, his feet crunching on the gravelled path. The door opened and, for a wild moment, Shepherd thought it was Sue standing there, that it had all been a terrible mistake and she was still alive. But it wasn't: it was her mother, Moira, in her late fifties, tall and striking, with Sue's high cheekbones and full mouth, her greying hair dyed a rich auburn. She wore no makeup and was wearing jeans and a floppy dark blue pullover. She forced a smile and kissed his cheek.

  Shepherd didn't know what to say to her. They hugged on the doorstep.

  'Where the hell have you been, Daniel?' she asked. His mother-in-law was the only person who called him by his full Christian name. At home and through his schooldays he'd been Danny. When he'd joined the army he'd decided Danny was juvenile and told his fellow recruits he was Dan. When he'd joined the SAS his troop had rechristened him Spider after a training course in the jungles of Borneo. It had all been down to a bet as to which of them could eat the most disgusting insect without throwing up; Shepherd had wolfed down a tarantula. Now everyone called him Spider, except Moira: to her he would always be Daniel, the soldier who'd stolen her daughter. Sue had always called him Dan.

  'Where's Liam?' Shepherd asked, ignoring her question.

  'In the sitting room, playing with his video game.'

  'How is he?'

  Moira wrapped her arms round herself. 'He wasn't hurt, he was strapped in. But he was there when Sue--'

  She couldn't finish the sentence.

  'Has he said anything?'

  'Only that he doesn't want to talk about it. The doctor said he's dealing with it in his own way. He'll talk when he's ready.'

  Shepherd hugged her. 'Thanks for coming, Moira. Thanks for taking care of him.'

  'He's my grandson, Daniel,' she said flatly.