Hard Landing

by Stephen Leather

  Shepherd released her and stepped into the hallway. The sitting room was on the right. He could hear electronic gunfire, and screams. Moira closed the front door.

  Liam was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the television, his thumbs flashing over the PlayStation handset. On the screen, soldiers were exploding as machine-gun bullets ripped through their bodies. Liam didn't look up as Shepherd walked in.

  'Hi,' said Shepherd.

  'Hi,' said Liam, his eyes still on the screen.

  Shepherd stood where he was. This wasn't what he'd been expecting. He'd assumed that his son would rush at him in tears to be hugged and picked up and told that everything was all right.

  'Are you okay?'

  Liam shrugged and carried on with his game. Shepherd sat down on the floor next to him. 'That looks fun,' he said.

  Liam went on playing with his left hand but handed Shepherd the second control pad with the right. Shepherd looked at its coloured buttons as Liam continued to shoot make-believe soldiers with make-believe bullets.

  Shepherd started to play the game with his son. Bang, bang, you're dead. Make-believe blood. Make-believe gore. No regrets, no conscience.

  'Do you want coffee, Daniel?' asked Moira, from the door.

  'No thanks,' said Shepherd.

  'Liam? Lemonade?'

  Liam shook his head.

  'Say, "No, thank you,"' said Shepherd.

  'No, thank you,' repeated Liam.

  'Jaffa cakes?'

  'No, thanks.'

  Shepherd looked over his shoulder. Moira was close to tears, her hands clutched together. He smiled reassuringly, but she turned away and went into the kitchen.

  'Do you want to go to the park?' asked Shepherd. 'Kick the football around?'

  'Okay,' said Liam.

  Liam kicked the football and ran after it. A red setter chased it, too, but Liam got there first and kicked it high into the air. The dog ran after it, barking. Liam still hadn't talked about his mother's death. He'd barely said anything. Shepherd had tried to start a conversation several times, but all Liam did was grunt or answer monosyllabically. Shepherd knew that he was bottling up his emotions and that eventually it would all come tumbling out. But just then all he wanted to do was run with the red setter.

  Shepherd saw a man on the other side of the football field, walking in his direction with his hands in his overcoat pockets. It was Sam Hargrove.

  Shepherd watched his son play with the dog as Hargrove walked up to him. 'Nice day for it,' said Hargrove. The evening wind tugged at his immaculately styled hair.

  'Any day out of prison is a nice day,' said Shepherd.

  'How is he?' asked Hargrove, nodding in Liam's direction.

  'His mother just died, how do you think he is?' said Shepherd, and realised how churlish that sounded. He tried to apologise, but the words caught in his throat.

  Hargrove put a hand on his shoulder. 'I'm so sorry about what's happened,' he said. 'If there's anything I can do, you just have to ask.'

  'I know.'

  For a few moments they were silent.

  'This isn't just social, is it?' asked Shepherd.

  'If you don't want to talk about the job, that's fine by me,' said the superintendent.

  'I'm okay,' said Shepherd. At least if he was thinking about the case he wasn't thinking about Sue.

  'Tony Stafford is Digger's man,' said Hargrove.

  'I can't say I'm surprised. Carpenter told me as much.'

  Hargrove took a manila envelope from his overcoat pocket and handed it to Shepherd. Inside were half a dozen surveillance photographs of Stafford meeting a pretty black girl and taking an envelope from her, then walking away with a smile on his face.

  'We've found an offshore building-society account with fifty-eight grand in it.'

  'Stupid bugger.' Shepherd recalled Stafford's file. Married with three children, one at university. Wife worked as a nurse. Two incomes, so money shouldn't have been a problem. Maybe it was greed. Or resentment. The same reasons that turned criminals into informers.

  'Thing is, he's Digger's man. I don't think he's Carpenter's man. We've had Digger's sister under surveillance and she hasn't gone within a mile of any of Carpenter's people. Neither has Stafford. We've been through all their phone records. Nothing. No connection between either of them and Carpenter.'

  'So Carpenter has someone else?'

  'That's the way I read it. He uses Digger to fix up the perks on the spur, but someone else is running errands to his people.'

  'Shit,' said Shepherd.

  'Yeah,' said Hargrove.

  'What about Bain?'

  'We've checked Bain's phone calls and visitors. No connection with Carpenter's men. Also, Bain is pretty much finished. His wife took most of the cash and she's shacked up in Malaga with a Turkish waiter. A couple of his gang set up on their own using the contacts he'd made. He's a spent force. We'll keep tags on his calls and visits, but it doesn't look like he's the conduit.'

  'So now what?'

  'That's the thing, isn't it?' said Hargrove. 'If we pull in Stafford, we show our hand.'

  'So you let him run?'

  'Until we find out who else is on the take.' Hargrove paused. 'If you're up for it.'

  Moira was waiting with the front door open as Shepherd and Liam walked down the road, hand in hand. 'I don't like Gran's cooking,' said Liam. 'She uses too much salt.'

  'Well, tell her.'

  Moira waved at them and Shepherd waved back.

  'Dad, are you home for good now?'

  Shepherd stopped. 'Let's talk about it tomorrow, yeah?'

  'You're not going away again, are you?'

  'It won't be long, Liam.' Shepherd made the sign of the cross over his heart. 'Cross my heart.'

  'You're always going away.'

  'It's my job.'

  Tears welled in Liam's eyes. 'Don't leave me with Gran. Please.'

  Shepherd scooped up his son and held him tight, burying his face in his son's hair. Liam was racked with sobs. 'I miss Mum.'

  'So do I.'

  'It's not fair.'

  'I know.'

  'It was my fault, Daddy.'

  'No, it wasn't. Don't be silly.'

  'She was trying to get my bag and she died.'

  Shepherd kissed his son's cheek, wet with tears. 'It wasn't anybody's fault,' he said. 'It was an accident. But your mummy loves you more than anyone else in the world and she's in Heaven looking down and watching over you. She'll be watching over you for the rest of your life.'

  'Are you sure?' asked Liam, blinking away tears.

  'Cross my heart,' said Shepherd.

  'You have to do it to make it count,' said Liam.

  Shepherd cradled him in his left arm and crossed his heart with his right hand, then carried Liam to the house. He took him into the sitting room, half expecting to see Sue lying on the sofa watching TV or reading one of the trashy celebrity magazines she loved, ready to bite off his head for working late yet again.

  Shepherd put Liam down on the sofa. 'Do you want to watch TV?' he asked.

  'I want to play with my PlayStation.'

  'Go on, then,' said Shepherd, and left him to set it up. He went into the kitchen, where Moira was busying herself over a casserole. 'It'll be ready in an hour or so,' she said. 'Do you want mash or chips?'

  'Anything's fine,' said Shepherd. He sat down at the kitchen table and poured himself a cup of tea. He didn't take sugar but he stired it round and round, with a teaspoon, staring into the vortex. 'I can't believe it's happened. It's not sunk in yet.'

  Moira bent down and put the casserole into the oven. When she straightened up there were tears in her eyes. Suddenly it hit Shepherd that Moira had lost her only daughter. He'd been so tied up with his own and Liam's pain that he hadn't considered how Moira must be feeling. She only had two children - Sue, and a son who was in Australia and whom she was lucky to see once a year. Her lower lip was trembling.

  Shepherd stood up quickly an
d went over to her. 'Oh, God, Moira, I'm sorry,' he said, and put his arms round her.

  'I'm not going to cry, I'm not,' she said.

  'It's okay,' said Shepherd, stroking the back of her head. 'Really, it's okay.'

  'It's not fair.' She sniffed. 'She never did anyone any harm, she loved everybody, she didn't deserve to die like that. Damn it, damn it, damn it.'

  It was the first time Shepherd had heard his mother-inlaw swear. Tears sprung into his own eyes but he fought them back.

  'I never thought I'd be burying my daughter,' said Moira. 'Children aren't supposed to die before their parents.'

  A tear escaped, and trickled down Shepherd's right cheek; he brushed it away on Moira's shoulder.

  'A stupid car accident,' said Moira. 'A stupid, stupid accident. If she'd driven another way to school, if the truck hadn't been there, if she'd seen it sooner - there are so many "ifs" that it tears me apart. She shouldn't be dead. It's not right. It's not fair.'

  She sobbed into his chest and Shepherd stood there, his arms round her. It was the first time he'd ever held his mother-in-law. The first time he'd ever seen her cry. There were so many firsts. But with Sue there'd be no more. They'd had their last meal together. Their last sex. Their last fight. Everything to do with Sue was now in the past.

  Shepherd helped Moira to a chair and poured her a cup of tea. He gave her a piece of kitchen towel to dry her tears.

  'I never wanted her to marry you,' she said.

  'I know,' said Shepherd. Moira and her bank-manager husband had made that clear from the start. They had regarded Shepherd as unsuitable, because of both his working-class background and his profession. There was nothing they could do about his parentage, but they did all they could to persuade him to leave the Regiment. He'd steadfastly refused, and it was only when Sue had threatened to elope that Moira and Tom had caved in and agreed to a full church wedding. All Shepherd's Regimental friends were told to dress in civvies, but he was delighted that they had worn small SAS pins in their lapels.

  'She loved you so much, you know that?' said Moira.

  'Yes,' said Shepherd.

  'We told her, marrying a soldier leads to nothing but heartbreak.'

  Shepherd put his hands round his cup of tea. Sue had kept the cups for best and they usually drank from mugs, but Moira didn't have a mug in her house. It was always cups and saucers. Tears streamed from his eyes and he put his head down so that his forehead rested on the edge of the table.

  Carpenter nodded at Lloyd-Davies as he walked along the landing. 'How's it going, Miss Lloyd-Davies?' he asked.

  'Hunky-dory, thanks for asking,' said Lloyd-Davies.

  'Your hair looks good like that,' said Carpenter.

  Instinctively her hand went up to touch it.

  Carpenter smiled. 'It shows off your cheekbones.'

  Lloyd-Davies was half flattered and half annoyed. She knew he was only trying to press her buttons: Carpenter could turn the charm on anybody and it just happened to be her turn. But it was the first time she'd tried wearing her hair tied up and not one of her colleagues had noticed.

  Carpenter leaned against the railing, looking down at the prisoners congregating on the ground floor. The evening meal was about to be served. Usually one of his men fetched his food for him, but today he had reason for mingling with the general population.

  He headed down the metal stairs. The food had arrived and inmates were lining up with plastic trays. A couple of guys at the head of the line motioned for Carpenter to cut in front of them, but he shook his head. He saw Lee at the pool table, practising his stroke, and went over to watch him. 'How's it going, Jason?'

  Lee straightened and put his cue back in the rack. 'Same old, same old.'

  'Your cellmate's got a pass, then?'

  'Glasgow cops have taken him up north for an ID parade.'

  Lee moved to get past him, but Carpenter gripped his elbow. 'Hang on a minute, Jason, I want to pick your brains.'

  Lee looked uncomfortable, but stayed where he was, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  'What's he like, Macdonald?' asked Carpenter.

  'Keeps himself to himself. Doesn't say much.'

  'Listens a lot, does he?'

  'Just stays quiet.'

  'Hard or soft, would you say?'

  'He's civilised, that's for sure, but if push came to shove he'd shove back.'

  Carpenter nodded thoughtfully. 'Has he said much about the job he was done for?'

  'Armed robbery, some warehouse out at Gatwick. Silicon chips, he said. State-of-the-art stuff. Went in with shotguns and it all went tits-up.'

  'What about the guys with him?'

  'Hasn't said a word about them.'

  'He was in to see his brief yesterday, wasn't he?'

  Lee nodded. 'Yeah, said he was looking for more cash. You know what lawyers are like. Bloody leeches.'

  'They pulled him out of the gym, like the meeting wasn't expected.'

  'Yeah, that's what I heard.'

  'Did he say anything about it back in the cell?'

  'Like what?'

  'Like, was the visit by the cops a surprise? Did his brief tell him the Jocks were on their way?'

  Lee's brow furrowed as he concentrated. 'Nah, he didn't say nothing. Just lay on his bunk.' He chewed the inside of his mouth. 'He was upset. Really upset. Maybe he did know they were coming to get him.'

  'You saw him being taken out, yeah?'

  'Yeah. Amelia took him.'

  'How did he seem then?'

  Lee rubbed his chin. 'Okay. Called to me to tell me what was happening.'

  'Did he now?'

  'Yeah, but it was kosher. Hamilton was having a laugh about it later. Little old lady took pellets in the leg when he was knocking over a post office. She's in intensive care so Macdonald gets a day out.'

  Carpenter patted Lee's shoulder. 'Do me a favour, Jason.'

  'Anything, Gerry.'

  'Keep an eye on him when he gets back. Ear to the ground, yeah?'

  'You want me to go fishing?'

  'No need for that. Just keep a watching brief.'

  'No problem. Whatever you want's fine by me.'

  Carpenter winked at him and went over to the food line. Eric Magowan was standing behind a tray of lasagne with a metal spatula in his hand. He was a tall, cadaverous man in his fifties who'd been accused of poisoning three old women at the nursing-home where he'd worked as a care assistant. He'd been given the hotplate job on the basis of his catering experience, but Carpenter reckoned that the screws got a sadistic pleasure from having a poisoner, albeit an alleged one, serving meals. Magowan saw Carpenter and said something to the men in the line. They parted to allow him space. A prisoner handed Carpenter a tray.

  'How's it going, Eric?' said Carpenter. 'What's least likely to make me ill, huh?'

  Liam was engrossed in a video game, his thumbs almost in spasm over the control pad of his PlayStation, his eyes fixed on the screen where a shotgun was blowing away Russian soldiers.

  'You know they're illegal,' said Shepherd, as he dropped on to the sofa next to his son.

  'What are?' asked Liam, still watching the screen.

  'Shotguns. Can't use them in war. They're against the Geneva Convention.'

  'What's that?'

  'The rules of war.'

  'That doesn't make sense,' said Liam. 'You can use rifles but you can't use shotguns?'

  'Them's the rules,' said Shepherd.

  'Guns are supposed to kill people, right?'

  'Sure.'

  'So why can't soldiers use shotguns? They do more damage than regular guns.' On screen he blasted away at a Russian trooper, whose head dissolved in a cloud of red mist. 'Look at that!' he said.

  'Yeah. Doesn't this game have some sort of parental guidance warning?'

  'Mum always lets me play it.'

  Shepherd smiled to himself. From the age of three Liam had tried to play him off against Sue, and vice versa. 'Your dinner's ready.'

 
; 'I'm not hungry.'

  Shepherd didn't feel hungry either, but he knew they both had to eat. 'Your gran's gone to a lot of trouble,' he said. 'Try to eat something to make her feel better, okay?'

  'Okay.' Liam went on playing his game.

  'Now,' said Shepherd.

  'Okay.'

  Shepherd picked up his son and shook him until he dropped the control pad, then carried him, giggling, into the kitchen. Moira had set the table for three, using Sue's best china.

  Liam frowned at the plates. 'Mum doesn't let us use those, they're for best,' he said.

  'It's okay,' said Shepherd.

  'I didn't know . . .' said Moira.

  'It's fine, really,' said Shepherd.

  'Mum always lets us eat in front of the TV,' said Liam.

  'Well, we're eating here tonight,' said Moira, using a ladle to pour helpings of beef stew on to the plates.

  Shepherd sat down. Moira had put mashed potatoes and boiled carrots into two bowls. He heaped vegetables on to Liam's plate, then helped himself.

  Moira sat down, smiled at them, then closed her eyes and put her hands together in prayer. Liam looked at his father, who nodded at him to follow suit and they put their hands together as Moira said grace. The prayer was short and to the point, but Shepherd barely heard the words. He didn't believe in God. His time in the SAS had destroyed whatever religious beliefs he might ever have held, and his police career had done nothing to convince him that a higher power was taking care of things. The world was a mean, vicious place where the strong devoured the weak and where bad things happened to good people. Shepherd wanted nothing to do with any god that countenanced such unfairness.

  Carpenter lay on his bunk, staring out of the small barred window above his desk at a sliver of the moon. Along the landing he could hear spyglasses clicking as a member of the night staff did the hourly visual check. Carpenter could never understand its purpose: if an inmate was serious about suicide, they'd simply wait until it had been done before they went ahead. An hour was more than long enough to fashion a noose from a torn pillowcase or cut a wrist.

  Carpenter's spyglass flicked open. He didn't react. Then it closed. He was still staring at the moon. The inspection hatch below the spyglass opened. That was unusual. He sat up. A hand appeared and tossed a folded piece of paper into the cell. The hatch was shut. Carpenter rolled off his bunk and picked up the note. The spyglass clicked open. An eye winked and the spyglass closed. Carpenter switched on his light and opened the note: 'Phone me.'