Cold Kill

by Stephen Leather

  Rudi began to pace up and down, his hands bunched into fists.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Rudi.

  ‘It doesn’t look like nothing,’ said Shepherd.

  Rudi stopped pacing. ‘Did they say anything else?’

  ‘The detectives? No. But one of the cops was asking me about the bags.’

  ‘Asking what?’

  ‘He showed me photographs of all the baggage in the hold and asked me if I knew who they belonged to.’

  ‘Why did they want to know that?’

  ‘I guess they wanted to see who owned which bags.’

  ‘And what did you tell them?’

  ‘I didn’t tell them anything. I’m waiting for my lawyer to get here.’

  Rudi was pacing again.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘They have no right to go through my bags,’ said Rudi. ‘My bags are private.’

  ‘They can do what they want when you come into the country,’ said Shepherd. ‘Customs have the right to search you and all your possessions.’ He paused. ‘What was in the cans?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Rudi.

  ‘How can you not know?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  Shepherd held up his hands. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘I was trying to help, that’s all.’

  Rudi walked over to the door and banged his forehead against the metal.

  Shepherd went over to him. ‘That won’t help,’ he said.

  Rudi continued to bang his head.

  ‘Rudi, they’ll just come to see what you’re doing, and if they think you’re hurting yourself, they’ll restrain you.’

  Rudi stopped. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They’ll handcuff you. They won’t want you to hurt yourself.’ He put a hand on Rudi’s shoulder. ‘Sit down. Let’s talk about it.’ He guided the other man to the chair. ‘Look, if you don’t know what was in the cans, you can’t be in trouble. The police will believe you.’

  ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’

  Shepherd sat on the bunk, facing him. ‘So why did you have them in your luggage?’

  Rudi shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Maybe I can help.’

  Rudi looked up fearfully. ‘How can you? You’re going to prison.’

  ‘I’ll get bail,’ Shepherd said. ‘I have money. My lawyer will get me released until I go to trial.’

  ‘Will they release me?’

  ‘It depends on what was in the cans,’ said Shepherd. ‘If it was drugs—’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know what was in them!’

  ‘Yes – but if it was drugs they could send you to prison for a long time and you wouldn’t be able to take care of your family.’

  ‘They didn’t tell me what was in the cans,’ said Rudi. He propped his elbows on his knees and put his head into his hands.

  ‘You were carrying them for someone else, then?’ said Shepherd. ‘Who?’

  Rudi leaped to his feet. ‘Why are you asking so many questions?’

  ‘I just want to help you,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘No one can help me.’ He began to bang his head on the door again. ‘No one.’

  It was just before ten when Sharpe and Joyce came to collect Shepherd. They handcuffed him and led him out to the Vectra. They showed their warrant cards to the guard at the gate, who made a note on his clipboard.

  Sharpe drove out of the police car park and accelerated down the road.

  ‘Home, James,’ joked Shepherd, from the back seat.

  ‘I’m dropping you in north London,’ said Sharpe. ‘The boss said he’ll run you home. Joycie and I’ve got work to do – real work, as opposed to chauffeuring heroes.’

  There was little traffic on the motorway and Sharpe kept the car in the outside lane at a steady 90 m.p.h. They left Shepherd at a service station on the outskirts of London where Hargrove was sitting in the back of his official Rover. The driver was already out of the car, holding the door open, as Shepherd walked over and climbed into the back. The superintendent was wearing a dinner jacket, with a scarlet cummerbund and a hand-tied black bow-tie.

  ‘Been conjuring?’ asked Shepherd, laconically.

  ‘Awards ceremony,’ said Hargrove. ‘Bravery above and beyond, all that jazz. There wasn’t a guy there who’d done a tenth of what you have over the past couple of years.’

  ‘It’s not about being brave,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s about getting the job done.’

  The driver got behind the wheel and edged the car towards the M25.

  ‘Be nice if you could step up and take a bow some time, though,’ said Hargrove.

  ‘I’ve got half a dozen photographs of me shaking hands with various police commissioners,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just not allowed to show them to anybody.’

  ‘You know what I mean, Spider.’

  ‘I’m not in this for the glory,’ said Shepherd. He smiled ruefully. ‘Or the money.’

  ‘How did it go with your man?’ asked Hargrove.

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t play ball. I’m not even sure he knows he was carrying money.’

  ‘I’m sorry you were in there for so long. There was a manpower shortage. Local cops didn’t have anyone to bring him over until the evening shift.’

  ‘I figured something had gone wrong.’ He stretched and groaned. He needed a shower.

  ‘Wasn’t as if we could call and tell you,’ said Hargrove. ‘So, you reckon he didn’t know what was in the cans.’

  ‘He says he didn’t. I didn’t tell him – thought that might be pushing it too far. I planted the idea that it might have been drugs and he didn’t argue. We could use that as leverage, maybe. If he thinks he’s facing ten years for bringing in a class-A drug, he might talk.’

  ‘Did he say what he was supposed to do with the cans?’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘Clammed up, pretty much. That was when he started the head-banging routine. I couldn’t put him under pressure without stepping out of character.’

  ‘How do you read him?’

  ‘Just a guy trying to do the best for his family. Figured they’d have a better life in the UK. Probably thought the streets were paved with gold. Sad bastard.’

  ‘No one forced him to come,’ said Hargrove. ‘Everyone on that boat was there by choice. They’d all paid for their passage.’

  Shepherd sighed. The superintendent was right. But it was easy to talk about choice when you’d been born in England with the safety-net of a welfare state and a health system that might have its faults but was head and shoulders above what was on offer in the third world. He wondered how he’d feel if he had been born in a country with no prospects, no health care, no free education, no pension provision, no future, just a lifetime of toil with no prospect of anything better for his children. Would he grin and bear it? Shepherd was pretty sure he wouldn’t stay put. He’d save whatever money he could, then take his family to a country where a man was paid a decent wage for his labour. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right,’ he said. He didn’t want to argue politics with Hargrove. ‘What happens next?’

  ‘I’ll get Immigration to speak with him and run through his options. He won’t be able to claim asylum without giving us an explanation for the cash.’

  ‘So, if he doesn’t talk he gets sent back?’

  ‘That’s the way it works,’ said Hargrove.

  ‘And if he does talk, what’ll his life be worth? Whoever gave him those cans isn’t going to stand by and let a million euros go without repercussions.’

  ‘If he helps us with the money, and gives evidence against Pepper, we can arrange witness protection for him,’ said Hargrove, patiently. ‘He’s already opted for a new life so he might as well live it under a new name.’

  ‘I hope he sees it that way,’ said Shepherd.

  At just before midnight the Rover pulled up in front of Shepherd’s house. The drive from Newcastle
had taken the best part of four hours. ‘Take a few days off, Spider,’ Hargrove said.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘We’ve only just pulled you out of the sea,’ said the superintendent, ‘and you’ve been working for two weeks non-stop. Spend some time with Liam.’

  ‘Okay.’ It had been four days since Shepherd had been at home, but he had spoken to his son on his mobile.

  ‘We’ll sweat the father for a few days. When he tells us what he was supposed to do with the money, we’ll work out how best to play it.’ Hargrove patted Shepherd’s shoulder. ‘You did good, Spider.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Shepherd opened the door and climbed out. He waved as the Rover drove off, then let himself into the house. The kitchen light was on. ‘It’s me,’ he called, not wanting to startle the au pair.

  ‘I’m in the kitchen,’ said Katra. She appeared in the doorway as he walked down the hall.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t call first. I thought you might be asleep,’ he said.

  Katra was wearing pink flannel pyjamas and her black hair was clipped up at the back. ‘I was just getting some warm milk,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to cook something for you?’ Her English had improved a lot during the year she had worked for Shepherd, but she still had the strong accent that betrayed her Slovenian origin.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve had a sandwich and I’ll make myself a coffee. You get off to bed.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Katra said, and switched on the kettle. ‘You look exhausted.’

  ‘It’s been a rough few days.’ Shepherd pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. ‘How’s Liam?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Katra. ‘He wants to start piano lessons.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He wants to learn to play the piano. He can have lessons at school. He brought home a form for you to fill in.’

  ‘I didn’t know he liked music.’

  Katra spooned coffee into a cafetière. ‘One of his friends has started lessons.’

  ‘A girl?’

  Katra laughed. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because it’s the way we guys operate. There’s a girl he likes, she starts piano lessons so he wants piano lessons.’

  ‘You are suspicious because you are a policeman,’ she said.

  ‘I’m suspicious because I know how guys think.’

  ‘Liam is nine,’ said Katra.

  ‘Nine, nineteen, ninety-nine – guys are all the same. Trust me.’

  ‘She is pretty,’ admitted Katra.

  Shepherd stood up again and stretched. ‘I’ll just go up and check on him,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a minute for the coffee.’

  He went upstairs and nudged open the door to Liam’s bedroom. His son was asleep on his side, mouth slightly open, snoring softly. Shepherd knelt down next to the bed and stroked Liam’s hair. He looked so like Sue when he was asleep, he thought, with a twinge of sadness. ‘Sweet dreams,’ he murmured. ‘Sleep tight. Hope the bedbugs don’t bite.’

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ whispered Liam.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Shepherd.

  Liam’s eyes fluttered open. ‘Oh. Hi, Dad. You’re back.’

  ‘I just got in,’ said Shepherd. ‘Sorry. It took longer than I thought.’

  ‘Can I have a cuddle?’

  ‘Sure you can.’ He lay down next to Liam and put his arm round him. ‘Goodnight,’ he whispered.

  ‘Goodnight, Dad,’ said Liam. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Three, four, five,’ said Liam.

  Shepherd closed his eyes, took a deep breath and was asleep.

  ‘Dad?’ Shepherd groaned and rolled over at the sound of his son’s voice. He opened his eyes and blinked.

  Liam was standing next to the bed in his school uniform, carrying his sports bag. ‘Dad, I’m going to school.’

  Shepherd sat up and rubbed his face. He was still wearing his Tony Corke clothes and they smelt foul. Katra appeared behind Liam. ‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’ Shepherd asked her.

  ‘I tried,’ said Katra. ‘You were fast asleep.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Liam,’ said Shepherd. ‘I just came in to say goodnight. I guess I was more tired than I thought.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Liam. ‘I’ll see you tonight, yeah?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Can we go to the park and play football?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’ Liam held out his hand, little finger crooked.

  Shepherd linked his own with it. ‘Pinkie promise,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I made coffee for you in the kitchen,’ said Katra, and grinned. ‘You and Liam were so cute, asleep together.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Shepherd rolled off the bed and ruffled Liam’s hair. His son protested. ‘Go on with you,’ he said. ‘You’ll be late. We can talk about your piano lessons tonight.’

  ‘Katra told you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She told me.’

  Shepherd headed for the bathroom as they went downstairs. He shaved and showered, then put on his white towelling robe and went to his bedroom. There were three mobile phones on the bedside table. He hadn’t wanted to risk taking them on the trawler. There’d be no reason for a sailor like Corke to have more than one. While he was away he’d missed a call on the phone he used for personal business. The caller had blocked their number, but there was a voicemail message. It was Major Allan Gannon of the SAS. He didn’t identify himself but Shepherd recognised the clipped tone and note of authority in the voice. ‘Call me back when you get the chance, Spider.’ Short and to the point.

  Shepherd phoned the Major’s mobile. Gannon answered on the second ring.

  ‘What are you doing this evening?’ asked the Major. ‘Sixish?’

  ‘Nothing special,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Fancy a drink? The club?’

  Shepherd knew that he could only mean the Special Forces Club, behind Harrods. ‘Sure. Anything wrong?’

  ‘Just a chat,’ said the Major. ‘It’s been a while since we had a chinwag.’ He cut the connection.

  The Major wasn’t one for small-talk and Shepherd doubted that it was a chinwag he wanted.

  He changed into a faded T-shirt and shorts, then put on thick socks with his well-worn army boots and went downstairs. He poured some coffee, took a couple of gulps, then got his old canvas rucksack from the cupboard under the stairs. It contained half a dozen house bricks wrapped in newspaper. Shepherd always ran with the rucksack, a habit picked up from his army days. Before he had taken the SAS selection course he had spent many weekends running up and down the Brecon Beacons with a brick-filled rucksack, pushing the limits of his endurance and stamina. During SAS training all cross-country running was done with a full pack, and even though those days were behind him, he still felt that a run without a rucksack wasn’t a run. He went back to the kitchen, finished his coffee, grabbed a plastic bottle of Evian from the fridge and headed for the door.

  Rudi Pernaska was barely aware of the cold, hard concrete through the thin plastic mattress. From the moment that the Englishman had told him the detectives had been talking about the cans he’d known his life was over. Rudi had no idea what was inside them. He hadn’t wanted to know. All he had cared about was delivering them to London. The men in France had told him that if he made any attempt to open them, he would pay with his life.

  Now there was nothing he could do to make things right. If the police had the cans and there was something illegal inside, they would never give them back to him, so the men who had entrusted them to him would kill him. They would kill him and probably his family, too. His beloved Jessica – he couldn’t bear her to suffer. Or his wife. She had been through enough already. They both had.

  Tears ran down his face. He grabbed his hair and pulled it, cursing his stupidity. He should have stayed in Albania, should never have gambled on a new life in the West. They had barely scratched a living out of their smallholding on the out
skirts of Tirana, but at least it had been a living. Now he had nothing. Less than nothing.

  He slipped off the bed and paced round the cell. The window was made of glass blocks. The overhead fluorescent light was protected by a Perspex panel. There was a stainless-steel toilet in the corner with a button to operate the flush. Rudi knew what he had to do, but the cell had been designed to thwart any attempt at suicide. He’d asked for food, hoping they would give him a knife and fork, but he’d received a cheese sandwich, a handful of chips, two plain biscuits, a plastic cup of weak coffee, and no utensils. He could tear up his shirt to produce a home-made rope, but there was nothing in the cell to tie it to.

  He paced up and down, faster and faster, and bellowed in frustration. If he ended his life, then maybe the men who had given him the cans would leave his family alone. It was the only solution, the only way his family stood a chance of any sort of life. He lifted up his right arm and stared at the pale green arteries under the skin. Just a few pints of blood and it would be over. He patted down his pockets for the hundredth time. They had taken away his belt, his shoelaces, his change, his wallet. There was nothing he could use to release his lifeblood and end his suffering.

  Tears ran down his face. He had to take his life because if he didn’t, his wife and child would die too. He raised his wrist to his lips, and kissed the flesh. He tasted the salt of his tears on his tongue as he bit, softly at first, then harder. Coppery-tasting blood spurted between his lips. He barely felt the pain. He opened his mouth and pushed his upper teeth harder into the wound, feeling them slip across the rubbery veins. He bit down hard, twisting his neck like a lion sacrificing its prey.

  Shepherd’s feet pounded on the pavement. He was breathing evenly, and although his T-shirt was soaked and his shoulders ached with the weight of the rucksack, he knew he could do at least another ten miles. When he saw the black Mazda sports car parked opposite his house he slowed and groaned.

  Kathy Gift climbed out and waved. She was wearing a fawn raincoat with the collar turned up and carrying a black-leather briefcase. She brushed her chestnut hair behind an ear and locked her car. Shepherd forced a smile. He liked Kathy Gift but, as the unit’s psychologist, she was a nuisance. ‘Hey,’ he said, stopping at the car.

  ‘I thought that, rather than play phone-tag, I’d come to the mountain,’ she said.