Dead Men ss-5

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Charlie,’ he said, guiding her towards the door, ‘you’ll never know the half of it.’

  Salih stood at the window. The sky was streaked with red as the sun prepared to dip below the horizon. It was time to pray. He took a small compass from his pocket and noted the direction in which Mecca lay. Salih would have preferred to cleanse himself before praying but there was a chance that he’d not hear Button return if he was in the bathroom. The bedroom he was in belonged to the daughter. There were cuddly toys on the bed and posters of pop stars on the walls. Also on the bed, beside a toy cocker spaniel, lay a carving knife he’d taken from the kitchen.

  From the bedroom he could see the driveway and, through the trees, most of the road, left and right. He moved into the centre of the room, turned towards Mecca, lowered his head and closed his eyes. ‘Thanks be to Allah,’ he said. ‘We thank him, turn to him, ask his forgiveness, and seek refuge in him from our wicked souls and evil deeds. Whomever Allah enlightens will not be misguided, and the deceiver will never be guided. I declare that there is no God but Allah alone. He has no partners. I also declare that Muhammad is his servant and prophet.’

  Salih knelt down and placed his hands on the carpet in front of him. He leant forward and continued to pray. Outside, the sky darkened.

  They drove past the entrance to Wentworth golf club and Charlotte Button pointed at a turning ahead. ‘Left there,’ she said. Shepherd flicked on his indicator.

  ‘Nice area,’ he said, as he made the turn, the Audi’s headlights cutting across the trees that blanketed either side of the road. To the right were the forests of the Crown Estate but much of the land to the left was taken up with the multimillion-pound residences of the Wentworth Estate, gated communities with their own security force.

  ‘We like it,’ said Button. ‘To be honest, with the way the job is, I’m hardly ever here to enjoy it.’ She pointed at a large detached house set back from the road, with decorative white shutters on all the windows. ‘That’s it.’ The lights were off inside the house but twin coach lamps illuminated the front door.

  ‘Nice,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Now you’re being sarcastic,’ she said.

  ‘It is a nice house.’

  ‘You’re using “nice” in a not very nice way,’ slurred Button.

  ‘Charlie, it’s a nice house in a nice area.’ Shepherd turned the Audi into the driveway and stopped next to a large Mercedes parked in front of the double garage. ‘Is that your husband’s?’ he asked.

  Button nodded. ‘Come in and say hello.’

  ‘Some other time,’ said Shepherd. ‘I want to get back to Hereford.’

  ‘At least have a coffee.’

  ‘Really, Charlie, I’d rather get off.’

  ‘Raincheck?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I do need to talk to you about what happened.’

  ‘A debriefing?’

  ‘More to get my thoughts straight than anything else,’ she said. ‘I’m pretty confused about a lot of things just now.’

  ‘It’s a confusing trade we’re in,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now’s probably not the best time to talk about it. Certainly not over coffee with your husband.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. You’re always right. You’re my rock, Spider, you know that?’

  Shepherd smiled. ‘I know you’ve had a lot to drink,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘You’re welcome. Go on with you.’

  Button sighed. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a cigarette, have you?’ she asked. ‘Graham won’t have them in the house.’

  Shepherd opened the glove box and gave her a packet of Marlboro. ‘On me,’ he said.

  She took out a cigarette and Shepherd lit it for her. She inhaled deeply, held the smoke in her lungs, then exhaled with a sigh of pleasure. She climbed out of the car and went to the lawn. Shepherd laughed as she bent down, stubbed out the cigarette and covered the butt with soil, like a cat covering its traces. Then she went unsteadily to the front door, gave him a final wave and put the key into the lock. As she entered the house, Shepherd put the Audi in gear and reversed down the driveway.

  Button pushed open the door. ‘It’s me!’ she called, then smiled as she realised how stupid that was. Who else would be letting themselves in with a key at that time of night? ‘Sorry I’m late. No rest for the wicked.’ She took off her coat and opened the hall cupboard. ‘Graham, where are you?’ There was no reply. She hung up her coat and closed the door.

  She heard a scratching noise from the kitchen. Poppy was outside, scrabbling to get in. Button opened the door and the Labrador bowled in, tail wagging frantically. Button knelt down and made a fuss of her. ‘What are you doing outside?’ she asked. The dog tried to lick her face and she pushed it away. Poppy scampered across the tiled floor to her dish and pushed it with her nose, then made a soft grunting sound. She looked up expectantly, her tail swishing from side to side. ‘Has he not fed you?’ asked Button. ‘What’s he playing at? Did he forget you, Poppy?’ Poppy woofed and pushed her bowl again. ‘I guess he did,’ said Button. ‘Shame on him.’

  She went to the cupboard where they kept the dog’s tinned food, opened a can of Pal and spooned the contents into Poppy’s bowl. The dog started to bolt the food, and by the time Button had taken a box of dog biscuits from the cupboard, half the meat had gone. She pushed Poppy away, scattered some biscuits into the bowl, then stood up and smiled as Poppy started to wolf her food again. ‘Where are your manners, girl?’ She switched on the kettle. ‘And where’s your lord and master?’

  She went to the kitchen door. ‘Graham, where are you?’ she called. There was no answer. She looked round the kitchen. It was spotless. There was a Tesco carrier-bag on the counter by the fridge and she peered inside. Two steaks, a bunch of asparagus, a microwaveable pouch of new potatoes and two individual chocolate mousses. At least he hadn’t eaten without her. The kitchen clock told her it was just before nine. Occasionally Graham went to the pub at weekends but rarely during the week. He made a point of being first in the office, which meant getting up at seven each morning. He was probably showering. Button smiled to herself. It had been a while since she’d surprised Graham in the bathroom. Last time it had led to an eventful evening. The steaks could wait.

  She headed for the stairs, closing the kitchen door behind her. The last thing she wanted was the dog jumping up on to the bed.

  Shepherd flicked on his indicator to make a right turn on the A30 back to London. Opposite him he saw an entrance to the Crown Estate land and, beyond, a rutted track that led through the forest. A blue car was parked beside the gate. Shepherd turned on to the main road, noticing idly that the vehicle was empty. Suddenly he braked. He peered at the car in his rear-view mirror. It was a dark blue saloon, a Ford Mondeo. There was nothing unusual about it, which was why it seemed out of place in Virginia Water. He couldn’t imagine anyone wealthy enough to live in the area driving a common-or-garden Ford. It was a place where BMWs, Jaguars and petrol-guzzling SUVs were the norm. The nanny might drive a Ford, or the gardener, but neither was likely to park it at the side of the road. It might have belonged to a Crown Estate worker – but why would they have parked outside the gate and not driven through it?

  Shepherd wondered if he was worrying about nothing. Charlie was at home, and so was her husband. He put the car in gear and accelerated away. He had travelled only a few yards when he stamped on the brake. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong, that the car shouldn’t have been parked where it was. He sighed and reached for his mobile phone. It would take only a few minutes to check it out. He tapped in the number of SOCA’s intelligence unit in a nondescript office building in Pimlico, central London, not far from MI6’s more dramatic riverside headquarters.

  A man answered. ‘Hello.’ It was standard procedure for SOCA operatives at all levels not to identify their location or function. If Shepherd had asked if he was talking to SOCA or to Intel, the call w
ould have been terminated immediately.

  ‘PNC vehicle check, please,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Name, ID number and radio call sign?’ said the voice.

  Shepherd gave his full name and the two numbers.

  ‘Registration number?’

  Shepherd read the digits off the front numberplate of the car.

  There was a short pause before the man spoke again. ‘It’s a blue Ford Mondeo 2.0 LX. The registered keeper is shown as the Hertz Rental Company and they have been the keeper since the tenth of January two thousand and seven. There are no reports.’

  Shepherd’s jaw tightened. A hire car was a bad sign. ‘It doesn’t by any chance say to which Hertz office the car was assigned?’

  ‘Just the company name, sorry.’

  ‘Can you do me a favour?’ asked Shepherd. ‘I’m in the field and pressed for time. Can you contact Hertz and find out which office the car was hired from, and get me the name of the customer?’

  ‘Not a problem,’ said the voice. ‘Is it okay to call you on this number?’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Shepherd.

  The line went dead. Shepherd rarely used the intelligence unit but when he did he was always impressed with the can-do attitude. If he’d called the Metropolitan Police for help they would have given him half a dozen reasons why they couldn’t make the call to the car-hire company. He settled back in his seat. Maybe he was worrying about nothing. Maybe one of the locals had put his BMW or Jaguar in for servicing and hired a car to tide him over. Maybe.

  Button stared round the empty bathroom. ‘Graham, where are you?’ she called. Poppy barked from the kitchen. She went back into the bedroom. He couldn’t have gone far because his car was parked outside and he wasn’t one of life’s great walkers. The bedroom window overlooked the garden and she peered out. She didn’t expect to see him there because he wasn’t one of life’s gardeners, either.

  Her jacket was on the bed where she’d thrown it and she retrieved her mobile phone from the pocket. She’d called Graham just before she’d met Patsy Ellis in the wine bar so she scrolled through her calls list and pressed her husband’s number. She put the phone to her ear as she looked round the bedroom. For a crazy moment she imagined her husband had walked out on her, but that made no sense because he would have taken the car. She opened the sliding mirrored door to the wardrobe. All his clothes were there, of course. She shut it and smiled at her reflection. Graham didn’t have time for an affair, and she doubted that any other woman would put up with the hours he worked.

  The phone rang, and kept on ringing. Button frowned. That didn’t make sense because Graham never went anywhere without it. He took calls from clients at any time of day or night, no matter where he was or what he was doing, and usually he answered on the second or third ring.

  She began to pace round the room. She had often joked with him that only a stroke or a heart-attack would stop him answering his phone, and now a coldness was spreading through her, tightening round her chest like a steel band. The phone stopped ringing and went to voicemail. She cut the connection, then pressed redial as she went on to the landing. As soon as she did, she heard his ringtone downstairs. The James Bond theme. He’d chosen it initially as an ironic comment on her job, but after a while he’d grown to like the tune and had steadfastly refused to change it. Every time it rang he’d look at her, smile slyly, and she would say, ‘Boys will be boys.’

  Button moved along the landing, holding out her phone in front of her. If the phone was in the house, so was Graham. The band round her chest was so tight now that she could barely breathe. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

  She walked slowly down the stairs. ‘Graham!’ she called, hearing the uncertainty in her voice. ‘Graham, where are you?’

  Poppy barked from the kitchen.

  Button reached the bottom of the stairs. The phone went to voicemail and the James Bond music stopped. She cut the connection and pressed redial again. She put her head on one side, her brow furrowed as she concentrated. The ring-tone kicked into life again. It was coming from the study. She reached for the door handle and took a deep breath as she tried to convince herself that everything was all right, that when she pushed open the door she’d see Graham at his desk, listening to Phil Collins on his Bose headphones, oblivious to his ringing phone.

  Her jaw dropped when she saw him on the floor, lying on his back. His eyes were wide and staring and there was a damp patch at his groin.

  ‘Graham?’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Graham.’ She hurried across the carpet and knelt beside him. She put her hand to his neck and felt for a pulse, but even as she did so she knew she was wasting her time. He was dead. She sat back and looked at his chest. She opened his jacket and saw a red stain on his shirt. She began to tremble, but fought to stop her hands shaking, and undid the buttons round the glistening stain. ‘Oh, Graham, my poor darling,’ she whispered. The wound was narrow, less than an inch, a clean cut. He had been killed with a knife. A very sharp knife. A single blow to the heart. There was no sign of the murder weapon.

  She stood up, her mind in a whirl. She put a hand to her forehead, trying to focus. Graham’s mobile was still ringing in his pocket and she pressed the red button on hers to end the call. She stared down at the body, suddenly aware that the only sound in the room was her breathing. She looked at her phone, wondering who to call.

  The door to the study slammed and she spun round, the phone slipping from her fingers to the floor. An Arab was standing there, a smile on his face. There was no need for Button to ask who he was or what he wanted. He was holding a carving knife and he swished it from side to side as he walked across the carpet towards her.

  Shepherd jumped when the phone buzzed, then pressed the green button. ‘Shepherd,’ he said.

  ‘It was hired from their Marble Arch location, thirty-five Edgware Road, by a Hassan Salih, using a United Arab Emirates driving licence.’

  Shepherd thanked the man and ended the call. His heart pounded as his adrenal glands kicked into overdrive. An Arab renting a car and driving out to Virginia Water could mean only one thing. He climbed out of the Audi, opened the rear door on the driver’s side and groped under the seat for the UMP. He ripped off the plastic wrapping and slotted in the magazine, then slammed the door. He looked around. There was no one nearby. He hid the machine-gun under his jacket as best he could and started to run back to Charlie’s house.

  The Arab bared his teeth at Button but said nothing. Button crouched, her hands up defensively. She had done some hand-to-hand combat during basic training, but her instructors had always told her that if you were unarmed and facing a combatant with a blade, the best option by far was to turn and run. But the only door was behind the Arab and she had no other escape route. ‘What do you want?’ she said, knowing the question was meaningless but wanting to say something because talking was the only thing that might slow him.

  He took a step towards her and she took a step back. Her husband’s body was to her right. Between it and the window there was a desk with a computer on it. The window was double-glazed and she wasn’t sure how hard she’d have to hit it to be sure of it breaking but she was sure that the Arab wouldn’t give her a chance to find out. ‘You know the name Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed? And that of his brother, Abdal Rahmaan?’

  Button curled her fingertips. If he stabbed with the knife she had a chance of catching his wrist but if he slashed with it he’d cut her. Of course she knew who Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed was. And his brother. And now she realised why the killer was in her house, why he’d stabbed her husband and why he was going to kill her. She’d watched in horror as Abdal Rahmaan had been burnt to death by men working for Richard Yokely. And she’d interrogated Abdal Jabbaar while he was being tortured in the basement at the American embassy in London. It hadn’t been her idea, but she had played a part and she had always thought that one day her actions might come back to haunt her. That day had come, but the man with the
knife was no ghost. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The name means nothing to me.’

  ‘Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed? Abdal Rahmaan bin Othman al-Ahmed?’

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  He stopped swishing the knife. ‘You’re lying,’ he said.

  ‘Why would I lie? Abdul what?’

  ‘Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed. Abdal Rahmaan. Do not lie to me.’

  Button shook her head again, more emphatically this time. ‘I don’t know why you think those names should mean something to me, but I can assure you they don’t.’

  The man’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘You’re making a mistake,’ said Button. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about, I don’t know why you’re here, but I’m not the person you’re looking for.’

  ‘I know who you are. I have your photograph. There is no mistake.’

  Button pointed at him. ‘I know who you are, and I know why you’re here. Your name is Hassan Salih and you’re a marked man.’

  A look of confusion flashed across Salih’s face. ‘How did you . . .’

  Button bent down, picked up her mobile phone and threw it hard at him. It hit his shoulder and shattered against the wall. Button moved forward, ready to grab the knife, but he was too quick for her and jabbed at her hand, just missing her. She jumped back, then rushed to the desk. There was a glass paperweight, a birthday present from Zoe to her father. She grabbed it. Salih lashed out with the knife again, catching her in the shoulder, cutting through her shirt and slicing into her flesh. She screamed and hurled the paperweight at him. It smashed into his jaw, breaking two front teeth. He glared at her as blood ran down his chin and he slowly raised the knife.

  Shepherd’s feet pounded on the pavement, his breathing regular although he had run several hundred yards at full pelt. He hurtled through the gate and down the driveway towards the house. As he neared it, he heard a scream, followed by shouting. A man. He kicked at the front door, but it was solid mahogany and barely moved. He had the carbine in his hands but he knew it was only in movies that you could blow open a door with nine-millimetre rounds. The SAS used shotguns to shoot out the hinges of locked doors but the weapon he was holding was useless against the inch-thick wood. He stood back and kicked again. It barely moved.