Dead Men

by Leather, Stephen

  ‘You know, since you …’

  ‘Had sex?’ She was amazed. ‘Do you think I’m a nun?’

  Shepherd felt his cheeks flush. ‘I just thought …’

  She arched one eyebrow. ‘Yes, Jamie, tell me what you thought.’

  ‘You’re making this really hard for me, Elaine.’

  Her hand crept along his thigh. ‘Hmm, yes, I can see that.’

  He shuffled away from her and pushed the duvet down as a barrier between them. ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Are you now?’

  ‘You were upset because they were asking questions about your husband. You still … you know …’

  ‘Love him?’ Elaine sighed. ‘Robbie’s been dead for a long time, Jamie. Do I still love him? Of course, but it’s the memory I love now, not the man. Timmy, too. I love them both as much as I ever did, but they’re gone and I’m still here. Robbie’s picture is on the mantelpiece because I can’t move it. His parents come round every weekend. How could I tell them I’ve put their boy’s picture in a drawer somewhere, locked it away like a dirty secret? I’ll never put it away, no matter what happens in my life. The same goes for Timmy. Timmy’s my son and will be until the day I die. I saw Robbie die on my kitchen floor and I saw Timmy die in a hospital bed, with tubes in him and a machine beeping. But that doesn’t mean my life has stopped.’ She pushed away the duvet and reached for him. ‘You’re not the first man I’ve slept with since Robbie died, and you probably won’t be the last. So don’t worry. I’m not a mad widow desperate for a man, much as that might appeal to your adolescent fantasies.’

  ‘Elaine …’

  ‘Now, if you tell me I was a one-night stand, I will get upset.’

  ‘You weren’t,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’m so glad to hear that,’ she said, rolling on top of him. ‘Now prove it.’ Her hair cascaded over his face as she kissed him.

  It was just before noon when Shepherd got back to his house. He shaved and showered, then changed into a clean polo shirt and jeans. He stared at his reflection as he splashed aftershave on his face. He hadn’t planned to sleep with Elaine, and a sexual relationship would just complicate matters. He liked her, there was no question of that, and the sex had been good – better than good. It had been great. Shepherd swore. ‘You cannot get too close,’ he said to himself. ‘She is under investigation. You cannot get too close.’ He leant close to the mirror and stared himself in the eye. ‘Listen to me, you daft bastard,’ he whispered. ‘It’s going to end in tears if you carry on like this.’ His breath fogged on the glass.

  He pushed himself away from the mirror, went downstairs and switched on the kettle. He wanted to go for a run, and grinned as he wondered what SOCA’s psychologist would make of that – he’d met a woman he really liked and his first instinct after getting out of her bed was to put on his running shoes.

  Shepherd went through to the sitting room, sat on the sofa and put his feet on the coffee-table as he dialled Charlotte Button’s number. She answered immediately and Shepherd asked what she knew about the Historical Enquiries Team. ‘It was set up after the Good Friday Agreement,’ said Button. ‘There’s a squad of about seventy-five officers headed by a guy from the Met. They’re split into two teams, one staffed locally by PSNI officers, the other by officers from outside.’

  ‘To ensure impartiality?’

  ‘Horses for courses,’ said Button. ‘The HET has been tasked with looking at all murders that occurred between 1968 and the signing of the Good Friday Agreement in 1998. Some cases can’t be dealt with by former RUC personnel so they’ve brought in outsiders. Why the sudden interest?’

  ‘Two cops came round to talk to Elaine. They were asking questions about her husband.’

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser. Robbie Carter’s murder was cut and dried. There were no loose ends that I’m aware of.’

  ‘They weren’t asking about his death. They wanted his work diaries for the late eighties. She wasn’t happy.’

  ‘Understandable,’ said Button.

  ‘Thing is, she lied to them. They were asking about any diaries he might have kept and she didn’t mention the ones in the trunk.’

  ‘Trunk?’

  ‘The trunk where I found the ammunition. There were diaries in there along with photograph albums and stuff. Look, I don’t want to sound paranoid, but their visit wasn’t part of some grand plan, was it?’

  ‘What are you insinuating, Spider?’

  ‘I just thought it might have been a way of putting her under pressure, a visit from heavy cops.’

  ‘Good cop, bad cop, you mean? Them bad and you good? Spider, do you really think I’d play a game like that?’

  ‘It’s a complicated world.’

  ‘It is indeed, but I wouldn’t do that to you. You should know better. If I thought outside pressure was a good idea, I’d run it by you first.’

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd. ‘Doing what I do, you get to suspect everybody’s motives. Is there any chance of you finding out what’s going on? It occurred to me they might be trying to pin something on Carter.’

  ‘On a dead RUC hero? Is that likely?’

  ‘The dead can’t defend themselves,’ said Shepherd. ‘I just thought you should know what was going on, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s noted, Spider, but I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to find out. I don’t want to start alarm bells ringing, but I’ll see what I can do. How’s it going with Elaine?’

  Shepherd’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t want to lie to Button but he didn’t want to tell her he’d made love to Elaine either. ‘She trusts me,’ said Shepherd. ‘All I’ve got to do now is abuse that trust.’

  ‘Spider …’

  ‘I know, I shouldn’t get all bitter and twisted,’ said Shepherd. ‘But it’s a funny old world, isn’t it? She’s the widow of a dead hero and we’re trying to put her away because the men who killed her husband were set free for political reasons. If they’d stayed where they belonged, they’d still be alive.’

  ‘Interesting theory,’ said Button. ‘Setting them free is what killed them – is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that for bastards who shoot coppers’ life should mean life, no matter what their politics.’

  ‘No argument there,’ said Button, ‘but it’s not our call.’

  Shepherd left the phone on the coffee-table and went back to the kitchen. He made himself a cup of coffee, took it out into the garden with his pay-as-you-go mobile. He phoned Jimmy Sharpe and asked if he knew either Staniford or Ferguson. Sharpe had worked for the Strathclyde force for almost two decades before joining SOCA’s undercover unit.

  ‘Colin Staniford, I know,’ said Sharpe. ‘Good guy, but not averse to giving a villain a slap, if you get my drift.’

  ‘But a straight arrow?’

  ‘Sure, straight as they come,’ said Sharpe. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘He’s been seconded to the Northern Ireland cops, working for a unit clearing up the murders that took place during the Troubles.’

  ‘That sounds right,’ said Sharpe. ‘He wouldn’t take shit from anyone, least of all a Paddy.’

  ‘I can see the racial-awareness courses are paying off.’

  ‘Paddy’s an affectionate term, like Yank or sheepshagger,’ said Sharpe. ‘Not been giving Staniford a hard time, have you?’

  ‘Trying to make an impression on the girl next door, that’s all. Thought if I stood up for her she’d see me as a white knight.’

  ‘Just give her one,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘You really are in touch with your feminine side, aren’t you?’

  ‘I do what I can.’

  ‘What are you up to at the moment? I could do with some help.’

  ‘Worming my way into a marijuana syndicate in East Kilbride,’ said Sharpe. ‘Spreading lots of cash around, drinking champagne until it runs out of my arse and staying out until it’s way past my bedtime. Nothing I can’t slip away from for a few days
.’

  ‘I need you to find out why he’s looking at this woman’s husband. He’s dead now, murdered by the IRA. His name was Robbie Carter.’

  ‘Cold case?’

  ‘Nah. His killers were caught and sent down. I’m trying to prove that the wife’s knocking off the guys who killed her hubby, but Staniford’s looking at Carter for something else and I need to know what.’

  ‘So, I just ring Staniford and pick his brains?’

  ‘I was hoping you might fly over and do a face to face. Less obvious.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Sharpe, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘I fly over for a chat, he won’t suspect a thing.’

  ‘I was assuming you’d be more circumspect,’ said Shepherd. ‘Crack on you’re working on a case with a Belfast end.’

  ‘Carter, you said?’

  ‘Robbie Carter. Murdered by the IRA on the twenty-eighth of August nineteen ninety-six.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’ll call you for a pint when I’m done.’

  ‘I owe you one, Razor.’

  ‘You owe me another one,’ Sharpe corrected him. ‘But who’s keeping score? Are you okay there?’

  ‘I’m fine. It’s just messy, that’s all.’

  ‘Northern Ireland’s always been messy. Back in the old days I was a uniform at the Old Firm games and you could feel the hatred there. They’re never going to get on, no matter what the politicians say. Catholics and Protestants are natural enemies. Like cats and dogs.’

  ‘With respect, Razor, that’s bollocks. People are people.’

  ‘Are you getting all Rodney King on me? Why can’t we just get along? Because there’s hundreds of years of history and hatred, that’s why. Too much bad blood.’

  ‘It’s changing, Razor. It’s not like it was.’

  ‘Tell you what, Spider, you put on a Rangers shirt and take a walk down the Falls Road. See how far you get.’

  ‘The barriers are down in the city centre. The troops have gone. The IRA has decommissioned its weapons. The UVF has called it a day. It’s a different Belfast now.’

  ‘On the surface, maybe,’ said Sharpe, ‘but if they’re sending in cops to investigate sectarian killings, you need a guy like Colin Staniford. The villains in Belfast aren’t scared of the local cops, no matter which foot they kick with. You watch your back, you hear?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I mean it, Spider. There’s a lot of very hard men in that city, and I’m not just talking about the paramilitaries.’ Sharpe cut the connection.

  Tariq pulled in at the side of the road and consulted the street map for the twentieth time since he’d left London. The gun and silencer were in the glove box, with a pair of binoculars. He still wasn’t sure where and when he was going to kill Daniel Shepherd. He kept having to fight the urge to phone Salih and ask his advice, but he knew he was being tested and that Salih would see any contact as a sign of weakness. Salih hadn’t given him a photograph of the man he was supposed to kill. All he had was a name and address. Tariq knew that first he had to check out the house, find out what Shepherd looked like and what car he drove. Then he could decide on the when and where.

  He ran his finger along the route to Shepherd’s street. It was trembling and he fought to keep his hand steady. If he was shaking now, how would he be when he was pointing his gun at Shepherd? Or at the man’s family? He clenched and unclenched his hand, then willed the shaking to stop. He could do what Salih wanted, and once he had proved himself, Salih would teach him everything else he needed to know.

  Tariq put the map on the passenger seat. He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror. He had washed out the styling gel and given himself a parting. He was wearing a checked shirt, cargo pants and brown Hush Puppies. He had left his gold chains at home. He bared his teeth and snarled, then grinned. Anyone who saw him would think he was a nonentity, a waiter in an Indian restaurant or a shelf-filler at a corner shop. Nobody would suspect he was a killer. A stone-cold killer. ‘I’m going to kill you, Daniel Shepherd,’ he said to his reflection. ‘I’m going to put a bullet in your head. Then I’m going to kill your family.’

  A horn sounded behind him and Tariq jumped. It was a delivery van. The horn sounded again as the van sped by. The driver waved at a woman pushing a pram along the pavement. Tariq’s heart was pounding and his hands were shaking again. He put them on the steering-wheel, took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled slowly.

  He put the car in gear, had a final look at the map, then pulled away from the kerb. He drove slowly and indicated at every turn, even though there was little traffic. When he reached Shepherd’s road he drove slowly until he saw a house number. Shepherd’s was five away. Tariq accelerated; he didn’t want it to be obvious that he was looking for something. He glanced to his left as he passed the house, a two-storey cottage with a small garden at the front. There was a separate garage, with a dark green Honda CRV and a black BMW SUV parked outside it.

  He drove to the end of the road and turned left. He needed a vantage point, somewhere he could get an overall view of the house and see who came and went. He stopped the car again and reached for the map.

  Shepherd’s personal mobile rang just before midday. It was Jimmy Sharpe. They arranged to meet at Belfast airport, and an hour later Shepherd was sitting next to his colleague with a cup of cappuccino and an almond croissant in front of him. Sharpe had a wheeled black carry-on case at his feet.

  ‘I don’t suppose I can put this trip on expenses, can I?’ said Sharpe.

  ‘I’ll see you right,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘What about all the booze I had to buy to lubricate his tongue last night?’ said Sharpe. ‘He could drink for Scotland.’

  ‘I’ll see you right,’ said Shepherd. ‘Curry’s on me next time we’re in London. Now, what did Staniford tell you?’

  ‘It’s messy,’ said Sharpe, ‘and from what he says, it’s going to get messier. You know what the Historical Enquiries Team is doing, right?’

  ‘Investigating all the murders that took place during the Troubles.’

  ‘Right. All three thousand two hundred and sixty-eight deaths since nineteen sixty-eight. Every case is being looked at and, where necessary, re-examined. Half of the murders committed during the Troubles are still unsolved. You had Catholics killing Protestants, Protestants killing Catholics, Catholics and Protestants killing the police and security services, and vice versa. The HET team is looking for miscarriages of justice, and at cold cases that still have to be solved.’

  ‘And they’ve brought in outsiders like Staniford because they won’t be tainted by the old regime.’

  ‘Pretty much. HET is made up of two teams, one team made up of outsiders, the other made up of locals, former RUC now PSNI.’ He grinned. ‘You know they were going to call it the Northern Ireland Police Service until they realised that the newspapers would talk about the bad guys being grabbed by the NIPS?’

  ‘Stick to the point, Razor. You’ve got a plane to catch.’ Shepherd sipped his cappuccino.

  ‘So, HET starts at ’sixty-eight and is working its way to the end of hostilities. The locals are doing the non-controversial cases. Staniford and his colleagues look at the ones that might benefit from an outsider’s eye. And they’ve given Staniford one of the hottest potatoes to deal with.’ He paused to make sure he had Shepherd’s undivided attention, then leant across the table. ‘Back in the late eighties and early nineties, RUC Special Branch was passing information to Loyalist paramilitaries. Information that led directly to the assassination of IRA members. Staniford is trying to identify the officers involved.’

  ‘With a view to prosecution?’

  ‘The powers-that-be want to show they’re being evenhanded,’ said Sharpe. ‘If they’re investigating murders by the IRA, they want to clear up any RUC-sponsored killings as well.’

  Shepherd picked at his croissant. ‘That is messy,’ he said.

  ‘It gets messier,’ said Sharpe. ‘Seems th
at the funding for the RUC’s intelligence operations came from our very own MI5.’

  ‘MI5 was funding an RUC operation to use Protestant killers to murder IRA members? If ever there was a case for letting sleeping dogs lie, that would be it, don’t you think?’

  Sharpe shook his head. ‘Nah, the powers-that-be want every case wrapped up so there can’t be any comeback down the line that would give either side an excuse to start shooting and bombing again. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get all the dirty laundry washed and hung out to dry.’

  ‘And now Staniford’s looking at Robbie Carter’s murder?’

  ‘I couldn’t press Colin too hard without tipping him off that my interest’s personal. But from what he told me, Robbie Carter probably wasn’t whiter than white.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’ Shepherd sighed.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sharpe. ‘Staniford’s trying to put Carter in the frame for a number of killings in the late eighties and early nineties, maybe not as the triggerman but as part of an RUC conspiracy.’

  ‘This just gets better and better,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Come on, Spider, you know how murky Ireland’s been over the years. Your old mob pretty much ran shoot-to-kill operations all over the North.’

  ‘Allegedly.’

  ‘Aye, allegedly. Well the RUC, allegedly, decided that the odds had swung so heavily against the Loyalists that they were justified in giving them a little support now and then.’

  ‘And how did this come to light?’

  Sharpe took a quick look at his watch. There was just over an hour before his flight was due to leave. ‘Detective superintendent by the name of Scott Devlin killed himself two years ago. Nothing untoward, he had terminal cancer and the doctors had done all they could. They gave him the phone number of a Macmillan nurse and sent him home to die, basically. Devlin decided there was no point in hanging around so he took a mouthful of water, put his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. It wasn’t exactly a cry for help.’

  Putting a gun in your mouth and pulling the trigger wasn’t a guaranteed way of ending your life, but doing it with a mouthful of water meant your head literally exploded. ‘He leave a note?’ asked Shepherd.