Secret Shepherd

by James Osborne

  On the sidewalk while looking for a taxi, he thought, I should have left this damned awkward thing with Marion. Then again, I might need something to read at the hospital. That book had better be interesting!

  ***

  The Next Morning

  Maidstone District General Hospital

  “It’s a girl!” Paul told Richard on the phone. “Congratulations, you’re a grandpa again! Anne and the baby are doing just fine!”

  Paul assumed Richard would pass the news along to Agnes. The only sad part of the joyous occasion was that Anne and her mother were still not speaking. It seemed highly unlikely that Agnes would be seeing her newly arrived granddaughter any time soon.

  He had arrived at the hospital from his office three hours before the baby was born, in plenty of time to join Anne in the delivery room. Despite the excellent pre-natal classes, he’d been terrified watching her go through the excruciating pain of contractions and then childbirth. He despaired at his helplessness while listening to her cries. It was a whole new experience for him... one of the rare occasions when he felt thoroughly unnerved... terrified for her safety... and helpless to protect her.

  During Anne’s labor, Paul had kept stumbling over his new briefcase while helping her change positions to get more comfortable. At one point, he’d given the new tan leather case a hard kick aside in annoyance after he’d stumbled over it too many times. He cursed himself for putting a mark on it.

  A few hours later, Paul joined Anne in her hospital room, briefcase in hand. She was resting, their new daughter swathed in a pink blanket and cradled in her left arm.

  At the sight of them, Paul thought his heart would burst with the love and pride he was feeling for his young wife, enormously beautiful in his eyes despite the immense strain of what she’d just been through.

  A few minutes later a nurse entered.

  “It’s best that you let your wife rest for a while now, sir,” she told him, ignoring or unaware of his vice-regal title, much to Paul’s relief. “There’s a cafeteria downstairs. Give her a couple of hours at least.”

  Paul glanced at Anne. She was struggling to stay awake. He leaned down and touched her cheek gently, lovingly. He kissed her tenderly.

  He reached over and with the back of his index and middle finger gently touched his daughter, his first child, for the first time. The baby’s cheek was soft, like the fuzz on a newly hatched chick, so soft it startled him. Their daughter was asleep, content in her sleeping mother’s loving arms. Regardless, the nurse gently lifted the baby and put her in a bassinet beside the bed so Anne could get more rest.

  Two hours later he was back in Anne’s room. Paul was annoyed with himself for forgetting the briefcase earlier. While having coffee in the cafeteria, he realized he’d forgotten to check out the package.

  Anne had the room all to herself. Richard had pulled strings to get a private room.

  When he’d arrived back at the room, a nurse was helping Anne feed their newborn daughter.

  “She’s a hungry little one,” Anne said, smiling lovingly at Paul. “As you know, Daddy, she was at the food bank almost as soon as she was born and now again. Hope I can keep up the milk supply.”

  Paul had never seen a baby being nursed before. When he was a boy, mothers were expected to nurse babies in private. This was fascinating and enlightening. His emotions soared as he watched Anne nursing their newborn daughter, realizing Mother Nature had a dual purpose for women’s breasts—both to help attract mates and later to nurture the resulting offspring. The shapely breasts he’d found so alluring now were performing an equally natural and more profound purpose. He loved the juxtaposition.

  This is exactly how it ought to be, he thought.

  “Paul,” Anne said, looking up from the baby. “In the rush to get here, I forgot to bring one of my bags. It has my nursing bras, pads and some other stuff I need. It’s by the front door. Would you mind going home and getting it for me in a bit?”

  “Of course, my love,” Paul said, eager to do anything useful for the woman he loved more than life itself.

  He was gone a little over an hour. On his return, Paul had left the cab with both hands occupied, one of them carrying Anne’s bag and the other holding the largest bouquet of pink/salmon colored roses, Anne’s favorites, he could gather in a hurry. He’d forgotten his new briefcase in the taxi. Paul wanted to check out the book during the drive home. After arriving back at the hospital he realized it was missing when he looked for it while Anne and the baby were napping.

  Ah crap! He thought, thinking about the package. A brand-new briefcase gone... and now, I’ll not find out what that book was all about. Maybe I missed out on a bestseller.

  ***

  The family of cab driver Jamal Lordani found out.

  Jamal had discovered the briefcase after dropping Paul at the hospital. He’d stopped for a snack, and noticed it while checking to ensure his car was clean and tidy for the next passenger. Jamal was fussy about things like that.

  He’d taken the briefcase into the restaurant to look it over for identification. A tiny leather tag on the handle bore only the maker’s logo, but no name or address of the owner. Inside he found a package... nothing else. Jamal couldn’t make out the writing on it; he’d forgotten his glasses in the cab. What he could see didn’t look anything like an address or a return address. Jamal decided to open the package while having his coffee, hoping to find a receipt or some other way to identify the owner.

  His plan was to drop it off at his taxi company’s regional office nearby so that someone could call the owner.

  ***

  News media rushed to the scene of a bomb blast in a restaurant near downtown Maidstone.

  TV stations carried live interviews with a police spokesperson who said five people were known dead and at least seventeen injured, some critically. The restaurant and a flat above it had all but disappeared in the blast. Police recovered scraps of heavy brown paper. One scrap had most of an address scrawled on it. When reconstructed by forensic experts the scrawled handwriting read:

  Deliver to

  Lord P. Winston

  House of Lords Library

  Palace of Westminster

  Chapter Eighteen

  New Scotland Yard

  “The timer failed,” Ken Hagerman said. “Whoever made this bomb was clever... they installed a second detonator. It was designed to be activated when the package was unwrapped... it worked, tragically.”

  Paul and Richard were in Ken’s office.

  Paul shivered from a cold sweat. The hair was standing up on the back of his neck.

  “Dear God!” he said. “I was in Anne’s room with the baby! The three of us! That package was in my briefcase. I thought it was a book. I planned to read it while Anne and the baby were sleeping. My God, I could have opened it right beside them!”

  Paul listened impatiently as his father-in-law tried to console him.

  “Guess I don’t need to guess who’s behind it,” he said. “Those savage bastards!”

  “I expect you’re right,” Ken said. “We’ll know more once our investigators have done their work. While I have you here, you asked me to find out more about that woman you helped in Serpentine Gallery.”

  “Oh, yes,” Paul said, welcoming a change of topic. “Any leads yet on that one?”

  “We’ve been operating on the assumption you were the target,” Ken said. “That may not be the case. It could be that both of you were targets, for different reasons of course.”

  “How could that be?” Paul asked. “I’d never met her before... not until then.”

  “As you know, her name is Kay Shelley,” Ken said. “What you don’t know is that she happens to be a direct descendent of the nineteenth century novelist Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein, and her husband, the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley.”

  “I’ll be darned!” Paul said.

  “I remember reading Frankenstein!” Richard said. “Many years ago.”

 
; “Turns out Kay Shelley is the heir to the Shelley legacy,” Ken said. “Her inheritance was considerable until her first husband swindled her out of it. During his trial, he claimed she was frittering it away needlessly, in his words, on ‘no-account women’. He’s refusing to say where he’s hidden the money.”

  “Surely what she does with her own money would be her prerogative,” Paul said. “It was her inheritance, not his.”

  “Anyway, he’s out on parole now,” Ken added. “He served three years of concurrent five year sentences for theft and for assault on Mrs. Shelley. He’s our investigators’ prime suspect but seems to have an alibi for the time of the shooting.”

  “I presume he’s under surveillance just the same?” Paul asked.

  “Oh yes, but we’re having a hard time keeping track of him,” Ken said. “He’s a slippery fellow.”

  “Are Mrs. Shelley and her baby somewhere safe?” Paul said.

  “Yes, they and her second husband, Harry, the baby’s father, are in a safe house,” Ken replied. “Harry’s not much help to her, I’m afraid. He suffered a severe heart attack a month ago. He’s just out of hospital. And sadly, none of Mrs. Shelley’s money has been recovered so far. We think her ex-husband hid it in an offshore account. Investigators found evidence of unauthorized withdrawals by him from her foundation’s account but that’s where the trail goes cold. If that money went offshore as we suspect, it will be almost impossible to trace. Mrs. Shelley and her family are living on a meager income... Harry’s health benefits from his employer.”

  “Something else, Paul,” Ken added. “Mrs. Shelley’s been operating a chain of centers across the UK focused on helping abused women and their children get back on their feet again. Her money was the primary means of support not just for those centers but also for her family. She told me she has no choice now but to close most of them, maybe all of them depending on donations.”

  “I see,” Paul said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Law Offices of

  Joan Hamilton

  “He’s been charged with assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest, among other things,” Joan said.

  “Aw shit!” Paul replied.

  Paul was in Joan’s office at her law firm. Malcolm had joined them.

  “Mousavi was caught on the surveillance video,” she continued. “I don’t think there’s much I can do about those charges, or him violating his parole. He’ll remain in custody until his trial. I got a copy of the video from The Met,” she added. “Have a look.”

  Joan started the video rolling. They watched the TV monitor as several rough looking young men, including Ahmed, scuffled with a group of police officers.

  “Get your frigging hands off me!” Ahmed was shouting in the video. He appeared to punch a female constable in the face. “You’re under arrest,” the constable said, her mouth bloodied. “For resisting arrest and violating your parole. And now we’ll add ‘assaulting a police officer’. Cuff him,” she said to fellow constables.

  The video ended.

  “Damn it!” Paul repeated. “I need to see him. Where is he?”

  “Back in the Old Bailey,” Joan said. “Are you sure you want to bother with him after this?”

  “Yes!” Paul replied. “Something’s not right here. I can’t believe he’d do this.”

  “It’s your call,” Joan said. “May I remind you, Milord, he violated the bail bond you posted and your surety. That bond is going to cost you £20,000. For what it’s worth, may I say once more that you’re wasting your valuable time on this useless punk?”

  “You might be right,” Paul said. He glanced at Malcolm. A sad ‘told you so’ look clouded his solicitor’s craggy face. “But I’m not ready to give up on him just yet.”

  ***

  The Old Bailey

  Paul was sitting impatiently in the visitor’s room when Ahmed was brought in. His arms and legs were shackled, his head bowed.

  “Please remove those shackles,” Paul asked the guards.

  “Are you sure?” one of the guards asked.

  “I think I can handle this fellow,” Paul said. A hint of a smile flashed briefly across his face. “They won’t be needed. Please take them off.”

  The guards removed the handcuffs, the leg irons and the chain connecting them. Ahmed was directed to sit at a metal table across from Paul where the guard proceeded to handcuff him to an eyebolt on the table.

  “That won’t be necessary, either,” Paul said.

  The guard looked uncertainly at Paul, who nodded back affirmatively.

  Paul looked squarely at Ahmed.

  “You have some explaining to do.”

  “Yes sir,” Ahmed replied, looking up. “It’s not what it looks like. Honest. I need you to believe me.”

  “That won’t to be easy, Ahmed,” Paul replied. “I’m listening.”

  “I had to get back into the gang,” Ahmed began. “I thought maybe I could find out things the cops could use. And you can bet those bastards know something about that bombing in Maidstone that was intended for you, I’m sure of it.”

  “You expect me to believe that, after you went and beat up a female cop?” Paul said.

  “Look, sir, we both know those bastards are connected to a syndicate that’s smuggling cocaine and other shit here from Turkey,” Ahmed replied. “My old gang and several other gangs are distributors for them. And I’m absolutely certain all of them are involved also with smuggling people into England from the Middle East and Africa. The syndicate is behind all of that too. I was hoping whatever I found might help get me off the hook. I knew I was taking a risk this could make things worse for me.”

  “You were right about that,” Paul said. “You sure as hell did, and you cost me a pile of money for bail you now owe me!”

  “It’s the truth, sir,” Ahmed said. “You’ve got to believe me.”

  “I’m trying, Ahmed,” Paul said. “Before I make up my mind, maybe you’d better tell me what the hell else is going on with you. There’s something else, right?”

  “Perhaps I should let someone else do that,” Ahmed said. A hint of a smile teased the corner of his mouth. “He said he would meet with us here.”

  “Who?” Paul asked.

  The door behind Ahmed opened again. In walked a tall distinguished-looking man wearing a well-tailored suit.

  “Good afternoon, Milord,” the civilian said. “I’m Superintendent Hugh Thornton.”

  “I’m Paul,” he said, standing quickly and grasping Thornton’s outstretched hand. “Paul Winston. Please call me Paul.”

  “What’s this ‘Milord’ thing?” Ahmed said, looking up quickly.

  “Never mind,” Paul replied. “We’ve more important things to deal with right now.”

  “Oh,” Ahmed said, distracted and disinterested.

  Paul was relieved.

  Turning to the superintendent, he said, “Would you be good enough to tell me what this is all about?’ He looked pointedly at Thornton, repeating, “And please call me Paul. Okay?”

  “As you wish... uh, Paul,” Thornton said. He paused awkwardly. “And Hugh, please. Okay, let’s cut to the chase. I understand you viewed a surveillance video of Ahmed’s arrest.”

  “Yes, I did,” Paul said. “May I ask how you know about that video?”

  “Ahmed managed to install a CCTV camera for us in the cafe. My people taped the arrest, and much more,” Hugh replied. “Ahmed is working for us. I’m in charge of undercover anti-gang operations for Scotland Yard. Our work often overlaps with the drug and anti-terrorist people. I should tell you my crew observed your meeting a few weeks ago with Ahmed through the one-way mirrors in the interrogation rooms. We liked what we saw and offered him a deal. He accepted.”

  Paul looked at Ahmed. The young man nodded back with a sly self-conscious smile.

  Clever fellow, Paul thought, looking at Ahmed, impressed. “Or is he just working the angles to stay out of jail?”

  “We told no one exce
pt those who absolutely needed to know,” Hugh continued. “Ahmed’s life is at risk here if word ever leaks back to his former gang. Would you agree, Ahmed?”

  “I guess so, sir,” Ahmed replied. “This is my chance to get back at those assholes for setting me up. It feels good to stick it to them. And I’m not done, I hope!”

  “So the fight with those constables and the arrest were staged?” Paul asked, still skeptical. “You deliberately punched that female constable in the face? Was that necessary?”

  “Yes, it was all staged,” Hugh replied. “Both constables are part of our resources. The woman constable insisted on the hit, to make it look authentic to the others in the cafe. She’s one tough hombre.”

  “Sure fooled me,” Paul said.

  “Can I ask you something?” Ahmed asked Paul.

  “Sure.” Paul said.

  “Do you remember getting a phone call at the time of that shooting in Hyde Park?” Ahmed asked.

  “Yes, I do,” Paul said. “How do you know about that?”

  “It was me,” Ahmed said. “I was trying to warn you. I was absolutely certain the gang was going to use the confusion caused by the shooting to cover a hit on you. Your office is pretty close, you know.”

  “You’re aware of the bounty?” Paul asked.

  “Yes,” Ahmed replied. “Kazem Mehregan, the gang boss, ordered the hit. He was furious that you had me arrested during the robbery in your office. The Turkish syndicate is putting up the money. They’re angry as hell at you.”

  “Attempted robbery,” Paul corrected him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why did you hang up on me?”

  “One of the gang caught me on the phone,” Ahmed replied. “I had to do some fast talking. And after the shooting, coppers swarmed the area. No chance to get out for the hit. All of us hid in a safe room in the basement for a couple of days until things cooled off a bit.”

  “Was the gang responsible for that shooting?” Paul asked.