‘Yes?’ He turned to her, his hands still on the steering-wheel.
She opened her mouth to speak but before she could say anything the white van screeched to a halt and the back doors were flung open. Four men dressed in black, waving handguns, jumped out and surrounded the car. ‘Armed police!’ shouted one. ‘Keep your hands where they are.’
‘It’s the police!’ shouted Angie.
‘Just do as they say,’ said Nelson, calmly.
‘Oh, Christ, I’m dead,’ said Angie.
‘Armed police!’ shouted another officer.
Slowly Angie raised her hands.‘Don’t shoot,please don’t shoot,’ she whispered.
An officer yanked open the door on the driver’s side and pointed his weapon at Nelson’s head. ‘Keep your hands on the steering-wheel where I can see them,’ he said.
‘I’m not moving,’ said Nelson.
Another officer opened the door on Angie’s side with his left hand while keeping the gun in his right aimed at her head. ‘Hands in the air, don’t make any sudden moves!’ he shouted.
Two officers were standing at the front of the Volvo, both hands on their weapons, one aiming at Nelson, the other at her.
Two police cars roared into the car park and pulled up on either side of the white van. Uniformed officers piled out of the cars and stood waiting for the armed police to finish their job. They were followed by two dark saloons each containing three big men in plain clothes, cheap suits and dark raincoats.
Angie’s hands were shaking. She looked at Nelson. The armed officer grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him out of the Volvo. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Angie. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘What the hell is this?’ said Kerr. In the distance an armed policeman was pointing a gun at Nelson who was on his knees by the side of the Volvo. Another cop was pulling Angie out of the car.
‘Cops,’ said Anderson. He was sitting in the front of the Range Rover, with Wates in the passenger seat.
‘I can see it’s the fucking cops, shit-for-brains. What the hell are they doing here?’
One of the cops used a plastic tie to bind Nelson’s wrists behind his back, then he was hauled to his feet and over to one of the police cars.
‘Shall we do a runner?’ asked Anderson.
‘Sit tight,’ said Kerr. ‘We’re far enough away. If it was anything to do with us there’d be armed cops here too.’
The cops made Angie stand against the Volvo with her hands on the roof as they patted her down. A uniformed inspector walked up to her and said something to her. Kerr had the receiver in his lap but the cop was too far away from the transmitter for him to hear what was said. He was probably giving her the caution in case she said something stupid on the drive back to the station.
Another officer used a plastic tie to bind her wrists, then took her to one of the patrol cars. He helped her get into the back and slammed the door. The armed police were returning to the white van, laughing and joking.
A plain-clothes officer in a dark blue raincoat took the ignition keys out of the Volvo and locked the car.
‘What’s on your mind, boss?’ asked Anderson.
‘I’m just wondering who the cops were there for.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Anderson.
‘Were they there for Angie or Nelson?’
‘Does it matter?’
Kerr sighed. Of course it mattered, but there was no point in explaining it to Anderson or Wates. If they were there to arrest a hired killer and his wife had been caught up as an innocent bystander, that was one thing. But if they had arrested Angie and Nelson for conspiring to kill him, it was another. Something wasn’t right, but Kerr couldn’t work out what it was. He was getting a headache.
‘Let’s just sit here for a while, boys,’ he said. ‘We’ll see what develops.’
The two patrol cars drove out of the car park, followed by the dark saloons. The armed cops climbed into the back of the white van, then it, too, drove away, heading in the opposite direction to the patrol cars.
Kerr lit a cigarette and stared at the Volvo. It was almost as if it had never happened, as if it had been a figment of his imagination. A huddle of customers stood at the entrance to the supermarket, staring after the patrol cars and gossiping, but after a few minutes they went inside. A blue Transit van drove out of the car park. Kerr blew smoke, and frowned. Something was lurking on the edge of his consciousness but every time he tried to focus on it, it evaporated. It was like grabbing mist.
Shepherd sat in the back of the patrol car. There were two uniformed cops in the front and a plainclothes detective on his right. He said nothing. He didn’t know if the cops knew he was an undercover officer, but reckoned they probably didn’t. As far as they were concerned he was Tony Nelson, hitman for hire, and he preferred it that way. The fewer people who knew who he was, the better.
He looked over his shoulder, just once, and saw the car containing Angie Kerr following some distance behind. They were being taken to the same police station, but that was to be expected. Hargrove would want her to see Nelson taken into custody. He’d want her to know that he was in an interview room being grilled by detectives, and that her only chance of avoiding prison would be to co-operate. Hargrove would probably go in heavy first, play her the recordings from the Volvo, tell her she was going to prison for a long time and then, finally, he would offer her the way out. He’d probably start talking about her husband, asking her why she wanted him dead. Then he’d suggest there were other ways of dealing with Charlie Kerr that didn’t involve her spending a dozen or more years in a prison cell.
Shepherd took a deep breath. It would soon be over and he could turn his back on Tony Nelson.
The plastic tie was cutting into his wrists but he knew there was no point in saying anything to the detective sitting next to him. Once fitted, the ties couldn’t be loosened, only cut off.
He sat in silence until they reached the police station. A metal gate rattled back and the two patrol cars rolled into the car park. The detective manhandled Shepherd out of the car and up a concrete ramp to the entrance. He looked at Angie. Tears were streaming down her face, but he glared at her, playing the part. Tony Nelson, killer for hire, would probably blame her for the police raid. And if she thought Nelson was angry with her, she’d be more likely to take any offer the police made.
A uniformed officer opened a metal door and stood to the side to allow Shepherd through. The detective took him along a corridor and put him into an interview room with a single barred window. There was a tape-recorder with two slots for tapes and an alarm strip running along two of the walls. A metal table stood against one wall, two chairs on either side of it. The detective pointed at a chair and Shepherd sat down. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ he asked.
‘About as much chance as I have of giving Britney Spears one,’ said the detective.
‘She’s a looker all right, but a bit young for you,’ said Shepherd. He sat down. All he could do now was to wait.
The detective grinned at him. ‘Okay, how do you want it?’
‘Thanks. Black. No sugar.’
The detective’s grin widened. ‘Got you,’ he said, laughed harshly and left the room.
Kerr stabbed out his cigarette. ‘They didn’t check the fucking car,’ he said.
‘Sorry, boss?’ said Anderson.
‘They didn’t look in the Volvo. Good news for us because they didn’t find the transmitter, but Nelson’s a hired killer so why didn’t they toss the car looking for a weapon?’
There were deep furrows in Anderson’s brow and he scratched his chin.
‘Because they were told to take the two of them in, full stop,’ said Kerr. ‘They were just following orders. Take the two of them in, forget the motor. Why? Because he’s going to come back for the motor.’
It had all clicked into place. It had been there, right from the start, staring him in the face, Kerr thought. Nelson was a cop. He hadn’t killed Larry Hendrickson�
�s partner. The Polaroids had been faked. The partner wasn’t dead, but he’d screwed up and gone roaming the Internet. The cops must have put him on ice because Hendrickson had introduced Nelson to his wife. They were letting the job run and today they’d moved in. Nelson was a cop and Angie had hired him, thinking he was a hitman. They had all they needed to put her away on conspiracy to murder. Kerr lit another cigarette. Except that Angie Kerr wasn’t just a wife with a chip on her shoulder. She was his wife. She knew how he earned his living and where a good chunk of his money was hidden. If the cops could turn Angie, she’d do him a lot of damage.
He lit another cigarette. It was all clear now. From A to B to C. Hendrickson had been set up by an undercover cop pretending to be a hired killer. At some point Hendrickson had passed the cop on to Angie. The cop had decided to run with Angie so Hendrickson hadn’t been arrested. The problem was, where did the cops go from there? Did they charge Angie and pat themselves on the back for performing a public service? Would they send a couple of Manchester’s finest to his house to tell him they’d saved his life and ask for a donation to the widows and orphans fund? Or would they try to turn Angie because what they really wanted was to put Charlie Kerr behind bars? The cops had been after his scalp for years. He had a detective sergeant in the Drugs Squad on his payroll so he always knew when they were gunning for him, but whoever was running Nelson must be doing it without telling the local boys. This had come out of the blue.
Kerr stared at the Volvo. What to do? He could run away with his tail between his legs. A few minutes on the phone would be all it took to clear out his bank accounts and he could be on a plane to Spain or South America that afternoon. He had more than enough to buy himself a new identity and all the protection he needed, and even with Angie’s cooperation it would take them months to put a case against him. If he left the country, they’d probably decide not to go after him. That would pretty much screw up any deal Angie made. If he ran, they’d probably make do with putting her away.
‘Are we going to sit here all day?’ asked Wates.
‘Yes, Ray, that’s exactly what we’re going to do,’ said Kerr. ‘If that’s okay with you.’
Wates said nothing but looked anxiously at Anderson. They were clearly uneasy, but he couldn’t be bothered to explain the situation to them. They were just the hired help.
He wasn’t going to run. If he did, everything he’d built up in Manchester would count for nothing. He had respect in the city, he was a face, and he was damned if he was going to throw that away just because Angie had turned against him. At the moment the police had nothing: they’d have to get her to agree to co-operate. Angie’s father had died of a heart-attack three years ago but her mother was living in Lytham St Anne’s in a nice little flat with a sea view. Angie had a sister, too, a sour-faced cow who’d married an estate agent. They lived in a pokey terraced house in Stretford with their two young sons. Angie would have a few home truths explained to her: if she helped the police, Kerr would stamp on her relatives – hard. And if she still sided with the filth, she’d only be useful if she stood in the witness box and gave evidence against him: she’d have to take a bullet in police custody. Difficult, but not impossible. It was just a question of paying the right man the right amount of money.
Kerr relaxed and took a long drag on his cigarette. Things weren’t as bad as he’d first thought. The cops must have reckoned he was stupid, and Kerr resented that. How dare they assume they could get his bitch of a wife to roll over on him? He wanted to teach them a lesson they’d never forget.
Shepherd looked up as the door opened and grinned when he saw a familiar face. It was Jimmy ‘Razor’ Sharpe, a twenty-year police veteran who had worked with him on several undercover cases. He was a small, heavy-set Scotsman with a mischievous grin. ‘You’ve been a naughty boy again, have you, Nelson?’ said Sharpe.
Shepherd caught sight of two uniformed constables in the corridor behind him. ‘I’ve nothing to say,’ he said.
‘I don’t give a monkey’s either way,’ said Sharpe. ‘Come on, it’s back to Glasgow for you.’ He pulled Shepherd to his feet and held his arm as he took him along the corridor. They were joined by a second detective and went out into the car park. A blue Vauxhall was waiting, engine running. Sharpe climbed into the back with Shepherd.
Shepherd waited until the Vauxhall was away from the police station before he spoke. ‘How’s it going, Razor?’ he asked.
‘Bloody fed up with babysitting you,’ said Sharpe.
‘Where’s Hargrove?’
‘Talking to your woman in there. He wanted me to tell you the tapes are fine.’
‘Are you going to keep me like this all day?’ said Shepherd.
‘I was waiting for you to ask nicely,’ said Sharpe, taking a small penknife from his pocket.
Shepherd twisted to the side and pushed his bound wrists towards Sharpe. ‘Pretty please,’ he said.
Sharpe cut the plastic tie, and Shepherd massaged his wrists. ‘Those things hurt,’ he said.
‘Cost effective,’ said Sharpe. ‘Have you got time for a drink?’
‘I wish,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I’ve got to get back to London.’
‘No rest for the wicked,’ said Sharpe.
Eddie Anderson looked at his watch. ‘Eddie, if you do that one more time I’ll chop your bloody hand off,’ said Kerr. He opened the Range Rover’s window and flicked out the cigarette butt. The Volvo was where the police had left it, in the far corner of the supermarket car park. Kerr had phoned one of his police contacts and asked him to check out the registration number. The officer had promised to get back to him but said it might take a while. All checks on the Police National Computer were recorded so he’d wait until he could get on using another officer’s log-on.
They’d been sitting in the Range Rover for the best part of two hours when a blue Vauxhall parked next to the Volvo. After thirty seconds or so Tony Nelson climbed out, waved to its occupants and got into the Volvo.
‘What the fuck . . .!’ exclaimed Anderson.
‘Boss, did you see that?’ said Wates.
Kerr looked at the GPS unit in his hand. ‘Follow him, Eddie, but keep your distance.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘We’ll see where the rat runs to,’ said Kerr.
‘Why did they let him go?’ asked Anderson.
‘Just drive, will you?’ said Kerr, tersely. ‘Leave the thinking to me.’
Shepherd drove into the underground car park and reversed the Volvo into the space next to the white Toyota. He took the lift up to his apartment and changed into his Stuart Marsden clothes. He left the Volvo keys in the kitchen, went back to the car park and got into the Toyota. He was dog-tired but he had to get back to Leman Street and report for duty. He’d left his kit-bag in the boot so he could go straight to work. It would be at least eleven o’clock before he got home.
He slotted his mobile into the hands-free kit, then drove out of the car park and headed for the M6. He called Katra first. She said Liam was fine, that she was cleaning the bathroom and planned to do the kitchen. Later she was going food shopping.
His second call was to Hargrove. ‘Nice work, Spider,’ said the superintendent.
‘Has she rolled?’
‘She’s thinking about it,’ said Hargrove. ‘She’s asked for a lawyer so until he turns up we can’t question her.’
‘You can’t let her see a lawyer – he’ll just report back to Kerr.’
‘We can’t stop her,’ said Hargrove. ‘We’ve explained that we’ll need her to gather evidence against her husband, and that he can’t know what’s going on, but she says she wants a lawyer to advise her on the legality of any deal we make.’
‘I don’t like this at all.’
‘We’ve no choice. And you can see her point of view – she’s got no reason to trust us. We could be planning to use her, then throw her to the wolves. She called her own lawyer, a guy who doesn’t work for her husband. We’re waiting
for him to come in now. We’ve told her you’re spilling your guts and that we’ve got the whole thing on tape anyway.’
‘She doesn’t know I’m a cop?’
‘Absolutely not. I can’t see her lawyer advising her to do anything other than co-operate with us, so as soon as she agrees the Drugs Squad and the CPS move in. Your name won’t come up.’
‘And Hendrickson?’
‘We’ll pick him up this evening. It’s open and shut so I can’t see him doing anything other than copping a plea. Job well done, Spider.’
Shepherd thanked the superintendent and ended the call. Technically it had been a job well done. Hendrickson was a scumbag who had deserved what was coming to him, but Shepherd was less convinced about Angie Kerr. Her husband had beaten her and threatened to have her killed. What sort of man would stub out a lighted cigarette on his wife’s breast? Charlie Kerr was the villain, but his wife was going to be punished.
Keith Rose sat down opposite Mike Sutherland, who was working his way through a fry-up and a stack of bread and butter. ‘Do you ever measure your cholesterol?’ said Rose.
‘There’s good and bad cholesterol, so there’s no point. Six of one, that’s what I figure.’
‘Shot in the dark, I think sausages are probably heavy on the bad sort.’
Sutherland jabbed his fork at Rose’s plate.‘Cornish pastie and chips is healthier, is it?’ He looked around the canteen. ‘Where’s Stu?’
‘Some sort of medical. He never had a chest X-ray up in Strathclyde but the Met insists on it.’
‘He’s not a smoker, shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Rules is rules,’ said Rose. ‘Dave Bamber will be map man today. Stu’ll report to Ken and Amber team when he gets in.’ Rose leaned across the table. ‘The guy in Chicago’s given me a date for Kelly’s operation.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Sutherland.
‘Three weeks,’ said Rose. ‘I’ll put in for the leave and we’ll all fly out together.’
‘That’s great,’ said Sutherland.
‘Yeah, but I’m still short, money-wise.’
‘Fuck.’
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