Tall Order: The 15th Spider Shepherd Thriller

by Stephen Leather

  Shepherd’s mobile phone rang. It was Amar Singh. He took the call. ‘Hey, Amar. You working weekends as well?’

  ‘Everyone’s in,’ said Singh. ‘Just wanted to fill you in on what was on the hard drive I took from the Internet café.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘He went to a Yahoo email account and opened a draft file. He had deleted the conversation but we were able to recover it from the servers, so all good. He spoke to someone called Saladin. There’s a lot of stuff from the Koran but basically Saladin was telling Naveen that he was going to heaven and that his name would be revered as a hero for all time, the normal sort of stuff you tell someone when you want them to blow themselves to smithereens.’

  ‘Any idea who this Saladin is?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. But I’ve been able to go back over the last few months and see what was in the draft file. This Saladin has been grooming Naveed for a long time. And they had a meeting. A couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Argyle Street Mosque in Ealing.’

  ‘That’s his regular mosque. What day?’

  ‘The second. At first prayers.’

  ‘You’re a star, Amar, thanks. What happens next?’

  ‘I’ll be passing my report on to Patsy Ellis. It’s up to her what happens next. I’m not sure how much is going to happen on a Sunday but we’ll see. And mum’s the word, yeah?’

  ‘Amar, I’ve got the best security clearance there is.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re on attachment to the Met and Ellis has made it clear that all intel has to go through her office prior to getting clearance for release to the Met.’

  ‘Even SO15?’

  ‘The Met in its entirety, Spider, so technically that would include you. So like I said, mum’s the word.’

  ‘Message received and understood,’ said Shepherd, and ended the call. He sat down, clicked his mouse to restart the CCTV footage and settled back in his chair.

  Chapter 54

  Present Day, Salford

  C arlton Chapman patted his girlfriend’s expanding belly. ‘Babe, you sure you’ve not got twins in there?’

  She laughed and pressed herself against him. ‘It’s just the one boy, but he’s going to be a big one,’ she said. Her hand moved down between his legs. ‘Come back to bed, you know how horny I am right now.’

  Chapman laughed. ‘Babe, it was you getting horny got you pregnant in the first place.’ He cupped her full breast in his hand and squeezed gently. ‘I love the way your tits are filling out,’ he said. ‘You look so damn hot right now.’ He looked at his watch, a gold Rolex Sea-Dweller. ‘I’m late as it is.’ He had to drive over to Liverpool to see about a consignment of coke that was coming in from Ireland and the Liverpool boys were sticklers for punctuality. But Jay-lee was only wearing one of his T-shirts and it barely reached the top of her long, caramel legs. It was her amazingly long legs that had first attracted him to her, but it was her skills in bed that had kept him with her for the last six months, almost exclusively. Chapman had seven children by four different women scattered across Birmingham, plus another two in Manchester. Those were the ones that he knew about and supported; he wasn’t a big fan of condoms but he did enjoy one-night stands.

  ‘What time will you be back?’ she asked, rubbing his crotch gently.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s business babe and you know you can’t set your clock to it.’ He kissed her on the cheek but she reached up to grab the back of his neck and pulled him down to her, kissing him hard on the lips before he broke away, laughing.

  He was still laughing as he walked over to his BMW and pressed the key fob to unlock it, but his smile froze as six armed police officers charged towards him shouting for him to get down on the ground. He stopped, stunned, staring at the Kevlar helmets, bulletproof vests and high-powered carbines. He blinked, wondered what the hell was happening, then his legs were swept from underneath him and he hit the pavement, hard. ‘What the fuck,’ he gasped.

  His legs were kicked apart and something pressed down in the middle of his back. Someone was still yelling at him to lie down. His arms were grabbed and twisted around and he felt flexicuffs being fastened around his wrists.

  His left cheek was pressed against the pavement but through his right eye he could see the cops pulling open the doors of his car. One of them was groping under the front passenger seat. Chapman grinned savagely. They were wasting their fucking time. He never kept anything in his car – no guns, no drugs, no cash. There was none in the house either. He paid people to carry what he needed.

  ‘Gun!’ shouted one of the armed cops.

  ‘What the fuck do you mean, gun?’ sneered Chapman.

  The armed officer held up a Glock pistol. ‘Gun!’ he shouted. ‘Am making safe.’

  ‘Oh fuck the fuck off,’ said Chapman. ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead with a fucking Glock.’

  The officer ejected the magazine and checked there wasn’t a round in the breech before putting the pistol back where he had found it.

  Chapman was hauled to his feet and marched over to a waiting van. He didn’t bother protesting his innocence. He knew there was no point. He would leave that to his solicitor down the line. When arrested by the police there was only one rule – don’t say one word to the bastards.

  Chapter 55

  Present Day, London

  S hepherd was in the canteen buying a round of sandwiches and coffees for the unit when his mobile rang. It was Don Margrave.

  ‘I hadn’t realised how much work would be involved in keeping you up to speed,’ said the detective.

  ‘Sorry, mate. But I’ll make it up to you one day.’

  ‘How exactly?’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘In my experience, most favours get repaid eventually. So what have you got for me?’

  ‘GMP have just pulled in the killer of Masood and his family. Drug dealer in Salford by the name of Carlton Chapman. They found the murder weapon in his car.’

  ‘Nice police work,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Well, to hear GMP talk you’d think that. But I’m told they got a tip-off saying the gun was in his car. They sent in a couple of ARVs and lo and behold, the Glock was under the front passenger seat.’

  ‘And what does Chapman say?’

  ‘Chapman has gone all three wise monkeys, but his lawyer says the gun was a plant. And to be fair, Chapman’s prints aren’t on the gun or the cartridges and there’s no gunshot residue on his hands. But, you know, gloves …’

  ‘Any D Notice on this?’

  ‘Hell no, GMP even had a tame TV crew along to film it. It’ll be all over the evening news.’

  ‘What about Masood’s background and the fact that his sons had been fighting for ISIS?’

  ‘It’s been touted as a drug-dealers-falling-out story,’ said Margrave.

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Margrave. ‘There’s a lot of drugs in Bolton so there could have been an argument over territory. And the youngest son has been in prison for drugs.’

  ‘Dealing?’

  ‘Possession.’

  ‘You don’t kill customers, you kill rival dealers,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘The Manchester police are looking into it.’

  ‘What, they had a drug-dealing family on their patch that they didn’t know about? That doesn’t make their drugs squad look good, does it?’

  ‘You know GMP aren’t known for their smarts,’ said Margrave. ‘Let’s see what they come up with. But for the moment, the deaths of Masood and his family are being put down to a gangland execution. I just wanted you to know.’

  ‘I appreciate it. Thanks.’

  ‘And how are you spending this lovely Sunday morning?’

  ‘I’m watching CCTV footage, trying to see who abducted and killed Israr Farooqi.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  ‘Cheers, Don.’ Shepherd ended the call and stared at his phone thoughtfully. H
e had a bad feeling about the way things were going. A very bad feeling. It was all just too convenient. An anonymous call leads the police to Farooqi’s body and another call gives up his racist killer. Another anonymous call gives them the killer of Imran Masood and his family. Either the police were getting very lucky or someone behind the scenes was trying to draw attention away from what was really happening. He was going to have to talk to Patsy Ellis again. And soon.

  Chapter 56

  Ten Years Ago, Washington DC

  C hristopher Mullins let himself into his house and put his briefcase down by the hall table. The answering-machine light was flashing and there were twenty-two messages. He sighed. He went through to his study and poured himself a large measure of Macallan twenty-year-old single malt. His wife had bought it for him for their twentieth wedding anniversary and he had always kept it for special occasions. He figured that today was as special an occasion as they got, so he sipped it and went back into the hallway. He took out his mobile phone. There were six missed calls from his PA, Jenna. He knew what she was calling about and didn’t want to talk to her. There were three missed calls from the White House. He took another sip of the single malt. It was beautifully smooth and gave him a nice warm feeling across his chest.

  He pressed the button to listen to the messages on the answering machine. The first was from Jenna, wanting to know why he wasn’t answering his cell phone. The second was from the White House, telling him the President wanted to talk to him. The third was Jenna again, sounding more anxious this time. The fourth was from one of the political correspondents at the Washington Post, just requesting a call back. Mullins had known the journalist for more than a decade and she was one of the few he trusted. The fifth call was from CNN, again requesting a call back.

  The sixth call was Jenna again. ‘Where the hell are you?’ She never spoke to him like that. Never. The seventh call was the Washington Post reporter again. She said that CNN were preparing to run a story that his wife and son had been on the plane that went down at JFK. She wanted him to call back. There was a hardness to her voice as if she was upset that CNN had the story and she didn’t.

  Call number eight was from the New York Times, asking for a call back. Then a call from the Head of News at CNN confirming that they were about to go public with a story that his family had been on board the doomed jet. ‘We need to talk to you, obviously, but we will be airing the piece come what may,’ said the Head of News.

  Call number nine was from the White House, insisting that he called the President immediately. Mullins didn’t listen to any more. He walked away and into his study. He closed the door and took a long pull on his whisky. It really was a good whisky, possibly the best he’d ever tasted.

  On a cabinet was a framed photograph – a family picture taken the previous Christmas. His wife had insisted that they all wear red shirts and Santa hats. Mullins had laughed at the idea but the photograph was pretty much his favourite. They all looked so happy, so at ease with each other. His wife had one hand on his shoulder and the other on their son’s arm. She was looking up at him and the photographer had caught the love in her eyes. Their son was laughing at something the photographer had said, and his eyes were sparkling, full of life. Nine years old. Tears pricked Mullins’ eyes and he blinked them away.

  He took the photograph over to his desk and sat down. He placed the picture in the middle of the desk and refilled his glass with whisky. He opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk and took out a semi-automatic. It was a Colt 45. His father’s gun. His father had died five years earlier and the gun had been specifically mentioned in the man’s will. It seemed to Mullins that the gun had mattered more to his father than the millions of dollars and the property he had left to his only son. The gun mattered because it had saved his life several times in Vietnam, where he served as a captain.

  Mullins had never actually fired the weapon. But it was loaded. He took a long drink of whisky and swallowed. He ejected the magazine, then slotted it back into place. He pulled back the slide mechanism and released it, slotting a round into the chamber. He stared at the picture again and blinked away tears.

  He had spent an hour or so on the Internet googling the best way to commit suicide with a handgun. He got close to two million hits and there was a lot of advice. Most people seemed in agreement that a shotgun was the weapon of choice, but he didn’t have a shotgun.

  When it came to using a handgun, the most popular site was the right temple, for right-handers. The mouth was second and the forehead was third. Shots under the chin were not recommended as people tended to flinch when they pulled the trigger, resulting in a non-fatal shot. One recommendation was to shoot through the mouth with a high-energy cartridge, aiming down so that the bullet went through the top of the spinal cord. It sounded too technical and he had rejected the idea. Shots to the front of the head risked only damaging the cerebral cortex and that might not be fatal.

  It was on the fourth or fifth site that he visited that he read about the technique of filling your mouth full of water before inserting the gun in the mouth. The water intensified the explosion and the head virtually disintegrated when the trigger was pulled. Death was certain and instantaneous. It sounded to Mullins like the perfect way to go. He planned to add an extra refinement though, substituting the water with a twenty-year-old malt whisky.

  He looked at the photograph and smiled at his wife and son through the tears. ‘I’ll be with you soon,’ he said. He really believed that. He was a committed Christian, had been his whole life, and he knew that suicide was a sin, but he was sure that once he passed over he would be with his family again. He sipped his whisky, then took a longer gulp. He swallowed slowly and let the warmth spread across his chest. He smiled. The whisky was a good idea. There were much worse ways to go. He tilted his head back and poured in as much whisky as he could, then pressed his lips together and put the glass on the desk. He picked up the gun and sat back, keeping his eyes on the photograph as he slipped the barrel of the Colt between his lips. Whisky started to leak around the metal so he pulled the trigger immediately. As the Internet had promised, death was certain and instantaneous.

  Chapter 57

  Present Day, London

  F irst thing Monday morning, Shepherd was at Thames House, the Grade 2 listed building on the north bank of the river close to Lambeth Bridge that had been MI5’s headquarters since December 1994. Patsy Ellis kept Shepherd waiting for almost half an hour in her outer office before her secretary ushered him in. She didn’t appear as pleased to see him as the last time he’d been there.

  ‘I’m not sure why you thought we needed a face to face,’ she said. She smiled but there was little or no warmth in it.

  ‘There’s something I need to run by you and I didn’t think a phone call was appropriate.’

  She waved him to sit. She looked tired. There were dark patches under her eyes and deep wrinkles across her forehead.

  Shepherd sat down and folded his arms, then realised that made him look defensive so he put his hands on his knees and tried to relax. It was tough to do because he knew that Ellis wasn’t going to be happy with what he was about to say. He took a deep breath and forced a smile. ‘So, here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard about Carlton Chapman, the drug dealer up in Salford who’s just been arrested for the murder of Imran Masood and his family?’

  Ellis frowned. ‘I hadn’t heard that. But then if it’s a drugs case, it probably wouldn’t cross my desk.’

  ‘But Imran Masood is Ali Naveed’s uncle. Or was. But the tense isn’t important. What is important is that Masood and his family were all shot.’

  ‘And the killer has been arrested, you say?’

  ‘Alleged killer. The gun was in his car. It’s being tested for fingerprints and DNA.’

  ‘So why is this of such interest to you? It was a drug dispute, was it?’

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘There’s no evidence that the Masood family were involved in the drugs trade
.’

  ‘The fact that another drug dealer killed them is a sign that there is some drug connection, don’t you think?’

  ‘Imran Masood travelled to Syria regularly and was an ISIS sympathiser. His three sons are all believed to have had terrorist training in Syria and are thought to have fought with ISIS.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have been the first terrorists to have been involved in the drugs trade.’

  Shepherd resisted the urge to snap at her. She seemed to be deliberately being obtuse but she was his boss and losing his temper wouldn’t get him anywhere. He took a deep breath. ‘Okay, but then look at what happened to Khuram Zaghba. We identify him as the driver of the van that delivered Ali Naveed to the stadium and within a day he’s been murdered.’

  ‘In a racial attack.’

  ‘In a supposed racial attack,’ said Shepherd. ‘A few strips of bacon and some graffiti means nothing. Could have been the killer muddying the water.’

  ‘Muddying the water?’ repeated Ellis. ‘Can you hear yourself, Dan? You’re saying there’s a killer who killed a suspect in a terrorist case who then goes to the trouble of making it look as if the attack was racist?’

  ‘So you think it’s a coincidence?’

  ‘I think that coincidences happen, yes. I hear what you’re saying, and it’s duly noted. But I think you’re reading too much into the situation.’