Cold Kill: The Third Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘If you really thought I was a cop, you wouldn’t be talking to me at all. Now, do you want these cans or not?’

  ‘They are my property.’

  ‘So, let me ask you a question,’ said Shepherd. ‘Who am I talking to?’

  ‘You don’t need to know my name,’ said the man. ‘I want what belongs to me.’

  ‘So now it’s “I”, is it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Yesterday it was “we”. Today it’s “I”. Am I talking to you or am I talking to a group?’

  ‘You’re talking to me.’

  ‘So, I need a name. I need someone to ask for if I call again.’

  ‘I will be the only one answering this phone from now on,’ said the man, ‘but you can call me Ben.’

  ‘That’s a start,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can call me Bill. That makes us Bill and Ben.’

  ‘Bill,’ repeated Ben. ‘You are English?’

  ‘As English as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now, about my money.’

  ‘We have it.’

  ‘There’s that “we” again,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Please, do not play games with me,’ said Ben.

  ‘Where do I get my money?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘We will meet you at Paddington station. You give us the cans, we give you the money. Providing the cans have not been opened.’

  ‘Don’t worry, they haven’t,’ said Shepherd. ‘But Paddington isn’t good for me.’ Shepherd doubted that Hargrove would want the tracking device to disappear underground.

  ‘Where, then?’

  ‘What part of London are you in? Are you close to Paddington?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I was trying to make it easy for you,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘What’s wrong with Paddington?’

  ‘I’m scared of trains,’ said Shepherd. ‘I choose the venue, okay? That’s the way it’s going to be. What about Hyde Park? Speaker’s Corner. Sunday. Three o’clock. It’ll be busy. Lots of people. Safety in numbers.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We’ll be out in the open, which means we’ll have plenty of time to check each other out.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And come alone,’ said Shepherd. ‘One more thing. The price has gone up. To thirty thousand pounds.’

  ‘You are a thief!’

  ‘I haven’t stolen anything,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m the guy who’s returning your property and I deserve a decent finder’s fee.’

  ‘You are a thief.’

  ‘Call me all the names you want, Ben, but if you don’t come up with thirty grand I’ll open the cans and take my chances with what’s inside.’

  ‘Do that and we’ll track you down and kill you. I swear on my children.’

  ‘It’s not nice to bring your kids into a business transaction. Are you going to come up with thirty grand or do I get me a can-opener?’

  ‘We have a deal,’ hissed Ben. ‘But I warn you, my friend, if you increase the price again, you will die in agony.’

  ‘Sticks and stones,’ said Shepherd. ‘Tomorrow. Three o’clock. Speaker’s Corner.’ He cut the connection and went downstairs.

  Katra was standing in the kitchen waggling the landline receiver. ‘It’s Liam’s grandmother,’ she said, holding it out.

  Shepherd smiled and took it from her. ‘Moira, how are you?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re fine, Daniel,’ said Moira. She was the only person in the world who ever called him by his full first name. He’d long ago given up trying to persuade her to call him Dan. ‘How’s Liam?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s great,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re just going out to play football.’

  ‘It’s been ages since we saw him. And you, of course. Tom and I were wondering when you’d be coming up here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Moira. Liam’s got school and I’ve been up to my eyes in work.’

  ‘We haven’t seen you since Christmas.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why not come today? Liam’s old room is ready. You can stay overnight and drive back on Sunday.’

  Shepherd grimaced. ‘I’m so sorry, Moira. I’m working tomorrow.’

  ‘Next weekend, then.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Moira. ‘Tom will be delighted.’

  ‘Do you want to chat with Liam now?’ asked Shepherd. ‘He’s here.’

  Shepherd gave the receiver to his son and went out into the garden to call Hargrove.

  The Saudi liked the Savoy. It had been one of his favourite hotels since his father had taken him there as a child. The staff at the Oriental in Bangkok were more attentive, the rooms in the Hong Kong Peninsular were a touch more luxurious, the beds at the George V in Paris had the edge in comfort, but the Savoy was where he felt most at home. From the moment he walked up to the reception desk until the moment he checked out, all his needs and desires were taken care of. They knew the type of pillows he favoured, that he liked irises in his room, that he preferred white toast to wholemeal, took skimmed milk with his coffee, lemon with his tea, and wanted unscented soap in his bathroom.

  He refilled the delicate china cup with Earl Grey and dropped in a slice of lemon. He could never understand why people put milk and sugar into Earl Grey. It destroyed the tea’s delicate flavour. He sipped and watched the devastation on the television set in the corner of his suite. Everything had gone exactly as he’d planned. The bomb in the Hyatt had gone off at one o’clock on the dot, destroying the restaurant at its busiest time. He remembered the young waitress with the bright smile and wondered if she was among the dead. The first bomb in the street market had detonated at the same time, ripping through the throngs of tourists as they shopped for trinkets to take home to their families and friends. Those who hadn’t been killed in the first market bomb had fled straight into the path of the second. CNN was saying that a hundred and twenty people had died, but the Saudi could tell from the pictures on the screen that the death toll would be much higher.

  Sydney had been a good choice. It wasn’t the capital city, but it was one that everyone identified as quintessentially Australian. Bringing the jihad to Australia would make the world realise that no one was safe. If the shahids could strike in Sydney, they could strike anywhere. CNN didn’t refer to them as shahids, of course – or martyrs. They called them suicide-bombers, as if somehow it was their own deaths that had been the objective. It was always that way with American journalists. If the bombers were on the Americans’ side, they were freedom-fighters; if they were against them, they were terrorists. They didn’t bother to try to understand: they sought only to label.

  The Saudi spread honey across his toast and took a bite. The use of shahids served two functions. It meant that there were no perpetrators to put on trial, and it brought home to the world that the fighters for the Muslim cause were prepared to die for their beliefs. It was easy for Western soldiers to go into battle with their weapons, armour and mobile hospitals: they were better-armed and equipped than their adversaries, and rarely went into battle without being sure that they would win. But at heart they were cowards, hiding behind walls as they fired their high-powered weapons, dropping bombs from planes high above the clouds and shooting artillery shells from afar, going in with tanks and armoured cars, only ever fighting from a position of strength. But the shahids fought alone: they went into battle knowing they would die, and died happily, knowing their death would serve the greater good. It was impossible to defeat such men and women. Nothing could be said or done to sway them from carrying out their mission. They were true heroes, but the Western media would never describe them as such.

  The Saudi took another sip of tea. Already there were calls for the Australian government to pull their troops out of Iraq. The same thing had happened after the Madrid bombings: the Spanish had obeyed the calls and brought their soldiers home. The Saudi doubted that the Australians would pull out as easily. Not that he cared what happen
ed in Iraq. This wasn’t about the occupation of Iraq, who controlled the oil or decided who should or shouldn’t hold elections. It was about the struggle between Islam and Christianity, between Allah and the infidels, and it was a struggle that could end with only one victor.

  Liam kicked the ball hard and low, and Shepherd had to stretch to stop it going into the net. ‘Nice shot,’ he called, and threw the ball back. Liam caught it on his chest and let it drop to his feet. ‘You’re getting good at this,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I scored two goals last week,’ said Liam. He kicked the ball and this time it went straight past Shepherd into the back of the net.

  ‘You play at school, yeah?’

  ‘Every Thursday.’

  ‘Is there a school team?’

  ‘Yeah, but Mr Williams says I’m too small to play for it. I have to wait until next year.’

  Shepherd retrieved the ball and tossed it to Liam. Liam headed it back.

  ‘Are you going to get married again, Dad?’ he asked.

  Shepherd’s jaw dropped. ‘What makes you ask that?’

  ‘Pete’s dad’s getting married next week and Pete says his new mum’s really cool,’ said Liam.

  ‘What happened to Pete’s old mum?’

  ‘She and his dad got divorced. She went to live in America with her new husband and Pete got to live with his dad.’

  Shepherd tried to spin the football on his right index finger but it fell to the ground. He trapped it with his foot. ‘And you want a new mum, is that it?’

  Liam shrugged awkwardly. ‘It might be fun.’

  ‘Do you have anyone in mind?’

  Liam’s cheeks reddened. ‘Katra, maybe.’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘Katra? She’s not much older than you.’

  ‘She’s twenty-three,’ said Liam.

  ‘And I’m thirty-five. I’m almost old enough to be her dad, too.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Liam. ‘You’d have been twelve when she was born and you can’t be a dad when you’re twelve.’

  ‘The way things are going, these days, you can,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I like Katra,’ said Liam.

  ‘You marry her,’ said Shepherd.

  Liam pulled a face. ‘I don’t want to marry her,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I don’t want a wife. I want a mum.’

  ‘I miss your mum, too,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘All the time?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I dream about her.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Sometimes I dream that she comes back. She says she’s been away on holiday and now she’s going to live with us again.’

  Shepherd picked up the ball and tossed it back to his son. He had the same dreams, less often now, but they still came every few weeks. She’d be back with him and Liam, back in the house, back in his bed.

  ‘When I dream about Mum, is it really her?’ asked Liam. He sat on the ball, his hands on the ground to steady himself.

  ‘It’s just a dream,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘But it feels so real. Like it’s really her.’

  ‘I know, but it’s not. It’s just your subconscious trying to make you feel better.’

  Liam frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Shepherd went and sat on the grass next to his son. ‘First, there’s the thinking bit of your brain, the bit you use to solve problems, the bit you use when you’re talking, or when you just sit and think. But then there’s another part that does its thinking in the background. Like your imagination.’

  Liam’s frown deepened and Shepherd realised he wasn’t doing a good job of explaining himself. If he’d known in advance that he’d be going over the finer points of psychology with his son he’d have phoned Kathy Gift for a briefing.

  ‘The subconscious does things without you thinking about it,’ he continued. ‘Sometimes you might feel sad but you don’t know why, and that’s because you’re thinking about something subconsciously.’

  ‘Thinking without thinking?’ said Liam. ‘Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Shepherd. His lecture was going from bad to worse he thought. ‘It’s, like, we know Mum’s dead, and that she’s not coming back. But part of us wants to believe she will come back. And that part of us is what makes the dreams.’

  ‘But when I talk to her in the dreams, it’s like I’m really talking to her.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Shepherd had conversations with Sue in his dreams. And more. They kissed and touched, and sometimes he entered her – and then he’d wake with a hard-on and his stomach would lurch when he remembered he’d never make love to her again. Sue was dead and she’d stay that way for all eternity. Shepherd didn’t believe in God or in heaven, so he knew he’d never see her again. Ever. ‘You’re talking to her memory, Liam,’ he went on. ‘And you’ll always have that. She’ll always be in your heart and your head.’

  Liam’s lips quivered. ‘Sometimes I forget what she looks like,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘When I think about her, I can’t remember her face. I look at the photographs and I know it’s her and I can remember the photographs, but when I try to remember the things we did and the places we went sometimes I can’t see her face. But when I dream it’s like she’s really there and I can see her and everything.’

  ‘Hey, that’s okay,’ said Shepherd. ‘You remember her and that’s what matters. And you know how much she loved you. Your mum loved you more than anything.’

  ‘More than you?’ Liam wiped a tear from his cheek.

  ‘You’re her son. Her boy. You were the most important thing in her life.’

  ‘So why am I forgetting her?’

  ‘You’re not,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It’s okay for you. You can remember everything,’ said Liam bitterly.

  Shepherd pulled the boy close to him. ‘Not everything,’ he said. But his photographic memory was virtually infallible and Shepherd could remember almost everything he’d ever done with Sue. Every conversation they’d had. Every place they’d been. Every argument they’d had. Liam wanted a new mother. Shepherd understood that. Every child needed a mother. But Shepherd didn’t need or want another wife when his memories of Sue were as fresh as they had ever been. He could remember the glint in her eye when she wanted to make love, the tightening of her mouth when she was preparing for an argument, the way she bit her lower lip just before she laughed. Sue was a hard act to follow. In a way, fading memories could be a blessing: as they receded so did the pain. That was what Liam was going through. Every day the pain of losing his mother would get a little less. His heart wouldn’t ache quite as much and one day the pain would have gone and he’d be able to think about her without crying. It seemed to Shepherd that, for most people, dealing with grief meant forgetting the pain, rather than coming to terms with it. And he knew that his pain would never go away. ‘Sometimes forgetting can be a good thing,’ Shepherd whispered. ‘Like when you hurt yourself. You can remember that you were hurting, but you can’t remember how much.’

  ‘Like when you were shot?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know it hurt, but I can’t remember the pain. It’s the same with Mum. Every day it’ll hurt less.’

  ‘I don’t want to forget her,’ said Liam.

  ‘You won’t.’ He patted his son’s shoulder. ‘So, what’s with wanting a new mum?’

  Liam shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I think I just want to be a family again.’

  ‘You and I are a family.’

  ‘We’re half a family,’ said Liam.

  ‘There must be lots of kids at school with just one parent,’ said Shepherd. ‘Half of all marriages end in divorce, these days.’

  ‘You weren’t going to divorce Mum, were you?’

  Shepherd smiled. ‘Of course not.’ He had loved Sue from the first moment he’d spoken to her in the pub in Hereford. He had been a cocky SAS trooper, the best of the best, and she had
been a local girl who knew all about the heartbreak the soldiers caused in the town. Her friends had warned her of the danger in getting involved with one, and so had her parents. But Shepherd had won her over and when he’d married her he’d known he was married for life. ‘Till death us do part,’ he’d said, and he’d meant it. Sue was the love of his life, even when they’d argued and fought. They’d argued about his career with the SAS, and he’d let her talk him into leaving for the sake of their marriage and their son. And they’d argued about his career as an undercover cop because it kept him away from home for long periods. But divorce? Never.

  ‘So it’s not the same. If you and Mum weren’t living together, we’d still be a family. We’d just be one that had split up. I’d still have a mum and a dad.’

  Shepherd lay back on the grass and stared up at the pale grey sky. It was overcast but dry and not too cold.

  ‘So, you won’t marry Katra?’ asked Liam.

  Shepherd chuckled. ‘It’s not really on, Liam,’ he said.

  ‘She likes you.’

  ‘And I like her. But I’m her boss. She works for us.’

  ‘She does the same for us that Mum did. She cooks and cleans and takes me to school. She irons your shirts, same as Mum did.’

  ‘That’s her job.’

  ‘But she likes you.’

  Shepherd sighed. ‘Someone liking you is no reason to get married. You have to love them. I loved your mum, and I love her as much now as I did when we got married. I’m going to have to wait until I meet someone I love as much as your mum. Maybe more … I have a question for you,’ he said, linking his fingers behind his head. ‘How would you feel if we moved house?’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not far. You’d still go to the same school.’

  ‘So why would we move?’

  His son and Kathy Gift had one thing in common, Shepherd mused. The knack of asking questions he found difficult to answer. ‘Okay, here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘This house was our family house, for you, your mum and me. Your mum chose the decoration, she laid out the garden, she picked the furniture.’

  ‘That’s why it looks so good.’

  ‘Right. But maybe we should get a new house – a house that belongs just to us.’