‘What about the ten-thousand-pound limit?’ asked Shepherd, playing the Tony Corke role to the hilt. ‘I thought all big transactions had to be reported to the cops and you had to prove it wasn’t drugs money.’
‘People assume that the limit applies to every transaction,’ said Salik. ‘Of course, that’s nonsense. Every shop in Oxford Street takes at least ten thousand pounds every day and the big stores take hundreds of thousands, most of it in cash. Do you think they are interrogated every time they pay in their takings? Of course not. Providing the banks know their customer and where the money has come from, there is no problem.’
‘They trust you, and that’s enough?’
‘Exactly,’ said Salik, closing and locking the steel door. ‘All business is down to trust.’
Shepherd followed the brothers back to the office. He sat down and took another sip of the fragrant mint tea. ‘What about the money I brought in?’ he said. ‘What happens to that?’
‘Some we change. Plenty of businesses need euros, these days. Some we pass on to other companies like ours that need large amounts of euros. Some we pay into our bank.’
‘But why go to all the trouble of smuggling the cash in? That’s what I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t need to understand,’ said Matiur.
‘I’m just interested. You buy the euros from Kreshnik, and you use them here in London. But you’re paying me an arm and a leg so that can’t leave much in the way of profit for you.’
Salik chuckled softly. ‘It’s good of you to be so concerned about our welfare, Tony, but please believe me, we make money on the deal.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Shepherd. He’d pushed it as far as he could – to probe any further might make them suspicious. ‘Hopefully, we’ll do just as well next time,’ he said. ‘Inshallah.’
Salik did a double-take at Shepherd’s use of the Islamic phrase, then nodded approvingly. ‘Inshallah,’ he said.
‘Inshallah,’ repeated Matiur.
The digital recorder pressed against the small of Shepherd’s back. It had recorded everything that had been said.
Shepherd went into the underpass where the Marylebone flyover crossed the Edgware Road. The few shops down there had done decent business until the council had installed traffic-lights above ground that allowed pedestrians to cross in safety. Now the shops were finding it tough going. There was a public toilet, too, now only rarely visited.
The only other person in the underpass was a homeless man with two scruffy collies. He was lying on a sheet of cardboard, snoring loudly, an empty cider bottle clutched in a filthy hand. The dogs wagged their tails as Shepherd walked by.
He went into the public toilet, locked himself into an empty stall and put the briefcase on the floor. He stripped off his coat and pullover and removed the digital recorder and microphone. He flushed the tape that had secured the device to him down the toilet and slid the equipment into the pocket of his pea coat. Then he went back above ground and phoned Jimmy Sharpe, who was sitting in his car round the corner from the bureau de change. He told Sharpe that everything had gone according to plan and that he could stand down. His next call was to Amar Singh. The technician was parked in nearby Gloucester Place, close to Marylebone station. Shepherd took a circuitous route through residential streets to the black Cherokee Jeep with wire wheels.
‘This is a bloody pimp’s car,’ he said.
‘Pimps drive Beamers, you know that,’ said Singh.
‘It’s a bit high-profile, is what I mean,’ said Shepherd. ‘This isn’t a pool car, is it?’
‘Damn right it isn’t. It’s mine. Bought and paid for.’
‘You’re a very sad man.’ Shepherd took the recording equipment from his pocket and handed it over.
‘Anything good on it?’ said Singh, twisting to put it into his briefcase.
‘Not really. Just confirmation that they’re getting the Christopher Donovan passport for me and that they’re thinking about another run.’
‘All grist to the mill,’ said Singh. ‘I’ll pass it on to Button.’ He closed the briefcase.
‘Yeah, you kept that close to your chest, didn’t you? The Button thing.’
‘So did you.’
‘How do you rate her?’
‘Too soon to say,’ said Singh.
‘You don’t think it’s strange that she’s not here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sam Hargrove would have been, that’s all,’ said Shepherd.
‘Hargrove was always hands-on,’ said Singh.
‘Yeah. He liked the street stuff. Button’s more cerebral.’
‘You say it like it’s a bad thing,’ said Singh. ‘I think it’s an advantage. She’ll leave us to get on with our jobs. Hargrove tended to micro-manage.’
‘Bollocks.’
Singh held up his hands in surrender. ‘I’m not arguing with you, Spider. Like I said, it’s too early to say. Now, get the hell out of my pimp-mobile, I’ve got work to do.’
Shepherd climbed out.
‘What happens to the money?’ asked Singh, nodding at the briefcase in Shepherd’s hand.
‘She said I could keep it,’ he said. ‘As a signing-on fee.’ He left Singh staring after him, open-mouthed.
The Saudi sipped his champagne and sat back in the leather armchair. He was in the American Bar at the Savoy Hotel, drinking his favourite champagne, the Pol Roger cuvée Winston Churchill 1990. A fitting way to end his last night in London.
‘Celebrating?’ said a woman’s voice to his left. American.
The Saudi hadn’t noticed her at the next table, so she must have sat down while he was in conversation with the wine waiter. She was a striking blonde in her early twenties with an impressive figure squeezed into a red dress. She was wearing a gold Cartier watch, diamond pendant earrings, and a slim gold chain round her neck. No wedding ring. ‘I suppose I am,’ he said.
‘You know what Winston Churchill said about champagne?’ she asked.
The Saudi did, but he was happy enough to play the idiot.
She grinned. ‘“In victory, deserve it. In defeat, need it.” Isn’t that so true?’
‘It is,’ said the Saudi. ‘Why not join me?’
‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘You’re not waiting for anybody?’
‘It’s my last night in town,’ he said. ‘You can help me drink this.’
‘Okay,’ she said. She stood up and smoothed down the red dress, revealing several inches of cleavage. The skirt rode up her legs as she sat beside him. ‘I do love champagne.’ She placed a gold mesh evening bag on the table. An elderly waiter had anticipated her move and was walking over with a second glass. She giggled as he poured the champagne. ‘This is my lucky night,’ she said.
‘Mine too,’ said the Saudi. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I didn’t throw it,’ she said. She laughed. ‘Isn’t that a corny line? It’s Madison.’
‘Like the square?’
She nodded. ‘Exactly. Except I’m not. Square, that is.’
‘And what brings you to London, Madison?’
‘Just passing through.’
‘You’re on your own?’
‘Terrible, isn’t it? I’m in swinging London and can’t find a man.’
‘I don’t believe that for a moment,’ said the Saudi. Close up, the woman was near-faultless. And exactly his type. Tall, long legs, perfect breasts. She looked like a blonde Nicole Kidman, and the Saudi had always had a thing about the Australian actress.
‘Are you here on business or pleasure?’ asked Madison.
‘A bit of both,’ he said. He raised his glass. ‘Anyway, to chance encounters.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said. She clinked her glass against his, then drank deeply. When she put it down there was a red smear across the rim. ‘Don’t you just love the Savoy?’ she said.
‘It’s my favourite hotel,’ he said. ‘Are you staying here?’
She s
hook her head. ‘No. But I always come to the American Bar – because I’m American, right?’ She laughed and patted his knee.
He liked her laugh. It was the laugh of a teenager. Despite that, she looked older now than he’d thought when he first saw her. Twenty-eight, maybe. ‘That makes sense,’ he said.
She didn’t take her hand off his knee. He could feel the heat of her flesh through his trousers and started to harden. She was looking around the bar, almost as if she’d forgotten she was touching him. Her full breasts rose and fell with her breathing. Her skin was flawless, slightly tanned, and he could see now that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
She turned back to him. ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.
The Saudi smiled. ‘I can’t tell you,’ he said.
‘Try,’ she said, and looked him straight in the eye as if she already knew what was going through his mind.
He sipped his champagne slowly. ‘I was wondering how to get a beautiful woman like you into bed,’ he said.
‘A thousand dollars would do it,’ she said, running a long fingernail down his thigh. ‘And for that I’d just about fuck you senseless.’
Shepherd walked into the sitting room where Liam was watching a football match, his feet on the coffee table. ‘It’s almost nine,’ he said. ‘Time for bed. You’ve got school tomorrow. And what have I told you about putting your feet on the table?’
‘Dad, can’t I watch the end of this?’ said Liam, and moved his feet.
‘It’s late.’
‘I can’t even watch it in my room, can I?’
‘That’s not my fault.’
‘You took my television away.’
‘Because that was your punishment,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can read a book or something.’
‘So reading’s a punishment too, is it?’ said Liam, slyly.
Shepherd laughed. ‘You’ve definitely got a future as a defence barrister,’ he said. He sat down beside his son. ‘You know how we were talking about maybe finding a new house?’
Liam nodded.
‘How would you feel if we moved closer to your gran and granddad?’
‘Really?’
‘I’m thinking about it,’ said Shepherd.
‘Why?’
‘You could spend more time with them. We wouldn’t have such a long drive to see them. You were happy when you stayed with them, right?’
Liam frowned. ‘You’re not sending me to live with them again, are you?’
Shepherd put his arm round his son. ‘No, of course not. We could sell this house and buy one in Hereford.’
‘And I’d go back to the school there?’
‘It’s a good school, and you had friends there. What do you think?’
‘It’s up to you.’
‘No, it’s up to the two of us.’
‘And Katra.’
‘Sure.’
‘Can we get a dog?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘If we’re out of London, we can have a dog, can’t we?’
‘Maybe,’ said Shepherd.
‘Okay, then.’
Shepherd grinned. ‘Good.’
‘And we’ll get a dog.’
‘We’ll talk about that later.’
‘Can’t I watch the end of the game? Please?’
Shepherd ruffled his son’s hair. ‘How much more is there?’
‘Fifteen minutes.’
‘Okay. Fifteen minutes, then bed.’ Shepherd kissed the top of Liam’s head and went upstairs. He sat down on his bed, picked up the phone and dialled Tom and Moira’s number. Tom answered and they chatted for a while then Tom put his wife on the line.
‘Daniel, I’m so sorry you couldn’t make it,’ she said, and sounded as if she meant it.
‘Liam had a great time, Moira. Thanks.’
‘We’d like to see more of him, you know that.’
‘That’s sort of why I’m phoning,’ said Shepherd. ‘The problem is my job – I keep getting sent away at short notice. And it’s not as if you’re around the corner. Anyway, I’ve got a new job that’s going to change the way I work.’
‘Less travelling?’ asked Moira, hopefully.
‘Probably more, actually.’
‘You’ll still be a policeman, though?’
‘The job’s essentially the same,’ said Shepherd, ‘but because I won’t be working for the Met, there’s no real need for me to be based in London. I don’t see why Liam and I couldn’t live in Hereford.’ He waited for Moira to reply, but she didn’t say anything. ‘Moira, are you still there?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry, Daniel. I’m stunned. You’re serious?’
‘Sure. Over the last few days I’ve been up to Newcastle, over to France, down to Southampton. If anything, I think the travelling will get worse in the new job, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t make Hereford my base. That way you’d be able to see Liam whenever you wanted.’
‘I don’t know what to say, Daniel.’
‘I hoped you’d be pleased.’
‘I’m delighted – and I know Tom will be too. But what about his school?’
‘He liked the one he went to in Hereford, and it would mean less travelling for him.’
‘Daniel, I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Really, I can’t.’
‘It’ll be much better for me, too,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’ll talk to the headteacher,’ said Moira. ‘I’m sure they’ll find a place for him. Do you have any idea when you’ll move?’
‘Let me talk to an estate agent to see how easy it’ll be to sell this place. Then we’ll talk about it in detail.’
After he’d hung up, Shepherd lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I miss you, Sue,’ he whispered. ‘I will do until the day I die.’
The limousine was waiting for Madison a short walk from the hotel’s entrance. She climbed into the back and sighed. ‘I hate fucking Arabs,’ she said. ‘I mean, I hate Arabs. And I hate fucking them.’
‘Was it terrible?’ asked the American.
He’d told her he was Dick but he had a funny sense of humour and Madison wasn’t sure whether or not he was joking. He was forty-eight, forty-nine maybe, with short grey hair and lips that went really thin when he smiled. He was wearing a dark blue blazer, grey trousers and gleaming black shoes with tassels. When he’d first approached her she’d thought he was a banker or a property developer. He had the confidence that came from handling large amounts of money and knowing that people would always do what he wanted. She didn’t want to know what he did or whom he worked for – it would be dangerous. She would just take his money and run. ‘They always want to do anal, and I told him I didn’t. He kept nagging and nagging and offering me more money.’
‘I’m sorry, honey,’ said the American.
‘He paid me five thousand, so I had to do it, right? But I told him it was under protest. Now I’m bleeding.’
‘Was he enormous?’
Madison flashed him a humourless smile. ‘He was rough. Kept calling me a bitch, too.’
‘Poor baby,’ said the American. ‘But you have it, right? What I want?’
Madison sighed. ‘That’s the other thing about Arabs. They always want to do it bareback. He kept upping the ante—’
‘Madison,’ said the American, coldly, ‘please don’t tell me you didn’t use a condom.’
‘Don’t be stupid. For what you’re paying me, there was no way I wasn’t using one. Speaking of which …’
‘Your money?’ The American smiled coldly. ‘You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.’
Madison opened her evening bag and took out a small polythene bag. Inside was a used condom. The American had supplied the bag and the condom. He took the bag and examined it closely. ‘Excellent,’ he said.
‘What are you going to do with it?’ she asked suspiciously.
The American took an envelope out of his blazer pocket and handed it to her. She opened it and flicked through the contents. Twenty-five thous
and dollars, in one-hundred-dollar bills.
‘You’re not going to, like, eat it, are you?’ she asked.
‘Do I look like a pervert, Madison?’ he asked.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Well, yeah, a bit. Sorry.’
The American laughed. ‘You’re probably right, honey,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry, you’re not my type.’
Madison nodded at the used condom. ‘What do you want it for?’
The American smiled. ‘That, honey, is for me to know. Now, off you go.’
Madison blew him an air-kiss, then climbed out of the limousine and tottered off on her high heels in search of a black cab. Twenty-five thousand dollars from the American, and five thousand from the Saudi. It had been a good night. Apart from the anal.
The Saudi stood in the shower and let the water play over his face. He loved the huge showerheads in the Savoy’s bathrooms. It was like standing in the rain. He rubbed the honey-scented soap over his torso and smiled as he remembered the way the American woman had soaped him in the shower. She had been good, and worth every dollar he’d paid her. She’d gone down on him in the shower, taking him in her mouth as the water cascaded over his chest. He’d screwed her in the sitting room of the suite, on the sofa, across the coffee table, and finally in the king-sized bed. He’d paid a lot more for a lot less.
The Saudi loved screwing American women. They always started off so self-assured, so confident, so full of themselves, as if they were doing him a favour. But when they were on their knees and he was behind them, pounding into them, making them gasp and moan, there was no doubting who was in control. He hadn’t realised Madison was a hooker until she’d asked for money, but it hadn’t been a problem. He was happy to pay for sex and, frankly, where Western women were concerned, he preferred it that way. His smile widened. He doubted that Madison was her real name. Not that he cared. It had been a one-off. He had paid for sexual relief and he had got what he’d paid for.
The doorbell rang. The Saudi rinsed his hair, wrapped himself in the Savoy’s thick towelling robe, then headed for the door. ‘Room service,’ called a waitress.
The Saudi had ordered eggs Benedict, a pot of coffee, and Buck’s fizz, with Pol Roger. A leisurely breakfast, a stroll by the Thames, then off to the airport. The Saudi would miss London, but he would be back, sooner rather than later.
Cold Kill: The Third Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Page 29