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

by Stephen Leather

  The train left Embankment and snaked through the tunnel. There was no sense of what was above them, or even how far below the ground they were. Shepherd disliked all forms of public transport: trains, buses, planes, even taxis. It wasn’t because he was worried about safety – he knew that he was a thousand times safer in the Tube than he was at the wheel of his CRV – it was a matter of control. And he didn’t mind admitting, to Kathy Gift or anyone else, that he preferred to be in control.

  As the train slowed on its approach to Waterloo, Shepherd pushed himself out of his seat and stood by the door. He looked to his left and saw Sharpe get up, which meant that Hagerman must be preparing to leave the train.

  The train stopped, the doors opened, and Shepherd stepped out onto the platform. He strode confidently towards the exit, following the signs for Eurostar, his coat slung over his shoulder. Sharpe would follow Hagerman, while Shepherd got above ground fast to make contact with their back-up.

  He hurried up the escalator, snatched a glance over his shoulder as he reached the top and saw Hagerman. He pushed his ticket into the slot in the barrier, retrieved it and walked through. He took out his phone. Still no signal.

  He followed the Eurostar signs to a second escalator that opened out into a coffee shop full of suited businessmen drinking cappuccinos and barking into mobile phones. As he walked into the main Eurostar departure area, the signal returned to his mobile. He called Charlotte Button and went straight through to voicemail. He left a brief message, then phoned Bingham. He sighed with relief when the man answered. At least someone was taking calls. ‘David, it’s Shepherd.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Waterloo. Bear with me a few minutes.’

  ‘You’re following Hagerman?’

  ‘He’s right behind me, I hope. I’m at the Eurostar terminal.’

  ‘He’s on the train?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s where he’s heading. Wait a minute and I’ll know for certain.’

  Shepherd saw Hagerman emerge from the Underground, still carrying the suitcase.

  ‘Yeah, he’s going on the Eurostar. That’s definite. I have eyeball now.’

  ‘I’ll phone Europol. Do you know which train?’

  Shepherd turned to the departure board. The next train was the 16.39 to Brussels, the one after it the 17.09 to Paris and the next the 17.42 also to Paris. Next to the departure board a huge clock with a yellow hand sweeping off the seconds. There was still thirty minutes before the Brussels train was due to leave. ‘It looks like Brussels, the sixteen thirty-nine, but we won’t know until he’s passed through checkin.’ Sharpe walked out on to the concourse. He’d picked up a newspaper from somewhere and was swishing it as he walked, a businessman in a hurry. ‘As soon as we know for sure we’ll call you.’

  ‘We? Is Sharpe with you?’

  ‘Yes. He’s got his warrant card so we’ll be able to get on to the train.’

  ‘There’s no doubt about this, Dan?’ Shepherd could hear the uncertainty in Bingham’s voice.

  Hagerman walked towards the checkin desks.

  ‘He’s getting ready to board now,’ said Shepherd.

  Sharpe went across the concourse, away from Checkin.

  ‘So this is a straightforward surveillance operation?’ said Bingham. ‘He’s not behaving suspiciously? There’s nothing we should be worried about?’

  ‘He seems tense, but that might be because of the passport. He doesn’t seem to be concerned about tails, other than the odd glance over his shoulder.’

  ‘Good work. You and Sharpe follow him over. Stay in touch. The mobiles are only inoperative for the twenty minutes or so that you’re under the Channel. The rest of the time you’ll be able to reach me.’

  ‘But not Button?’

  ‘She’s still uncontactable. Sorry.’

  ‘Yeah, well, “sorry” doesn’t cut it. But that’s for later.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Bingham. ‘It’s between you and the boss.’

  ‘Your boss,’ said Shepherd. ‘Not mine. I’ve got to go.’

  Shepherd put away his phone and hurried to the side entrance of the departure area, where Sharpe was talking to two uniformed British Transport Police officers.

  ‘Everything okay?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘This is DC Shepherd,’ said Sharpe. ‘Don’t bother asking for his warrant card because he’s undercover.’

  The two uniforms nodded at Shepherd, unsmiling. One was in his late thirties and might have been in the army. The younger man was scrawny with a rash of acne across his forehead.

  ‘The trains aren’t full so there’s no problem with us getting seats,’ said Sharpe. ‘But I don’t have a passport.’

  ‘I do,’ said Shepherd. ‘But that shouldn’t be a problem, right? You don’t have to get off the train at the other end. And you didn’t have a passport last time, did you?’

  ‘The guys I saw last time were more flexible,’ said Sharpe. ‘They let me and Hargrove on with our warrant cards. These jobsworths are insisting on passports.’

  ‘French territory starts at the mid-way point of the tunnel,’ said the younger of the two policemen, as if he was answering an exam question.

  ‘Okay, so he can get off when we’re halfway there. Guys, come on. This is important.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ said the other cop. ‘It’s not us, it’s Immigration.’

  ‘Either of you guys know Nick Wright? He’ll vouch for me. We worked together a while back.’

  The two men shook their heads. Shepherd could see there was no point in arguing with them. He walked away, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and hitting ‘redial’. He told Bingham what had happened, and Bingham promised to sort it out.

  Shepherd went back to the cops. ‘Assuming we can get his passport, we’ll need tickets.’

  ‘You can show your warrant card,’ said the younger cop.

  ‘First, I don’t have my card. He just told you that. Second, I don’t want to have to explain myself to ticket inspectors or Immigration officers or anyone else who decides he wants to stick his nose into my business. I want a ticket.’ He nodded at Sharpe. ‘And he wants a ticket. In fact, we want tickets for the next three trains because we still don’t know which one he’s on. And we want them now.’ He nodded at the departure board above the entrance to the boarding area. ‘We’ve got twenty minutes to get on to that train.’

  The older cop’s radio crackled and he walked away to talk into his microphone. A few seconds later he was back and nodded at his colleague. ‘Get the tickets now,’ he said. He looked at Shepherd. ‘First or standard?’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Shepherd.

  The younger cop hurried off.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the older cop. His cheeks were red and he was smiling nervously now.

  Bingham must have swung some heavy artillery their way, Shepherd thought. ‘Can you walk me through?’ he asked. ‘We’re still not sure which train he’s on so I want to get eyeball on him before he boards.’ To Sharpe, he said, ‘You follow with the tickets, yeah? I’ll phone you when I know which train.’

  The transport cop walked Shepherd through passport control and the security check. The waiting area was packed. Every seat was taken and passengers unable to get seats were standing in groups around their suitcases. Upwards of a thousand people were crammed into an area about a third the size of a football pitch. ‘Where’s the CCTV control room?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Through there,’ said the cop, indicating a grey door with ‘Staff Only’ on it.

  ‘Can you take me in?’ asked Shepherd.

  The cop swiped a card and pushed open the door. Shepherd followed him through. The CCTV room was fully computerised with two men in shirtsleeves in front of large, flat-screen terminals.

  ‘Guys, sorry to burst in on you. I’m DC Shepherd. I need to find a passenger quickly.’

  One of the men pulled over a chair and told him to sit down.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m a
ssuming he’s in the waiting area. Can you run through the different cameras?’

  ‘Do you need me for anything?’ asked the uniform.

  ‘No,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can handle it from here. Can you tell my colleague where I am? And thanks.’

  The uniformed cop left the room as the various CCTV pictures flashed on to the screen. With so many people packed into the waiting area, Shepherd needed a minute or so to study the faces on the screen. Once he was satisfied that Hagerman wasn’t in view, he nodded at the operator to switch viewpoints. He spotted Hagerman on the fifth camera, at the end of a row of seats next to a bank of payphones. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘At the far end of the waiting area,’ said the operator. ‘Close to the bottom of the escalators.’

  ‘When do they let the passengers up to the platform?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes before departure,’ said the operator.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any way of knowing which train the guy’s going to get on, is there?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘If you know his name, sure.’

  ‘That’s the problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t. At least, I don’t know the name he’s travelling under.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to wait for him to move,’ said the operator.

  Shepherd stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  He phoned Sharpe and arranged to meet him at the security-check area.

  ‘Get a move on, Razor,’ he said. ‘They’ll be boarding the first train in the next ten minutes.’

  The older uniformed cop appeared again – he’d walked Sharpe through Immigration and the security check. Sharpe was holding half a dozen tickets. ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ said Shepherd. He thanked the uniformed cop again for his help then took Sharpe to the coffee shop that overlooked the area where Hagerman was sitting. It was called Bonaparte’s. Someone’s attempt at humour, no doubt, but Shepherd wondered how the French felt to be offered coffee in a bar called Bonaparte’s at a station named Waterloo. He ordered two cappuccinos and they sat down.

  Sharpe turned casually. ‘I see him,’ he said.

  ‘Looks tense, doesn’t he?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Probably because he’s travelling on a fake passport.’

  ‘The passport’s genuine, remember,’ said Shepherd, ‘and he’s already gone through Passport Control. He won’t be checked again.’

  ‘Drugs, maybe?’

  ‘No one smuggles drugs out of the UK,’ said Shepherd.

  The departure of the Brussels train was announced in English and French, and passengers rushed for the escalators.

  Hagerman sat where he was, hunched forward, fingers interlinked as he watched the passengers stream up to the platform.

  The queue stretched back more than a hundred yards, and most of the passengers were pulling wheeled suitcases or carrying rucksacks. Shepherd and Sharpe were almost the only people without luggage.

  The queue had shrunk to just a dozen or so when Hagerman got up. He stretched his arms above his head and rotated his neck. ‘Here we go,’ said Sharpe. ‘I wonder why he’s going to Brussels. Nobody hates the Belgians, not even al-Qaeda. The Belgians never did anything to anyone.’

  ‘They gave the world Tintin,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not worth killing people for, is it?’

  ‘And salad cream with chips.’

  ‘Again, a minor transgression,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘According to Button, he’s al-Qaeda. And al-Qaeda don’t fuck about.’

  Hagerman sat down again, this time with his arms folded.

  ‘There you go,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s not Brussels. Maybe he’s not a Tintin fan.’

  ‘It’s got to be Paris, then,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Can I smoke in here?’

  ‘No. The train’s no-smoking, too.’

  Eventually all the Brussels passengers had gone up the escalator. More people were coming into the waiting area all the time. Families, students, married couples, businessmen.

  Shepherd took out his mobile phone and called Button. Again, he went through to voicemail and swore.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Sharpe.

  ‘Her phone’s still off.’

  ‘Maybe she’s having her hair done.’

  ‘She’s supposed to be running the unit and every time I call her the bloody phone’s off. Hargrove was always available. Twenty-four–seven. You needed him, he was there. I’ve met Button twice, and both times she was playing cloak-and-dagger. Tea at the Ritz. Some fake office in the middle of nowhere. It’s a game to her, Razor.’ He phoned Bingham. ‘It’s definitely Paris,’ he said. ‘They’ve finished boarding the Brussels train and the next two are both to Paris. One goes at seventeen oh-nine and I’m betting he’ll be on it. The one after is at seventeen forty-two.’

  ‘I’ll tell the French,’ said Bingham. ‘Call me as soon as you know for sure which one he’s on. I’ve already sent his details to Europol so they’re ready and waiting.’

  Shepherd cut the connection.

  ‘Fancy a sandwich?’ asked Sharpe.

  ‘We can get something on the train.’

  ‘I want something now.’

  ‘So get something.’

  Shepherd toyed with his coffee as Sharpe went off to buy a sandwich. He didn’t bother keeping a close eye on Hagerman. There was only one way to get to the platform and that was up the escalator.

  Sharpe came back with his sandwich and a newspaper. Eventually the Tannoy announced the departure of the Paris train. Two Eurostar staff removed the barrier to the escalator and passengers started to head up to the platform.

  Hagerman didn’t move.

  ‘Maybe he’s planning to sleep here,’ said Sharpe.

  Shepherd sipped his coffee, which had gone cold. As he put down the cup, Hagerman stood, picked up his suitcase and made for the queue.

  ‘We’re off,’ said Shepherd. ‘He never wheels it,’ he remarked, almost to himself. ‘What is it with him?’

  ‘Maybe the wheels are broken,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘So get a new case,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s the point of wheels on a suitcase if you don’t use them?’

  ‘My phone does a hundred things I never use,’ said Sharpe. ‘Technological overkill.’

  ‘We’re talking wheels on a suitcase, Razor,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s hardly hi-tech.’

  Hagerman walked to the end of the queue. ‘So, Paris it is,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll call Bingham. Do you want to find out what carriage he’s in?’

  Sharpe stood up and waved the tickets in Shepherd’s face. ‘We’re in first class,’ he said. ‘Whoever Bingham called really put a rocket under those guys.’ He gave one to Shepherd. ‘See you on board.’

  Shepherd phoned Bingham. ‘He’s on the seventeen oh-nine.’ He watched as Sharpe joined the end of the queue, a group of American teenagers between him and Hagerman. Sharpe had taken off his coat and slung it over his shoulder.

  ‘Great,’ said Bingham. ‘I’ve already warned the French but I’ll call them to confirm. You and Sharpe are on the train?’

  ‘We will be soon,’ said Shepherd. ‘Thanks for clearing the way. The transport cops were being decidedly unhelpful.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Bingham. ‘I enjoy throwing my weight about occasionally. And SOCA carries a fair bit. Make sure he gets on the train and stays there until Paris. Keep your phone on and I’ll call you to confirm that Europol’s done its bit.’

  Shepherd finished his coffee, then joined the queue. He was one of the last passengers to board the train. Sharpe was already in his seat. They were in carriage number eleven. There were eighteen carriages in all, with five standard-class carriages at either end, the first-class section in the middle. Their seats faced each other across a small table. Sharpe was studying a menu. He looked up as Shepherd sat down. ‘They’ve got steak,’ he said.

  ‘Great,’ said Shephe
rd.

  ‘Bingham on the case?’

  ‘He is, Button isn’t.’

  ‘Let it go, Spider,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘Where’s Hagerman?’

  ‘Second carriage from the front. The cheap seats.’

  ‘On his own?’

  ‘There’s a woman next to him but they don’t appear to be together. Relax. He’s not going anywhere for the next three hours and we’re going to be waited on hand and foot.’

  ‘You don’t get out much, do you?’ said Shepherd.

  The Saudi’s eyes were tight shut and his mouth was a straight line. His chest was pulsing as he fought the urge to breathe. Button realised she was holding her own breath as she watched him struggle against the bonds holding him to the plank. She forced herself to relax. How long had his head been under water? A minute? Ninety seconds?

  She knew the routine now. She’d watched Scarred Lip and Broken Nose run through the procedure half a dozen times. They submerged his head and waited until he couldn’t hold his breath any longer. The Saudi would open his mouth and suck in water. They’d let him breathe it for two seconds, maybe three, then push down on the plank and lift him out. They’d give him a minute or two to recover, then drop him in again. It didn’t matter how long the Saudi held his breath. They wouldn’t let him up until he’d started drowning.

  ‘We have the cousin,’ prompted Yokely, in Button’s ear.

  The two men torturing the Saudi must have heard the same transmission because they pressed down on the end of the plank. The Saudi’s head came out of the water. He gasped for breath, eyes wide, watery green snot trickling from his nose.

  Scarred Lip bent down and untied the webbing straps.

  The Saudi choked. His chest heaved in and out and his arms went into spasm. Scarred Lip put his hands under the man’s armpits and yanked him to his feet. Broken Nose slapped him on the back, hard. The Saudi retched and watery vomit sprayed across the floor.

  ‘Better out than in.’ Broken Nose laughed. It was the first time that Button had heard him speak, and she was surprised by his West Country accent. Bristol, maybe.