More Short Fuses

by Stephen Leather

  McIntyre shook his head. ‘You can’t save everyone, Spider. Haven’t you learned that? Sometimes you just have to cut your losses.’ He waved the gun at the door. ‘I’m glad you came, really. But it’s time to go now.’

  ‘I can probably get you work, Jock,’ said Armstrong. ‘Not with one of the big companies, but I’ve got pals in Central Africa who need a hand. You’d have to kick the booze.’

  ‘When I come out of prison, you mean?’

  ‘It might not come to that,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked McIntyre.

  ‘I’ve got a plan,’ said Shepherd.

  * * *

  Shepherd and Armstrong walked out of the house. Shepherd pulled the door closed and the headed across the street. The armed cops kept their carbines trained on the door but it stayed firmly closed. The superintendent was standing at the street corner, watching them anxiously. ‘Is he coming out?” he asked.

  ‘He said he’s on his way. He wanted to write a letter to his wife.’

  The superintendent frowned. ‘Explain that to me, will you?’

  ‘He wants his wife to know how he feels, he thinks that once he’s in custody he won’t get the chance,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s going to write it out then he wants to read it out to a TV crew. I said that’d be okay.’

  ‘We can’t have him live on TV, anything could happen.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to be live. They can record it and broadcast it later. It’ll be a great scoop for them, he gets what he wants, and you get him out of there without shots being fired.’

  ‘It’s what they call a win-win situation,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘If it works out that way,’ said the superintendent. ‘The last thing I want is for him to pull out his gun and start shooting.’

  ‘That won’t happen,’ said Shepherd. He reached inside his bullet-proof jacket and pulled out the Makarov and the clip. ‘I’ve made it safe,’ he said, handing the gun and clip to the superintendent.

  ‘So he’s in there with no gun?’

  ‘A sign of good faith,’ said Shepherd. The superintendent turned towards the SFO team but Shepherd put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I gave him my word he could come out on his own terms.’

  ‘You don’t have the authority to make any sort of deal with him,’ said the superintendent. The SFO they had seen in the ops room jogged over. The superintendent handed him the gun and the clip.

  ‘No, but he gave me his gun which means he isn’t a threat to anyone but himself. I gave him the radio so you can talk to him.’

  ‘We’re ready to go in now,’ said the SFO.

  ‘He’ll come out under his own steam,’ said Shepherd.

  The superintendent stared at Shepherd for several seconds, then took his transceiver and put it to his mouth. ‘Mr McIntyre, this is Superintendent Simon Walker. Is everything all right in there? Over.’

  There was a brief burst of static then McIntyre’s voice. ‘Aye, superintendent, I’m as right as rain. I just want to get my thoughts together. You can get me a TV crew, right? Over.’

  ‘You are coming out, then? Over.’

  ‘I’ll come out, I’ll say my piece, then I’m all yours. Do we have an agreement? Over.’

  ‘Yes we do, Mr McIntyre. As quick as you can, please. Over.’

  ‘I won’t be long now. Over.’

  The superintendent put down his transceiver. He called over a uniformed sergeant and told him to go and fetch one of the TV news crews. ‘Not the BBC if they’re there, go for ITV first. Tell them they can have an exclusive if they play ball.’ The sergeant nodded and hurried away.

  ‘How was he?’ asked the superintendent.

  ‘Tense, obviously,’ said Shepherd. ‘A bit worse for wear. But that’s to be expected, considering the stress he’s under.’

  ‘Stress of his own making,’ said the superintendent. ‘Did he say why he shot up the car?’

  ‘He was just trying to get your attention,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Well he succeeded. You didn’t promise him anything else, did you?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He doesn’t expect to walk away from this, does he? Because that’s not going to happen. Possession of the gun alone guarantees him a prison sentence but shooting at police officers takes it to a whole different level.’

  ‘To be fair, he was shooting at the car and not the occupants.’

  ‘Well he can explain that to the judge.’ He looked at his wristwatch. ‘What’s he playing at?’

  ‘He isn’t the best letter writer,’ said Armstrong.

  The superintendent hit the transmit button on his transceiver. ‘Mr McIntyre, my patience is wearing thin. Are you ready to come out? Over.’

  The radio crackled. ‘Won’t be long now, superintendent. ‘Are the TV people there? Over.’

  ‘They’re on the way, But I need you out of there now. Over and out.’

  The superintendent paced up and down. Five minutes passed. Eventually the superintendent’s patience snapped and he put the transceiver back to his mouth. ‘Mr McIntyre, this is your last chance. You need to come out now or we will come in and get you. Over.’

  He listened but there was no reply.

  ‘Mr McIntyre, if you don’t answer I’ll have no choice but to send in my team. Over.’

  There was still no answer.

  ‘My patience is wearing thin, Mr McIntyre. Please respond immediately. Over.’

  The superintendent glared at Shepherd and Armstrong. ‘What the hell is he playing at?’ The two men shrugged. ‘Stay here,’ he said, and stormed off towards the temporary ops room.

  The armed police went in ten minutes later. Two groups of three approached the front door. One of them was holding an enforcer, a 16 kilogram bright orange battering ram, which when swung hard hit with three tons of kinetic energy. The SFO holding the enforcer was well over six feet tall and almost as wide and he made short work of the door. Two swings and the door was off its hinges and with a third it crashed into the hallway. There were similar crashing sounds coming from the back of the house.

  The five other SFOs piled through the doorway, carbines at the ready, screaming ‘Armed Police!’ at the top of their voices.

  ‘Shock and awe,’ said Armstrong. ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘Stay here,’ said the superintendent. He hurried over to the house.

  ‘Why did we never shout “SAS, we’ve got guns” when we stormed a building?’ asked Armstrong.

  ‘Different rules of engagement,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It’s crazy.’

  ‘No argument here,’ said Shepherd.

  The shouting continued for several minutes interspersed with cries of ‘clear!’ as the men moved from room to room. Then there was silence.

  Armstrong grinned at Shepherd. ‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall.’

  ‘I’m happier being well out of it,’ said Shepherd.

  Several minutes passed before the superintendent appeared in the doorway. He waved Shepherd and Armstrong over. ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Shepherd as they reached the front door.

  ‘Your friend has done a runner,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘How? We were watching the front door all the time. And your men are covering the back, right?’

  ‘The roof,’ said the superintendent. ‘Come and see for yourself.’

  He took them inside. Two armed cops were standing in the front room and another blocked the door to the kitchen. The superintendent took them up the stairs. Two more armed cops moved aside to let them pass. At the top of the landing was a set of folding steps that led up to a hatch in the ceiling. The superintendent waved them up. Shepherd went up first, followed by Armstrong.

  The attic was dusty and festooned with cobwebs. At the far end was a large plastic water tank illuminated by a shaft of light coming through a ragged hole in the roof. Scattered around were half a dozen broken tiles. An armed cop was looking up at the hole in the roof. The superintendent stuck his head up thr
ough the hatch. ‘He broke through the roof and pulled out enough tiles to get through. Looks like he crawled along the roof to the end of the terrace and broke into the house there.’

  ‘Weren’t your men there?’

  ‘It’s eight houses away. There’s a hole in the roof. He probably left through the back yard. This is a bloody nightmare.’

  Armstrong grinned at Shepherd. ‘Crafty bastard,’ he said.

  ‘If I find out that you two had anything to do with this…’ said the superintendent. He left the threat unfinished.

  ‘You’ll do what?’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re not cops. And we were outside with you the whole time.’

  The superintendent mumbled something and then disappeared down the steps.

  ‘He’s not a happy bunny,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Yeah, he’s got a lot of explaining to do, and he knows it,’ said Shepherd. ‘But at least he’s recovered the gun and no one was hurt. I doubt that the Met will be doing me any favours for a while, though.’

  ‘You’ll manage, grinned Armstrong.

  * * *

  Two days later, Billy Armstrong pulled up around the corner from Jock McIntyre’s house in a rented Audi. Shepherd was in the passenger seat. ‘Keep the engine running,’ said Shepherd. He climbed out of the car and headed down the alley that ran behind the terrace, counting off the wooden gates until he reached McIntyre’s house. Police tape had been stripped across the gate and a notice had been pinned up with a phone number to call for anyone who needed access. The lock was flimsy and Shepherd’s shoulder was more than enough to force the gate open. The yard was about twelve feet by twelve, paved and home to three filled black plastic rubbish bags and a rusting bike with two flat tyres. There was more police tape across the door. The door had been broken open by the armed cops when they had stormed the house, and whoever had been sent around to patch up the damage had only done a half-hearted repair job. Two kicks and the door caved in. The newspaper was still up on the windows but there was enough light to see by. He headed into the hallway, walked up the stairs and pushed open the bathroom door. The ceiling was black with mould and the window was cracked. The toilet basin was stained brown and the seat was missing. Shepherd knelt down, pulled a screwdriver from his pocket and undid the four screws that held the plastic panel in place below the bath. He pulled it away to reveal Jock McIntyre, lying on his back on the bare floorboards. ‘Fucking hell, I thought you were never coming back,’ said McIntyre. On the floor next to him was the police radio.

  ‘We said two days,’ said Shepherd, helping him out from his hiding place. There were two plastic bottles full of pale yellow liquid up against the wall. When they had put him under the bath the bottles had been full of water. He’d drunk the water over the past two days and urinated into the empty bottles. An old SAS trick.

  McIntyre stretched and massaged the back of his neck. ‘They bought it?’

  ‘Yeah, they figured you made it out. They’re watching all the ports and airports. Billy’s outside. He’ll drive you to the coast. He’s got a pal with a boat who’ll take you down to Morocco and get you fixed up with papers. You’re going to have to stay in Africa, though. You understand? No waltzing back into the UK. They’ll be looking for you here for a long time.’

  ‘I won’t be coming back,’ said McIntyre. ‘There’s nothing here for me any more.’

  ‘Let’s be clear about this, Jock,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’ll get you out of the country, and Billy here has fixed you up with a gig in Nigeria. Third World problems and everyone’s armed and dangerous, just like the old days. But if you screw it up and start drinking again, I’ll shoot you myself. Clear?’

  ‘I owe you, Spider,’ said Jock.

  ‘Yes, you bloody well do,’ said Shepherd. ‘And don’t you forget it.’

  Spider Shepherd is the hero of 11 of Stephen Leather’s best-selling novels. You can find out more at www.spidershepherd.com The first book in the series is Hard Landing, which is now available at a special low price on all platforms. There are also several Spider Shepherd SAS short stories available on all eReaders. The first – Natural Selection – is FREE.

  THE CONSTITUENCY MEETING

  David Hewson stared out of the window of the Jaguar. It was a typical Northern rainy day, the sky gunmetal grey with no sign of clearing, the rain more like a wet fog than a downpour. ‘I hate Leeds,’ he said.

  His companion in the back seat chuckled. ‘Well don’t let the constituents hear you say that,’ he said.

  Hewson looked across at the man. Oliver Tidy was his agent, his minder and his confidant. And like Hewson he’d been born 170 miles to the south in London. But unlike Hewson, the agent had to stay in Leeds all year round, bar the odd trip to the Capital. ‘You know what I mean, Oliver,’ he said. ‘It’s a shit-hole, it really is.’

  ‘They did try to get you a safe seat closer to London, but beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Tidy.

  ‘It’s hardly a safe seat,’ said Hewson.

  ‘Exactly, so let’s do what we have to do to turn it into one.’

  Hewson folded his arms. ‘And dragging me out to an old folks home is going to win me votes, is it?’

  ‘Someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning. Come on, get your game face on.’

  Hewson scowled. ‘Oliver, I don’t mind going out and pressing the flesh, but with the best will in the world, how many more elections are they going to be voting in?’

  ‘It’s the next one that matters. And with luck they’ll all be around for that.’

  ‘The average life expectancy for people admitted to care homes is two years, did you know that?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Tidy. ‘But with the election due next year, that doesn’t worry me over much. Look, David, they asked for you. Do you know how many organisations say no when I ask if you can visit? And here we have a group who want you to talk to them. If I were you I wouldn’t go looking gift horses in the mouth.’

  ‘And how many will be there?’

  ‘They promised me forty or so. And forty votes is nothing to get sniffy about.’

  ‘Okay, point taken,’ said Hewson. ‘But half an hour, max.’

  ‘A cup of tea and a slice of cake and we’re out,’ said Tidy.

  Hewson nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he said.

  ‘And really, it’s not too bad up here. ‘

  Hewson looked down his nose at the agent. ‘Oliver, it’s Leeds. I’m a London boy. I belong in the big smoke. So do you.’

  ‘We’ll get there eventually. Get your majority up here and you can write your own ticket.’

  ‘I wish I had your optimism, Oliver.’

  ‘You just keep climbing the slippery pole and I’ll keep pushing. Now get your game face on, we’re here.’

  The car pulled up in front of a featureless concrete building with a wheelchair ramp up to the main entrance. ‘I can’t park here, double yellows,’ said the driver.

  ‘They said there was a car park at the back of the building,’ said Tidy. ‘We’ll see you there later.’

  ‘Keep the engine running so we can make a quick getaway,’ said Hewson, opening the door and stepping onto the pavement. He rubbed the back of his neck. The tendons were as taut as steel wires and he had the start of a headache.

  Tidy joined him on the pavement. He was carrying a battered leather briefcase and had the collar of his raincoat turned up. Hewson was wearing a cashmere overcoat over a dark grey suit but he took off the coat as soon as he followed Tidy through the main doors.

  A woman was waiting for them. She was in her late sixties with tightly-permed hair and lipstick that was almost scarlet. Her eyebrows seemed to have gone and had been replaced with thin brown lines, either with a pencil or a tattooist’s needle. She was wearing a two-piece suit from a thick pinkish material, a high-cut jacket and a skirt that went to below her knees. Her flat shoes were also pink, as was the silk scarf loosely tied around her neck. She was carrying a large red leather handbag in the crook of h
er left arm. She smiled and Hewson saw a smear of red lipstick across her top teeth. ‘Mr Hewson, thank so you so much for coming,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Tyler?’ said Tidy, holding out his hand. Mrs Tyler was the administrator of the home. ‘Oliver Tidy, it was me who spoke with you on the phone.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m Ruth Duffy, one of the residents,’ said the woman. ‘Mrs Tyler asked if I’d welcome you and take you through.’ She released his hand and shook hands with Hewson. ‘So nice to meet you, Mr Hewson. And thank you for coming to see us.’

  ‘Very happy to be here,’ said Hewson. ‘Please, lead the way.’

  Mrs Duffy took them down a corridor and through a set of fire doors. The building had an institutional feel, the floors were tiled and the walls were painted a pale green and dotted with noticeboards. There were fluorescent lights overhead and Hewson squinted, his headache getting worse by the seconds.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Mrs Duffy, pushing open a door. There was a blue plastic sign under a small window with the words DAY ROOM in white. Hewson followed her inside, with Tidy close behind. Hewson already had his professional smile on, but it hardened a fraction when he saw how empty the room was. There were only a dozen or so people waiting, the youngest in their seventies.

  ‘We were told that there’d be forty or so people,’ said Hewson. Most of the residents were sitting in armchairs that were lined up with their backs to the walls. There was an old-fashioned television set on a small table, a card table with four wooden chairs, a dining table with half a dozen chairs, and a sideboard piled high with magazines. There were blinds on the windows overlooking the street but they were down and the overhead lights were on.

  ‘I’m sorry, yes. There are forty residents but quite a few are confined to their rooms.’

  ‘And Mr Caine died last night,’ said one of the ladies.

  ‘Yes, he did. That was a pity.’ Mrs Duffy smiled at Hewson. ‘He was a lovely man. He’d only been here six months.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Hewson, flashing her his most sympathetic smile. ‘Are you expecting anyone else?’