‘They water the gin down here anyway,’ said Evans. ‘The more the fucking merrier.’
‘Just telling Terry, boxers wear gloves to protect their own hands, not the other guy’s face,’ said Cooper.
Evans nodded. ‘True enough,’ he said. ‘Worst injury I had was in Brighton. Can’t remember how it started but I was up against two big chaps and I hit one of them right on the chin. He went down but I broke half a dozen bones in my hand. Took months to fix.’
‘What about the guy you hit?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Yeah, well, he went out like a light, obviously. But he’d have been up and about with nothing more than a sore chin. I was in pain for fucking days and couldn’t hit anyone for months.’ He held up his right hand and flashed the bulky rings. ‘Now these do the trick nicely. I don’t even have to hit hard, just make sure I twist as the fist goes in and the flesh gets ripped up nicely.’
Cooper shook his head, chuckling. ‘You’re an evil bastard, Paul.’
‘Just taking care of Number One, mate,’ said Evans. ‘Same as it ever was.’
Shepherd sipped his drink again. His eyes narrowed as he recognised someone over Carter’s shoulder. He hadn’t seen the man for more than ten years but his memory kicked in as accurately as if the police file was in front of him. Jeff Owen. Armed robber. He was in his late thirties now and had put on weight and lost some hair, but it was definitely him. Shepherd had been undercover, penetrating the gang Owen was in, when they had been busted. The guy who ran it, Ted Verity, was a nasty piece of work and had gone down for twenty-five years. Owen had been given fifteen, which meant that with good behaviour he would have been out in eight.
Shepherd’s mind raced. He had been working for a police unit back then and using the alias Bob Macdonald, a former squaddie who had turned to crime. He hadn’t given evidence against Owen and Verity and there was nothing in the police or CPS files that suggested Bob Macdonald was an undercover cop. But the final robbery hadn’t gone as planned, and at the last minute Shepherd had had to step in to make sure that civilians didn’t get hurt. He’d flattened Verity and threatened to shoot Owen. The script that Shepherd had stuck to was that he wasn’t happy with Verity’s plan to hurt the civilians and wanted out. So far as he knew the gang had believed it and no one had suspected he was a cop, but that didn’t mean they were likely to forgive and forget.
Shepherd considered his options. Jeff Owen might not recognise him – not everybody had his memory for faces. But ten years wasn’t a long time in the grand scheme of things and Shepherd hadn’t changed much over the past decade. Owen might have calmed down while he was in prison but Shepherd doubted it. Owen had personally vouched for Bob Macdonald and had brought him into the gang. They had become quite close over the months it had taken Shepherd to earn the man’s trust.
If Owen spotted Shepherd and confronted him, the O’Neill operation would go down in flames. There was no way he could explain how Owen knew Terry Taylor as Bob Macdonald, not in any way that would convince the O’Neills that something wasn’t wrong. It was just about possible that Macdonald had changed his name but if Taylor was a stone-cold hitman why would he be so coy about his armed-robbery past? And if Owen told them about the bust, how could he explain his decision to poleaxe the leader of the gang? Shepherd might, just might, be able to talk his way out of a beating, or worse, but the O’Neills would never trust him again.
‘So, you been busy?’ asked Evans.
Shepherd grinned. ‘Ducking and diving.’
‘A little bird tells me you were out in the New Forest.’
Shepherd kept smiling but his mind was racing. How much did Evans know? ‘You been following me, mate?’
Evans grinned and put his mouth close to Shepherd’s ear. ‘I was chatting to Marty earlier. He said you’d done him a favour. Taken care of some business.’
‘Fuck me, Paul, I was hoping there’d be some client confidentiality in operation.’
Evans laughed. ‘Your secret’s safe with me, mate. And I love that crack – they call you the Hammer because you nail it every time. That’s a fucking classic.’
‘What else did he tell you?’
‘No details, mate, don’t worry.’ He gestured at the door. ‘Now, come on. They’re going in.’
Evans guided Shepherd into the main dining room. There were a couple of dozen tables, each seating twelve, around a boxing ring, plus a long table for the main guests facing the action.
Shepherd glanced over his shoulder. Owen was lost in the crowd. ‘Give me a minute, just want to see where a pal of mine’s sitting.’
‘See you at the table,’ said Evans.
Shepherd hurried to a whiteboard with two sheets of paper stuck to it. He ran his finger down the first page, then found Jeff Owen halfway down the second. He was on table eighteen. There was a map of the seating plan. Evans had table three, which put them on the opposite side of the boxing ring. As long as Owen stayed seated, he wouldn’t see Shepherd. But if he decided to take a trip to the toilet, there was a fair chance he’d walk by Shepherd’s table. He cursed under his breath. He had to do something, and quickly.
He took another look around, then headed for the hotel reception area, which was still packed with dinner-jacketed men holding invitations. Shepherd went outside. There were fewer smokers than before, now split into two groups. Cigars seemed to outnumber cigarettes. Shepherd took out his phone, jogged across the road and tapped in Jimmy Sharpe’s number. He kept none on his phone, called everyone from memory and made a habit of deleting his call history. ‘Hi, Razor, where are you?’
‘What are you? My mother?’ growled Sharpe.
‘I’m in deep shit and you’re the only person who can get me out of it. Where are you?’
‘A curry house in the East End with a mate from the Fraud Squad,’ said Sharpe, his tone suddenly serious. ‘What do you need?’
‘I’m at a boxing do in the West End with a few hundred faces, most of them from south of the river. One might recognise me and if I don’t do something my case is going to fall apart.’
‘Who’s the face?’
‘Blagger by the name of Jeff Owen. He was number two in a crew run by Ted Verity. I put them away more than ten years ago and it looks like Owen’s out.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Sharpe.
‘I need him taken away for a few hours.’
‘I’ll happily come around and flash my warrant card, but if he tells me to fuck off what can I do?’
‘It has to be more official than that or he’ll wonder what’s going on. Here’s my thought. He was given fifteen years, which means he’s out on licence. I’m sure under the terms of his parole he’s not allowed to mix with criminals and they’re wall to wall here. There’s three on his table alone. I’m thinking get his probation officer involved and have him hauled into a local station for questioning.’
‘That might mean him getting sent back to prison.’
‘He’s a nasty piece of work, Razor. He deserved more than an eight stretch.’
‘This’ll have to be official – you know that? I can’t start commandeering police stations and probation officers.’
‘Can you run it by Sam Hargrove? You’re still working for him, right?’
‘Sure.’
‘He knows this Owen character and he’ll remember the case.’
‘I remember it,’ said Sharpe. ‘Drug-dealer running his operation from behind bars.’
‘That’s the one. Fill Hargrove in and get him on the case. It needs to be quick, Razor. We’re just sitting down to eat.’
‘I’m on it,’ said Sharpe.
Shepherd ended the call and walked back to the hotel. The last of the smokers were finishing up and most of the tables were filled. There were now a dozen men sitting at the top table, a mix of former champion boxers, Catholic priests and two actors who’d had minor roles in Cockney gangster movies. Shepherd kept his head turned away from the table where Owen was sitting as he headed
to his seat. He was between Evans and Cooper, Carter opposite. Including himself, there were a dozen men at the table and Shepherd knew all of the others by name and reputation. He shook hands with the four he hadn’t met and introduced himself. No one asked what he did or where he was from: it was taken for granted that he was one of them. If he was anything but, he wouldn’t have been there.
There were six bottles of wine opened on the table, three red and three white, and Shepherd could see that they were all good vintages. But the wine stayed untouched. Evans waved over a middle-aged waiter with a neatly-trimmed beard and ordered a round of drinks. Everyone wanted beer or spirits. He automatically ordered Shepherd a gin and tonic. Shepherd took a quick look around. It was pretty much an all-male affair, though off to his left there was a women-only table, which looked as if wives had been parked there by their husbands. The women were in their thirties with over-styled hair, too much make-up and jewellery, and their painted nails glistened like talons.
The doors from the kitchen burst open and Evans flinched, then grinned shame-facedly as waiters poured into the room, laden with trays. There were several hundred people to be fed and the serving staff worked with military precision as they placed the starter on the tables. It was pâté with toast and a limp salad. Shepherd didn’t feel like eating and pushed the food around the plate until everyone had finished. Evans was constantly summoning waiters and ordering more drinks. The wine stayed untouched, as it seemed to be on most of the tables. Even the wives had ignored it and ordered themselves Cristal champagne. Shepherd kept an eye on the far side of the room but the tables were hidden from view by the boxing ring.
Plates were cleared, and after ten minutes, the army of white-shirted, black-trousered waiters returned with stainless-steel trays and the main course: roast beef, which proved to be surprisingly good, with a selection of vegetables. Evans ordered another round of drinks. Gin and tonic was a good drink when he was undercover because no one could tell how much alcohol was in the glass. Whenever Shepherd was sure he wasn’t being watched he’d slosh some water into it.
Evans was holding court at the table, and as he was paying, his guests were happy enough to eat and listen. He told stories about his boxing days, and the great fighters he’d met over the years. He was a huge fan and spent tens of thousands flying around the world to get ringside seats at all the major bouts. Shepherd kept looking over each time anyone walked by on the far side of the ring, but while plenty of people were heading back and forth to the toilets, Owen’s bladder seemed to be made of sterner stuff.
As the plates were being cleared away, a black-suited man in his fifties walked purposefully across the room. He had the look of a manager, and a minute or two later he went back to the door, this time accompanied by Owen. Shepherd raised his napkin and dabbed his lips but Owen didn’t look in his direction.
When the manager opened the door Shepherd saw two uniformed policemen. One spoke to Owen, who threw up his arms angrily but after a few seconds he appeared to calm down and the door was closed. Dessert was served. Some sort of mousse with thawed frozen berries. Shepherd picked at it as he listened to Evans tell the story of how he had met Muhammad Ali in Las Vegas.
Shepherd’s phone vibrated and he fished it out of his pocket. It was a text message from Razor. Sorted. And a smiley face. Shepherd grinned and put it away.
‘Good news?’ asked Evans.
Shepherd hadn’t realised the man had been watching him. ‘Another job,’ he said.
‘Back to the New Forest?’
Shepherd pointed a warning finger at the man’s face, but he was still smiling. ‘Mum’s the word, mate.’
Evans held up his pint glass. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’
The two men clinked their glasses together. ‘I hope so,’ said Shepherd.
Evans narrowed his eyes. ‘You saying I’d grass you up?’
‘Of course not,’ said Shepherd. ‘What the fuck, Paul?’
Evans burst out laughing. ‘I’m busting your balls, Terry, you soft bastard. Now, are you coming to the big match? I’ve got a dozen ringside seats and your name’s on one of them. We’re all going for a steak first and we’ll hit the Mayfair afterwards.’
The boxing match was due to be one of the biggest of the year, a rematch between the Russian heavyweight champion Konstantin Kuznetsov and British champion Barry ‘Face-Down’ Hughes, who got his nickname after three consecutive opponents fell in that way early in his career. The match was taking place at an East End football stadium where more than twenty-five thousand boxing fans were expected. The cable TV pay-per-view rights were said to be worth tens of millions. Shepherd had heard that ringside seats were selling for five thousand pounds each. He raised his glass to Evans. ‘Try to keep me away,’ he said.
Evans raised his own. ‘You the man.’
Shepherd grinned, pretending to be a bit drunker than he actually was. ‘No, you the man.’
‘Fuck off!’ shouted Evans. ‘You the man.’
‘Okay. I’m the man,’ said Shepherd. They clinked glasses and drank. Evans waved a waiter over and ordered another round.
A big man in a too-tight tuxedo stepped into the ring. He was holding a microphone and started to introduce the men sitting at the top table. Shepherd jumped as a hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Terry, good man.’ He looked up to see Marty O’Neill grinning down at him. He squeezed, hard enough to hurt. Marty was a big man, a couple of inches taller than Shepherd. He had rock-hard forearms – Shepherd could imagine generations of O’Neill men laying tarmac or working down the mines – and while he was a good twenty kilos heavier than Shepherd there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Marty’s hair was an unnatural shade of chestnut, except round his temples, which remained grey. He had a strong jaw, and teeth that Shepherd assumed had been professionally whitened. Marty favoured Armani suits and recognised Shepherd’s tuxedo for what it was. ‘Nice,’ he said, running his hand down the sleeve. ‘Cashmere?’
‘Yeah, he does a good suit does Giorgio,’ said Shepherd.
‘Not a hundred per cent, though?’ said Marty. ‘Cashmere wool mix, right?’
‘Twenty per cent, I think.’
‘I met him, once, Armani.’
‘You serious?’
‘In a club in Piccadilly. Sent him over a bottle of Cristal. Nice guy. Real gentleman.’
‘Did you ask him for a discount?’
Marty chuckled. ‘Fuck me, I didn’t think of that. Look, Tommy and I are going for a quick smoke. Keep us company, yeah?’
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. He stood up and Marty waved at his brother. Tommy got up and the two men walked outside. Tommy was older than Marty by a couple of years but he was shorter and slighter. Unlike Marty, Tommy had allowed his hair to grey while his teeth showed the effects of smoking and red wine. The only jewellery he wore was a simple gold wedding band and he tended to buy his clothes from chain stores. He always seemed slightly the worse for wear: his hair was unruly and there was generally a greyness to his skin as if he was short of a few essential vitamins.
Character-wise, Tommy and Marty were chalk and cheese. Marty was loud and ebullient, always cracking jokes and teasing people. Tommy was much quieter, and there was always a short pause before he spoke, as if he was running his comments through some internal checking mechanism. Marty had a quick temper but Tommy was always ice cold, almost lizard-like. Shepherd had met the older brother only a few times but he had never seen him anything other than totally calm. But of the two men, it was Tommy who made him the more nervous. Marty could fly off the handle when something upset him, but he was just as quick to calm down. Tommy was much harder to gauge, and Shepherd always felt he was walking on eggshells when he was in his presence.
Shepherd followed them, wondering if the invitation was connected to the cops taking Owen away. A dozen or so men were already smoking, split into three groups, but Marty and Tommy walked into the car park so they wouldn’t be overheard. Tommy reached inside his jacket and pulled
out a leather cigar case. He opened it and offered it to Marty. Marty took a cigar and Tommy held the case out to Shepherd. Shepherd wasn’t a smoker but he took one. Marty had produced a gold cigar cutter and a Dunhill lighter but Tommy had already bitten the end off his and spat it onto the ground.
‘Classy,’ said Marty, carefully cutting his.
‘Poncy,’ said Tommy, gesturing at the cigar-cutter.
Marty held it up. ‘This, gentlemen, is an instrument of torture. Put a guy’s pecker in the hole and he’ll sing like a fucking canary.’
He held it out to Shepherd, who grinned. ‘Mate, I’ve got to be honest, my dick’s way too big to fit in there.’ He gave it back and bit the end off his cigar, then followed Tommy’s example and spat it on the ground.
Tommy roared with laughter, pulled out a box of matches and handed it to Shepherd. He lit a match but held it out so that Tommy could light his cigar from it. He could see from the man’s smile that he appreciated the gesture of respect. Marty used his lighter to get his cigar going and both men puffed contentedly as Shepherd lit another match and attended to his own.
‘Thanks for taking care of that thing for us,’ said Tommy, his voice a low growl.
‘Happy to help,’ said Shepherd.
‘The bracelet and the video were nice touches.’
‘I figure that when there’s no body, proof of death is always appreciated.’
Marty blew a thick cloud of smoke at the night sky. ‘He was a bastard – he had it coming.’
‘No question,’ said Tommy. He flicked ash onto the ground. ‘Howard said you were keen to do more work for us.’
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.
‘We don’t do that sort of thing often. Once in a blue moon.’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘That’s OK. But I meant it in a wider context. You could get me more involved in the business.’
‘Why would you want that, though?’ asked Tommy, quietly. ‘You’re good at what you do. You’re a freelance so you can work as and when you want. Why tie yourself down to one crew?’
[Spider Shepherd #13] - Dark Forces Page 6