Soft Target: The Second Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Shepherd. He kissed her left cheek awkwardly, then hurried down the hallway and out of the front door. She was right, of course. It was time to clear out Sue’s clothes. Four months was a long time. He’d tried several times. He’d opened her side of the fitted wardrobe in the bedroom and even gone as far as taking out some of her clothes, but he’d never managed to throw any away. Somehow it seemed disloyal. They weren’t just clothes, they were Sue’s clothes. Everything she had, everything she’d touched, everything she’d worn – it was all a part of her and he wasn’t prepared yet to discard anything. Or her.

  He looked up as he climbed into the car and saw Liam standing at a bedroom window. Shepherd waved and flashed him a thumbs-up. Liam did the same and Shepherd grinned. At least his visit hadn’t been a complete disaster.

  Shepherd parked on the top floor of a multi-storey car park close to Piccadilly Gardens and sat for ten minutes to see who drove up. There were housewives, families with children, young couples out for a Saturday’s shopping in the city centre. Eventually he locked the car and walked down to the third floor. The blue Transit surveillance van was in the corner furthest away from the stairs and lifts. Shepherd tapped the rolled-up copy of the Financial Times against his leg as he walked over to it, knocked twice on the rear door and climbed inside. Hargrove was there with Jimmy Faley, the young officer who’d been on the Hendrickson surveillance, and an Asian technician whom Shepherd hadn’t met before.

  Hargrove took a swig from his plastic bottle of Evian water. ‘This is Amar Singh,’ he said. ‘He’s on attachment from the National Criminal Intelligence Service with some state-of-the-art surveillance gear.’ Shepherd shook Singh’s hand.

  ‘I can’t imagine a worse place to record a conversation,’ said Singh.

  ‘Yeah, it wasn’t my choice,’ said Shepherd. He nodded at Faley and sat down on a plastic stool.

  Singh pushed a black attaché case across the metal floor. ‘Make sure the briefcase is as close to her as possible,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t have to teach me to suck eggs,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’m not teaching you to suck anything,’ said the technician, ‘but its effective range is down to three feet on the outside and I wouldn’t want you blaming me if all we pick up is traffic. I’d be happier if you were wearing a wire, too.’

  ‘She’s jumpy enough to pat me down,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘In a crowded square?’

  ‘A lover’s hug, hands down my back, a quick grope between the legs, all she’s got to do is touch something hard and she’ll be off.’

  ‘She might just think you’re pleased to see her,’ said Singh.

  Shepherd gave him a tight smile. ‘I’ve got better things to be doing on a Saturday afternoon, believe me,’ he said. He looked at Hargrove. ‘Long-range mikes?’

  ‘We’ll have two guys on top of the office blocks overlooking the square, but I don’t hold out much hope. There’s a lot of noise out there.’ He pointed at the case. ‘That’s our best hope.’

  Shepherd clicked the twin combination locks and examined the interior. It was lined with a light brown fake suede material and had pockets for pens, business cards and a small calculator. He took out the calculator and examined it. There was nothing unusual about it. He put it back into its pocket, then inspected the exterior. It looked like an ordinary attaché case. ‘Okay, I give in,’ he said. ‘How does it work?’

  Singh grinned. ‘The batteries and transmitter are built into the body of the case, and there’s a recording chip in there as back-up in case we lose transmission. There’s no way anyone will find it, short of cutting the leather. There are two microphones, one in each lock. You set the combinations to nine-nineeight to open, nine-nine-nine to start transmitting.’

  ‘The three nines would be your idea, I guess,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘The whole gizmo’s my baby,’ said Singh.

  Shepherd closed the case and clicked the locks shut. ‘Nice piece of kit,’ he said.

  Singh beamed.

  ‘Anything on her?’ Shepherd asked Hargrove.

  ‘Not enough,’ said Hargrove. ‘We contacted the health club first thing this morning but the admin staff are away until Monday. I decided against calling the centre manager at home because there’s an outside chance that he might be a friend and I didn’t want to start raising red flags. We did a check on the electoral register for Angie and Angela, but without a surname or address it threw up hundreds of possibilities within twenty miles of the fitness centre.’

  ‘So I go in blind? I hate that.’ Usually when Shepherd went undercover he was fully briefed on his target. He had time to memorise photographs and background details and knew exactly who he was dealing with. But this time all he had was a name. Angie. And a brief description that Hendrickson had given him. Blonde, pretty, late twenties. A bit tarty, a bit flash. ‘No bra when she exercises, you know the sort,’ Hendrickson had said. Shepherd didn’t. He looked at his watch. ‘I said I’d be there at five and wait ten minutes.’

  ‘Did she sound serious?’ asked Hargrove. ‘I’d hate to think we’re on a wild goose chase.’

  ‘She sounded worried,’ said Shepherd. ‘Easily spooked.’

  ‘All we need is the offer,’ said Hargrove. ‘We can’t give it the full monty, like we did with Hendrickson. Sewell’s been on ice long enough. Just get the offer and tell her you need the money by Monday. The offer and the down-payment are all we’ll need. I’ll get her to roll over.’

  Shepherd let himself out of the rear door. Singh reached over and pulled it shut.

  Shepherd ran down the stairs to the ground floor and pushed open the double doors that led out of the building and on to a side-street. It was a warm afternoon but he’d told her he’d be wearing his leather jacket so he couldn’t take it off. The attaché case was in his right hand, the Financial Times in the left.

  The narrow street opened into Piccadilly Gardens. The flowerbeds were full of yellow and purple blooms. There was a hi-tech fountain to the left, small jets of water that leaped and curved through the air, then splashed into metal-lined holes in the ground. Half a dozen small children rushed around, trying to avoid the water but shrieking with pleasure each time they got drenched.

  Shepherd walked round the edge of the square towards the fountain. He looked at his watch. Five o’clock exactly. There was an empty wooden bench a dozen paces from the fountain and he sat down, swung the case on to his knees, and placed the newspaper on top. There was no point in scanning the crowds so he read through the paper’s headlines. Not that he cared a jot for the fate of the nation’s businesses. He had no shares, and only a few thousand pounds in his one and only bank account. When he had been in the SAS his salary had been the same as a regular paratrooper drew, and a police officer’s wasn’t much better. No one joined the military or the police to get rich.

  ‘Tony? Tony Nelson?’

  Shepherd looked up and squinted in the bright sunlight. He shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand. Slim. Blonde. Pretty. Cute upturned nose. Pale blue eyes. Naturally blonde hair, loose around her face. Lips that curved easily into a smile. ‘Angie?’

  The smile widened, but Shepherd could see nervousness in her eyes and the furrowing of her brow. ‘Shall we walk and talk?’ she suggested.

  ‘I’m okay here,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’m a bit restless, truth be told,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can sit still at the moment.’ She was wearing a loose-cut white linen jacket and Versace denim jeans, with high-heeled open-toe shoes and a Louis Vuitton shoulder-bag. There was a gold Rolex on her left wrist.

  ‘Okay.’ Shepherd opened the case, put the newspaper inside, and clicked the locks shut. He flicked the combinations to nine-nine-nine, then transferred the case to his left hand as he stood up. ‘We could go for a coffee, or something stronger.’ He wanted her inside, away from the noise of the traffic.

  ‘I’m driving,’ she said, ‘and caffeine’s the last thing I
want.’ She held out her left hand, palm downwards. It was trembling. Shepherd noted the large diamond engagement ring and the thick gold band on her wedding finger. ‘See?’

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be?’ she said. She glanced around, as if she feared that someone might be watching them. ‘Come on, let’s walk.’

  They moved away from the fountain. Shepherd kept the attaché case between them, but there was a lot of noise: children squealing, engines rumbling, couples arguing, two black teenagers break-dancing next to a boom box. Shepherd doubted that the hidden microphones would pick up much more than background sounds.

  ‘You’re not from Manchester, are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I move around a lot,’ said Shepherd. ‘It doesn’t pay to stay too long in one place, doing what I do.’

  ‘How much do you charge?’ she whispered.

  ‘Didn’t Hendrickson tell you?’

  ‘He just said you weren’t cheap. And you did what you were paid for.’

  ‘I’m not cheap,’ said Shepherd, ‘but for what you want, you don’t want cheap. You want it done right, without repercussions.’

  ‘He said you were professional.’

  ‘I am. Thirty thousand pounds. Half when you decide you want to go ahead. Half on completion.’

  She took a packet of Marlboro menthol out of her bag, put one between her lips and lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter, then offered one to Shepherd. He shook his head.

  ‘How do I know you won’t just take the fifteen thousand and disappear?’ she asked.

  ‘Because I’m a professional.’

  ‘So I have to trust you?’

  Shepherd stopped. ‘I didn’t come here to be insulted,’ he said. ‘I don’t know who you are or where you’re from. I’m the one taking things on trust here. For all I know you could be a cop.’

  ‘Do I look like the filth?’ She flicked ash on the ground.

  ‘Cops come in all shapes and sizes,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just because you’ve got a double-D cleavage and fuck-me high heels doesn’t mean you haven’t walked a beat.’

  ‘They’re Cs,’ she said, ‘and they’re real.’

  ‘I didn’t doubt it for a second,’ said Shepherd. ‘And so am I. Do you have thirty thousand pounds?’

  She smiled sarcastically. ‘Not on me, no, but I can get it.’ She started walking again. Shepherd caught her up.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When do you want it?’

  ‘The sooner you pay me, the sooner I can do the job.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘You give me the down-payment. We fix up a time and a place. You establish an alibi. I do the job. You pay me the rest of the money. We go our separate ways.’

  ‘No guilt? No recriminations?’

  ‘For me? Or for you?’

  Angie smiled tightly. ‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ she said. ‘I won’t lose a minute’s sleep, believe me.’

  ‘Hendrickson said he beats you.’

  She blew smoke at the sky. ‘And the rest.’

  ‘Why don’t you just go to the cops?’ said Shepherd. ‘They don’t look kindly on wife-beaters. When he’s locked away, you can get a divorce.’

  ‘You don’t know my husband,’ she said.

  ‘I’m going to have to, though. To get the job done I’ll need to know everything about him.’

  She blew more smoke at the sky, then stopped and looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘This is where the whole trust thing comes into play,’ she said. ‘Suppose I tell you, and suppose you decide you’ll make more money by talking to him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have lasted as long as I have if I’d gone around double-crossing clients,’ said Shepherd. ‘Word gets about.’

  ‘Can we talk hypothetically?’ she said.

  ‘I’d rather talk specifics,’ said Shepherd.

  She dropped what was left of her cigarette and stubbed it out with her toe. ‘This is such a bad idea,’ she muttered.

  Shepherd said nothing. The approach had to come from her. If he pressed her in any way he risked becoming an agent provocateur.

  She lit another cigarette. ‘They can kill you, those things,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘My husband smokes two packs a day and he’s as healthy as a horse,’ she said, and shivered.

  ‘How did you get so scared of him?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘It’s what he does,’ she said. ‘He scares people. He makes them so afraid of him that they do what he wants.’

  ‘And he scared you into marrying him, did he?’

  ‘He’s charming with it,’ she said. ‘He can charm the birds down from the bloody trees when he puts his mind to it. I didn’t realise then that sociopaths can turn on the charm at will.’ She took a long pull on the cigarette, then let the smoke seep slowly through her pursed lips. ‘Have you ever turned a job down?’

  ‘I’ve had people who couldn’t raise the money,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I meant, once you’ve found out who the target is, have you ever refused to go ahead?’

  ‘I don’t care who the target is,’ Shepherd said. ‘All I care about is getting paid. I’m not a vigilante. I don’t care why or who. Just when, where and how much.’

  ‘Have gun, will travel?’

  ‘I’m a professional. It’s what I do.’ Shepherd was replaying the conversation in his mind, trying to work out if he had enough. He was pretty sure he hadn’t. It was akin to nailing a prostitute. He needed Angie to tell him exactly what she wanted him to do, and how much she was prepared to pay him. And in an ideal world, he needed her to hand him an envelope full of cash. He looked at his watch.

  ‘Have you got somewhere else to go?’ asked Angie.

  ‘I get the feeling I’m wasting my time here,’ he said.

  Angie sighed. ‘I want him dead,’ she whispered.

  She had spoken so softly that Shepherd doubted the microphone had caught it. ‘And you’re prepared to pay me thirty grand to do it?’

  She opened her eyes, nodded and started walking again. Shepherd cursed inwardly and hurried after her. Whispers and nods wouldn’t count for anything in court.

  ‘Who is it you want me to kill?’ he asked, as he drew level with her.

  ‘I told you. My husband.’

  ‘I need his name, Angie.’

  ‘Charlie. Charlie Kerr.’

  ‘I’m going to need a photograph. You can give me one with the down-payment.’

  She nodded again.

  ‘You can get it?’

  Another nod. Shepherd gritted his teeth. The only proof of the conversation would be the recording, and so far, when it came to specifics, he had done all the talking.

  ‘Tell me about him,’ he said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘What he does, where he goes, how he spends his time.’

  She held the cigarette inches from her mouth and stared at the filter. It was smeared with lipstick. Her eyes remained fixed on it as she answered his question. ‘A gangster,’ she hissed. ‘He’s a fucking gangster.’

  ‘Literally?’

  ‘Literally. Drugs. Protection. He used to rob building societies, but that was way back when.’

  Shepherd ran the name through his mental database but drew a blank. It wasn’t a name he’d come across before. His memory was virtually perfect so if he’d so much as read the name in a file or heard it mentioned in conversation he would have remembered. ‘Where do you live?’

  Angie gave him their address. Hale Barnes. An affluent suburb of Manchester.

  ‘I guess he doesn’t have an office,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘He owns a nightclub in the north of the city, Aces. His little in-joke. Aces. AC’s – Angela and Charlie’s. Sweet, huh? Now he uses it to pick up a succession of teenage tramps. And he has the cheek to tell me that if he ever catches me with another guy he’ll break my legs.’

  ‘He’s there every night?’

  ‘He says he is. He tells me to call him on his mobile so he could be
anywhere.’

  ‘Any associates I should know about?’

  ‘Do you want a list?’

  ‘I need to know who’s likely to be in the vicinity. Does he have bodyguards, for instance?’

  She dropped the half-smoked cigarette and stamped on it as if she was stamping on her husband’s throat. ‘There’s Ray and Eddie. He sees more of them than he does of me, but I wouldn’t call them bodyguards. Eddie drives him around.’

  ‘Do they carry?’

  ‘Carry?’

  ‘Guns. Are they armed?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve never seen Charlie with a gun.’

  ‘You said he deals in drugs. What sort?’

  ‘He doesn’t deal, exactly. He imports. Cocaine, mainly.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘He never says. But we’ve a place in Spain and whenever we go to Morocco he disappears with the guys for hours at a time. He goes to Miami a couple of times a year and that’s business, he says.’ She took out the packet of Marlboro and toyed with it. ‘You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Now you know it’s Charlie Kerr, big-time gangster, I need taking out, you’re getting cold feet.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘I can see it in your face.’

  Shepherd looked at her, his face blank. ‘I’m not scared of your husband, no matter who he is.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were. I said you were having second thoughts. My husband’s a dangerous man. Not the sort you’d normally come across, I bet.’

  ‘I come across all sorts,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Angie. She stopped walking and stared at him. ‘So you’ll do it? You’ll kill him for thirty thousand pounds?’

  Shepherd held her look. Her eyes were burning with a fierce intensity and she was leaning towards him, so close he could smell her perfume.

  ‘Is that what you want?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, it is.’

  So that was it. Caught on tape. What she wanted doing and how much she was prepared to pay. Conspiracy to commit murder. Life imprisonment. The fact that she was young and pretty and had an abusive husband meant that she’d probably get away with seven years, maybe six. She’d still be pretty when she got out, just not as young. ‘I’ll need a number to call you,’he said.‘You blocked your mobile when you called me last time.’