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

by Stephen Leather

  The engine was running as he climbed into the CRV. Katra was already wearing her seatbelt. He fastened his. ‘Let’s go then,’ he said. ‘You can tell me the story of your life as you drive.’

  Wates rolled Hendrickson’s body over on the plastic sheeting. Kerr pointed to a severed toe. ‘You’ve missed a bit, lads,’ he said.

  Anderson picked it up, tossed it next to the body and grimaced. ‘What’s the story, boss?’ he asked.

  ‘Wait until it’s dark and bury it where it’ll never be found. If we knew where the partner was we could bury them together.’

  ‘What’s the plan about this Nelson guy?’

  ‘We’ll have a word in his shell-like. Find out what the score is.’

  ‘Can I say something, boss?’ Anderson looked pained.

  ‘What the hell’s crawled up your arse and died?’ said Kerr.

  ‘This is not a good idea, that’s all, you taking this personal.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Eddie, this guy was talking to my wife about putting a bullet in my head.’

  ‘I don’t mean him. I mean Nelson.’

  ‘I’ve got to find out what he’s up to. Angie’s given him fifteen grand and he’s not made a move, but he’s pissing around sending emails under a dead guy’s name. That’s a mystery and I hate mysteries.’

  ‘You’ve always said, right from the first time I started with you, that you never go near the gear or the money. You let Muppets take the risk, you take the reward.’

  ‘The Gospel according to Charlie Kerr,’ said Kerr.

  ‘Right, so why are you taking risks with this? What you did to Hendrickson, that was fair enough, he came to your house. But this Nelson, if you’re going to do something, why do it yourself? There’s guys who’d do it for you as a favour, you know that.’

  ‘Because this is personal, Eddie.’ Anderson still looked uncomfortable. Kerr patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’ll be easy-peasy,’ he said. ‘Angie’ll make a call to arrange a meet and when he turns up we’ll play Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? – he just won’t get to phone a friend.’

  Shepherd and Katra arrived in Hereford as the sun was dipping below the horizon. The traffic had been heavy, with holidaymakers heading to Wales for the weekend, and there had been long tail-backs. Shepherd had been impressed by Katra’s driving. She accelerated smoothly and used her mirrors constantly. He had felt relaxed with her at the wheel and knew he could trust her with Liam in the car.

  He gave her directions to Moira’s house, and on the way briefed her on what to expect from his in-laws. With the best will in the world Moira was certain to view Katra as an interloper and would probably give her a hard time. Tom would be more easy-going but he wouldn’t be comfortable with a stranger taking care of his grandson. ‘Just be yourself,’ concluded Shepherd. ‘They won’t be fooled by flattery. I tried that when I first met them.’ He shuddered at the memory. ‘Shot me down in flames.’

  He’d worn a suit and tie and smiled so much that his face had ached. He had seen the suspicion in Moira’s eyes as soon as he told them he served with the Special Air Service. There was constant friction between the Regiment and the locals, especially in the town’s drinking establishments. The SAS lads needed to blow off steam from time to time, and the local men weren’t happy that the town’s girls made a beeline for the super-fit, self-confident soldiers. Evidently Moira wasn’t going to allow Shepherd to take her beloved daughter without a fight, and her interrogation was as bad as anything he’d faced on his selection week.

  Her observations had echoed the views of Shepherd’s own parents when he had told them he wanted to drop out of university, although she had made her point more succinctly. Why would anybody give up a promising academic career for a job whose ultimate aim was to kill people?

  Shepherd had drunk a couple of glasses of Tom’s best whiskey and tried to explain that being in the SAS wasn’t about killing people, it was about being the best of the best. It was about testing yourself to breaking point, and defending your country, standing up against the bullies of the world be they terrorists or dictatorships. He never convinced Moira, but he won over Tom. And while they’d both been dubious about an SAS trooper courting their daughter, it was clear that they respected his honesty.

  Katra parked the CRV in front of Moira and Tom’s house and looked up at it. ‘It’s nice,’ she said. ‘Well cared-for.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s house-proud, is Moira,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘What shall I call her?’

  ‘Mrs Wintour,’ said Shepherd. ‘Her husband is Tom but you’d better call him Mr Wintour unless he says otherwise.’

  ‘And is it okay to call you Dan or shall I call you Mr Shepherd?’ she asked.

  Shepherd took his hand off the door handle. It was a good question. Moira would notice the informality if she used his first name, and it might be better to make it clear from the outset that Katra was an employee and not a family member. ‘Mr Shepherd’s a good idea, Katra,’ he said, ‘but only while they’re around. Everywhere else it’s Dan.’

  The front door opened as Shepherd reached for the bell. ‘Dad!’ Liam shouted. Shepherd picked him up and hugged him. Liam looked at Katra over his shoulder. ‘Who’s she?’ he asked.

  ‘Manners,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’m Katra,’ she said.

  ‘Are you my dad’s girlfriend?’

  ‘Liam!’ said Shepherd.

  Moira came down the hallway. ‘What’s this about a girlfriend?’ she said.

  ‘Liam’s overactive imagination,’ said Shepherd, putting his son down. ‘This is Katra. She’s an au pair.’

  ‘I thought you were getting a housekeeper,’ Moira said frostily.

  ‘Housekeeper, au pair, it’s pretty much the same, isn’t it?’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Wintour,’ Katra said.

  Moira shook her hand. ‘How old are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Katra’s twenty-two. Can we do this inside, Moira?’

  Moira sniffed pointedly.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Liam asked Katra, as they walked down the hallway towards the kitchen.

  ‘Portoroz,’ she said. ‘In Slovenia.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘It’s in Europe,’ she said. ‘Near Russia.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘We’re a quiet country,’ she said, smiling. They went into the kitchen.

  Moira closed the front door. ‘You said you were getting a housekeeper, Daniel. That girl looks barely old enough to take care of herself.’

  ‘She’s the oldest in her family and she practically raised her siblings single-handed,’said Shepherd.‘She won’t have any trouble with one eight-year-old boy.’

  ‘Totally unsuitable,’ she said, folding her arms.

  ‘Moira, she’ll be fine.’

  ‘When you said housekeeper, I imagined someonemore my age, with experience, someone reliable.’

  ‘She’s got references and I’ll make some checks of my own on Monday. Liam’s taken to her already.’

  ‘Liam doesn’t know any better. And what about food? What do they eat in Slovenia?’

  Shepherd started to laugh, but stopped when Moira’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sure she’ll cope with egg and chips,’ he said. ‘That’s still Liam’s favourite, isn’t it?’

  ‘Fine, if you won’t take me seriously,’ said Moira. She headed for the kitchen, and Shepherd followed her. He knew it wasn’t Katra personally that Moira was against: it was the idea of anyone other than herself taking care of Liam. He could have turned up with a fifty-year-old Cordon Bleu-trained Scot and Moira would have given her the cold shoulder.

  Liam was sitting with Tom at the kitchen table while Katra was spooning coffee into a cafetière. Liam was repeating something she’d said.

  Katra laughed. ‘No, you say “prav zadovoljen sem” because you’re a boy. I’m a girl so I say “prav zadovolna sem”. It’s only a small difference, but it’s important.’ She repeated ‘za
dovoljen’, stressing the final syllable.

  ‘Prav zadovoljen sem,’ Liam said, slowly and carefully.

  Katra clapped. ‘Well done! You sound like a Slovenian already.’

  Liam beamed. ‘Katra’s teaching me Slovenian,’ he said to Shepherd. ‘Prav zadovoljen sem,’ he said. ‘It means I’m happy.’

  ‘Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Let me do that,’ said Moira, reaching for the cafetière.

  ‘Let the girl be, Moira,’ said Tom. ‘Be nice for the two of us to be waited on for a change.’ Moira glared at him, clearly annoyed at what she saw as a betrayal. He put up his hands in surrender but grinned at Katra, which only made Moira angrier.

  ‘Tom, this is my kitchen, always has been and always will be,’ she said.

  ‘And no one keeps a better kitchen than you, my angel,’ said Tom, ‘but if Katra is going to look after Liam and Dan, we should at least let her show us what she can do.’

  Moira stood wringing her hands, then sat down at the table.

  Liam kept up a torrent of questions while Katra made the coffee. What was her family like? Where had she gone to school? How long would she be staying in England?

  ‘Maybe five years,’ said Katra.‘I want to earn enough money to start my own business and learn English.’

  ‘Your English seems pretty good to me already,’ said Tom.

  She poured the coffee and carried it over to the table, along with a jug of milk and the sugar bowl. She sat next to Shepherd and watched expectantly as they all sipped. Shepherd and Tom nodded approval, then looked at Moira. She shrugged. ‘Lovely, Katra. Thank you.’

  ‘How about we give Katra a trial run?’ said Shepherd. ‘She could cook dinner for us.’

  Moira’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh, no, I’m doing a roast. I’ve got everything planned.’

  Tom put a hand on her arm and gave it an encouraging squeeze. ‘It’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘It’d give you a night off. We could have a nice bottle of wine and let Katra get on with it.’

  ‘Go on, Gran,’ said Liam. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  Katra smiled. ‘I’d be happy to cook for you all,’ she said.

  ‘There you are, then,’ said Tom.

  Shepherd looked at his watch. ‘The lottery,’ he said. ‘I bought a ticket today.’ He fished it out of his wallet.

  ‘Daniel, really! The lottery’s nothing more than legalised gambling.’

  ‘It’s for good causes,’ said Shepherd. ‘Come on, you can check the numbers with me.’

  Moira glanced at Katra, who had opened the refrigerator and was checking the vegetables. ‘I’ll stay with Katra,’ she said, but Tom took her arm and eased her out of the kitchen.

  They went through to the sitting room and he switched on the television. Within five minutes the winning numbers were on the screen. Only two matched numbers that Shepherd had chosen. He scowled and tore his ticket in half.

  ‘Serves you right,’ said Moira primly.

  ‘I was going to give you half if I won,’ he teased.

  ‘I don’t believe that for a second,’ said Moira.

  ‘Well, you’ll never know now,’ he said.

  They watched television until eventually Liam appeared in the doorway. ‘It’s all ready,’ he said.

  Katra had prepared the kitchen table with silverware and napkins, and had placed two candles in the centre. There was a wooden basket filled with chunks of bread, and a bowl of sautéed potatoes that smelt strongly of garlic.

  ‘I did the potatoes,’ said Liam.

  Moira looked worriedly at the sink but gleaming pans were stacked on the draining-board and Katra had polished the stove until it shone.

  Katra opened the oven and took out a casserole dish.

  ‘I was going to roast the chicken,’ said Moira, ‘with stuffing.’

  ‘I know, but Liam said he wanted to try Slovenian food so I showed him how to make kurja obara. It’s a sort of chicken gumbo.’

  ‘It smells great, Gran,’ said Liam.

  ‘It’s a recipe from my aunt,’ said Katra, ‘with parsley and celery.’

  ‘You’re right, Liam – it does smell good,’ said Tom, sitting down and rubbing his hands.

  Katra placed a stainless-steel bowl full of steaming dumplings on the table. ‘Metini struklji,’ she said. ‘I took some mint from the garden,’ she told Moira. ‘I hope you don’t mind. The dumplings are traditional Slovenian food but not all English people like them and Liam said you liked sautéed potatoes so I did them as well. Except Liam cooked them.’

  ‘You told me what to do,’ said Liam. ‘She’s a great cook, isn’t she, Grandma?’

  Moira looked at Liam for several seconds, then she smiled. ‘Yes, she is,’ she said. She patted Katra’s arm. ‘It looks lovely, dear. And if it tastes half as good as it smells I think my husband will be fighting to keep you here!’

  Katra blushed and giggled. She sat down and served Moira first, then heaped spoonfuls of the chicken on to the plates in front of Shepherd, Tom and Liam. When she’d helped herself, she reached over and took Moira’s hand. ‘Perhaps I could say a grace,’ she said.

  Moira nodded enthusiastically. ‘That would be wonderful,’ she said, and gave Shepherd a meaningful look.

  Shepherd smiled but didn’t rise to the bait. The fact that he had no religious leanings was one of the many reasons his mother-in-law had thought him an unsuitable husband for Sue. They had been married in Tom and Moira’s church in Hereford but he had had to bite his tongue during their pep talks with the local vicar. He had seen and been through too much to believe in God.

  Moira took Liam’s hand and Shepherd took the other. They all bowed their heads as Katra prayed. When she raised her head she said, ‘I hope you all enjoy it.’

  They did. Several times during the meal Shepherd caught Moira looking wistfully at Katra. He knew what she was thinking. Katra was physically different from Sue, but her smile and laugh were similar. Liam seemed to have picked up on it, albeit subconsciously. He behaved as if he had known her for years. When the meal was over he helped her clear the table and wash up.

  ‘What do you think, Moira?’ asked Shepherd, as they went back through to the sitting room for coffee.

  ‘She’ll do, I suppose,’ she said grudgingly, but Shepherd knew that Katra had won her over, big-time.

  The explosives came into the country with some hand-carved furniture that had been ordered by a minor diplomat who was related by marriage to the Saudi royal family. The consignment carried diplomatic privilege and wasn’t even looked at by Customs. It wouldn’t have mattered even if they had inspected the container because the explosives were so well hidden they would never have found them. The furniture was taken to the diplomat’s five-bedroomed house in Mayfair where the Saudi used an electric saw to reduce a mahogany chest to firewood. In the process he retrieved forty plastic-wrapped packages of Semtex. It had been manufactured by the Czechs and shipped to Libya. A Libyan captain with two expensive mistresses had smuggled twenty kilos of it out of his barracks and sold it to a Palestinian, who paid in brand new hundred-dollar bills and took the explosives overland to Saudi Arabia, hidden in a false compartment in a four-wheel drive.

  The Saudi already had the detonators. They had been brought into the country by a pilot with Emirates Airlines, hidden in a false compartment of his flight case. The pilot was sympathetic to the aims of the Saudi and his compatriots. He was a Palestinian and two of his teenage cousins had been killed by the Israelis for not stopping quickly enough at a roadblock. The boys were unarmed, just children, and the Israelis hadn’t even offered an apology.

  The Saudi was able to buy the rest of the equipment he needed in London. Wire, digital alarm clocks, electrical switches, batteries and a soldering iron. The four vests were tight-fitting with ten pockets, each pocket a perfect fit for one of the packages of Semtex. He sewed the vests by hand, pricking his fingers so often that they were spotted with his blood.

  He
unwrapped the plastic packages, then used Sellotape to wrap dozens of two-inch nails around each block of explosive and placed them in the pockets. The explosions would be devastating but the shrapnel would do most damage.

  He tested the electrical circuits on his dining-table, using flashlight bulbs in place of the detonators. Each vest had three detonators, all connected to one electrical switch. Pressing the electrical switch connected the detonators to the battery. Three was overkill, the Saudi knew, but the detonators couldn’t be tested in advance.

  A second circuit ran parallel to the first. It connected the battery to the detonators via a digital alarm clock. Irrespective of whether the electrical switch was activated, the clock would close the second circuit at two minutes past five p.m. The men had been told to trigger their devices at five p.m. If they failed to do so, the bombs would detonate of their own accord. The men would not be told of the secondary circuit.

  It was standard operating procedure, the Saudi knew. Most of the hijackers in the planes that had been flown into New York’s World Trade Center had not been told the true nature of their mission. Only the pilots had known. Until the last few seconds the majority of the hijackers had thought that they would be landing at JFK airport and the hostages held until America agreed to al-Qaeda’s terms. As far as the Saudi’s men in London were concerned, they would be the ones in control. They would decide if and when to press the switch. But the Saudi knew that the human element was the weak link in any operation. If the men were captured or injured they might not be able to press their switches. If they had a change of heart, the clock circuit would take over and override the switch mechanism. It was a necessary subterfuge, the Saudi knew. The operation was more important than the operatives.

  Shepherd let Katra drive the CRV back to London. Liam wanted to sit in the front but hadn’t argued when Shepherd insisted that he was in the back. He wanted to learn more Slovenian words and Katra taught him a couple of songs. When they got back to Ealing he was singing on his own and could count up to twenty.