‘Screw that. I’d rather have a pay rise,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can’t spend a commendation.’
‘You short?’ asked Sutherland.
‘Who isn’t, these days?’
‘I can bung you a few quid until you’re sorted.’
‘Cheers, Mike, but I need more than that.’ He leaned closer to Sutherland and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘That thirty grand would have come in handy.’
‘What thirty grand?’
‘In the pizza place. The drugs money. There was thirty grand in that bag.’
Sutherland looked stunned. ‘Fuck me, Stu, don’t even say that as a joke.’
‘Come on, it’s drugs money. What’s going to happen to it? Unless the Drugs Squad can make a case against the guys running the pizza place, they get the money back. How sick is that?’
‘So crime pays. What’s new?’
‘I’m just saying, I could do a lot with thirty grand.’
‘I think we should drop it, mate. Walls have ears, right?’
Shepherd shrugged carelessly. ‘Okay, forget I said anything. What happened to the guy I took over from? What was his name? Hornby?’
‘Ormsby. Andy Ormsby. Good guy.’
‘Did he move on to better things?’
Sutherland shifted in his seat and took several gulps of his lager. Shepherd tried to appear relaxed. It was a reasonable question and he waited to see what Sutherland would say.
‘Bit of a mystery,’ said Sutherland, eventually. ‘He just went.’
‘Walked off the job?’
‘Just went. No one knows what happened. Some say it was girl trouble, some say he had a nervous breakdown. You know the stress that comes with the job. He was quite young.’
‘Couldn’t take the pressure?’
‘I guess.’
‘But he was in your vehicle, right? Didn’t you see the signs?’
‘You a psychiatrist now?’
‘You can tell when someone’s not handling the pressure – you don’t need a degree in psychology to spot the signs. Short temper, loss of appetite, nail-biting, all the usual clichés.’
‘He was a good guy,’ said Sutherland.
‘Yeah, you said. You don’t think there’ll be a problem, me stepping into his shoes?’
‘It’s not like you pushed him out of his job, is it?’
‘Yeah, I know, but some guys are a tough act to follow.’
‘You carry on like today and no one’ll have any problems with you,’ said Sutherland. ‘You’re a bloody hero, you are.’
Shepherd didn’t feel like a hero. He felt like a man who was being friendly to a fellow police officer so that he could betray him. He felt like a rat.
Rose dropped his kit-bag by the kitchen door, went over to the sink and drank from the cold tap.
‘That’s disgusting,’ said his wife, coming up behind him.
Rose straightened and wiped the back of his mouth with his hand.
‘Sorry, love.’
‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘Celebrating.’
‘You drove like that?’
‘Three pints, love. It’s not a crime.’
Tracey folded her arms. She was wearing her pink dressing-gown but it had fallen open at the front and he could see she was naked underneath. ‘Actually, it is a crime. And you know that.’
Rose held out his arms. ‘It was a one-off. Two big jobs today and we came out covered in glory.’
‘I saw the Houses of Parliament thing on the news. Those men were lucky they weren’t shot.’
‘Give me a hug,’ said Rose.
‘I can smell you from here.’
‘Ditto,’ said Rose. He stepped forward and took her in his arms. She slipped her arms round his neck and he kissed her.
‘You were a hero, were you?’ she said, as she broke away.
‘My guys were,’ said Rose. ‘How’s Kelly?’
Tracey’s lips tightened. ‘She didn’t eat much. And she says her back hurts. I just wish I could take the pain away.’
‘I’m working on it,’ said Rose.
‘It’s so bloody unfair. She’s only seven – she hasn’t even started her life. It should be me lying up there. I’d die happy knowing she was okay.’
Rose pressed his face into her long, dark hair. He knew exactly how his wife felt. When Kelly had first been ill he’d knelt at the side of her bed and promised God anything if He’d just spare his daughter. But his prayers had been ignored, and as his daughter’s health had deteriorated he’d lost faith in God. ‘I’ll get it sorted. I promise.’
Tracey hugged him and Rose kissed her neck. ‘I’ll just check my emails, and then I’ll see you in bed,’ he whispered.
Tracey pinched him. ‘You’ll shower first and clean your teeth,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring you up some cocoa.’
Rose went upstairs and crept into Kelly’s room. His daughter was lying on her back, her mouth open. For a few seconds she was totally still and Rose’s heart pounded as he waited for her to breathe. When she did, the quilt barely moved. Rose checked the drip, then sat on the edge of the bed. The local hospital had said it was okay for Kelly to be at home – a tacit admission that there was nothing else they could do for her. She’d get gradually weaker until one day they’d take her back into hospital, the intensive-care unit with its paintings of teddy bears and balloons, the smell of bleach and death, and they’d wait for the end.
Rose took his daughter’s hand and pressed it to his cheek. ‘It’s not going to come to that, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Daddy’s going to make it better.’
He kissed her forehead, then went along the hallway to the boxroom he used as a study. He sat down at his computer and switched it on, twiddling a Biro as he waited for the machine to boot up. He scanned the emails in his inbox and saw one from the surgeon in Chicago. He had a slot in three weeks’ time and wanted to know if Rose could get Kelly to America by then. He specialised in tumours of the spine and had pioneered a new treatment that used chemotherapy to shrink the tumour, then laser surgery. The chemotherapy was experimental but had been successful in more than eighty per cent of cases, and the computer-controlled laser would destroy the tumour without damaging the spinal cord. Rose had discovered the doctor on the Internet and had already sent him the NHS X-rays and reports. Unlike the doctors in the UK, the Chicago surgeon was optimistic that he could save Kelly. He couldn’t make any promises, but he stood by his eighty per cent success rate. However, his expertise didn’t come cheap and the NHS had refused to pay.
Rose checked his bank account online. He had a little over fifteen thousand pounds in his savings account, a few hundred in his current account. His drugs money was wrapped in polythene bags and tucked away behind the water tank in the attic. A hundred thousand euros.
He looked at the figures he’d jotted on the notepad. Getting Kelly to Chicago, paying for the treatment and the surgery, then the month’s recuperation and monitoring, was going to cost a minimum of two hundred thousand dollars. And that was if there were no complications. He tapped on his calculator, converting the currencies. He was about sixty thousand pounds short. He was close, so damn close. They’d bought the house just six months before Kelly had fallen ill so he only owned about twenty thousand pounds’ worth of it. If he sold he’d lose a big chunk of that in estate agent and legal fees. He’d already asked the bank to increase his mortgage but they’d turned him down, even when he’d explained why he needed the money.
Rose sat back in his chair. There was no way round it. He needed a big score. Forty grand was the minimum, but to make sure Kelly got the shot she deserved he’d want a hundred grand. He chewed the ballpoint pen. A hundred wasn’t impossible. He just needed a plan.
He sent an email to the surgeon, telling him to expect Kelly in three weeks.
Shepherd let himself into the house and went upstairs. Liam was asleep. Shepherd kissed him and tucked the quilt under his chin. He went across to his own bathroom where he showered an
d changed into a clean pullover and jeans. Then he went down to the kitchen and made himself a mug of black coffee. He was okay to drive – he’d drunk less than a pint. In one of the kitchen cupboards he had a stack of pay-as-you-go Sim cards. He took one out and slotted it into one of his spare mobiles, a fairly new Nokia, then stored the number in one of his own mobiles.
He went back upstairs and knocked on Katra’s door. She didn’t answer and he knocked again, louder this time. He heard her get out of bed and the door opened. She looked at him bleary-eyed. ‘Is Liam okay?’
Shepherd was touched by her concern and realised once more that he’d made the right choice in hiring her.
‘He’s fine,’ he said, ‘but I have to go to Manchester tonight. I won’t be here when he wakes up.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ she said. She brushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘Drive carefully.’
‘I will,’ said Shepherd. He winked. ‘Thanks.’ He gave her the mobile and told her there was a charger in the kitchen. ‘So I can call you while I’m out,’ he explained.
He went downstairs, finished his coffee, then went out to the Toyota.
Angie Kerr lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her husband was beside her, snoring softly. She felt like crying but she knew that if she did he would wake and hurt her. He’d raped her again before he fell asleep. He’d put his hands round her throat as he came and she had seen the hatred in his eyes.
He was going to kill her, she was sure of it. It was just a question of when. He’d dragged her down to the wine cellar and shown her what he’d done to Larry – he’d pushed her down so that her face was only inches from the plastic-wrapped corpse. ‘See what happens to anyone who crosses me,’ he’d hissed. ‘See what you made me do? This is down to you.’
He’d kept her in the house all day. Anderson had driven him away first thing in the morning, then returned an hour and a half later. He and Wates had followed her around the house, standing guard outside the bedroom door when she went to lie down, sitting at the kitchen table while she made them coffee. She’d tried to go down to the shops but Anderson had said no, Charlie didn’t want her to go out. She knew there was no point in trying to press the point. Charlie’s word was law.
Anderson had gone out at four o’clock and returned with Charlie, who had brought a box with him. He didn’t tell her where he’d been. He’d ordered pizza and made her eat two slices, even though she wasn’t hungry. They’d sat in the main dining room, underneath the chandeliers he’d imported from Italy, and he’d opened a bottle of Dom Pérignon, made her match him drink for drink. Afterwards they’d watched TV while Wates and Anderson stayed in the kitchen. At just after ten, he’d ordered her to phone Nelson. He’d told her what to say and had stood by her while she made the call. Then he’d taken her upstairs and raped her.
Angie rolled over and pulled her knees to her stomach. He’d killed Larry, he was going to kill Nelson and then he’d kill her. There was nothing she could do, no one she could turn to for help. Even if she could get to the police, what could she tell them? That her husband had gone on the rampage because she’d hired a hitman to kill him? Besides, he always boasted that he had the police in his pocket. He’d once taken her out for dinner with a chief inspector and his wife, followed by a night’s drinking in the VIP section of Aces. Twenty grand a year he paid the man, Charlie had said. Brown envelopes every few months. Charlie said he paid off half a dozen cops regularly and that, as far as the law was concerned, he was untouchable. Angie didn’t know who she could trust. Any cop she spoke to might be on Charlie’s payroll. The tears ran down her cheeks and she bit her lip hard so that she made no sound.
Shepherd had four hours’ sleep before the alarm woke him at eight thirty. He made a call to Hargrove to check that everything was geared up for the surveillance. Hargrove told him he’d arranged for New Scotland Yard’s personnel department to call SO19 and tell them Stuart Marsden had to report for a medical that morning; he wasn’t expected at Leman Street until late afternoon.
Shepherd changed into Tony Nelson’s clothes, drank two cups of black coffee, then went into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. He was a hired killer. A man who took lives for money. A man with no conscience. He ran through his legend, checking and cross-checking all the information he’d given Angie. One mistake could ruin everything.
The Volvo was where he’d left it in the underground car park. He did a quick check of the cameras and transmitters, then drove to Altrincham and parked in the corner of the supermarket furthest from the entrance. The blue Transit van was already in place. Shepherd switched off his engine. ‘Sound check,’ he said.
The Transit’s lights flashed once. Shepherd settled back in his seat. The clock in the dashboard said 8:55. He put on his black leather gloves.
A couple of dozen other vehicles were in the car park. Shepherd couldn’t see where the armed police were but he knew they’d be close by. They’d make it look as real as possible, moving in with guns and shouts, and he’d be dragged out of the car and thrown face down on the ground. They probably wouldn’t have been told that Shepherd was a cop. The fewer people who knew he was undercover, the better. He’d be taken into custody, then Hargrove would make sure he was released quietly while the CPS put together a deal with Angie.
He saw Angie’s Jaguar enter the car park and drive slowly towards him. Shepherd took a deep breath. It was the end phase of the operation. He only had to be in Tony Nelson’s skin for a few more minutes. He’d be glad to leave the character behind.
Angie saw the grey Volvo at the far end of the car park. Tony Nelson was sitting with his hands on the steering-wheel. She drove slowly towards him, parked and got out of her Jaguar. Charlie had told her to get into Nelson’s car and plant the transmitter under the seat. She knew what he would do to her if she let him down.
She grabbed the door handle and slid into the passenger seat. Nelson looked as calm as ever, jaw set tight, eyes like flint. He was the opposite of Charlie, who wore his emotions on his face: when he was angry his cheeks flushed and his lips vanished into slits. When he was happy he grinned from ear to ear. Nelson’s face was a blank mask. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘For coming.’
‘You said you had his movements for me.’
‘Yes. That’s right.’ She opened her handbag, took out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Nelson.
Nelson looked at it.
Charlie had told her what to write. It showed that he was in London and would be returning the next day. That he would be at a football match on Wednesday night, and having dinner with her on Thursday. Friday he was going to be at Aces.
‘Can I smoke?’
‘Sure,’ said Nelson.
Angie took out her cigarettes and lighter. She fumbled with her bag and the contents spilled into Nelson’s lap. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Nelson grabbed for the bag but a perfume spray, breath mints and a comb tumbled on to the floor. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. He bent down and picked up the items. Angie slipped her left hand into her jacket pocket and pulled out the transmitter her husband had given her. She lowered her hand between the door and the seat and flicked the metal cylinder sideways.
Nelson straightened and handed her her things. She thanked him, lit a cigarette and offered him one. He shook his head. ‘You’ve never smoked?’ she asked.
‘It’s a drug, the nicotine,’ he said. ‘I don’t have an addictive personality.’
‘Do you have any personality at all?’ she asked quickly.
Nelson raised an eyebrow. ‘Is something on your mind, Angie?’
She looked out of the side window. Charlie had said he would be close by, listening to everything she said. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was there. ‘When will you do it?’ she asked, still looking out of the window.
‘Wednesday maybe. Or Friday, if you’re not going to the club. I’ll call you in advance to give you a chance to get your alibi fixed. The casino�
�s still the best bet. So make sure your mobile’s on.’
Sweat was beading on Angie’s forehead. She took out a tissue and dabbed herself with it.
‘You’re going to have to relax,’ said Nelson. ‘At some point the police are going to talk to you.’
‘I’ll be okay.’
‘You’d better be because they’ll be looking for signs that there’s anything fishy.’
‘Even with my alibi?’
‘The cops aren’t stupid,’ said Nelson, ‘but if you keep calm, they’ll have to believe you.’
Angie took a deep breath. She couldn’t go to the police because she didn’t know if she could trust them. But Nelson was a hired gun, whose sole motivation was money. Provided she paid him enough, she could trust him.
‘Do you have a gun, Tony?’
‘Of course I’ve got a gun.’
‘I mean now? In the car?’
‘Why?’
Angie took a long pull on her cigarette. Charlie was listening so she had only one chance, and she needed an immediate answer from Nelson. They’d have to drive – and drive fast. She’d throw the transmitter out of the car and they’d have to leave Manchester. But how much money would a man like Nelson need to become her protector? Five hundred pounds a day? A thousand? The only money she had was in joint accounts and it wouldn’t take Charlie long to close them. And he would cancel her credit cards. She had her watch and her jewellery, but once those were gone she’d have nothing. What could she offer him? He hadn’t shown the slightest interest in her as a woman. She was a client, nothing more. The only thing he’d ever expressed an interest in was her money.
A white van drove into the car park and headed towards them. Angie opened the passenger side window and blew smoke out of the car. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘It doesn’t bother me,’ said Nelson. He was looking at the white van. He put his gloved hands back on the steering-wheel.
‘I keep trying to give up, but sometimes I just need a smoke, you know?’
Soft Target: The Second Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Page 26