‘I’m sorted,’ said Shepherd. ‘I had some over from an undercover operation I was on a year ago. Untraceable.’
The Major nodded. ‘Once you’ve used it, remove the bolt, the barrel and the magazine, wreck them and lose them. Make sure you screw up the inside of the barrel with a file, then cut it into pieces so it can’t be used again. If it can’t be test-fired it can never be identified.’ He pointed at the case. ‘In there is a replacement bolt, barrel and magazine for the .45 ACP. Reassemble the UMP in the .45 configuration and get it back to me. No one will ever know.’
Shepherd put it into the boot of his Audi.
‘You’re going to take that on the ferry to Belfast?’ asked the Major.
‘I’ll take it apart and hide it under the back seat,’ said Shepherd. ‘But they never check, anyway. And if they do, my SOCA credentials should get me through.’
‘You need anything, you call me,’ said the Major.
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Shepherd.
Shepherd climbed into his car, waved at the Major and drove off.
Gannon watched him go. ‘I wish I had your confidence, Spider,’ he murmured.
Shepherd arrived in Belfast at just after seven that evening. Customs had waved him through. He drove the Audi into the garage, switched on the light and pulled down the door.
He took the UMP from its hiding place under the back seat of the car, stripped and reassembled it, then checked the firing mechanism. He ejected the magazine and loaded it with the ninemillimetre rounds he’d taken from his house in Hereford. He unlocked the door that led from the garage to the kitchen, went upstairs and slid the weapon under his bed.
As he sat down in front of the television, the doorbell rang. Elaine, in camouflage cargo pants and a yellow T-shirt, was on the step, holding a bottle of white wine. ‘Drink?’ she said.
Shepherd got a corkscrew and two glasses from the kitchen, then poured the wine. ‘To neighbours,’ he said, as he sat beside her.
‘Neighbours,’ she said. ‘So, where have you been the last couple of days?’
‘Manchester,’ he said. ‘Couple of clients wanted meetings so I took the ferry over.’
‘See? You’re getting into the ferry thing, aren’t you?’
‘It’s easier to have the car with me,’ said Shepherd, ‘and it cuts out the hassle of security checks. The airports are such a pain. The last time I flew I had to take my shoes, belt and jacket off, and I still got patted down. Do I look dangerous to you?’
Elaine smiled suggestively. ‘Define dangerous.’ She put down her glass and kissed him. Shepherd kissed her back, then stood up and switched off the lights. He lit two candles in the fireplace, then switched off the power at the sockets for the television and DVD player. He didn’t want Singh or Button listening in.
‘You are a smoothie, aren’t you, Jamie?’
‘I look better in candlelight,’ said Shepherd.
‘Because of your scar?’
‘What scar?’
‘Jamie, I’ve seen you naked, remember? The scar on your shoulder. It looks like a gunshot wound.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
She kissed him on the lips, slipping her hand around his neck. When she released him she smiled at him with amused eyes. ‘Who would want to shoot a nice guy like you?’ she asked.
There had been no military service in the Jamie Pierce legend, but Elaine seeing him naked hadn’t been part of the plan. He had to think on his feet, which was always dangerous. ‘It was another life,’ he said. ‘I was in the army.’
‘No way.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Shepherd. ‘Infantry, but I was trained as an electrician. Thought I was learning a trade. Then Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait and I was packed off with a gun and a prayer. I got hit by a sniper and that was the end of my soldiering.’
‘It looks bad.’
‘It wasn’t, but the doctors who treated me weren’t that hot.’
‘You never said you were in the army.’
‘I don’t talk about it much,’ said Shepherd.
Elaine stroked the back of his head. ‘What was it like, getting shot?’
‘I don’t remember much about it,’ he said. That was a lie. He still had nightmares about the dull thump of the bullet slamming into his shoulder, the crunch as he’d hit the ground, the wetness of the blood that seeped from the gaping wound into his shirt as he lay on the sand.
‘My hero,’ she said.
‘There’s nothing heroic about getting shot,’ he said. Instantly he regretted what he’d said. ‘Elaine, I’m sorry …’
‘It’s okay.’
‘What happened to me doesn’t compare with what happened to your husband.’
‘Jamie, it’s okay,’ she said, and kissed him again, harder this time.
Shepherd woke to find Elaine propped up on her pillow, looking down at him and smiling. ‘You snore,’ she said.
‘I’ve been told that before.’
She leant over to kiss him. ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I’ve got clients to see in Bangor.’
‘Dinner tonight? I’ll cook.’
‘I’ll be back late,’ she said. ‘Raincheck?’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
She slid out of bed and pulled on her clothes. ‘I’m going to London the day after tomorrow for a financial-services exhibition. Earls Court.’
‘Driving?’
‘Of course. I’ll probably go down to Dublin and across to Holyhead.’
‘For long?’
‘A few days. Why? Will you miss me?’ She tickled him.
Shepherd pushed her away and grinned. ‘Of course I will.’
He waited until he heard her leave, then reached for his mobile and phoned Button. ‘We have a problem,’ he said. ‘Elaine’s heading for London the day after tomorrow. She says she’s got a conference or something at Earls Court. Financial services.’
‘Now, that is interesting,’ said Button. ‘It’s either a hell of a coincidence or she’s going after Kinsella. How would she know where he is, though?’
‘Maplethorpe told her the Kinsellas are in London. And she’s got a lot of friends in the Intelligence Branch. I don’t think she’d find it too difficult to get his location. Look, I had a thought. I should go with her.’
‘Sure – but what reason would you have for going to London at short notice?’
‘I’m sure we could think of something. What’s the story with Kinsella?’
‘Under wraps,’ said Button. ‘Hotel near Hyde Park.’
‘How do we play this?’
‘Let’s see what she does when she gets to London.’
‘You still think it’s her?’ asked Shepherd.
‘I’m keeping an open mind,’ said Button. ‘You?’
‘I really don’t think she’s a killer,’ said Shepherd.
‘You’re not too close, are you, Spider?’
Shepherd cut the connection.
Shepherd’s doorbell rang. He groaned and went to the bedroom window. He couldn’t see who it was and there was no car parked outside. He pulled on a towelling robe and went downstairs.
Elaine looked as if she’d just got out of bed. ‘My car’s been stolen,’ she said.
‘You’re kidding!’
She ran a hand through her unkempt hair. ‘Jamie, if I wanted to wake you with a joke, I’d have thought of something better than that. Did you hear anything last night?’
‘Nah, and I was up until one. Have you called the cops?’
‘They’ll send someone round, they said. But what can they do?’
‘Keep an eye out for it, I guess.’
‘If it’s joyriders they’ll have set fire to it by now, and if it was stolen for parts it’ll have been stripped. Either way I doubt I’ll get it back in one piece. Bastards.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Elaine smiled. ‘You’re always apologising for things that aren’t your fault.’
He held the door open for h
er. ‘Come on, I’ll make you a coffee.’
Elaine went through to the kitchen. ‘Can I have one of your cigarettes?’
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd, switching on the kettle.
Elaine sat down and lit a Marlboro. ‘I am so screwed,’ she said.
‘And not in a good way, I suppose,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m supposed to be driving to London tomorrow. Now I’ll have to hire a car. If they’ll let me take it to the mainland.’
‘Why don’t I drive you?’ asked Shepherd.
She blew smoke up at the ceiling. ‘That doesn’t make sense, Jamie.’
‘It makes perfect sense. There’s a couple of guys I need to see in London. I was going to fly next week but I could bring the meetings forward. I’ll drive you tomorrow.’
‘Where would you stay?’
‘I’ll go to a hotel. You?’
‘My sister. Are you sure about this?’
Shepherd made coffee. ‘It’ll be fun, a road trip. You’ve already booked your ticket, right? Just change the car registration number on it and we’re sorted.’
‘You’re such a sweetie.’
Shepherd grinned. ‘That’s what my mum says.’
‘Okay, but we share the driving.’
They drank coffee and smoked for half an hour, then Elaine went home. Shepherd phoned Button. ‘Were you listening?’ he asked.
‘Every word,’ she said.
‘She loves her car, you know.’
‘We’ll get it back for her – assuming she isn’t a serial killer, of course.’
‘I’ll go through her bags first chance I get. If she has her husband’s gun, we’ll know for sure. What about you? Will you go to London?’
‘Sure. I’ll set up surveillance on her sister’s house. I’ll take a morning flight and be there before you.’
Shepherd ended the call, then took his personal mobile into the garden, called Martin O’Brien and told him Button was flying to London. O’Brien confirmed that he’d be at Heathrow to keep tabs on her.
As Shepherd turned back to the house, his eyes strayed up to Elaine’s attic. He wondered if she was up there, taking the rounds from the trunk, preparing to kill Kinsella. Was she capable of cold-blooded murder? Could she shoot a man in the knees and the back of the head, then act as if it had never happened?
Elaine rang Shepherd’s doorbell at just before six in the morning. It was a two-hour drive to Dublin, which would give them plenty of time to catch the high-speed ferry to Holyhead. She was wearing a black blazer over a dark blue dress and carrying a large Louis Vuitton bag and her briefcase. ‘Ready?’ she said brightly.
‘I’m all packed and ready to go,’ he said. ‘I left my car in the garage in case the joyriders were on the rampage again.’ He took her bag. ‘I’ll put it in the boot for you. The kettle’s just boiled so why don’t you make us both a coffee?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said.
‘I’ll take your briefcase, too, yeah?’
‘I’ll keep it with me,’ she said. ‘It’s got my mobile and cigarettes in it.’
They went into the kitchen together and Shepherd opened the door to the garage. He closed it behind him, then opened the car boot and put Elaine’s bag next to his hard-shelled suitcase. He took a deep breath and slowly unzipped the bag. On the top were two magazines, then a toiletries bag. Shepherd opened it and peered inside – toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, moisturiser, hairbrush. There was a Prada leather case containing cosmetics, neatly folded underwear, silk pyjamas, two shirts, a pair of jeans and a pullover. Shepherd groped around in the bottom.
The door opened. He pulled his hand from the bag and closed the boot, heart racing. ‘Toast?’ asked Elaine.
‘Just coffee, please,’ said Shepherd.
‘It’s ready,’ she said. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Just a last-minute check,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to forget anything.’ She pulled the door to but didn’t close it. Shepherd couldn’t risk searching the bag any further. He opened the boot again, zipped up the bag, then slammed the boot.
Elaine gave him his coffee as he went back into the kitchen. She had put her briefcase on the floor by the table. She offered him a cigarette, and as they smoked and drank their coffee, she seemed totally at ease, laughing, smiling and flirting with him. Shepherd found it impossible to believe she could be so relaxed if she was going to London to shoot Noel Kinsella. He remembered Stockmann’s words, that a true sociopath could fake all emotions. Was Elaine Carter a sociopath?
‘Penny for them?’ said Elaine.
Shepherd realised he hadn’t been listening to her. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘You were miles away, Jamie.’
‘Sorry. Just getting my head straight.’ He smiled. ‘I’m not really a morning person.’ He hated it when she called him Jamie. It was a reminder that everything she thought she knew about him was a lie. She had made love to him, she had shared her innermost thoughts with him, but in return he had done nothing but lie to her.
There was little traffic on the motorway to Dublin, and theirs was one of the first cars on to the Stena Line ferry, which was packed. Elaine and Shepherd found two seats at the rear of the boat. Shepherd wanted to go back down and search Elaine’s bag and briefcase but passengers weren’t allowed on the vehicle deck while the ferry was at sea. He had his SOCA identification in a hidden compartment in his wallet but he wasn’t sure that the ferry staff would know what it was. His police warrant card had always been accepted without question, but SOCA was a relatively new agency and, more often than not, his credentials were met with frowns and head-scratching. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention to himself so he made small-talk as the ferry powered across the Irish Sea.
Martin O’Brien looked over the top of the Evening Standard. He had already seen two British Midland flights arrive and there had been no sign of Charlotte Button on either. She was not on the third, either. It had been twenty minutes since the flight had landed and Button never flew with checked-in luggage. He took out his mobile to phone Shepherd when someone tapped his shoulder. He whirled round. The woman herself, with a Samsonite carry-on case, was at his side, smiling. O’Brien’s heart sank.
‘Hello, Martin,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You look like you’ve lost weight.’
‘I’m training for the Marathon des Sables,’ he said.
‘People die running that race, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘You be careful.’
‘I will.’
‘And following me is part of your training, is it?’
O’Brien smiled ruefully. He knew there was no point in lying. ‘You’re good,’ he said.
‘Yes, Martin, I am. So are you. How long have you been on my case?’
‘Not long.’
‘But you’ve had someone else in Belfast, right?’
‘A few pals of mine from the Ranger Wing have been helping me out.’
‘Tall man with curly hair and a Tag diving watch? And a heavyset fellow with a limp?’
‘Diving accident a few years back,’ said O’Brien. ‘They were that obvious, were they?’
‘Actually, they were damned good. And I only spotted the two. Most of the time I had no idea where they were. Are you here alone?’
O’Brien jerked a thumb at the exit. ‘I’ve a driver outside. Black cab.’
‘Am I right in thinking that Spider’s behind this?’
O’Brien looked pained.
‘Special forces’ code of silence? I hardly think you’ve developed a crush so I assume someone’s asked you to keep an eye on me. The common link between us is Spider.’
‘You ought to be a detective,’ said O’Brien.
Button ignored his attempt at sarcasm. ‘So the question I need answering, Martin, is why did he want you tailing me? Why is he suddenly interested in my comings and goings?’
‘It was more a case of protecting you than tailing you,’ he said.
‘Protecting me
from what?’
‘He thought someone might want to hurt you.’
‘Spit it out, Martin. We’re both big boys and I don’t have all day.’
O’Brien sighed. ‘He said there was a contract out on you. Some raghead. Hassan Salih, a Palestinian. He didn’t know what the guy looked like, he just had the name.’
‘This Palestinian, is he the one offering the contract or the killer?’
‘He was the hitman. He didn’t say who put up the contract.’
Button nodded thoughtfully. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Well, as of now you’re off the case. I don’t need minding and Spider should know that by now. There’s nothing I can say that’ll stop you phoning him thirty seconds after I’ve walked out of here, so all I’ll ask is that you tell him you’re rumbled and that if I find anyone else on my tail he can look for employment elsewhere. Are we clear?’
‘Crystal,’ said O’Brien.
‘Excellent,’ said Button. ‘So, I’ll wish you good day and good luck with your run in the desert. I did the Marathon des Sables in my gap year. Drink plenty of water, and pop any blisters with a sterilised needle.’ She gave him a final tight smile and walked away, her high heels clicking on the hard floor.
As soon as she had left the terminal building, O’Brien rang Shepherd’s number. His call went to voicemail but he decided not to leave a detailed message – it would be better to give him the bad news in person. ‘Spider, call me.’ As he put the phone away he saw Button through the terminal window. She gave him a thumbs-up and climbed into a taxi.
About two hours outside London, Shepherd told Elaine that he needed the washroom and pulled into a service station. Elaine said she wanted to buy cigarettes so she headed for the shop. Shepherd had listened to O’Brien’s brief message as he had driven off the ferry in Holyhead but hadn’t wanted to call him while Elaine was in the car. As soon as he went into the men’s room he punched in O’Brien’s number.
A sales representative had taken off his jacket and tie and was shaving with a disposable razor, a leather attaché case at his feet. He nodded at Shepherd and carried on. O’Brien answered. ‘Martin, hey. What’s up?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Good news, bad news,’ said O’Brien.
Dead Men: The Fifth Spider Shepherd Thriller Page 32