Hard Landing

by Stephen Leather

  'Mummy, I can't get my bag.'

  'What?' A black cab braked in front of her. Sue pounded on her horn then pulled round it. The driver scowled at her as she drove by.

  'My bag, Mummy, it's on the floor.'

  Sue glanced over her shoulder. Liam's backpack had fallen off the seat and he was reaching for it.

  'Leave it, we're nearly there,' said Sue, blipping the accelerator and crossing a traffic light as it turned red.

  'I want my book!' whined Liam. Sue heard him unclip his seat-belt.

  She glared at him in the rear-view mirror. 'Just behave, will you?' she shouted. 'Do that seat-belt up now!'

  'I want my bag.'

  'Seat-belt. Now!'

  Liam muttered under his breath but did as he was told.

  'You can get it when we stop,' said Sue.

  'I want it now.'

  Another set of lights turned amber. Sue's foot instinctively pressed on the accelerator but she realised she'd be cutting it too close so she braked instead, so hard that the seat-belt cut into her shoulder.

  'Ow!' squealed Liam. 'That hurt.'

  Sue unclipped her seat-belt and twisted round to reach for the backpack. It was heavy with books and sports equipment and she felt a stab of pain in her back and swore.

  'What's wrong, Mummy?' asked Liam.

  'Nothing,' said Sue. She grunted as she heaved the bag on to the seat next to Liam. A car behind her sounded its horn. 'All right, all right,' she muttered.

  She turned back, put the car in gear and stamped on the accelerator. It was only as the car leaped forward that she saw the lights were still red against her. She swore and took her foot off the accelerator. Then saw the truck, and time seemed to stop as if all her senses were in overdrive. It was a Tesco truck, white with the supermarket's logo across the side. She could see the driver, his mouth open, his eyes fearful and staring. He had a shaved head and was wearing wire-framed spectacles. The horn of the car behind her was still beeping. But not beeping at her, not telling her that the lights had changed. She could see the sky overhead, pure blue and cloudless. She could hear Liam screaming. Then time speeded up as she stamped on the brakes and swung the steering-wheel hard to the right. It was too late and she knew she was going to hit the truck - and hit it hard. She wanted to turn round and tell Liam she was sorry for shouting at him, sorry for swearing, sorry for what was about to happen, but there was no time. She screamed as the car ploughed into the side of the truck.

  Shepherd waited until after dinner before he went down to use the phone. He'd changed into his prison-issue trackshirt and was carrying a blue prison towel. As he headed down the stairs Lloyd-Davies called, 'Macdonald, gym list!'

  'I just want to make a phone call, ma'am,' Shepherd shouted. 'Won't be a minute.'

  'If you're not right back we go without you,' said Lloyd-Davies.

  Shepherd passed Digger on the stairs. He was wearing a Nike tracksuit and spotless white trainers. He glared, and muttered something under his breath that Shepherd didn't catch.

  One of the phones was being used by Simon Hitchcock but the second was free. Shepherd tapped in his pin number, and then Uncle Richard's. His call was short and to the point. He said he wanted his Walkman to be sent in. As soon as possible. He replaced the receiver. He knew he was taking a risk, but it was a calculated one. Carpenter had opened up to him, and his offer to pass a message to the outside was a huge step forward. Shepherd was ready to take advantage of it. Carpenter had as good as admitted that he was being helped on the inside. Shepherd's next step was to try to get him to talk about his plan to kill Sandy Roper. If he could get Carpenter talking about it on tape then he'd stay behind bars for the foreseeable future, no matter what happened to the drugs charges. The downside? Shepherd didn't want to think about it. He just wanted to be on the out. With his wife and son.

  As he walked up to the gym group Gerald Carpenter smiled at Lloyd-Davies. 'Sorry I'm late, ma'am,' he said. He was wearing shorts and a Reebok sweatshirt, and carrying his towel and a bottle of Highland Spring.

  'You're not the last,' said Lloyd-Davies, ticking off his name on her clipboard.

  Digger was standing by the barred gate doing stretching exercises. He nodded at Carpenter, who went over and stood next to him. 'How's Needles?' he asked.

  'All cut up,' said Digger. He grinned at his own joke.

  'He'll be okay, yeah?'

  'The cuts were tramlines, almost impossible to stitch. He's going to have to lie in bed for a couple of weeks.'

  'Do you know why Bunton went for him?'

  Digger looked at Carpenter. He was still smiling but his eyes were hard.

  'What?' asked Carpenter innocently.

  'Don't fuck me around, Gerry. You know as well as I do what went down.'

  'I heard that Bunton laid into Needles with a shiv and that Needles gave as good as he got.'

  Digger chuckled, but his eyes had narrowed to slits.

  Carpenter held up his hands. 'Fine, whatever.'

  'Nothing happens in this houseblock without you knowing,' said Digger, 'and mostly it happens because you say it happens.'

  'You saying that I put Needles in hospital?' asked Carpenter.

  'No profit in you doing that,' said Digger, 'but you know as well as me that it was Macdonald done the dirty deed.'

  'Anyone see him?'

  'He was seen going in and he was seen coming out. Did anyone see him cut Needles? No. But I don't need no calculator to add two and two.'

  Carpenter leaned on the rail. Down below, Macdonald was walking away from the phones. 'It ends here and now,' he said quietly.

  'Needles isn't going to be on his back for ever,' said Digger. 'And he's going to come after Macdonald, big-time.'

  'Didn't you hear what I just said? I said it ends now. You tell Needles that if he moves against Macdonald, I'll destroy his life, inside and outside.'

  'Is Macdonald your man now? Is that it?'

  'If he was, that'd be my business, not yours,' said Carpenter. 'But it's nothing to do with him working for me. It's to do with wanting a quiet life. You do what you have to do to keep Needles quiet, okay?'

  'Okay,' said Digger.

  'I mean it, Digger,' said Carpenter. 'I'm holding you responsible.'

  'I hear you.'

  Carpenter patted Digger on the back. 'Tell him, I'll take care of any expenses. And I'll put a couple of grand his mother's way, too.'

  'He'll appreciate that,' said Digger.

  'Come on, let's go and burn off some of that excess energy.'

  Shepherd upped the speed on the treadmill. On the outside he tried to run at least five kilometres a day, ideally on grass, and he was determined to take full advantage of whatever gym time Lloyd-Davies could get for him.

  There were more than two dozen prisoners in the gym. Most of the West Indians had gathered at the weights area where Digger was holding court. A prison officer watched them from the balcony with a look of disdain. Carpenter was on a bike, his legs pumping furiously. The machine next to him was unoccupied, but Shepherd didn't want to seem too eager to approach him. Carpenter's routine never varied. He did thirty minutes' running on the treadmill, ten minutes on bike, and whatever time was left he spent on one of the multi-gyms. The only variation came on the multi-gym when he'd work either his arms or his legs. He never went near the weights area, and he rarely spoke to anyone. He never had to ask for a piece of equipment to be vacated: prisoners always moved away as soon as he approached. He'd acknowledge them with a tight smile and a nod, but never a word of thanks, accepting the deference as his right.

  Shepherd upped the speed of the treadmill and increased the incline. His calf muscles burned but he ignored the pain. He fixed his eyes on the wall and concentrated on maintaining his rhythm. A couple of minutes before Carpenter was due to finish cycling, Shepherd got off the treadmill and went over to one of the multi-gyms. He was working on his pecs when Carpenter came over. He got off and nodded for Carpenter to take his place.
r />   'Can I ask you something, Gerry?' said Macdonald, as Carpenter pulled the metal bar down to his chest.

  'What?' Carpenter grunted.

  'It's just that you're smarter than the average bear, right, so why are you inside?'

  'I was set up. Undercover cops. Got me on conspiracy.'

  'Bastards.'

  'I was so bloody careful. Followed the golden rules. Never went near the drugs. Never went near the money. Never wrote anything down.'

  'What - nothing? Not even phone numbers and stuff?'

  'Especially phone numbers. Never write them down, never store them in your phone's memory.'

  'Yeah, but I can't remember my own, never mind anyone else's,' lied Shepherd. His memory, of course, was infallible. 'If it wasn't for the phone book in my mobile, I'd never be able to call anyone.'

  'Recipe for bloody disaster. You know the cops can access them whenever they want?'

  'If they get hold of the phone, you mean?'

  'Nah, that's the point. They don't need it. They can access all the info on the Sim card over the airwaves. Every number you've called, every number that's called you, every number in the phone book.'

  'Bloody hell,' said Shepherd. It was old news to him. Getting access to a suspect's phone records was one of the first things the police did when they had a target under surveillance. All they needed was the number and the technical boys did the rest.

  'I've known half a dozen guys go down because of info on their phones,' said Carpenter. 'They're a liability. Stick to landlines or throwaway mobiles, and never write anything down.'

  'That's what I was asking,' said Shepherd. 'How do you remember everything? Is it a photographic memory?'

  Carpenter stopped working on his arms and wiped his neck with his towel. 'It's a technique,' he said. 'Anyone can do it. You have to remember images instead of numbers. Say the first digit is five. You represent it with a five-letter word. Like tiger. Then say the next digit is three. Use dog for that. So you have a tiger, followed by a dog. Easy to remember, right? Five then three. You just do that for every number.'

  The technique made sense, and Shepherd could see how an image would be easier to remember than a string of numbers. It wasn't the way his own memory worked - he simply remembered the numbers.

  'How many numbers have you remembered that way?' Shepherd asked.

  'Couple of hundred. It's virtually foolproof.'

  'And what about bank-account numbers and stuff? It works for that?'

  Carpenter looked at him and for a moment Shepherd thought he'd pushed it too far. He shrugged. 'Just interested, that's all. I have to write down all my pin numbers and I'm buggered if I know my bank-account number.' The lie came easily. He had spent several months being coached by actors and psychologists before he'd gone on his first undercover operation and he knew how to mask the tell-tale signs of dishonesty.

  'What the hell? It's not as if it's a secret,' said Carpenter. He started working his arms again. 'Memory experts do it all the time. You know pi, right? From school. The circumference of a circle divided by whatever. The number never ends.'

  'Sure.'

  'Well, there's a guy in Tokyo who can rattle off the value of pi to more than forty-two thousand places.'

  'Sounds like he should get a life,' said Shepherd.

  'Macdonald!'

  Shepherd turned his head. It was Hamilton, standing at the door to the gym. 'Stop nattering,' Hamilton shouted, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. 'Your brief's here.'

  Shepherd walked away from the multi-gym, frowning. 'Have I got time to change, Mr Hamilton?' he asked.

  'He's waiting for you,' said Hamilton, 'and I've got work to do.' He waved at the officer on the balcony. 'Macdonald's brief is here,' he shouted. 'I'll take him back to the wing when he's done.'

  The prison officer flashed Hamilton a thumbs-up but his face remained impassive.

  Shepherd followed Hamilton out of the gym. When they reached the administration block, the officer showed him into one of the private interview rooms. Hargrove was sitting behind the Formica table and stood up awkwardly. Shepherd could tell that something was wrong.

  'Press the bell when you're done,' Hamilton said to Hargrove.

  Shepherd wondered what had happened. His first thought was that the operation had been blown and that he was about to be pulled out, but if that was the case there'd be no need for a conversation in the interview room. His second thought was that Hargrove was there to tell him Roper had been killed. The superintendent's face was like granite and he was avoiding Shepherd's eyes.

  It was when Hargrove asked him to sit down that Shepherd realised he was there for personal reasons and that could only mean Sue or Liam. 'What is it?' he asked. 'What's happened?'

  'Sit down, please,' said Hargrove, folding his arms across his chest.

  'What's happened?' repeated Shepherd, his voice shaking. 'Is it Liam?'

  Hargrove put his hands up, fingers splayed, and when he spoke it was with the measured tones that a trainer might use to calm a restless horse. 'There's no easy way to say this, Spider. It's Sue. There's been an accident. She's dead.'

  Shepherd stared at Hargrove, unable to say anything. He felt light-headed, as if all the blood had drained out of his brain. He wanted to tell Hargrove that there must have been a mistake, that there was no way Sue could be dead.

  'I'm sorry, Spider. I'm so, so sorry.'

  Shepherd's mouth was bone dry. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. It was Hamilton, watching from one of the observation windows. He sat down and put his hands on the table, palms down.

  Hargrove sat opposite him. 'It was a car accident. She died instantly, Spider. It was nothing to do with Carpenter.'

  Shepherd put his head into his hands, clenched his fists and pulled at his hair, wanting to feel the pain, trying to use it to blot out the reality of Sue's death. Images flashed through his mind. The first time he'd set eyes on her, walking down the main street in Hereford, one of half a dozen girls out on the town. She was wearing a bright yellow dress, cut low to show lots of cleavage, the hemline mid-thigh, a thin gold chain and crucifix round her neck, a cheap plastic watch on her left wrist, a gold charm bracelet on the right. The bracelet had belonged to her grandmother.

  Shepherd had been with three of his friends from 22 SAS and they'd stopped and chatted with the girls. Shepherd hadn't been able to take his eyes off Sue. She'd had a couple of drinks and kept insisting that she'd never go out with a soldier, that she knew what they were like, how they broke hearts wherever they went. She'd walked away and called for her friends to follow her, but Shepherd had hurried after her and begged her to go for a drink with him. He could remember every word of their first conversation in the snug of a smoky pub. How she hated her job, how her boss had body-odour, how she was bored with Hereford and how she wanted more than anything else to travel the world. How she didn't want kids because kids only held you back, and wanted to live her life to the full before she thought about settling down. They'd married six months later in a small stone church on the outskirts of Hereford and Liam had been born the following year. She'd never got to travel the world. Then, images of the last time he had seen her flashed through his mind. 'I hate you!' she'd shouted. 'I hope I never see you again, ever! You can rot in here for all I care!' and she'd dragged Liam out of the visitors' room. The last thing she'd said to him was that she hated him. She hadn't meant it, it had been a lie, but the words had hurt then and the hurt was a million times worse now. Now that she was dead.

  'Spider?'

  Shepherd opened his eyes. 'How's Liam?'

  'He's fine.'

  'Where is he?'

  'Sue's mum's taking care of him.'

  'I've got to see him.'

  'Absolutely. We're arranging it as we speak.'

  Shepherd pushed back his chair and stood up. 'Now,' he repeated. 'I want to see him now.'

  'Spider, sit down and listen to what I have to say.'

  'It's over,' said S
hepherd firmly. 'This operation is over. My son needs me. I'm out of here.'

  'Hear me out,' said Hargrove. 'Listen to what I've got to say and then we'll get things sorted.'

  Shepherd glared at him, then slowly sat down.

  'Liam is with Sue's mum, and he's fine. He was wearing his seat-belt, Sue wasn't.'

  'He was there when she died?' asked Shepherd. 'For God's sake, what the hell happened?'

  'She was taking him to school. Jumped a red light. Hit a truck. It was an accident, pure and simple.'

  'Sue always wore her seat-belt,' said Shepherd. 'She had a thing about it. Wouldn't even start the car if everyone wasn't buckled up.'

  'The front of the car went under the truck, Liam was in the back. The emergency services were there within minutes. He was shaken but physically he's fine.'

  'Oh, Christ,' said Shepherd, putting his head in his hands again. 'He saw what happened? He saw her die?'

  'He was in shock, Spider. He doesn't remember the accident.'

  'He's blocking it out. He needs me.'

  'No question. And we're going to take you to see him. Soon as we can arrange it.'

  Shepherd leaned back in his chair. Hamilton had walked away from the observation window. 'Sue's mum came down from Hereford?'

  'The Regiment sent a helicopter. You've still got friends there.'

  Even a career policeman like Hargrove wouldn't understand the bond that linked the men of the Special Air Service, Shepherd thought. Once you joined the Regiment you were part of it for ever, and it remained a part of you. It was a bond as strong as blood. Stronger, sometimes. Walking away from the SAS had been the hardest thing Shepherd had ever done, but he'd done it for Sue.

  'She's moved into your house, and we've fixed up a psychiatrist to talk to Liam.'

  'He doesn't need a psychiatrist,' said Shepherd. 'I'll talk to him.'