Spider Shepherd 10 - True Colours

by Leather, Stephen

  Smith walked Harper to the front door and hugged him again before showing him out. Another heavy had joined Jelly on the doorstep and they both watched as T-Bone and Harper walked over to T-Bone’s black Porsche SUV. ‘Nice motor,’ said Harper. T-Bone climbed in and Harper joined him. ‘I’m thinking of getting a Bentley. The convertible.’

  Harper laughed. ‘A black man in a Bentley? Why don’t you just draw a target on your back?’

  ‘They pull me over whatever I’m driving,’ said T-Bone, starting the engine. ‘But they never find nothing.’ He waved over at the two men outside the house and they nodded back. T-Bone drove to Streatham and parked in front of a row of six brick-built lock-up garages with metal doors and corrugated iron roofs in an alley a short distance from the town centre. He switched off the engine and the two men climbed out of the SUV and looked around. There was the hum of traffic in the distance but other than that it was quite. There was half a moon overhead but there were no street lights and it took Harper’s eyes a while to get accustomed to the dark. T-Bone opened the back of the Porsche and took out a large black Magnalite torch. He switched it on but kept it pointing at the ground as he walked over to one of the lock-ups in the middle of the row. He pulled a set of keys from his Puffa jacket, selected one and used it to unlock the door. It went up and over but T-Bone raised it only a few feet before ducking under and waving at Harper to follow him.

  There were four metal trunks lined up in the middle of the lock-up and a stack of wooden packing cases against the far wall. There was a cloying, damp smell mixed with an acrid tang that suggested an animal had been using the place as a toilet.

  ‘Pull the door down,’ said T-Bone.

  ‘You’re not going to rape me, are you?’ asked Harper.

  ‘With your straggly white arse? You couldn’t be farther from being my type if you’d been on a plane for twelve hours,’ said T-Bone. ‘Now stop pissing around and pull the door down so I can switch the light on.’

  Harper did as he was told and once the door hit the ground T-Bone flicked a switch and a solitary fluorescent light flickered into life. He switched off the torch and slid it into his pocket. ‘So what do you need, Harpic?’

  ‘A couple of revolvers,’ said Harper. ‘Russian would be good. And if you really wanted to make my day, I’d love a couple of Makarovs. Failing that a revolver, but again I’d prefer Russian.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Harpic, when did you get so fussy?’

  ‘It’s a special situation. Can do?’

  T-Bone frowned and shook his head. ‘Sorry. I don’t have any Makarovs. I do have a few Russian pistols but they’re semi-automatics.’

  ‘Nah, I need revolvers.’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of Colt KingCobras.’

  ‘How long are the barrels?’

  ‘Six inches.’

  Harper pulled a face. ‘I’m looking for something to easily pull out of a pocket.’

  T-Bone nodded. ‘I’ve got some very nice Smith & Wessons, the Five Hundred short barrel. Four-inch barrel, only holds five rounds but it packs one hell of a punch. Five-hundred calibre, weighs almost three pounds.’

  ‘That’s heavy,’ said Harper.

  ‘Yeah, well, like I said, it packs a punch.’

  ‘Maybe something a bit more traditional.’

  T-Bone nodded and bent over one of the trunks. He released two catches and opened the lid to reveal several dozen packages in see-through Ziploc plastic bags. ‘How about a Smith & Wesson Model 629?’ he said, rooting through the packages. ‘It’s a .44 Magnum. It only holds six rounds but it has a three-inch barrel.’ He passed a package over to Harper and straightened up with a grunt. ‘I’ve got some Model 627s as well. They take eight rounds but the barrel is an inch longer.’

  Harper unzipped the bag and took out the gun. It was wrapped in oiled cloth and looked brand new. ‘It weighs forty-two ounces,’ said T-Bone. ‘You won’t get much lighter than that, not without losing a lot of stopping power.’

  Harper weighed the gun in his palm. ‘This feels OK,’ he said. He looked down the sights and then flicked the cylinder open and closed. ‘Yeah, I like this. You’ve got two?’

  T-Bone bent down, rooted through a package and pulled one out. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Price?’

  ‘A grand and a half.’

  ‘For the pair?’

  ‘Each.’

  ‘Three grand?’

  ‘Maths is clearly your strong suit, yeah?’

  ‘Three grand for two guns?’

  ‘They’re mint. Never been fired. They were stolen from a gun shop in LA last year. Absolutely untraceable. Take them away for three grand and if you don’t fire them I’ll pay you fifteen hundred to take them back.’

  ‘Rounds?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A box’ll be fine.’

  ‘Box of twenty? You can have that for free. We got a deal?’

  Harper nodded. ‘Yeah, we’ve got a deal.’ He put down the gun and took a envelope from the inside pocket of his parka. He rippled his finger over the fifty-pound notes it contained until he had counted out sixty of them. He handed them over to T-Bone. ‘I need something else, ammo-wise,’ he said. ‘I need rounds for a Makarov.’

  ‘You’ve got a thing for Russian guns?’ said T-Bone, pocketing the cash.

  ‘For this particular gun, yeah. I just need a box of ammo.’

  ‘Small gun, right? Nine-mill?’ He closed the lid of the trunk and opened another. It was full of boxes of ammunition.

  ‘It’s more complicated than that,’ said Harper. ‘They talk about the Makarov being a nine-millimetre but the round is actually 9.22. The Russkies did that deliberately so the NATO forces couldn’t use captured Soviet ammunition.’

  ‘Smart.’ T-Bone picked up a box of shells and tossed them to Harper.

  ‘Paranoid, more like. Plus it meant they wouldn’t be able to use any ammo they took from NATO soldiers. So six of one, really.’

  ‘But what you’re saying is that it needs special ammo?’ He closed the lid of the trunk.

  ‘Yeah. Have you got any?’

  T-Bone shook his head. ‘Nah, but I can probably get some. Let me make a call.’

  He took out his flashlight and switched it on, then switched off the fluorescent light. Harper pulled the door up and they both slipped underneath it and out into the alley. T-Bone locked the door. ‘You get in the car,’ he said to Harper. ‘I’ll make that call.’

  T-Bone drove to Shepherd’s Bush. The Porsche’s satnav told them that they were arriving at their destination and Harper shook his head in disgust. ‘You’ve got to be careful with those things, T-Bone,’ he said. ‘The cops can use them to find out wherever you’ve been.’ They were heading for a supermarket with a large car park. The supermarket was open twenty-four hours a day but it was almost eleven o’clock and there were only a few cars there.

  ‘Don’t see how else I’d have found this place, it’s well out of my comfort zone,’ said T-Bone.

  ‘I’m just saying, it stores every location you’ve ever been to and the route you used.’ He gestured at the screen. ‘And here’s the thing, it does that even if it’s switched off.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ growled T-Bone.

  ‘I kid you not. You think the thing’s off but it’s not. And it’s all in there. Same as your mobile. Switching it off makes no difference. And the spooks, man, they can listen in to a phone even when it’s off.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says me, and I know people. People who know. The only way to silence a phone is to take out the battery. It used to be that you could get away with just changing SIM cards, but now it’s the phone itself they use. Once they’ve got the IMEI number, they’ve got you.’

  ‘IMEI?’

  ‘International Mobile Station Equipment Identity. Every phone has one. You can check yours by tapping in star hash zero six hash. Now in the good old days they tracked the IMSI number which is stored on the SIM. But now they go af
ter the IMEI. And like I said, switching off the phone doesn’t help.’

  ‘So what do you do, Harpic?’

  ‘Me? I buy cheap phones and chuck them every couple of weeks.’

  They saw a grey Range Rover parked at the far end of the supermarket car park with its lights off. ‘That’s them,’ said T-Bone.

  ‘They’ve come all the way out here for a box of ammo?’

  ‘We do a lot of business with them and I’m due a favour or two,’ said T-Bone. He brought the car to a halt about fifty feet away from the Range Rover.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  T-Bone laughed. ‘It’s on me,’ he said. ‘I overcharged you on the guns.’ He switched off his lights.

  ‘I know,’ said Harper. ‘But as I was paying with counterfeit notes, I figured what the hell.’

  T-Bone’s hand was halfway inside his Puffa jacket when he realised that Harper was joking. ‘You stay here. They’re not great with new faces.’ T-Bone climbed out of the SUV, flexed his shoulders, and walked slowly and purposefully over to the Range Rover.

  Harper looked around. A young woman walked out of the store pushing a trolley laden with carrier bags. A bearded old man in a cheap cloth coat and a piece of rope for a belt spoke to her, presumably asking for a handout, but she hurried past. A white van pulled into the car park and stopped in a handicapped space. The fat man in blue overalls who climbed out of the van didn’t appear to have any disabilities as he strode into the supermarket.

  Harper looked back at the Range Rover. T-Bone was still walking slowly towards it, his hands swinging freely, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching like those of a cowboy preparing for a fast draw. For the first time the vulnerability of his situation struck home. He was in someone else’s car, in a place he wasn’t familiar with, while a drug-dealing gangster walked towards a car full of people he didn’t know who were almost certainly armed. Harper trusted T-Bone but he didn’t know the men in the Range Rover. Plus T-Bone had three thousand pounds in his pocket. Harper fumbled one of the packages out of his pocket. He unzipped the plastic bag and unwrapped the cloth to reveal the chromed revolver. The box of rounds was in his inside pocket and he pulled it open. The box was sealed and he used his teeth to rip off the plastic wrapping before pulling it open. He flicked out the cylinder and quickly slotted in six rounds. He clicked the cylinder back into place and slid the box back into his inside pocket. He sat with the gun between his legs, his finger outside the trigger guard, as he watched T-Bone walk up to the Range Rover. The window wound down and Harper tensed. His brain went into overdrive as he breathed slowly and evenly, his mind running through all the options. T-Bone had left the keys in the Porsche so if push came to shove he could jump over into the driving seat and drive off. But T-Bone was a friend, and a good one, so if it did all turn to shit Harper would have no choice other than to get out of the car and start shooting. And he was all too aware of how few rounds he had in the revolver. Six shots were more than enough to put down a man, but they wouldn’t be much use against a sturdy vehicle like a Range Rover.

  The cocaine he’d taken with Smith still had all his senses in overdrive and he took slow, deep breaths to steady himself as he watched T-Bone take out a handful of banknotes and hand them through the front passenger window of the Range Rover. Harper tensed. If it was going to happen it was going to happen now. His right hand tightened on the gun and his left reached over for the door handle. He’d already decided what he was going to do – if they shot T-Bone he’d be out of the car before his friend hit the ground, two quick shots at the driver through the windscreen as he walked towards the car and then he’d have to play it by ear, making each of the remaining four shots count. The gun began to tremble between his legs and he took another deep breath.

  T-Bone’s hand reappeared, this time holding a small box. Harper caught a flash of white teeth and then T-Bone nodded and turned back to the Porsche. After a few steps the Range Rover’s lights came on full beam, blinding Harper. He flinched and turned away, expecting a hail of bullets, but they never came. The headlights dipped and the Range Rover edged towards the exit.

  Harper shoved the gun in his pocket as T-Bone pulled open the door and slid into the driving seat. He slammed the door shut and tossed the box of Russian cartridges into Harper’s lap. He looked down at the footwell and saw the scraps of plastic from the ammunition box. ‘You OK, Harpic?’

  ‘All good, T-Bone,’ said Harper.

  ‘You don’t need to be paranoid all the time. There are some good people out there.’ The Range Rover blipped its horn and turned into the main road.

  ‘Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me,’ said Harper, pulling up the hood and settling back in his seat.

  Shepherd’s mobile rang and he groped around for it. He was lying on his sofa watching an old Van Damme movie on Sky. Van Damme was undercover but no one seemed to care that he had a Belgian accent or a very dodgy haircut. Shepherd squinted at the phone’s display but the number was being withheld. ‘Yeah?’ he said.

  ‘It’s me,’ said a voice. Lex Harper.

  ‘Hello, you.’

  ‘I need to see you.’

  ‘Bloody hell, it’s almost midnight.’

  ‘I’ve got something for you. Can’t have them hanging around my place, there’s some very shady characters staying there.’

  ‘I’ve got to be up at six.’

  ‘You’re way past the stage of needing your beauty sleep. It’ll only take a few minutes.’

  ‘No offence, mate, but I’m not over the moon about you popping around to the flat late at night. Once was OK but it’s not cool to make a habit of it. I’ve got neighbours and there’s a little old lady opposite who’s big with the Neighbourhood Watch.’

  ‘No problem. I can meet you on the Heath.’

  ‘At this time of night? They’ll think we’re cottaging.’

  ‘I’ll see you at Preacher’s Hill,’ said Harper. ‘It’s well away from Jack Straw’s Castle so no cottaging there. I’m here now and there’s no sign of George Michael. Put on your running gear and pop over. And don’t forget your rucksack full of bricks.’

  Harper ended the call. Shepherd groaned and rolled off the sofa. He was wearing a polo shirt and jeans so he quickly changed into an old sweatshirt and baggy tracksuit bottoms and pulled on the old pair of trainers. His rucksack was still in Hereford but he had a small Nike backpack in his bedroom and he put that on before heading out. Preacher’s Hill was just a few minutes from his flat, a small triangular section of woodland separated from the main Heath by East Heath Road.

  Harper was already sitting on a bench, not far from a children’s playground, smoking a cigarette, his face obscured by the hood of his parka. Shepherd sat down next to him. ‘Yeah, this is good, two men sitting by a kiddies’ playground, that won’t attract attention,’ he said.

  ‘It’s midnight, all the kids are safe home in bed,’ said Harper. ‘Anyway, this won’t take long. Take your bag off.’ He flicked ash on to the path.

  Shepherd took off the bag and unzipped it. Harper took a furtive look around then slid his hand into his right pocket and took out a plastic bag. He gave it to Shepherd, who shoved it into the backpack. Harper took another package from his left pocket and that too went inside the backpack.

  ‘What are they?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Smith & Wesson 629s, they’re .44 Magnums.’

  ‘Six in the chamber,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Yeah, but six Magnums. Hit a guy in the arm and the arm comes off. One head shot and there’s nothing else.’

  ‘Bloody loud, too.’

  ‘Spider, mate, will you stop looking a gift horse in the mouth. There’s three grand’s worth of chrome in there.’ He looked around again before reaching into his inside pocket and pulling out two boxes of ammunition. ‘Four-fours for the Magnums, and rounds for the Makarovs.’

  Shepherd slid the boxes into the backpack and zipped it up.

  ‘W
hen are we going to do it?’ asked Harper.

  ‘We need to have a sit-down with Jimbo and Jock.’

  ‘Sure, but you and me are pulling the trigger, right? We’ve got more invested in this.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘There’s no “guess so” about it,’ hissed Harper. ‘Three of my muckers died out there, shot in the back. And he killed Captain Todd right in front of you.’

  ‘I know, but Jimbo and Jock are involved.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s the difference between the pig and the chicken.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Breakfast, mate. Eggs and bacon. The chicken’s involved but the pig’s committed. I’m committed to this. And I think you are too, right?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced.’ Harper leant forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his left hand cupping his right. His cigarette smouldered and the smoke made Shepherd’s eyes water. ‘We have to do this, you know that?’

  ‘I’m not disputing that. He shot me, remember? Damn near killed me. But we have to do this right.’

  Harper took a long pull on his cigarette and blew a tight plume of smoke across the grass. ‘Have you done anything like this before?’

  Shepherd took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘In cold blood?’

  ‘It’s never in cold blood. But shot someone when they weren’t a direct threat? Yes. I’ve done that.’

  ‘And we’re not talking about sniping?’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘No. More recent.’ He sat back and folded his arms, a physical manifestation of how uncomfortable the conversation was making him feel. ‘But in a way, this is like sniping. If I’d had Khan in my sights back in Afghanistan, I’d have pulled the trigger and thought nothing of it. Half the kills I had in Afghanistan weren’t a direct threat to me. Most of them wouldn’t even have known what hit them. What we’re going to do is payback. It’s as if I pulled the trigger back in 2002, it’s just that the bullet has taken more than a decade to arrive.’