‘Why does morality have to come into it?’ asked Shepherd. ‘As I said, you do what you have to do to stay alive.’
Stockmann didn’t say anything, but a smile spread across her face.
‘What?’ said Shepherd, defensively.
‘You say it with such conviction, but have you thought about the ramifications?’
Shepherd toyed with his glass. ‘If I do nothing, I die.’
‘Agreed. But kill him and you’ll have killed an innocent man. A man who was doing nothing wrong. Who was breaking no law.’
Shepherd stopped playing with his glass. ‘It’d be murder, wouldn’t it?’
‘Well, that would probably be for a jury to decide. Or at least for the Crown Prosecution Service to take a view on.’
‘So, what’s the answer? I maintain the moral high ground by allowing the guy to kill me?’
Stockmann laughed. ‘As I said, there’s no right or wrong. It’s philosophy. But it’s puzzles like that which help us analyse our thought processes.’
Deep furrows creased Shepherd’s brow.
Stockmann patted his shoulder. ‘It’s hypothetical, Dan,’ she said.
‘I get that, but hypothetical or not, I’d pull the trigger, guaranteed.’
‘Because your survival instinct would kick in. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s your instinct for survival that makes you so good at what you do.’
‘It worries me that I’d kill an innocent man to survive. But what if the positions were reversed? What if I was the one doing something that would kill someone else? Even inadvertently. Doesn’t that mean he’d be justified in killing me?’
‘Justice isn’t what the conundrum is about. But it’s good that it makes you think. Is it something you think about much?’
‘Killing?’
Stockmann nodded.
‘Every time it’s happened, there’s been no doubt in my mind that what I was doing was legally and morally right. When I was in the SAS I had to follow rules of engagement, and when I was a cop I had to follow PACE, the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. It’s a bit greyer now that I’m with SOCA because I’m effectively a civil servant rather than a police officer, but there are still rules that have to be followed. If at any point I were to break the law I’d be out of a job and probably facing criminal charges.’
‘And providing you’re within the law, there’s no guilt?’
‘Pretty much, yeah. But there’s more to it than just following the law. More often than not, when I took a life it was because my own was threatened. Either at the point of a gun or because the person I shot was about to detonate a bomb. It was self-defence, pretty much.’
Stockmann held up her glass. ‘Half full again,’ she said. ‘The Belfast job’s a bit different from what you normally do, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not trying to penetrate a gang, but basically it’s the same old routine, getting a person to trust me so that I can betray them,’ he said. ‘It’s what I do, and I do it well.’
‘It can’t be easy,’ she said.
‘Winning their trust is easy,’said Shepherd. ‘It’s the betrayal that takes its toll.’
‘This latest job is a woman, right? That must make it harder. And it’s not as if she’s a drug-dealer or gangster.’
‘We’re not supposed to get specific about operational matters,’ said Shepherd.
‘That was when you were a policeman. SOCA has different rules.’ She smiled. ‘Actually, we can pretty much make up our own,’ she said, ‘and I do have a very high security clearance. Higher than yours, actually.’
‘Because you worked for MI5?’
‘I still do, from time to time,’ she said. ‘So, this woman you’re trying to get close to, she might not be guilty of anything?’
‘True.’
‘Which makes it a very different job, because normally you’d be targeting hardened criminals, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yeah, we’d know in advance that the target was guilty. I’d be put in to gather the evidence. This case is different because at the end of the day she might not be a killer.’
‘But she might be, so it’s a valid investigation.’
Shepherd smiled ruefully. ‘If she’s guilty, what I’m doing is justifiable. But if she’s just the widow of a hero cop, I’m a piece of shit for lying to her as I am.’ He raised his glass in salute to her, then drained it and waved at the barmaid for a refill. Stockmann was looking at him anxiously. ‘I’m fine, Caroline,’ he said. ‘It’s what I do, but it doesn’t get any easier. They’re targets, but that doesn’t make them less than human. Civilians probably assume that villains are villains, end of story, but they’re sons, they’re often fathers, they have friends, they go to weddings, they buy presents, they tell jokes. Some of the villains I’ve helped put inside have been great guys, guys I’ve got drunk with, guys who would have helped me without hesitation if I was in trouble. I’m not always proud of what I’ve done, but at the end of the day they’re villains, and villains belong in jail.’
‘I can’t imagine how it must feel to live a lie.’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘It’s probably what acting’s like, but there’s no director to shout,“Cut.” And no script. Everything’s off-the-cuff, spur-of-the-moment stuff, reacting to what’s going on around you.’ The barmaid put a fresh drink in front of him and looked questioningly at Stockmann. She shook her head. ‘You know what the hardest thing about it is?’ he said. ‘It’s remembering what you don’t know.’ He smiled. ‘I know that sounds crazy but it’s true. It’s easy enough to remember what you’ve been told, or what you’ve said, but as an undercover cop you know things about the target that your character wouldn’t. So when you’re in character a mental wall has to divide what you know from what you’re supposed to know.’
‘It sounds positively schizophrenic,’ said Stockmann.
‘It is,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s a constant battle between your two selves, a constant checking and rechecking. And while that’s going on, you have to appear calm and collected.’
‘The proverbial swan,’ said Stockmann. ‘Serene on the surface, paddling like crazy under the water.’ She sipped some beer. ‘Have you thought that the same would apply to the woman you’re targeting? She has to be playing a part, too.’
‘If she’s guilty.’
‘Agreed,’ said the psychologist. ‘But if she is, she’ll also be playing a role. Like you, she’ll be running anything she says through an internal filter, constantly checking her reality against how the world perceives her.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it that way,’ said Shepherd. ‘The thing is, she doesn’t seem to be playing a part.’
‘Can you tell?’ asked Stockmann.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Because if you can, isn’t it possible that someone you’re targeting can tell that you’re playing a role? Surely the only way you can function as an undercover agent is by being totally convincing.’
‘But I’m a professional. It’s my job. If she’s guilty, she’s an amateur who’s killing the men who killed her husband. There should be signs, shouldn’t there?’
Stockmann grinned. ‘Like looking up to the left when she’s lying? Or scratching her nose? It’s not as easy as that, Dan. If it was, I’d be making a fortune playing Texas Hold ’Em. And she could be a sociopath, of course.’
Shepherd laughed. ‘Now, that I would spot.’
‘Actually, I doubt it. Sociopaths are natural mimics. They lack feelings of empathy with others and are totally uncaring about their effect on people, but can behave completely to the contrary. That’s why serial killers are so effective. They can appear charming. And paedophiles can appear genuine and caring. If they looked like monsters, kids would never go near them.’
‘What are you saying? That you can’t judge a book by its cover?’
‘It’s a cliche, but it’s true,’ said Stockmann. ‘You can’t tell a murderer by looking them in the eye.’
Shepherd smil
ed. ‘I’m not sure that’s so,’ he said.
‘You can tell if someone’s killed by looking at them?’
‘There’s a look that people who’ve been in combat have. They call it the thousand-yard stare. There’s a coldness in their eyes as if they’re looking through you.’
‘And does everyone who’s been in combat have it?’
‘No,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know men who have killed several times and they’re the most laid-back guys you’ll ever meet. But I’ve never met someone with the thousand-yard stare who hasn’t killed. I’ve seen it in the eyes of non-soldiers, too. Gangsters. Drug-dealers. Blaggers.’
‘Blaggers?’
‘Armed robbers,’ said Shepherd. ‘What I’m saying is, if they’ve got the look, they’ve killed.’
‘Unless they’re faking it,’ said Stockmann.
‘Faking it?’
‘Say there’s a hard man who wants you to think he’s a killer. He fakes the thousand-yard stare. How would you know?’
‘I’d know.’
Stockmann grinned. ‘But if they were sociopaths, they’d be good at faking it.’
‘So a sociopath would fake a thousand-yard stare to make me think he was a killer?’ Shepherd exhaled through pursed lips. ‘You’re giving me a headache here, Caroline.’
‘I just want you to understand that it’s virtually impossible to tell if someone is guilty or not by looking at them,’ said Stockmann. She beckoned the barmaid. ‘If it was possible, the police’s job would be a lot easier, wouldn’t it?’
‘Here’s the thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘I look into Elaine’s eyes and I see an honest person who wouldn’t harm anyone. There’s no guile, no deviousness. She shows no signs of lying.’
‘Elaine is the woman in Belfast?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘She’s been hurt, and she’s carrying a lot of baggage, but that’s to be expected, considering the way her husband was killed and her son died.’
‘You sound like you’re empathising.’
‘I am. A lot. And that’s not good.’
‘You’re human,’ she said. ‘It’s natural.’
‘That means you’re giving me a clean bill of health?’
‘Buy me another pint and we’ll talk about it,’ laughed Stockmann.
Noel Kinsella looked around the hotel suite and sneered. ‘This is the best you can do?’ he asked.
‘It’s four hundred pounds a night,’ said Patsy Ellis, folding her arms, ‘and that’s before you pick up the phone to order room service.’
‘It’s tiny.’
‘It’s a suite. And it’s not for long.’
‘Have you got the tickets yet?’
‘They’ll be here tomorrow.’
‘First class, right?’
Ellis sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘Elizabeth insists on first class.’
‘Well, maybe Elizabeth should be buying her own bloody ticket. It’s not as if she’s strapped for cash.’
‘It’s not her fault that everything turned to shit in Belfast,’ said Kinsella, sitting down on the sofa. He took a bunch of grapes from the crystal bowl on the ornate coffee-table and popped one into his mouth.
‘That’s an exaggeration,’ said Ellis. ‘Frankly, I don’t see why you need to go back to the States.’
‘Because four of the guys who killed Robbie Carter are dead and I’m the only one left.’
‘They weren’t as protected as you are,’ said Ellis. ‘Lynn was riding around with two psychopathic gunmen, and McEvoy was sitting in his drug den on his own. And we still don’t know that it’s the same killer. McEvoy was a low-life with enemies all over the city, and plenty of people would happily have put a bullet in Gerry Lynn’s head.’
‘Please don’t insult my intelligence. We both know what’s going on.’
‘And we both know how well protected you are. There’ll be a man in the corridor outside and another in the next room.’ She gestured at the connecting door. ‘That will be unlocked at all times. Any problems and he can be here in a second.’ She sat in an armchair by the window. The view was spectacular, across Hyde Park and beyond to North London. ‘I do wish you’d reconsider. Now’s a pivotal time for Northern Ireland and you could make a real difference to what happens in the province.’
‘If I’m dead, I’m not going to be able to do anything.’
‘And if you run away again, the people of Northern Ireland won’t forget. Or forgive.’
‘Don’t screw around with me, Patsy,’ said Kinsella. ‘You owe me, remember?’
Ellis smiled tightly. ‘We owe each other,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t forget that.’
‘You said it would be safe to come back.’
‘It is safe.’
‘Are you stupid?’ hissed Kinsella.
Ellis stood up. ‘I don’t want to fight with you, Noel. Sleep on it. Talk to Elizabeth.’
‘She wants to go home.’
‘Belfast is your home. In the States, you’re just another Irishman on the make. In Belfast, you could be a leader. You could be in the inner circle, making real decisions.’
‘Which is where you want me, right? This isn’t about me, it’s about you. You just want to use me again.’ He threw a grape at her. It bounced off her chest.
‘Very mature,’ she said.
Kinsella tossed a handful of grapes at her. Ellis stalked out of the room, fuming.
Shepherd drove off the motorway into the service-station car park and saw the grey Jaguar beside a strip of grass. As he pulled up beside it, the Major climbed out, grinning. ‘Nice car, SOCA must pay well,’ he said.
‘It goes with the legend,’ said Shepherd. He flashed his Casio watch with its calculator keyboard. ‘Same as this.’
The Major opened the boot of the Jaguar. ‘I’ve got what you wanted, Spider, but are you sure about this?’
‘I don’t have any choice,’ said Shepherd. ‘He sent a man to kill my son. If it hadn’t been for Billy and Jack, he’d have succeeded. I can’t take the chance that he’ll try again.’
‘You don’t have to do it yourself.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘There are guys who’d do it for you at the drop of a hat.’
‘I know, but this is personal.’
‘If it goes wrong, you’ll lose everything, you know that? He’s a stone-cold killer, no question, but if you handle this yourself you’ll be a vigilante in the eyes of the law.’
‘I know you’ve got my best interests at heart, and I know you’re talking sense,’ said Shepherd, ‘but we both know that if our positions were reversed there’s nothing I could say to you that would change your mind.’
‘I can’t argue with that.’
‘So I appreciate what you’re saying, but this is my fight. That bastard attacked my family, and it’s up to me to take care of business.’
The Major stepped forward, put his arms around Shepherd and hugged him. ‘You be careful,’ he whispered, then released him. He pulled the metal case out of the boot and gave it to him. ‘Okay, I’ve configured it for the nine-millimetre, like you asked. You’ve got rounds, right?’
‘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 nine-millimetre 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?’
Dead Men ss-5 Page 31
