Dead Men

by Leather, Stephen

  Ben had backed up against the sink so there was nowhere he could go. ‘Stay away!’ he shouted.

  ‘Stay calm, Ben,’ said Hickey. ‘I just want to talk.’

  ‘Stop moving!’

  Hickey raised the gun and pointed the barrel at the man’s face. ‘I’m just talking, Ben. Just chewing the fat.’

  ‘If you’re going to shoot him, just shoot him,’ said Paxton.

  Hickey ignored him. He continued to hold Ben’s eyes as he moved slowly across the kitchen floor. ‘Listen to me, Ben. Listen to me carefully. We can still stop this without anyone getting really hurt. Vince there will need a couple of stitches but he’ll be okay. Your two friends will wake up with sore heads but they’ll be fine. But if you cut my boss there, everything changes.’

  ‘I want you out of the house, now.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Hickey. ‘That’s what I want.’ He took two steps towards Ben and placed the barrel of the gun against the man’s forehead. Ben tried to move his head away but Hickey kept the gun pressed to it. ‘Stay calm, Ben,’ he said quietly. ‘Just chill and listen to me.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, what are you playing at?’ hissed Paxton.

  ‘This can go one of three ways, Ben,’ said Hickey. ‘I can pull the trigger and blow your brains over the sink and we’ll all live happily ever after. Except you, of course, because you’ll be dead. Or you can cut my boss’s throat with that knife, he bleeds to death, I pull the trigger and blow your brains over the sink.’

  ‘Hickey …’ warned Paxton.

  ‘Now, there’s a third way, Ben. You put down the knife, I take a step back, and we do what we came here to do, which is have a chat.’

  ‘You came here with guns,’ said Ben.

  ‘Your mate attacked us with a knife,’ said Hickey. ‘He stabbed Vince there. We just came to talk.’

  ‘You came here with guns,’ repeated Ben, pressing the knife harder to Paxton’s throat.

  ‘And if we hadn’t, we’d all be sitting in the hallway bleeding,’ said Hickey. ‘Now, drop the knife. I don’t want to do anything melodramatic like counting to three, but trust me, Ben, I will put a bullet in your face.’

  Sweat was pouring down Ben’s face and he licked his lips. ‘Maybe I let him go and you still shoot me?’

  ‘Why?’ said Hickey. ‘I’ve nothing against you. My boss here still wants to talk about his drugs. So drop the knife and we can all go home.’

  Ben was breathing shallowly, his chest rising and falling as his mind raced. Hickey waited, his eyes never leaving the man’s face. Eventually the Algerian took the knife away from Paxton’s throat. He held it to the side and dropped it on to the work surface. Paxton staggered across the kitchen, cursing.

  Hickey slammed the gun against the side of Ben’s head and grinned as the Algerian slumped to the floor. ‘Twat,’ he said.

  Charlotte Button put down her cup of tea. ‘You hit him?’ she said. ‘He did what you wanted and you still hit him?’

  Dan Shepherd shrugged. ‘I’m David Hickey, bouncer turned enforcer. It’s what I do. If I hadn’t hit him, I wouldn’t have been in character.’

  Button sighed. ‘Spider, even an undercover SOCA agent has to follow some rules. You really can’t go around hitting people willy-nilly.’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘Willy-nilly?’

  ‘You know what I mean. I’m your boss, remember? I’m supposed to ensure that you at least come close to following approved procedure.’

  ‘I just clipped him,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ He leant back in his chair and stretched. They were sitting in a third-floor office in Soho, one of several where Button met the undercover operatives who worked for the Serious Organised Crime Agency. Spring sunshine streamed in though the two skylights. One wall, to the left of the door, was covered with surveillance photographs of Peter Paxton and his crew. Shepherd featured in several, never far from Paxton’s side.

  ‘So what happened?’

  Shepherd ran a hand over the stubble on his head. He didn’t like cutting his hair so short, but it was part of Hickey’s character. He’d be glad to get rid of the garish jewellery, too. ‘Paxton had us haul them into the kitchen and tie them up. Then he found an iron and switched it on.’

  ‘Spider, please, don’t tell me you tortured them.’

  ‘It didn’t come to that,’ said Shepherd. ‘The one called Ben started to cry as soon as the little light went on. The drugs were in the loft. Twelve kilos of Afghan heroin. It was a trial run and it had gone exactly as planned, except they’d decided that as it was so easy they might as well cut out the middle man.’

  ‘Where’s the heroin now?’

  ‘Still in the house,’ said Shepherd. He glanced at his watch. ‘Probably being picked up as we speak. Paxton didn’t want to risk driving around with twelve kilos of smack in the Jag so he’s sending some of his boys around to pick it up.’

  ‘And the Algerians are still tied up in the kitchen?’

  ‘No, we killed them and buried them in the New Forest.’ Shepherd laughed when he saw the horror on Button’s face. ‘I’m joking, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Paxton’s hard but he’s not a psycho. So far as I know he’s never killed anyone. He just explained how things were going to be and the Algerians agreed to it.’

  ‘Encouraged by the red-hot iron, I suppose?’

  ‘They were trying it on. Once Paxton showed them he meant business, they buckled. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘And Clarke?’

  ‘Nothing serious,’ said Shepherd. ‘I took him to a tame doctor that works for Paxton and he put a few stitches in the wound and gave him an anti-tetanus shot. I think the injection hurt him more than the stabbing.’ He picked up his cup of Starbucks coffee and sipped.

  ‘Any idea when the next delivery will be coming over?’

  ‘Paxton does everything on a need-to-know basis,’ said Shepherd. ‘Last night was the first time he mentioned the Eurostar. Seems that the Algerians in France have one of their guys working security and when he’s on the night shift they can get the heroin into the toilet holding tanks. Getting the gear out of the Temple Mills depot is a piece of cake. All the security is going in. No one expects them to be bringing stuff out. It’s the French end that’s the key. They do their rotas at the end of each month so they have to wait until their man’s working nights before they can arrange a delivery. The twelve kilos was a trial and I figure that the next shipments are going to be much bigger.’

  ‘If I run the cleaning staff personnel records by you, can you pick out the three guys you roughed up?’ She grinned. ‘Of course you can, you and your total recall. I tell you, Spider, it would make my life so much easier if everyone on my team had a photographic memory.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘And Paxton said they had family at the French end. That could be with Eurostar or the cleaning company, but cross-checking with their personnel records should net everyone.’

  ‘Job well done,’ said Button.

  ‘When are you going to move against Paxton?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘We’ll give it a month or so,’ said Button. ‘We’ll let you get clear and beef up the surveillance. I’ll liaise with the French so that we can mop up their end, too. Win some Brownie points with Europol.’

  ‘So I’m done?’

  ‘Just come up with a good reason to part company with Paxton and we’ll call it a day,’ said Button. She nodded at the gold Breitling. ‘Don’t forget to return the watch,’ she said, ‘and the jewellery.’

  ‘It’s all a bit flash for me, anyway,’ he said. ‘So, now we’ve got Paxton sewn up, have you anything else lined up for me?’

  ‘There’s a few possibilities,’ said Button.

  ‘Something close to home would be good,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve spent time with Liam.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Button, ‘but I don’t think Hereford’s a hotbed of crime.’

  ‘Sheep rustlers?’

>   Button arched an eyebrow. ‘You know as well as I do that SOCA’s charged with targeting the country’s major drug-dealers,people-traffickers and hardcore criminals. And I don’t think any villain worth his salt is going to base himself in the town that’s home to the Special Air Service, do you?’

  Shepherd grinned and raised his paper cup to her. ‘It’s always worth a try,’ he said.

  ‘On the subject of SOCA, we’ve a little housekeeping to do,’ she said. ‘To date you’ve effectively been on secondment. Over the next week or so we have to make the switch irrevocable.’

  ‘Are you telling me I’ve been on probation?’

  Button waved a hand dismissively. ‘Virtually everyone who was involved in setting up SOCA was initially brought in on a temporary basis. We weren’t sure whose faces would fit and who would want to stay. Now we’re in the process of solidifying things.’

  ‘Which means what?’

  ‘Basically there’s one more set of papers to sign and you become a fully fledged civil servant.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘The job remains the same but you will no longer be a police officer.’

  ‘So what am I?’

  ‘As I said, a civil servant.’

  ‘So as I run after the bad guys waving my SIG-Sauer, I shout, ‘Stop in the name of the civil service!, do I?’

  ‘When was the last time you actually arrested someone, Spider?’ she asked. ‘That’s not what you do. You work under cover, you gather evidence.’

  ‘But I lose my rank, is that what you’re saying? I’ll no longer be a detective sergeant?’

  ‘That’s right. But your pay scale remains the same. You’ll get more holiday entitlement, as it happens, and your pension will improve. It’s no big deal. And you’ve got to have another psychological assessment but you were due one anyway.’

  ‘Who’ll be running through the canyons of my mind this time?’

  ‘It’s still Caroline Stockmann.’

  Shepherd liked Stockmann and knew the interview wouldn’t be a problem.

  ‘How’s your son?’ asked Button.

  ‘He’s fine. Hereford’s working out really well for him. We’re just down the road from his grandparents and he’s settled in at school. The only downside is me being away from home such a lot, but I wasn’t there much when we lived in Ealing. At least now if I’m away his grandparents can keep an eye on him.’

  ‘And the au pair’s still there?’

  ‘Katra? Yeah, three years now. She’s practically family.’

  Button looked amused and Shepherd pointed a warning finger at her. ‘Don’t go there.’

  ‘Still nothing on the romance front, then?’

  ‘Certainly not with Katra.’ Shepherd laughed. ‘Don’t worry about me on that score.’

  ‘I just like to make sure my people are happy.’

  ‘I’m happy,’ said Shepherd.

  Button smiled. ‘Then if you’re happy, I’m happy.’

  ‘Would you like more champagne, sir?’ asked the stewardess, with a gleaming smile that was as cold as the bottle she was holding. She was a dyed blonde with too much makeup. British Airways selected its staff for the long-haul first-class cabin on seniority rather than sex appeal.

  ‘Please,’ said Noel Kinsella, holding up his glass.

  Elizabeth put a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Honey, do you think it’s a good idea to arrive smelling of drink?’

  ‘It’s champagne,’said Kinsella,‘and it’s only my third glass.’ He gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘One for the road,’ he added.

  Elizabeth sighed with annoyance. She was a teetotaller in a family where alcohol was either embraced at every opportunity as a long-lost friend or hated as much as a political opponent. There were no half measures with the Kennedys, and Elizabeth was firmly in the camp that believed alcohol was a vice with no redeeming qualities. She had hoped she’d be able to convince her husband to cut down his alcohol intake after they had married but she had been as successful at that as he had been at stopping her smoking.

  She looked out of the window. There was nothing but thick cloud below them. Elizabeth wanted a cigarette, badly. She had brought nicotine chewing-gum with her but it had done little to stifle her craving for a little white tube between her fingers and a lungful of cool, fragrant smoke. She had often thought of starting an airline that offered only smoking flights. Non-smokers would be banned, and all the flight crew would smoke. She was sure she could fill every seat.

  Elizabeth would have preferred to fly on an American airline, but the British police officers accompanying her husband had already booked tickets on the British flag-carrier. He had paid for upgrades for the cops and they were sitting at the rear of the first-class cabin. They were dressed in reasonable suits and their shoes were shined, but they clearly didn’t belong in first class, so the dyed-blonde stewardess and her gay male colleague had virtually ignored them throughout the flight.

  ‘Not long now,’ said Kinsella. Two lawyers were sitting on the other side of the cabin, one a partner in the Boston firm that handled much of the legal work for the Kennedy family, the other a partner in a top London firm of criminal lawyers. They had brokered the deal that was bringing Kinsella back to the United Kingdom. As part of the deal, he would not be handcuffed and there would be no physical contact between him and the officers as they left the plane.

  Officially, Kinsella was not flying back of his own accord, he had simply stopped fighting the extradition order that had been filed against him. It was a fine detail, but it had given him an edge when he was negotiating his return. It meant that he could fly first class to London where he would be arrested, but instead of being taken into custody he would be allowed to spend two nights in a five-star hotel before flying on to Belfast. He would be officially charged in Northern Ireland but would be immediately granted bail until his trial, which the British Government had agreed to fast-track. The two lawyers would ensure that the authorities stuck to their side of the deal.

  The plane landed smoothly and taxied to its stand. The Kinsellas waited patiently for the steward to open the door and hand the passenger manifest to the ground staff. Then he smiled at the couple and waved for them to leave.

  ‘Thank you for taking such good care of us,’ said Elizabeth, with a smile. They stepped through the door, closely followed by the two policemen.

  Two men in suits were standing in the gangway. ‘Noel Marcus Kinsella?’ said one. He had a Belfast accent, as did the two policemen who had flown over with them. The Northern Ireland police had no intention of allowing their English counterparts to steal their glory.

  ‘Present and correct,’ said Kinsella, brightly. He reached for Elizabeth’s hand.

  ‘Noel Marcus Kinsella,’ said the man, ‘I am charging you with the murder of Robert Carter on the twenty-eighth of August nineteen ninety-six. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but I must warn you that if you fail to mention any fact which you rely on in your defence in court, your failure to take this opportunity to mention it may be treated in court as supporting any relevant evidence against you. If you do wish to say anything, what you say may be given in evidence.’

  ‘Heard and understood,’ said Kinsella. ‘Now, can we get to our hotel, please? I need a shower.’

  The old man inhaled the steamy fragrance of the mint tea, then sipped. It was the first Monday of the month and, as he always did on the first Monday of the month, he was sitting on a large silk cushion in a palatial tent in the desert some twenty miles from Riyadh. He had driven there in a convoy of four-wheel-drive SUVs. When he had been younger he had made the journey on a camel, as befitting his Bedouin roots, but now he was in his eighties and had a swollen prostate so he had no choice other than to travel by car.

  The old man was Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed, and he was worth a little more than four hundred million pounds. By most standards Othman was rich, but he was a pauper compared with the men he served. The princes wh
o ruled the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia measured their wealth in billions, and Othman had made his money by carrying out the tasks they regarded as beneath them. He was a facilitator, a middle man who helped to sell the oil that lay far beneath the dunes, and to acquire the weapons that kept the Kingdom’s enemies at bay. He had bought some of the most expensive homes in the world for his royal clients, ordered jumbo jets with circular beds and Jacuzzis with gold-plated taps. Othman was semi-retired now, though one could never fully retire from the service of the Saudi royals. When they called, Othman would answer. It would be that way until he died.

  Othman was a wealthy man, and he believed in helping those less fortunate. That was why, once a month, he journeyed into the desert, sat in a tent and made himself available to any citizen who wanted to speak to him. It was the Bedouin way.

  Othman placed the glass on a gold-plated saucer and nodded at his manservant, Masood, at the tent’s entrance. Masood was in his late sixties and had served Othman for a little more than forty years. Othman trusted him like no other. He was his assistant, his butler, his food-taster, though never his confidant. Othman trusted no man with his innermost thoughts. Masood pulled back the silk curtain and ushered in the next visitor. It was just before midday and Othman had spoken to twenty-six men already. Women were not permitted to address him directly, but it was permissible for a man to make a request on behalf of a woman, providing he was a blood relative. Othman would remain in the desert until he had seen every man who wanted an audience. Some wanted advice, some an introduction to further their business interests, some wanted money, some simply to pay their respects. Whatever they wanted, Othman would listen and, wherever possible, grant their requests.

  Masood ushered in a dark-skinned man wearing a grubby dishdasha, his head swathed in a black and white checked shumag scarf. He looked at Othman, then averted his eyes. Masood nudged him and he walked over the rugs to the centre of the tent. ‘Greetings, sir,’ he mumbled. He rubbed his nose with the back of a wrist, then put his hands behind his back and stood awkwardly, like a schoolboy waiting to be punished.

  ‘Sit, please,’ said Othman, waving at a row of embroidered cushions.