Dead Men

by Leather, Stephen

  A white VW Golf was parked outside the garage attached to Elaine Carter’s house, but no tell-tale movement of the curtains on the ground or upper floor. Shepherd guessed she was probably still in bed. He looked at the house that would be his home for the next few weeks. The windows hadn’t been cleaned for a while but the white-painted wooden frames were in good condition, as was the front door.

  He took out the keys Button had given him and unlocked the front door,which opened into a small hallway. Two rooms led off to the right, a front room with a brick fireplace and a dining room with a single bare bulb hanging from a ceiling rose. Upstairs there were three bedrooms. The one at the front was the largest, with built-in wardrobes. The window gave over the city, and in the distance he saw the giant yellow cranes of the Harland and Wolff shipyards, which had built the ill-fated Titanic, and beyond the urban sprawl, the Belfast hills. The sky was cloudless and the sun glinted on the cars driving through the city streets below.

  There was a small shower room off the bedroom, and a bathroom off the landing. The two other rooms overlooked the back garden.

  Shepherd went downstairs. There was no furniture in the house, but most rooms were carpeted. He went into the kitchen. Cheap wooden units, a twenty-year-old fridge and a gas cooker that didn’t appear to have been cleaned for a few years. Worn lino with a tile effect covered the floor and there was a table with a Formica top in one corner. He opened the fridge. Inside, he found a plastic-wrapped piece of mouldy cheese and a can of beer. He flicked on the switch at the socket and the fridge buzzed.

  Shepherd sat at the table. He looked at his wristwatch, a Casio with a miniature calculator keyboard under the digital display. It was the watch of a computer nerd, part of his cover. The removal van was due that afternoon and he had to stay in the house until then. He rested his head against the wall. ‘Home, sweet home,’ he muttered to himself.

  Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed sipped his sweet tea and consulted his diamond-encrusted gold Rolex. He had a full thirty minutes before he was due downstairs. He had taken a suite at the Al Faisaliah, one of Riyadh’s top five-star hotels, even though his palatial villa was only an hour’s drive away. The hotel was hosting a three-day defence exhibition and conference, and although he was semi-retired he liked to maintain the contacts he had built up over the years. All the major defence companies had set up shop, showcasing the latest communications and surveillance technologies. The British were there, of course, the Americans and the French, wearing fake smiles and five-thousand-dollar suits. The Russians were still trying to sell their post-Cold War junk, shamed by the Japanese and their state-of-the-art electronics. Othman was especially interested in meeting the Chinese. They had come a long way in recent years, and had moved from copying Western technologies to developing their own cutting-edge equipment. They already had a fighter jet on the market and Othman was sure that within the next twenty years they would be rivalling the Americans in arms sales. Othman planned to bring a few Chinese up to his suite for drinks, then to the lounge above the restaurant at the top of the hotel to sample his private stock of Havana cigars. A telephone rang and his lips thinned in annoyance.

  His manservant picked up the receiver, listened, then placed his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It is Muhammad Aslam,’ he said.

  Othman put his teacup on to the silver tray in front of him, then stood up slowly, his knees cracking like dry twigs as they always did when he stayed in one position for too long. Stiff joints were one of the many penalties of age. He went to his manservant and took the phone from him. Masood padded discreetly away as Othman put the receiver to his ear. ‘What you asked has been arranged,’ said Aslam.

  ‘He is a Muslim?’

  ‘From Palestine. He is a professional.’

  ‘How long will it take?’ asked Othman.

  ‘I have told him we would like matters expedited as quickly as possible, but the nature of the targets is the limiting factor.’

  ‘And the cost?’

  ‘There will be expenses, of course,’ said Aslam. ‘I have agreed four hundred thousand dollars in advance. And the fee is five million dollars. He will require half once he has made his preparations. That will be non-refundable.’

  ‘That is standard practice?’

  ‘At this level, yes,’ said Aslam. ‘Once he is in play the only thing that will stop him is his own death or capture.’

  ‘And he was clear on the details? The manner in which it is to happen? And what must be said?’

  ‘I explained everything.’

  ‘I shall transfer the funds to your account tomorrow,’ said Othman. He replaced the receiver and went back to his chair. He doubted that the assassin had asked for five million dollars, but Aslam was acting as middle man and middle men always took their percentage. That was how Othman had made his fortune, so he did not grudge another man his share. Besides, Othman didn’t care how much it cost. All that mattered was that the man and woman who had murdered his sons should die in agony, knowing why they had been killed.

  The bell rang and Shepherd opened the front door to find two men in blue overalls and a Pickfords van parked outside. A third man was unlocking the back of the vehicle.

  ‘Mr Pierce?’ said the oldest of the three. He was holding a metal clipboard.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’m George, from Pickfords,’ he said. ‘If you show me which rooms are which, we’ll get started. Don’t suppose the kettle’s on, is it? I’m parched.’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, unless it’s instant,’ said George. ‘Mutt and Jeff here will drink anything.’

  The young man raised a hand. ‘I’m Jeff,’ he said, ‘and he’– pointing at their companion – ‘isn’t really called Mutt.’

  Shepherd took George around the house, then went to the kitchen and made four cups of filtered coffee. The removers worked quickly and efficiently. Even with a ten-minute break, they took just two hours to unload the van, open the cardboard boxes and set out the furniture. As Shepherd was signing the receipt, a white VW Golf turned into the driveway next door. Shepherd slipped George three twenty-pound notes, then waved at Elaine Carter as she climbed out of her car.

  She looked prettier than she had in the photograph Button had shown him. Her hair was dark red rather than ginger and she was wearing makeup that emphasised her high cheekbones and full lips.

  Shepherd stepped over the line of shrubs that separated his garden from hers. ‘Hi,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Jamie Pierce. I guess I’m your new neighbour.’

  She was wearing a dark blue overcoat with the collar turned up and carrying a leather attaché case. She transferred the case to her left hand and shook his. ‘Elaine,’ she said. ‘Elaine Carter. You’re English, huh?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Shepherd. ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to believe all the bad press Belfast gets.’

  ‘Hey, I’ve heard nothing but good,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s why I was happy to move here.’

  Elaine gestured at the house. ‘Did you buy it, or are you renting?’

  ‘It’s mine,’ said Shepherd. ‘Or, at least, it will be in thirty years.’

  ‘It’ll be a great investment.’

  ‘Are you an estate agent?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Independent financial adviser,’ said Elaine. ‘Pensions, insurance, investments.’ She grinned. ‘Mortgages, too. Pity you didn’t talk to me first. There are some good deals to be had just now.’

  Shepherd rubbed his chin. ‘Maybe we should talk about it some time,’ he said. ‘I’m self-employed and everyone tells me I should get a pension.’

  ‘The sooner the better,’ said Elaine. ‘Let’s have a chat once you’re settled in.’

  Jeff tooted the horn of the Pickfords van as it rumbled off down the road. George seemed disgruntled and Shepherd guessed that the tip hadn’t been big enough.

  ‘
Got everything you need?’ asked Elaine.

  ‘An Aston Martin would be nice,’ said Shepherd.

  Elaine laughed. She had a pretty laugh, Shepherd decided, and definitely not the laugh of a hardened killer. ‘I meant bread or milk. The basics,’ she said. ‘Anyway, the Audi’s a nice enough motor.’

  ‘It’s a business expense,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You drove it here?’

  ‘Sure, the ferry’s easy enough.’

  ‘I know – I drive to the UK when I have meetings over there. I’m afraid of flying, believe it or not.’

  ‘Have you got time for a coffee?’

  ‘I’ve some calls to make. Maybe tomorrow. What time do you get back from work?’

  Shepherd grinned at the house. ‘I work from home,’ he said. ‘This is my office.’

  ‘Tomorrow then,’ said Elaine. She flashed him a smile, showing toothpaste-commercial teeth. ‘Welcome to the neighbourhood.’

  There were more than five hundred people in the queue that ran back and forth between the taped barriers. A dozen immigration officers stood behind podiums, their faces blank as they matched passport photographs to faces and quizzed the holders on their reasons for wanting to enter the United Kingdom. The air-conditioning was struggling to cope and people were fanning themselves with magazines or wiping their brows with handkerchiefs. Children were crying and businessmen with briefcases muttered under their breath. Most waited patiently, though. They came from countries where every bureaucratic function took ten times longer than was truly necessary.

  Hassan Salih strode towards the EU nationals line. Ahead, a group of Indian women in brightly coloured saris clutched British passports and chattered in Urdu. The line moved quickly. There were no questions, no interrogations, just a quick look at the passport, a swipe through a terminal and a curt nod. Salih was travelling on a French passport under a Moroccan name. The passport was genuine, as was the photograph. It had been applied for under the name of a French Moroccan labourer who was about Salih’s age. Salih had paid the man ten thousand Euros to apply for the passport and then killed him and dropped him from a motorboat some twenty miles off the coast near Marseille, the body weighed down with a length of anchor chain.

  There were just two immigration officers dealing with the EU line, compared with more than a dozen handling the non-EU visitors. Anyone with an EU passport had automatic right of entry into the United Kingdom. No visas were necessary, no forms had to be filled in, and there were no questions to be answered. Provided the passport was valid, and provided the face of the person holding it matched the photograph inside, entry was guaranteed. It was a major weakness in the country’s border controls, Salih knew, and one that he was more than happy to take advantage of.

  Salih had his story well prepared, but it would only take a few careful questions for a suspicious immigration officer to realise that he wasn’t French. There would be no questions. There never were. If the passport was genuine, the holder could not be refused entry. And Europe had allowed itself to become so multi-racial that there was no way of telling a person’s nationality from their appearance. Salih could spot an Egyptian at fifty feet, could list half a dozen differences between a Saudi and an Iraqi, could recognise a Palestinian among fifty Jordanians. But there was no way of telling if someone was British by looking at them. The British had granted citizenship to every race and creed on Earth, everyone from Bosnian war criminals to Jamaican drug-dealers, and once granted it was virtually impossible to revoke. The French, too, had been eager to offer citizenship to anyone who wanted it. The line moved forward. Behind Salih were a Pakistani couple and three small children. The husband was clutching five British passports.

  One of the immigration officers was a middle-aged Chinese woman with thick-lensed spectacles, the other a young man barely out of his twenties, with a neatly trimmed goatee beard. Both smiled politely as they handed back passports. The famous British politeness.

  The Indian women continued to chatter in their own language as their passports were checked. The immigration officers didn’t speak to them. Salih shuffled forward. When it was his turn he handed over his passport with a smile and kept his head up. The Chinese woman studied the photograph, then looked up at him. Salih maintained eye contact. She scrutinised his face for a couple of seconds, then returned to the photograph. She pursed her lips and flicked through the passport. There were only a couple of visa stamps, one for South Africa and another for Dubai. She ran the bar code inside the cover through the reader on her terminal. A copy of the passport picture flashed up on the screen. She closed the passport and handed it back to him. ‘Have a nice day,’ she said.

  ‘You too,’ said Salih. He headed down to Baggage Reclaim, then straight out through the green channel. He only ever flew with hand luggage. Everything he needed he could buy.

  The arrivals area of Heathrow’s Terminal Three belonged more to a third-world country than the capital of the United Kingdom. It was packed with people waiting to greet passengers and the authorities made no attempt to keep the walkways clear. Africans,Indians and Arabs were pushing,shoving and shouting. Salih had to ask half a dozen times for people to move so that he could get through, and most did so grudgingly. He emerged to find a line of drivers, men in dark suits, holding signs with the names of their clients. Most were Afro-Caribbean or East Asian. Salih ignored them and walked out of the terminal building to where the black cabs waited.

  Shepherd sat at his kitchen table sipping a mug of coffee and reading the Belfast Telegraph. It was the strangest undercover operation he’d ever been on. Usually he was tasked with infiltrating gangs which meant hanging around pubs and bars, putting himself about and making his presence felt. Often it was a matter of working his way up the food chain, targeting a low-level villain, befriending him, then using him to get close to the target. But Elaine Carter was a different proposition. She was a woman and he was a man, and if he came on too strong he’d scare her off.

  He finished his coffee, put the mug into the sink, then went down the hallway to the sitting room. Elaine’s VW was parked in the driveway. He didn’t want to appear too keen so he’d ruled out approaching her. She was a financial adviser and he’d made it clear that he’d like advice. All he could do now was wait for her to take the bait.

  He switched on the television. There was no cable, just the regular terrestrial channels, and nothing but mindless daytime chat-shows to watch. He paced up and down, swinging his arms back and forth, feeling like a caged animal. He went back into the hallway and picked up the phone book, flicked through it, looking for local gyms, then realised that that wasn’t an option. He had to be in the house, close to Elaine.

  He went back into the kitchen and picked up the paper again. This was worse than being in prison – at least there he’d have people to interact with. He switched on the kettle but almost immediately switched it off again. He didn’t want another coffee. He wanted something to do. The garden was a mess. The lawn was overgrown and the flowerbeds were filled with weeds. He could start work on it. It would give him something to do, and it was a good way of reminding his neighbour that he was there.

  His mobile phone rang. It was Button. ‘Willie McEvoy’s dead,’ she said.

  ‘Same MO?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Button. ‘Two might possibly be coincidence but three means we’ve got a serial killer.’

  ‘Well, Elaine Carter was at home last night, so far as I know. Her car was parked in the driveway.’

  ‘McEvoy was shot the night before last. The body was only discovered this morning.’

  ‘Same gun?’

  ‘The bullets are being checked as we speak. I’ve had them sent to our technical people in London to compare with the test-fired round we got from the Weapons and Explosives Research Centre. But they were the same calibre, for sure.’

  ‘Makes a loud noise, the .357,’ said Shepherd. ‘And you can’t silence a revolver.’

  ‘McEvoy’s house is in Short Stran
d in East Belfast and Short Strand isn’t the sort of area where people dial nine-nine-nine when they hear gunshots,’ she said. ‘The police still aren’t trusted.’

  ‘And I suppose nobody saw anything.’

  ‘Deaf, dumb and blind,’ said Button. ‘You’ve got to remember that for years the Catholic population regarded the RUC as the enforcers of the Protestant administration. If they had a problem that needed policing, they’d go to the paramilitaries. That’s not going to change overnight.’

  Shepherd’s doorbell rang. ‘I think Elaine’s a-calling,’ he said.

  ‘That was quick,’ said Button.

  ‘I met her when I moved in. She’s coming to sell me insurance.’

  ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘Remember, we’ll be listening to every word.’

  Shepherd ended the call and went to answer the front door. It was Elaine Carter. She was dressed casually in jeans and a pink sweater over a white shirt, carrying her briefcase in her left hand and a bottle of Moët et Chandon in her right. Under her left arm she had a spiral-bound notebook. ‘Moving-in present,’ she said, offering him the champagne.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘If I had orange juice I’d offer you a Buck’s Fizz, but as I haven’t, I can’t.’

  ‘It’s a bit early for me and I’ll be driving this afternoon, so I’ll settle for coffee.’

  Shepherd took her through to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and put the champagne in the fridge next to a bottle of milk.

  ‘Settling in okay?’ she asked. She sat at the table and put her briefcase beside her chair.

  ‘I was just realising how much work I’ve got to do on this house,’ he said.

  ‘The previous owners were quite old,’ she said. ‘The husband was in his eighties and his wife was bed-bound for the last couple of years so they weren’t able to do much in the way of DIY.’