Live Fire

by Stephen Leather

  Shepherd sipped his lager. He could never understand the adulation that high-profile criminals prompted in supposedly intelligent people. It was a phenomenon he’d experienced countless times while working under cover. If he was playing the part of a villain he’d be patted on the back by nightclub bouncers, club managers would send over bottles of champagne, and girls would throw themselves at him as if he was a Hollywood movie star. But Shepherd had seen first hand the damage criminals did. They killed, they maimed, they ruined lives, and they did it for money.

  ‘What can you tell me about the other three guys in the crew? Barry Wilson, Davie Black and Andy Yates?’

  ‘There’s four,’ said Oswald. ‘Terry Norris.’

  ‘Norris is in hospital, isn’t he?’ asked Shepherd.

  Oswald raised his can in salute. ‘You, sir, are on the ball. He got knocked off his bike last week. No helmet, slammed into a truck, lucky to be alive but he’s never going to walk again. He was out with Chopper at the time.’

  ‘Chopper?’

  ‘Andy Yates. Chopper’s his nickname. They both have a thing for Harleys. They used to race them around town all the time, drunk or sober. Barry Wilson is a whole different ball-game. Teetotal, and the only time you see him in the bars is when he’s with the Moore brothers. Stays in most nights playing computer games. Davie Black is gay, so when he’s not with the Moores he can usually be found in Boyztown. He does ride a motorbike, though.’

  ‘Boyztown?’

  ‘It’s the gay-bar area, not far from Walking Street,’ said Oswald. ‘Gay go-go bars, mainly, and a few gay-friendly hotels.’

  ‘You’ve followed them around town?’

  ‘Not too closely, but almost everyone bar-hops so it wasn’t too hard to keep track of them when they were out. I couldn’t get pictures – they don’t allow cameras inside the bars.’ He drained his can and tossed it into the waste bin. ‘What’s your game plan to get in close?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll play it by ear,’ said Shepherd. ‘Flash a bit of cash, put myself about, and see how it goes.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ said Oswald, taking another can from the bag and popping the tab. ‘You might think about Tony’s Gym. They hang out there lifting weights and eyeing up the local talent three or four times a week. Afternoons usually. And there’s a kickboxing camp they go to. It’s called the Fairtex. Mark’s a bit handy with his feet.’

  ‘Charlie said you specialised in surveillance?’

  Oswald grinned. ‘She did, did she? Did she tell you I used to be paparazzi?’

  ‘No, she didn’t.’

  ‘I was one of the best. Spent a year following Madonna, for my sins, before she settled down with that director chappie.’

  ‘So how does a paparazzo end up working for SOCA?’

  ‘Drugs,’ he said. ‘Not me, I hasten to add. I was spending so much time on the road that my daughter went off the rails. I was in Miami and she took an overdose. Heroin.’ He shook his head. ‘Strictly speaking, it wasn’t an overdose. The bastards who sold it to her cut it with something toxic and she nearly died. I flew back and got her to tell me who sold her the gear and then I went to the cops. They didn’t give a shit. Told me they didn’t have the resources to go after small-time dealers.’

  ‘Drugs Squad?’

  ‘Yeah, up in Leeds.’ Oswald nodded. ‘I spoke to some little prick who thought policing meant writing reports and giving presentations. Didn’t want to get his hands dirty. So I spent three months staking out the bastard who’d sold heroin to my daughter, then went up the food chain, photographing them all. Photographed their customers, too, including quite a few showbiz people and football stars. Photographed the dealers going into the banks and building societies they used, the flats they owned and the cars they drove.’

  ‘Then the cops took you seriously?’

  ‘Fuck the cops,’ said Oswald. ‘I went to the News of the World. They ran it as the splash and three pages inside. Embarrassed the hell out of the chief constable. Local MPs asked questions in Parliament, and within a month the cops had done what they should have done in the first place – they arrested the lot of them, including the scumbag who sold the gear to my daughter. He got three years, which meant he only did eighteen months, but at least he’s in the system now. And they went after his assets and took the lot.’ He gulped some lager. ‘It wasn’t as satisfying as smashing his kneecaps with a baseball bat, but at least I did something.’

  ‘And your daughter’s okay?’

  ‘Funnily enough, it worked out well. Scared the shit out of her. She hasn’t touched drugs since. She’s at university now, media studies. Wants to be a journalist. Anyway, after the pictures were in the paper I got a call from Charlie, and a month after that I was working for SOCA.’

  ‘Not for the money, I presume,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘The pay’s okay,’ said Oswald, ‘there’s plenty of overtime, but you’re right. There’s no chance of making a killing like there is in showbiz. Get a picture of Britney’s nipples and you’re talking six figures.’ He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and tossed the can into the bin. ‘While I think of it, don’t be surprised if over the next few days people chuck water over you and wipe talcum powder across your face.’

  ‘What?’ said Shepherd, thrown by the change of subject.

  ‘It’s Thai New Year,’ Oswald explained. ‘It used to be a sign of respect for people to pour water over the hands of their elders but it’s become a free-for-all. All you can do is grin and bear it. In theory it should stop when the sun goes down but you can’t bank on that. Keep your phone and wallet in a plastic bag and dress to be drenched.’

  ‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Anything else you need to know?’

  ‘I think I’m good,’ said Shepherd. ‘How do I get around? I didn’t see any taxis as I came in but there were pick-up trucks with seats in the back. What’s the story with them?’

  ‘They’re called baht buses,’ said Oswald. ‘You’ll see them everywhere. They charge ten baht but you have to go where they want to go. You pay the driver when you get off. Best bet, though, is to hire yourself a car. You can do it on a street, all cash, no questions asked.’ Oswald stood up. ‘Good to have met you, Spider,’ he said. ‘You could answer me one question before I go.’

  ‘Go for it,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Your nickname,’ said Oswald. ‘Why do they call you Spider?’

  ‘I ate one once.’

  ‘By mistake?’

  ‘It was a bet. Well, a competition, really. In the jungle. To see who could eat the most repulsive thing. I ate a tarantula.’

  Oswald pulled a face. ‘Ugh. And you won?’

  ‘Came second.’

  ‘The guy who won, what did he eat?’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  After Oswald had left, Shepherd showered. As he was towelling himself dry his UK mobile rang. It was Jimmy Sharpe, on a Thai mobile. Shepherd said he’d call him back, picked up the phone with the Thai Sim card and dialled Sharpe’s number. ‘Settled in?’ asked Sharpe.

  ‘Just met with Oswald. He’s heading back to the UK. Pity, because he’d be useful to have around.’

  ‘How was your flight?’ asked Sharpe.

  ‘It was okay.’

  ‘Did you fly business class?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Shepherd, warily.

  ‘Because Button had me booked in economy and it was a bloody nightmare. I was stuck between a fat Thai woman and a human blob from Bolton who farted the whole way. I kid you not. The movies were shown on a TV screen on the ceiling. And the food was crap.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that, Razor.’

  ‘She hates me, you know.’

  ‘She doesn’t hate you.’

  ‘She called me a dinosaur.’

  ‘That was a year ago and it was in context. My flight wasn’t brilliant, if you must know.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, Pinot Grig
io wasn’t chilled enough.’ Shepherd grinned. ‘We’re here now, let’s just get on with the job in hand.’

  ‘Yeah, about that. Some tosser threw a bucket of water over me this morning – what the hell was that about?’

  ‘It’s Thai New Year.’

  ‘Yeah, well, this tosser wasn’t Thai. He was a Yank.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Like I said, he dumped a bucket of water over me while I was on my way to the supermarket to buy some beer.’

  ‘I got that, Razor. I’m assuming there were repercussions.’

  ‘Damn right there were repercussions. I decked the twat.’

  ‘Razor …’

  ‘He provoked me. My phone died, Spider. Which meant I had to buy a new one and they’re not cheap here. I don’t see Button letting me have it on expenses, do you?’

  ‘You hit him?’

  ‘Flat on his back,’ said Sharpe. ‘He folded like a deck-chair.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be under cover – the last thing we need is for you to be hauled in by the local cops,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Yes, Grandmother, and I suck eggs from the pointy end, right?’

  ‘I give up,’ said Shepherd. ‘What hotel are you in?’

  ‘It’s called the Penthouse.’

  ‘Sounds salubrious.’

  ‘Well, it’s not. It’s right next to Boyztown, the gay area. There’s all sorts of comings and goings. I think Button’s put me in here as some sort of sick joke.’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll have done the bookings herself, Razor.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I wouldn’t put it past her. Shall I pop around for a drink?’

  ‘Best not show your face at the hotel,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m supposed to be here on my own. I’ll drop by tomorrow.’

  ‘Not too early, I’m planning to hit a few bars.’

  ‘Razor …’

  ‘It’s work,’ said Sharpe. ‘Ear-to-the-ground sort of stuff. Testing the water. Seeing how the land lies. I can come up with clichés until the cows come home.’

  Shepherd cut the connection. He switched on the TV and lay down on the bed. Virtually all of the cable shows were in Thai. There was a sports channel, and a movie channel seemed to be showing a pirate copy of Rambo 2. Despite the blurry picture and fuzzy sound he watched it but fell asleep long before Sylvester Stallone had saved the day.

  The house was an unassuming two-up, two-down terrace in a side-street in Southall. Bradshaw took the Tube, then spent half an hour window-shopping to make sure he wasn’t being followed before he took a circuitous route to his destination. He didn’t see anyone who wasn’t Asian. There were two youths with baseball caps pulled low over their faces leaning against a wall at the end of the road, and as he walked by one took out a mobile phone. A man was sitting in an old Mini parked several houses down from the one Bradshaw was visiting: he spoke into a hands-free microphone, his face turned away.

  A waist-high wrought-iron gate, propped open with half a brick, led into a small garden, which had been paved over. Straggling weeds pushed their way up through the gaps between the slabs. Grubby lace curtains hung at the windows and the black paint was peeling off the front door. There was a plastic bell push to the right of the door, and Bradshaw pressed it with the knuckle of his right middle finger so as not to leave a print. From deep within the house he heard the rasp of a buzzer, then shuffling footsteps. An old woman, her skin the texture of chamois leather that had been left too long in the sun, opened the door and blinked at him from under a black headscarf. She did not seem surprised to see a Caucasian standing on her step. ‘I’m expected,’ he said.

  She held the door open for him. She was as wide as she was tall and Bradshaw had to scrape against the wall to avoid touching her. To the left, stairs led up to the bedrooms, and doors to the right into cramped reception rooms. The woman closed the front door so hard that the walls shook. Bradshaw went into a kitchen where two men were sitting at a Formica table with cans of orange Fanta and two handguns in front of them. Like the watchers outside, they were wearing gloves and baseball caps with the peaks pulled down. They nodded at Bradshaw and he nodded back. He waited for the woman to tell him where to go. She pointed upstairs and grunted, then waddled off into the front room. Bradshaw could hear Arabic voices, a man and a woman arguing, and it took him a few seconds to realise it was soap opera. He went up the bare wooden stairs, his hand hovering over the banister.

  There were three bedroom doors and only one was open. He walked slowly into the room. A man was sitting on a chair behind a circular glass table on chrome legs. A glass of water, an ashtray and a well-thumbed copy of the Koran lay on the surface. He was in his late fifties with a long grey and white beard and a brown skullcap perched on thinning hair. He was wearing a padded sleeveless jacket over a heavy wool sweater and baggy cotton trousers that ended several inches above his ankles. He was holding a packet of tobacco and sprinkling some into a cigarette paper. ‘Do you smoke?’ he asked, as he rolled it into a cigarette.

  ‘No,’ said Bradshaw.

  ‘Because you are scared of dying?’ said the man. He chuckled, the sound of dead leaves rustling. He licked the edge of the paper with the tip of his tongue.

  ‘If I was scared of dying, I wouldn’t be here,’ said Bradshaw.

  The man waved his homemade cigarette at a chair by the window. ‘Please, sit while we talk,’ he said. ‘I assume you are not scared of sitting.’ He put a match to his cigarette while Bradshaw pulled the chair to the table and sat down.

  ‘What is your name?’ asked Bradshaw.

  ‘My name is not important,’ said the man. ‘And I am not here to answer your questions.’ He blew smoke at the ceiling.

  ‘Why are you here, then?’

  The man smiled, without warmth. ‘That is a question, and I already told you that you are not my inquisitor. You have asked for funds. I am here to determine if you are worthy of such. Does it not say in the Koran that you cannot enter Heaven without being tested?’

  ‘What it says is “Did ye think that ye would enter Heaven without Allah testing those of you who fought hard in His Cause and remained steadfast?” Being tested by God is one thing, being quizzed by a man is another.’

  ‘You are a scholar of the Koran?’

  ‘How can one call oneself a Muslim if one has not studied the Book of God?’

  ‘So you would know the ninety-nine names of Allah and their meanings?’

  Bradshaw sneered at the man. ‘So, this is a quiz?’

  ‘You do not wish to answer?’ The man took a long drag on his cigarette, held the smoke deep in his lungs, then blew a cloud towards Bradshaw.

  He folded his arms and fought the urge to cough. ‘What do you think? That if I was a traitor I wouldn’t know my Koran? Or that a white man can’t be familiar with the teachings of Allah?’

  The man said nothing but continued to stare at Bradshaw through the smoke with coal-black eyes.

  Bradshaw sighed. ‘Fine,’ he said. One by one he went through the ninety-names of God, from Ar-Rahman, the All Beneficent, the Most Merciful in Essence, to Ar-Sabur, the Patient, the Timeless.

  When he had finished, the man stabbed out the remains of his cigarette in the ashtray.

  ‘Did I pass?’ asked Bradshaw, scornfully.

  The man dismissed the question with a languid wave. ‘When did you begin studying the Koran?’

  ‘I read it for the first time in Iraq. A friend gave it to me.’

  ‘Reading and studying are not the same thing.’

  ‘I read it, and my friend answered my questions. He set me on the path. When I came back to England I was tutored by an imam in Bradford, but I study the Koran every day as every good Muslim should.’

  ‘Which mosque do you attend in London?’

  ‘I pray at home and with close friends,’ said Bradshaw. ‘The mosques in London are no longer safe for the followers of jihad. They’re filled with spies.’ He leaned forward and stared intently at the man.
‘These questions are a waste of my time and yours. I have proved myself already. You know what I’ve done and you know what I’m capable of doing.’

  ‘You killed two people,’ said the man, flatly.

  ‘I set off car bombs in central London.’

  ‘And where did you learn the technique of multiple explosions?’ asked the man.

  ‘That was common sense.’

  ‘It is a tried and trusted technique.’

  ‘Multiple bombs cause more casualties. You initiate an explosion to cause panic, to drive people towards a second, bigger, explosion. Or you delay the second to hit the emergency services once they have responded to the first.’

  ‘But multiple bombs require substantial manpower. How many men do you have with you?’

  They heard the squeak of footsteps on the stairs and both men stiffened. The man’s hand disappeared inside his jacket and Bradshaw glimpsed the butt of a gun. Then they heard the woman saying she had tea for them. The man relaxed and his hand reappeared from inside his jacket.

  The woman waddled into the room holding a brass tray on which was a glass jug of tea, two tall glasses and a bowl containing sugar lumps. They thanked her and waited until she had wheezed back down the stairs before continuing their conversation.

  ‘For the car bombs I had four,’ said Bradshaw.

  ‘What were their roles?’

  Bradshaw didn’t understand the question. ‘We worked together,’ he said.

  ‘But you were the leader?’

  ‘Of course. I assigned two to drive and each had a companion to assist. I triggered the bombs.’

  ‘Who designed them?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And you put together the components?’

  Bradshaw nodded.

  The man poured tea into the glasses, then pushed one towards Bradshaw. ‘You learned these skills in the army?’

  ‘I was a soldier and I’ve had some demolitions training,’ he said. ‘But I’ve been careful to disguise it. The car bombs were based on designs available on the Internet.’