‘It is my duty, and my pleasure,’ he said. ‘I wish there was more I could to make your pain easier to bear. Money is nothing.’
‘You are an angel,’ she said.
Bradshaw laughed softly. ‘No, I’m not, but I’ve sent you money today. You can collect it from Western Union, if you show your ID. Do you remember the restaurant we went to, the last time we ate together?’
‘I remember,’ she said.
‘You can collect the money from the bank next to it. They’re expecting you.’
‘You are my saviour.’
‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry – I’m sorry for everything.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said. ‘No one blames you for what happened.’
‘I do,’ he said. ‘Please, collect the money and remember me in your prayers. I will send you more, I promise.’
He put the phone down. Suddenly he felt giddy, as if the blood had drained from his head, and he put his hand against the side of the phone box to steady himself. He did blame himself for what had happened to Yusuf and his family. When Farrah’s waters had broken, Yusuf had phoned him and asked if he would take him and his wife to hospital but Bradshaw had been due out on patrol and had refused. If he had gone with Yusuf, if there had been a Westerner in the car, the Americans wouldn’t have fired. But Bradshaw had gone out on patrol, and Yusuf and his child had been killed, and Farrah would be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Bradshaw did blame himself and would until the day he died. The money he had just sent made him feel a little better, but only a little.
So much had changed since the day Yusuf and the baby had died. Bradshaw had become a Muslim and had come to realise how he’d been misled by his parents, his teachers and his government. He knew now that British soldiers had no right to be killing Muslims in Afghanistan and Iraq, no right to be telling other cultures how to conduct themselves. What had happened in Afghanistan and Iraq had nothing to do with democracy, Bradshaw knew, and everything to do with oil and the subjugation of Muslims. That had to end, once and for all, which was why Bradshaw had become a soldier of jihad, determined to right the wrongs of his people. The money he had sent to Farrah was a small fraction of what had been left for him in the safety-deposit box in Knightsbridge. And nobody would be asking him to account for every pound he spent. All his paymasters would be concerned about was whether or not he carried out his mission. And Bradshaw was sure he would succeed and that people would die. A lot of people.
Richard Underwood’s mobile phone buzzed. He rolled over and grabbed it before it disturbed his wife. He always had it set to vibrate with the sound off because she was a light sleeper. He checked the screen. He’d been sent a message. CALL ME. He squinted at the number. It had a 66 prefix, which meant it had come from a mobile on Thailand, but Underwood already knew that. There was only one man who would send him a message as blunt as the one he’d received.
‘Work?’ mumbled his wife, rolling over and putting her arm around him.
‘I’m afraid so,’ he lied. ‘Sorry.’
‘Bastards.’ She kissed his neck.
She was half asleep, and Underwood had half a mind to roll on top of her but the other half was too concerned about the message. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said. He squinted at his alarm clock. It was seven o’clock, only fifteen minutes before his usual waking time. He untangled himself from his wife, showered and put on his work suit, a dark blue pinstripe. His briefcase was downstairs in the hallway and he collected it on the way out, along with the copy of The Times on his doormat. He got into his Vauxhall Vectra and started the engine. He had his mobile set on hands-free but he had no intention of calling Mickey Moore on any phone that could be traced back to him. These days, the police and other agencies were capable of listening into and tracing almost every electronic communication anywhere in the world.
He drove to a petrol station four miles from his house and pulled in next to a public phonebox. He got the Thai number from his mobile and tapped it out. As soon as Moore answered, Underwood fed in half a dozen pound coins. ‘Mickey, it’s me,’ he said.
‘Dicko, how are they hanging, mate?’
‘What do you want, Mickey?’
‘You’re always tetchy in the morning, aren’t you, old lad?’
‘Less of the “old”, you bugger,’ said Underwood. ‘Now, come on, I’m in a call box and the meter’s running. What do you want?’
‘I need someone checked out, mate. Soon as you can.’
Underwood sighed. ‘PNC checks are getting bloody risky. Everything’s logged, these days, and if there’s any come-back, your feet don’t touch the ground. And by “your feet”, I mean my feet.’
‘This one’s easy,’ said Moore.
‘I’m listening.’
‘There’s a guy out here by the name of John Westlake. Arrived a week ago. I’ve got his landing card and a copy of his passport and they look kosher, but according to the latest Europol watch list, he’s a blagger by the name of Ricky Knight. He’s on the run after a big bank job in Birmingham. Tiger kidnapping. Europol are on his case.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got all the info you need, Mickey.’
‘I want you to confirm what I know,’ said Moore. ‘I need you to tell me that Westlake is Knight, but then I need you to do a complete check on Knight. His full CV.’
‘It’ll be five for the PNC checks,’ said Underwood. ‘I’ve a pal in the Border Agency I can run the passport by. That’ll be another two. If Knight’s done time I’ll run him through the Prison Index. That’ll be another two. Let’s call it a round ten, shall we?’
‘Bloody hell, Dicko, you’ll be pricing yourself out of the market if you carry on like this.’
Underwood took out a small notebook and a Mont Blanc pen. ‘Stop whining and give me the date of birth and passport number,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a job to go to, unlike some.’
Stuart Townsend smiled at the girl behind the checkin desk and handed her the small laminated card he always carried. She said something to him but Townsend shook his head and pointed at the card. There was no problem with Townsend’s voice but he knew from experience that if he told someone he was deaf they wouldn’t believe him.
The girl frowned as she read the card. ‘HELLO, MY NAME IS STUART TOWNSEND. FOLLOWING AN ACCIDENT I AM TOTALLY DEAF BUT I CAN SPEAK. I CANNOT SIGN BUT I CAN LIP READ IF YOU SPEAK SLOWLY AND CLEARLY. THANK YOU FOR YOUR UNDERSTANDING.’
The girl handed the card back to him and flashed him a thumbs-up.
He gave her his passport and the email confirming his booking on the Thai Airways flight.
The girl checked his passport and tapped on her keyboard. ‘Do you have any bags to check in?’ she asked, speaking slowly, her eyes on his.
Townsend held up his small shell suitcase. ‘Just this,’ he said. ‘It fits into the overhead locker.’
‘That’s fine, sir,’ she said. ‘You’ll have plenty of room in first class anyway. Now, has anyone given you anything to take on board?’
He shook his head. She tapped on her keyboard, then looked up expectantly. He realised she must have asked him a question while she was looking down. Townsend gestured at his ear. ‘Can’t hear you,’ he said. ‘I have to see your lips.’
The girl’s cheeks flushed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I asked if you knew where the lounge was.’ She handed him a boarding-pass and a pass to the Thai Airways lounge.
‘I do, yes,’ he said.
‘Do you need someone to take you through Security?’ she asked.
Townsend smiled. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said. He thanked her and took the escalator up to the departure gates. A man in a fleece jacket watched him go, then made a call on his mobile phone.
Shepherd’s phone rang, waking him from a dreamless sleep. It was five o’clock in the morning, which meant it was late at night in England. ‘Are you sleeping, Spider?’ Charlotte Button asked.
‘Not any more,’ he said, rubbing his eyes and sitting up.
>
‘Can you talk?’
‘Of course I can talk,’ he said. ‘Exactly what do you think I’m doing out here?’
‘Boys will be boys,’ she said.
‘I can’t believe you’re saying that,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m joking. Where’s your sense of humour?’
‘It doesn’t normally kick in until after breakfast,’ he said. ‘Which is about three hours away. Believe me, I’d rather be at home than here.’
‘Understood,’ said Button. ‘But at least things are starting to move. Stuart Townsend’s on the way to Bangkok. He should be arriving at about four o’clock in the afternoon, your time, with Thai Airways. He’s booked into a hotel in Bangkok for one night so expect him in Pattaya some time tomorrow.’
‘Any idea what job he’s planned?’
‘I wish,’ said Button. ‘It’s all on his laptop and it never leaves his side.’
‘No clues from where he’s been?’
‘Have you ever tried following a deaf man, Spider? They’re constantly looking around, never off guard. If our guys get too close he spots them. Too far back and they lose him. But he’s been on the M25 a few times so we reckon it’s somewhere in the south of England.’
‘I guess there’s no point in me tailing him?’
‘No need. He’s obviously there to see the Moore brothers,’ said Button. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘I had a spell in the ring with Mark. My teeth are still loose.’
‘I thought you SAS types could handle anything that was thrown at them?’
‘I had to let him win,’ said Shepherd.
‘Of course you did,’ said Button, sympathetically.
‘I’m serious,’ said Shepherd.
‘And so am I.’
‘It’s a dominance thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘I had to show that I could take care of myself, but leave him thinking he’s top dog.’
‘You don’t have to explain anything to me,’ said Button.
‘Thank you.’
‘You fought, you lost, that’s all I need to know.’
Shepherd opened his mouth to insist that he’d deliberately lost the fight, but then saw she was only teasing him. ‘Ha ha,’ he said. ‘Anyway, they took me out for a night on the town afterwards and I helped them beat up a paedophile so I think they’ve accepted me.’
‘You did what?’
Shepherd smiled. ‘It was part of the initiation,’ he said. ‘Better you don’t know.’
‘I think you’re right,’ said Button.
‘They haven’t talked about business yet. I didn’t see them yesterday and I was waiting for them to call. I don’t want to seem too keen.’
‘Don’t leave it too long,’ said Button. ‘Someone’s just checked you out. A chief superintendent with the Met, guy by the name of Richard Underwood.’
‘He’s on their payroll?’
‘Looks like it, but we’ve not tracked down a paper trail yet. He’s based at Paddington Green, has a clutch of commendations and is only five years away from retirement. But he ran the Westlake name and Ricky Knight through the Police National Computer, and he checked the Westlake passport with the Border Agency.’
‘He could only have got that from the Moores,’ said Shepherd.
‘Exactly,’ said Button. ‘He was thorough with the Knight legend, I have to say. After the PNC showed up the robbery conviction he ran it through the Prison Index, then made a call to the police liaison officer at Wandsworth.’
‘Shit,’ said Shepherd.
Button laughed. ‘Relax, we had it covered,’ she said. ‘The officer briefed him on your three-year stint and said you were a hard nut but that you did your time without too many black marks.’
‘So, Underwood will give me a clean bill of health?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Looks like it, if he hasn’t done so already. How do you want to handle it?’
‘I can’t push it too hard,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll give it a while, then mention I’m having trouble getting my money out of the UK. Maybe chance my arm and tell them the cops have frozen some of my accounts, crack on that cash might be a problem. But, like I said, it’ll have to be casual, these guys are pros. There wasn’t even a hint that they suspect me. They were all as nice as pie.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ said Button. ‘The fact that they’re checking you out and not just cutting you dead means they’re interested rather than threatened. Do you need anything?’
‘I don’t suppose you’d spring for a return flight to the UK so that I can pop back to see my boy?’
‘I’d love to, but if the Moores found out it would blow everything,’ said Button. ‘We can’t risk it.’
‘I know,’ said Shepherd. ‘It was just wishful thinking.’
‘Soon as this case is closed, you can have all the time off you want, I promise.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ said Shepherd.
‘How’s Razor, by the way? Is he behaving?’
‘Good as gold,’ said Shepherd.
‘Why do I think you’re being less than truthful?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘Cross my heart,’ he said.
‘And hope to die?’
Shepherd laughed again. ‘I never hope that,’ he said. ‘Tempting Fate. Something I need to bounce off you. Razor’s not happy with his hotel. In fact, it’s more of a knocking shop than anything. Is it okay for him to move into a better place?’
‘How much better? I don’t want him moving into a five-star presidential suite.’
‘It’ll be within budget,’ said Shepherd. ‘Certainly a lot less than it’d cost in the UK.’
‘I’ll leave it up to you,’ said Button. ‘Sweet dreams.’
Mickey Moore flipped through the Bangkok Post. As usual there was little in it to interest him. It was just after ten o’clock. ‘Has the paper guy been yet?’ he asked Barry Wilson. Each day a man on a motorcycle delivered that day’s British tabloid newspapers, sent from England by satellite and printed in Thailand. The two men were sitting on the terrace by the pool. Wilson was eating his regular breakfast of cheese omelette and freshly baked French bread, with sliced mango to follow. Mickey rarely had anything other than black coffee and a cigar for breakfast.
‘Nah, he’s been late the last couple of days,’ said Wilson, through a mouthful of omelette.
‘Bastard,’ said Moore.
The phone rang in the bar and Davie Black answered it. After a few seconds he appeared at the doorway, holding a bottle of Singha. ‘The Professor’s just arrived,’ he said. ‘Taxi’s dropped him at the gatehouse.’
Mickey finished his coffee and stood up. ‘Where’s Chopper?’
‘In bed. Where do you think?’ said Black. ‘He didn’t get back until five this morning and the last time I saw him he was going into his villa with two girls.’ He grinned. ‘At least, I think they were girls. Couldn’t tell for sure.’ His grin widened. ‘Not sure he can half the time.’
‘Give him a shout, will you?’ said Mickey. ‘And if he’s got guests, get them off the premises ASAP. Just family in on the briefing, yeah? We’ll do it in the chill-out room.’
Black headed over to Yates’s villa.
‘Any idea what he’s got for us?’ asked Wilson.
Mickey shrugged. ‘The Professor never says a word until he’s got all his ducks in a row.’ He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted at Mark, who was lying in the bubbling Jacuzzi. ‘Mark, the Professor’s here!’ Four naked Thai girls were giggling and splashing in the shallow end of the pool. They jumped up and down and waved at Mickey. ‘And get those sluts off the premises!’ He yelled.
Mark climbed out of the water and wrapped himself in a towel while Mickey went into the hallway to open the front door. He watched as Townsend walked slowly up the driveway, dragging a small wheeled shell suitcase and mopping his forehead with a white handkerchief. Mickey waved and Townsend waved back.
Mickey waited until Townsend was close to him before he spoke. ‘Stuar
t, good to see you,’ he said, taking care to pronounce each word carefully. He hugged him. He didn’t speak again until Townsend could see his lips. ‘Flight okay?’
‘Pain in the arse, even in first class,’ said Townsend. ‘The only movies with English subtitles were the crap Chinese ones.’
There were black bags under Townsend’s eyes and the whites were bloodshot. ‘You look wrecked, mate,’ said Mickey.
Townsend grinned. ‘Yeah, I picked up an old favourite from Nana Plaza last night,’ he said. ‘Had her, a Viagra and a bottle of brandy, then she phoned her sister and after another Viagra a great time was had by all. Now I can barely walk.’
‘Why didn’t you come straight down to Pattaya?’ asked Mickey. ‘We’d have fixed you up, no problem. We had a dozen dancers from Living Dolls here last night, all loved-up on ecstasy and ready for anything.’
‘Anne’s a bit special,’ said Townsend. ‘I think she really likes me.’
Mickey chuckled and took him along to the chill-out area, where Mark was already sitting on one of the sofas, wrapped in a bathrobe. He waved at Townsend.
Wilson was standing at the bar. He mimed pouring a beer. ‘Have you got a Guinness? I could do with the hair of the dog,’ Townsend asked.
‘Not on tap,’ said Wilson. ‘Just in cans.’
Townsend frowned: Wilson was too far away for him to read his lips. Mickey touched his arm and repeated what Wilson had said. ‘A can will be fine,’ said Townsend.
Wilson opened a fridge, took out the Guinness and poured it.
‘Where’s Terry?’ Townsend asked Mickey.
‘Bit of an accident. Fell off his bloody bike. Still in hospital.’
‘He’s going to be all right?’ said Townsend.
Mickey grimaced. ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘Broke his spine.’
‘That’s a pity,’ said Townsend.
‘Tell me about it,’ said Mickey.
‘You’re going to be needing his expertise on this one. Not sure it’s a goer without him.’
Mickey patted his shoulder. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got, Professor,’ he said. ‘Let me worry about recruitment.’
Townsend took his Panasonic Toughbook from his shell suitcase and plugged it into the mains. ‘Okay if I use the plasma?’ he asked Mickey.
Live Fire Page 20
