Soft Target ss-2

by Stephen Leather

  ‘The boot. Where’s the money?’

  ‘Back seat.’

  ‘Okay. Why don’t you get into the seat here next to me while your mate with the heavy artillery checks the gear?’

  ‘Youse wouldn’t have an itchy trigger finger, would you?’

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ said Rose.

  The boxer sighed, opened the passenger door and climbed in. He had his gun in his lap, the barrel pointing at the dashboard. Rose popped open the boot and watched in his rear-view mirror as the guy with the Kalashnikov went to the back of the car.

  ‘Youse came alone?’ mused the boxer.

  ‘I just want to sell the merchandise,’ said Rose. ‘I don’t want to start a gang war. I thought if I turned up mob-handed you’d get jumpy and that’s the last thing we need.’

  ‘Where did youse get it from?’

  Rose tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘Need to know,’ he said.

  The guy with the Kalashnikov bent down and disappeared from Rose’s view. Rose was relaxed, but he kept his finger on the trigger.

  ‘Youse look like a cop.’

  ‘Yeah, everyone says that.’

  ‘Except you’re as nervous as a cat in a kennel right now, which you wouldn’t be if youse had backup.’

  ‘I’ve no back-up. Trust me on that. But I do have a gun that can fire eleven hundred bullets a second so tell your mate to get a move on, will you?’

  The boxer gave him a curt nod and shouted something in Gaelic to his colleague.

  ‘English,’ said Rose. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘How does it look, Kieran?’ shouted the boxer.

  Rose took his eyes off the rear-view mirror and checked out the Mercedes. The driver had his hands on the steering-wheel. The front passenger was sitting stony-faced, chewing gum.

  ‘Looks good,’ said Kieran. He walked to the passenger side of Rose’s car.‘Ten kilos. Good stuff. The man walks the walk.’

  ‘So far so good,’ said the boxer. ‘Now, how do youse want to play it?’

  ‘You and I walk over to your car and check the money. Kieran stays in front of us and keeps his hands away from the Kalashnikov.’

  The boxer climbed slowly out of the car. Rose did the same, sliding the MAC 10 under his jacket as he closed the door. Kieran walked to the Mercedes, his long coat flapping behind him. Rose accompanied the boxer, his finger still on the MAC 10 trigger. He scanned the windows of the flats overlooking the car park but no one was watching. Two plump teenage girls pushed prams away from the block entrance, smoking and swearing.

  They reached the Mercedes and Kieran pulled open the rear doors. There were two black Adidas gym bags on the back seat. He pulled them out and swung them on to the boot.

  ‘Watch the paintwork, will youse?’ snarled the boxer.

  Kieran unzipped one of the bags and stepped to the side. He kept his hands free, a faint smile on his face. Rose peered inside the bag. It was full of bundles of fifty-euro notes. He pulled one out at random and flicked through it. Then he sniffed it.

  The boxer laughed. ‘Think we printed them ourselves?’

  Rose put back the bundle and unzipped the second bag. He checked another bundle at random. It seemed genuine, and all the notes were used. If they had been counterfeit they would all have been new, Rose thought. He stepped back from the car. ‘Everything looks cool,’ he said.

  ‘Youse don’t want to count it?’

  ‘I trust you,’ said Rose, deadpan. ‘Plus, you rip me off for a few grand, so what? I didn’t see you weighing the gear to see if I’m a few ounces short. It’s all based on trust at the end of the day. Trust and artillery.’

  ‘Trust and artillery,’ said the boxer. ‘I like that.’

  ‘Kieran can put the bags in my boot, and take the gear.’

  The boxer nodded at Kieran, who transferred the money and carried the heroin to the boot of the Mercedes and slammed it shut.

  Rose backed towards his car, ready to swing out the MAC 10 at the first sign of a double-cross, but Kieran slid into the back seat of the Mercedes. ‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with youse,’ said the boxer, throwing Rose an ironic salute. ‘Have a safe trip home.’ He got into the back of the car, slammed the door and the vehicle rolled slowly out of the car park.

  Rose watched as it drove away, white plumes feathering from the exhaust. His heart was hammering in his chest but he wanted to throw back his head and howl in triumph. He’d done it. He’d bloody well done it.

  The bad guy popped his head up from behind a crate and Liam fired twice with the shotgun. The man’s skull exploded with a satisfying pop and brains splattered over the wall behind him. Two more bad guys appeared from behind a row of oil barrels, brandishing axes. Liam reloaded smoothly and blew them away.

  ‘Don’t those things carry parental warnings?’ asked Moira. She was carrying a tray with a glass of orange juice and some fig rolls on it.

  ‘Parents don’t play video games, Gran,’ said Liam, his eyes never leaving the screen. His thumbs flashed over the handset and two more villains slumped to the ground.

  ‘You know what I mean, young man. Don’t be cheeky,’ she admonished him, as she placed the tray on the coffee-table.

  ‘Sorry, Gran,’ said Liam. He reloaded and waited for a bad guy to appear at the top of the stairs, then shot him in the chest.

  Moira sat down on the sofa next to Liam. ‘Did your father buy you that?’

  ‘Nah, he got me two racing games. I got this with my pocket money.’

  ‘An hour we said, remember? An hour a day.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Would you mind switching it off and talking to me?’

  ‘Gran . . .’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

  Liam sighed and switched off the console. He reached for his orange juice and gulped it down.

  ‘You know your granddad and I love having you here,’ she said.

  Liam wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  ‘And you’re happy at school?’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘But it’s a good school, isn’t it? And there’s a better mix of children in your class. Not as many . . . well, you know what I mean, don’t you? It’s not like London.’

  ‘The teachers are nice,’ said Liam, ‘and I like walking to school.’

  ‘There you are, then,’ said Moira. ‘You like your room here, too, don’t you?’

  Liam nodded, and bit into a biscuit.

  ‘Your granddad and I were thinking that perhaps you’d like to stay with us.’

  Liam frowned. ‘For ever?’

  ‘Not necessarily, no,’ said Moira, hurriedly. ‘But your father’s very busy at work, you know that. And remember what happened last night. He said he’d phone but he didn’t. He isn’t very reliable, so Granddad and I think you might be better off here with us.’

  ‘Is this Dad’s idea?’ asked Liam. Tears sprang to his eyes.

  Moira put her arm round his shoulders. ‘No, it’s not. He’s still talking about you going to London to be with him. But it’s going to be difficult, and it might be better for him if you stayed here.’

  Liam wiped his eyes on his sleeve. ‘It isn’t fair.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Moira.

  ‘It’s like you’re all trying to force me to do something I don’t want to do.’

  ‘No one’s trying to force you to do anything, Liam.’

  ‘Dad never asked me if I wanted to come and stay here. He just dumped me.’

  ‘Now you’re being silly.’

  ‘He doesn’t want me. That’s why he left me here and it’s why he didn’t call.’

  ‘He does want you, Liam, of course he does. We want you, too – and we all want what’s best for you.’

  ‘I want to be with my mum!’

  ‘Liam!’ Moira protested. ‘Calm down.’

  ‘I don’t want to! I wish I was with Mum right now. I wish I was dead like her!’


  Liam rushed out of the room, knocking over his glass with what remained of the juice.

  Tom came in from the garden as Moira was dabbing at the carpet with a damp cloth. ‘I heard shouting, what’s wrong?’

  Moira shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  Even from the far side of the field Shepherd could hear the crunch of bone against bone as the two men collided at full pelt. The rugby ball bounced into touch and the two men helped each other up, grins on their mud-splattered faces.

  Hargrove was sitting on a wooden bench outside the pub, which overlooked the rugby pitch. Shepherd sat down next to him, wearing his black leather jacket and blue jeans. He hadn’t shaved. The superintendent was immaculately dressed as always, in a pristine blue blazer, grey flannels and gleaming brogues. He sipped his shandy. ‘Can I get you a drink, Spider?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ said Shepherd. He stretched out his legs and sighed.

  ‘Not a rugby player, are you?’ asked the superintendent.

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Too many rules?’ said Hargrove.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I’m a cricket man myself,’ said Hargrove. ‘Never understood why it isn’t played all year round.’

  ‘The weather, maybe,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘The thing I like about it is that it’s a team game,’ said Hargrove, ignoring Shepherd’s comment. ‘But at the same time you function as an individual. When you’re batting, it’s all down to you. No back-up, no support. When you’re fielding, you’re working as a team.’

  Play restarted on the pitch, but after a few seconds there was another juddering crunch, three players went down and the referee blew his whistle.

  ‘You’re a runner, right?’ asked Hargrove.

  ‘It’s a way of keeping fit,’ Shepherd said. ‘I don’t run for fun.’

  ‘What do you do for fun?’

  Shepherd ran a hand through his unkempt hair. It was a good question. He used to go to the cinema and for long walks. He used to eat, drink and make merry. But that was before Sue had died. He still tried to have fun with Liam, but more out of parental duty than from the desire to enjoy himself. He’d kick a football with his son, play video games and take him to matches, but no matter how much he loved Liam, the boy was an ever-present reminder of the wife he’d lost. Fun hadn’t been a major part of his life in recent months.

  Hargrove took a sip of his shandy. ‘Charlie Kerr,’ he said. ‘We’ve opened a real can of worms.’

  Shepherd looked across at him. ‘He’s known?’

  Hargrove smiled. ‘Oh, yes. Not Premier Division yet, but on the way. Greater Manchester Drugs Squad have been on to him for a while. The Firm and the Church have been keeping a watching brief.’

  The Firm: MI5. It had been tasked with targeting big-time drugs-dealers and career criminals after the fall of the Soviet Union and the IRA’s decision to start peace talks had left the Security Service with little to do. And the Church: Customs and Excise.

  ‘Why just a watching brief?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Kerr’s one of the smart ones. Doesn’t go near the gear, doesn’t touch the cash. It’s a question of resources. It would cost millions to put him away. They’ve been hoping that eventually he’ll deal with someone they’ve turned.’

  Hargrove took a CD Rom in a plastic case from his blazer pocket and handed it to Shepherd. ‘Those are the files on him. Surveillance pictures, known associates, all the intel we have.’

  Shepherd pocketed the disk. He knew that the nature of the investigation was about to change, but he waited for the superintendent to continue. Spectators cheered as a bald, burly player ran a good fifty yards down the pitch and hurled himself between the posts. The referee’s whistle blew long and hard.

  ‘He runs a sideline in protection rackets but that’s a hangover from his old days. Now he leaves that pretty much up to one of his heavies, Eddie Anderson. His nightclubs are busy, but they’re money-laundering set-ups more than anything.’

  And a source of eager young girls, Angie had said. The woman scorned. The woman whose life was about to change for ever, and not for the better, thought Shepherd.

  ‘Kerr’s father was an old-school villain, Billy Kerr. Armed robber who got involved in the drugs trade in the late eighties. Got shot on the Costa del Crime a few years back. Professional hit, but there was never anyone in the frame for it.’

  ‘So Charlie’s following in his father’s footsteps?’

  ‘Seems that way. But he’s self-made. He was only a teenager when his dad was killed. He was living with his mother. She and Kerr had separated not long after he was born and Kerr had almost no hand in raising him. Must have been in his genes.’ Play started again on the pitch. ‘This could be a godsend, Spider.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘We’ve got her on tape, conspiracy to murder. If she turns up with the cash tomorrow, that’s the icing on the cake. If we offer her a way out, there’s a good chance she’ll take it.’

  ‘She’s scared to death of him.’

  ‘She doesn’t have a choice,’ said Hargrove. ‘No real choice, anyway. If she goes down he’ll know exactly what she was planning. He might decide that life behind bars is punishment enough, but a guy with his resources can have someone killed in prison just as easily as on the outside. If she gives evidence against him, though, he’ll be the one behind bars.’

  ‘Yeah, but she’s not stupid. She’ll know that just because he’s banged up doesn’t mean he can’t have her killed,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘So she’s damned if she does and damned if she doesn’t,’ said Hargrove. ‘At least we can offer her protection. A new identity. The works.’

  ‘Plus she gets to keep his money?’

  ‘Anything that’s not confiscated as the proceeds of crime,’agreed Hargrove.‘That’s got to sound more attractive than life behind bars.’

  Shepherd stretched out his legs. If it had been a simple matter of offering Angie Kerr the choice of two evils, there would have been no need to give him the files on her husband. Hargrove obviously wanted him to make the approach.

  ‘We’ll only get one shot,’ said Shepherd. ‘If she turns us down, Kerr will know we’re on to him and go to ground.’

  ‘Which means we’re no worse off than we are now,’ said Hargrove.

  ‘And we’ve no idea how much she knows about her husband’s operation.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Hargrove.

  ‘Which is where I come in?’

  Hargrove looked at Shepherd. ‘Are you okay about this?’

  ‘It’s messy,’ said Shepherd, ‘getting close to the wife to get to the husband.’

  ‘No one’s asking you to get into bed with her, Spider,’ said the superintendent. ‘Just find out how much she knows about his business. It could be that he keeps her in the dark, in which case she’s no use to us.’

  ‘And we charge her with conspiracy anyway? Even though there’s a good chance he’ll have her killed?’

  ‘She’s the one who’s hired a killer. We can’t let her walk just because her husband’s a villain.’

  ‘A drugs baron who knocks her around, who terrorises her and screws anything in a short skirt?’

  The superintendent raised an eyebrow quizzically. ‘You’re not going soft on me, are you?’

  ‘It’s not about being soft. It’s about justice. You’re saying that if we can’t put him away, even though he’s a grade-A villain, we’ll make do with wifey.’

  ‘If you feel that strongly about it, make sure there’s enough to put him away. And if wifey helps, wifey walks. Look, there’s a whole series of imponderables we have to nail down. We have to find out how much she knows about Kerr’s wrongdoing, then see if she’s prepared to give evidence against him – as his wife she’s entitled to refuse. And if she is prepared to help, we’ll need evidence to back it up.’

  ‘What about Sewell?’ asked Shepherd. ‘He’s not going to be happ
y about being kept under wraps.’

  ‘Leave Sewell to me.’

  ‘What about resources?’

  ‘Whatever we need. Greater Manchester Police will be footing the bill.’

  And taking the credit if we bring Kerr down, thought Shepherd, ruefully. It was always that way. Hargrove’s undercover unit had a roving brief: forces around the country put in a request to the Home Office whenever they needed the unit’s services, and Hargrove reported to the Home Secretary. The members of the unit never took credit for their successes and never appeared in court. They simply amassed the evidence, put the case together and moved on. Taking credit would mean blowing their cover, and the last thing an undercover policeman needed was publicity.

  Shepherd stood up. ‘I’ll make a call, tell her I need more info.’

  ‘And get the deposit. We need it on video.’

  Shepherd walked away, hands in his pockets. He didn’t look back, but could feel Hargrove watching him. He cursed under his breath. The Angie Kerr job wasn’t going to be as cut and dried as he’d hoped, and every day in Manchester was a day away from his son.

  Rose drove back to the airport and parked the rental car next to his own vehicle. He checked that no one was around, then transferred the MAC 10 to the boot of his car. Customs checks into the UK were as cursory as those into Ireland so he had no qualms about taking it back to London.

  He took the rental back to its drop-off point, then retrieved his own car and drove it to the ferry terminal. He had an hour’s wait before boarding. His mobile rang as he was getting out of his car. ‘It’s good gear you’ve sold us,’ said a voice. A guttural Irish accent. Not the boxer and not the man to whom Rose had spoken on the phone before.

  ‘I told you so,’ said Rose. He headed up the metal stairway to the main deck.

  ‘And your price was fair. Would you be able to get us more?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Rose.

  ‘You know where we are,’ said the man.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose. He cut the connection and walked up on to the deck. He watched as the remaining cars drove on to the ferry. As they left Dublin port and headed across the Irish Sea, he took the Sim card out of the phone and flicked it out over the waves.

  Shepherd made himself a cup of coffee, then slotted the CD into his laptop. The information on the disk was password protected and Shepherd keyed in the eight-digit number that would give him access. It was one of the perks of having a near-photographic memory: he never had to remember a password or phone number.