Soft Target ss-2

by Stephen Leather

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  Baston took a typed sheet from his jacket pocket and slid it across Hendrickson’s desk.

  Hendrickson blanched as he read it.

  ‘If everything’s rosy, why is he asking John to check the company accounts and not say anything to you?’

  Hendrickson fought to keep calm. ‘He’s maybe got a better offer on the table and wants to juggle the figures.’ He stared at the heading on the email, then glanced at the calendar on his desk. The email had been sent on Wednesday night. Five days after Roger Sewell had been shot and buried in the New Forest. And Sewell was dead: Nelson had shown him the photographs. Hendrickson dropped the sheet of paper on to his desk. ‘There’s no way anyone else could have sent that, is there?’

  Baston’s brow creased into deep furrows. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Someone messing about with Roger’s email address.’

  ‘Not unless he gave someone his password. And why would he do that?’

  Hendrickson’s heart was pounding and he had a headache. If Nelson was accessing the computer and sending emails under Sewell’s name, what was he hoping to achieve? And why would he email John Garden? If it was money that Nelson wanted, he could have forced Sewell to sign a few cheques before he put a bullet in his head. None of this made any sense. Unless Sewell wasn’t dead. A cold shiver ran down Hendrickson’s spine. And if he wasn’t dead, how had Nelson got the Polaroids?

  He tried to keep his voice steady. ‘Has John replied to Roger’s email?’

  ‘Not yet. What do you think Roger’s up to?’

  ‘He’s the boss, Norm. He can do what the hell he wants.’

  ‘But I get the feeling he’s cutting you – and me – out of the loop.’

  ‘Now you’re being paranoid.’

  Baston tapped the sheet of paper. ‘He wants John to check the company accounts, get back to him on his personal email and not tell you. That’s being devious. He’s up to something. For all we know he could be selling his stake to some multinational and we’ll get sod all.’

  ‘Roger wouldn’t do that.’ Hendrickson was close to throwing up. ‘Look, he’s taken a few days off and he wants to keep a check on things. He probably doesn’t want me to know he’s looking over my shoulder.’ Hendrickson got up, came round the desk and opened the door. ‘It’s nothing, Norm.’

  Baston scratched his neck. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about it,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all that junk food you eat,’ said Hendrickson. ‘Go on, I’ll give you a call as soon as I hear from him.’

  Baston didn’t seem convinced. Hendrickson patted his shoulder and eased him out of the room. He closed the door, then rushed over to the desk, picked up the sheet of paper and reread it. If Sewell wasn’t dead, what had Nelson been playing at? And why hadn’t Sewell turned up at the office?

  Sewell had to be dead. What was happening now was the prelude to some blackmail attempt. He took out his mobile and called Angie. Her phone went straight to voicemail. Hendrickson didn’t like to leave a message but he couldn’t spend all day calling her. ‘Angie, hi, it’s Larry. Look, I need to talk to you. It’s urgent. Your husband – don’t do anything until you’ve talked to me, okay?’ He cut the connection, then realised he hadn’t said anything about Tony Nelson. Maybe he should have warned her about him. He put his thumb on the redial button but had second thoughts. He didn’t want to sound too worried – it might spook her. Besides, she’d know what he meant. He had to stay in control. A plan was already forming in his mind. He’d get Angie to fix up a meeting with Nelson, then he’d turn up and force the man to tell him what he was playing at.

  Charlie Kerr closed one eye, sighted along his cue, and hit the white ball. It clipped the red into the corner pocket and pulled back behind the brown. ‘Nice,’ said Eddie Anderson. He was standing by the scoreboard, balancing his cue on his left foot.

  Angie appeared at the door in her pale blue towelling robe, with a glass of orange juice. ‘I’ll be by the pool, babe.’

  ‘Don’t forget we’re out tonight,’ he said. Two members of the Carlos Rodriguez cartel were coming over to finalise a cocaine deal he’d been putting together. The plan was to take them out to dinner with a couple of high-class escort girls. Dinner at an upmarket Thai restaurant followed by a visit to one of the city-centre casinos, then straight to Aces where they’d get the full VIP treatment.

  ‘I’ll look good for you, babe,’ she said. She walked up and kissed his cheek. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Kerr patted her backside. ‘You always look good,’ he said. He grinned at Anderson. ‘What do you think, Eddie? She looks good, yeah?’

  ‘A sight for sore eyes,’ said Anderson.

  Angie flashed him a smile and headed for the pool. Kerr bent over the table and potted the brown. ‘Nice shot,’ said Anderson.

  Kerr went for another red but it hit the edge of the pocket and spun across the table. He swore. ‘I need a coffee. Angie!’ he shouted. There was no answer. ‘I don’t know why we even have a pool,’ he said. ‘She never bloody swims in it, just lies down next to it. Angie!’

  ‘I’ll make it,’ said Anderson.

  ‘Your coffee tastes like shit,’ said Kerr.

  He went through to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. Angie’s mobile was on the black marble work surface, plugged into a mains socket. Kerr picked it up. It was switched off. He pressed the power button, then spooned coffee into the cafetière. He picked up the phone. There was a single voice message. Kerr played it. Who the hell was Larry?

  Shepherd took the black nylon equipment bag up to the bedroom and laid out the contents on the bed. It had his Stuart Marsden cover name scratched into it and looked as if it had been in use for years. The equipment was all labelled, too. Police officers were as bad as SAS troopers when it came to liberating or souveniring equipment. A name-tag was sewn into the inside of the bullet-proof vest and the belt, and ‘Marsden’ had been scratched into the side of the holster. A printed name-tag had been sellotaped to the stem of the flashlight and the CS spray, while ‘SM’ was painted inside the helmet. All the equipment was in good condition but had clearly been used. It was the little things that mattered when it came to maintaining a cover. If he turned up at SO19 with brand new gear, questions would be asked.

  He hauled on the vest. It was similar to the one he’d worn in the SAS. It weighed several kilograms, with the ceramic plate in the front pocket to protect the heart and vital organs. He slid the belt round his waist, then slotted the CS spray and retractable baton into their holders.

  He took off all the equipment and repacked it in the nylon bag, then sat down on the bed and opened the white envelope. He had destroyed the CD files Hargrove had sent, then burned the sheets of paper. But the white envelope contained the documents he’d need as Stuart Marsden: there was a warrant card, and a driving licence, both with a recent photograph, a Bank of Scotland debit card and a Barclay card. The credit cards would function, Shepherd knew, but every pound would have to be accounted for at the end of the operation. He had a spare wallet into which he slotted the cards and the licence, with half of the banknotes from his own wallet. He put it into his bedside cabinet. He had the weekend to himself before he stepped into the shoes of Stuart Marsden, armed policeman. Not shoes, he reminded himself. Boots. SO19 officers wore regular army-issue black leather boots, and the ones Hargrove had sent were brand new. Shepherd would have preferred to wear his own, but they were brown. He’d have to go running in the new boots, wearing two pairs of thick wool socks to protect his feet until they were broken in.

  He got changed and went downstairs with the boots. Before he left the house he phoned Angie Kerr again. The call went through to voicemail, but Shepherd didn’t leave a message.

  Angie stretched out on the sun-lounger, then pulled her Marlboros and lighter from the pocket of her robe. She lit a cigarette and she looked at the back of the house. It didn’t feel like a home, even though she’d lived th
ere for more than five years. Charlie had bought the place without telling her. He hadn’t even told her he was putting their old house up for sale. The first she’d known of the sale was when an estate agent had walked in while she was in the shower.

  Angie took another pull on her cigarette. She’d decided to sell this house, once Charlie was out of the way, and all the furniture. She’d walk away with just her clothes. She didn’t want anything that would remind her of him. She’d have to wait until a decent interval had passed – play the grief-stricken widow for a few months – but then she’d be set for life. The house was worth at least two million, there was almost a quarter of a million in their joint account, and she had access to three safety-deposit boxes in various banks containing cash and Krugerrands worth well over half a million. She didn’t know where Charlie kept all his money but she had no doubt he had millions stashed in overseas accounts. He’d made a will shortly after they’d married so she was pretty sure that his lawyers would tell her where the money was. But even if they didn’t she had more than enough to live in luxury for the rest of her life.

  She flicked ash and lay back on the sun-lounger, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face. She’d sell the villa in Marbella too and buy a place in France. Charlie hated France. He hated the food, he hated the people, he hated not being able to speak the language. He felt comfortable in Spain. He was a face there, he was known, feared. He was ushered into the best nightclubs without queuing or paying, he got the best seats in all the restaurants, and young women lined up to sleep with him. Once Tony Nelson had done his job, she’d never go to Spain again. She’d buy an apartment in London, Chelsea maybe, and a farmhouse in France. She’d make new friends. Real friends. The only friends she had now were the friends Charlie chose for her.

  It hadn’t always been like that. He’d been charming when they’d first met. She had been seventeen and a virgin, he was six years older, with money in his pocket, a green MGB and his own house. He had known the men on the doors of all the city’s top clubs. Angie worked at a city-centre hairdresser’s and was only six months away from being a fully qualified stylist when Charlie had walked in, wearing his Armani suit and Gucci shoes. He flirted with her and asked her out, and she had said yes. He was charming, generous and made her laugh. Her parents had been against the marriage but she’d been looking for a way to leave home since she was fourteen and eloping was the perfect excuse.

  The first year had been a dream. She’d never asked where Charlie’s money came from, and hadn’t really cared. He hadn’t started hitting her until the second year. He was on his way out one night and she’d asked where he was going. He slapped her, hard, then immediately apologised. He’d hugged her and promised he’d never hit her again, and the next day he’d given her a gold Rolex. He’d hit her again the following week when he saw she wasn’t wearing the watch. She reached over and touched the Rolex. She wore it all the time now, even in the shower. She wouldn’t wear it after they’d buried Charlie. She was going to have it buried with him. She smiled at the thought of him spending eternity with the watch she loathed.

  She took another drag on her cigarette, held the smoke deep in her lungs, then exhaled. She’d never smoked before she’d met Charlie. Now she smoked two packets a day. When Charlie was out of the way, she’d stop.

  She shivered, although it was a warm day, and opened her eyes. Her husband was standing at the bottom of the sun-lounger. Angie was wearing her sunglasses up on her head and she dropped them down so that she could see his face. He was smiling at her, the cold, humourless smile that was usually the prelude to a beating. Then she saw that he was holding her mobile phone in his left hand.

  ‘In the house,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  ‘Charlie, what’s wrong?’

  ‘You and I are going to have a little chat,’ he said coldly. ‘About Larry.’

  Larry Hendrickson walked out of the changing room and threw his towel over his shoulder. He went through the weight-training area. Exercise was the last thing on his mind but he wanted to see Angie Kerr and she was often at the health club during the week. It was where he had met her, where he’d noticed the bruises. She’d first told him about her abusive husband in the club’s fruit juice bar, where he’d talked about Sewell and how his dog-in-the-manger attitude was damaging the company and the prospects of everyone who worked for it. Now he needed to talk to her again, about Tony Nelson. She hadn’t returned his call and he didn’t know where she lived so the health club was his best chance of finding her.

  He looked through the glass panel in the door to the aerobics room. A couple of dozen plump housewives were trying to keep up with a lithe ponytailed blonde from New Zealand. Angie wasn’t among them. Hendrickson walked on to the treadmills. There were two blondes at the far end, watching Sky News as they jogged up steep inclines, but neither was Angie Kerr. She wasn’t on any of the exercise bikes, either.

  Angie was a keen squash player but she wasn’t on any of the squash courts. And she wasn’t in the sauna or at the juice bar. He ordered an orange and carrot juice and sat down at an empty table. He didn’t know what car she drove and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by asking at Reception if she was in today. He’d just hope she showed up.

  His mobile rang and he looked at the display. It was her. ‘Jesus, Angie, where the hell have you been?’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Have you spoken to Nelson yet?’

  Angie didn’t reply.

  ‘Angie, have you spoken to Nelson yet?’

  ‘Not since Monday, no.’

  ‘Have you paid him yet?’

  ‘What’s wrong, Larry?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think we can trust him, that’s all.’

  There was another long pause.

  ‘Angie, are you listening to me?’

  ‘I have to see you, Larry,’ she said. She sounded close to tears.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m at the health club. Can you get away?’

  ‘You can come here, to the house.’

  ‘What about your husband?’

  ‘He’s away,’ said Angie. ‘He won’t be back until next week.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Hale Barnes, about ten minutes’ drive from the club. Can you come now?’

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘What I’ve got to say is best not said over the phone. Give me the address.’

  Hendrickson stopped the car at the roadside and looked at Angie’s house. It was big and modern with huge picture windows and tall chimneys. A long drive wound through sprawling lawns dotted with clumps of well-tended trees. It must have been worth a fortune. Hendrickson could see why she didn’t just walk away from her husband.

  There were large black wrought-iron gates at the entrance but they were open. A single car was parked in front of the double garage: Angie’s Jaguar.

  It was the first time Hendrickson had been to Angie’s house. She’d be alone and emotionally vulnerable, especially when he told her what Nelson had been doing. Hendrickson could be a shoulder for her to cry on, and maybe, just maybe, it would lead to something else. He’d fancied Angie the first time he’d seen her in the health club. Slim and blonde with full breasts and long legs. Now he’d tell her what had happened and she’d be scared and he’d take her in his arms and tell her it was all right, he’d take care of her, and then he’d cup one of those wonderful breasts. He’d kiss her on the cheek, and then he’d find her lips, and then he’d whisper that maybe they’d be more comfortable in bed.

  He took a deep breath and put his Mercedes in gear, rolled slowly up the drive and parked next to the Jaguar. He climbed out and walked to the front door, whistling softly. He rang the bell and shifted from side to side as he waited for the door to open. He heard high heels clicking on a hard wood floor and his stomach turned over. High heels and stockings, her on top, tossing her blonde hair and urging him on.

  The door opened. Hendrickson’s smile hardened when he saw that Ang
ie in the flesh was a far cry from the sexy siren of his fantasy. Her face was tear-stained and there was a red blotch on her left cheek as if she’d been slapped. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and her lipstick was smeared as if she’d been roughly kissed. ‘Hello, Larry,’ she said, avoiding his eyes. ‘Come on in.’ She held open the door, looking at the floor.

  ‘Are you okay?’ said Hendrickson. It wasn’t how he’d imagined it. She had on wooden sandals, baggy jeans and a pink sweatshirt.

  ‘Come inside,’ she said.

  Hendrickson stood at the threshold. He had a sudden urge to get back into the Mercedes and drive away. But he knew he had to find out what Tony Nelson was up to and the only way to do that was to talk to Angie. He had to find out how far she had gone with Nelson. And he had to get her to arrange a meeting with the man so that he could catch him unawares.

  He stepped into the hallway and she closed the door behind him. She pressed her back against the door, her hands flat against the wood. She started crying, big, gasping sobs. Hendrickson didn’t know what to do. In his fantasy he’d held her and tried to kiss her, but sex was now the furthest thing from his mind. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  She didn’t say anything, just stood shaking her head and sobbing.

  ‘Is it Nelson? Has something happened?’

  Angie wrapped her arms round her stomach and slid down the door until she was crouched on the floor. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Then Hendrickson heard a sharp laugh and whirled around. Two men were standing in a doorway. One was short with tight, black curls and the other was shaven-headed and had the build of a wrestler. He wore a sovereign ring on his wedding finger and a thick gold chain on his right wrist. As he stared at Hendrickson he cracked his knuckles, like pistol shots. It was the smaller man who had laughed. He was carrying a large kitchen knife and swished the blade from side to side. Hendrickson swallowed and took a step back. ‘Who are you?’ he stuttered. ‘What do you want?’