‘Why would anyone be following you?’ asked Chaudhry.
‘Any one of a dozen reasons. It would depend on whatever case I’m working on,’ said Shepherd. He leaned closer to them. ‘There’s something else we need to set up. We need to agree an alarm code, a way of you letting me know that there’s a problem without anyone else being aware of what’s going on.’
‘Like a safe word?’ said Malik.
‘What’s a safe word?’ asked Chaudhry.
‘If you’re with a dominatrix you agree a safe word, so that if she’s hurting you too much you say the word and she knows to stop.’
Chaudhry laughed out loud and looked over at Shepherd. Shepherd grinned.
‘Hey, I read it somewhere,’ protested Malik. ‘Oh, screw the two of you.’ He folded his arms and glared at Chaudhry. ‘Ha ha bloody ha.’
‘To be honest, he’s right,’ Shepherd said to Chaudhry. ‘We need to agree a word or phrase that you can remember, and if you ever use it in conversation with me I’ll know that you’re in trouble.’
‘Like what?’ asked Chaudhry.
‘Something that’s easy to remember but that you wouldn’t ordinarily say. But it has to be a word or phrase that won’t arouse suspicion.’
Chaudhry smiled slyly at Malik. ‘What do dominatrixes use?’ he asked.
Malik flashed him a tight smile. ‘You see, I know you’re taking the piss but the whole point is that the submissive uses the safe word. That way he has the ultimate power even though the dominatrix is in control.’
Chaudhry shook his head in mock sadness. ‘You know far too much about this domination stuff,’ he said.
‘I was Googling something else and it came up,’ said Malik.
‘Googling what? “Naughty boys want their arses spanked”? I have to say, Harvey, this is a very worrying side to you. Now I’m scared that I might wake up one morning and find myself tied to the bed and you standing over me with a whip in your hand.’
The mickey-taking was a good sign, Shepherd knew; it showed that they were relaxed. So he drank his coffee and let them get on with it.
‘Do you see what I have to put up with?’ Malik asked Shepherd.
‘I don’t know — I think he might have a point. You know that we do positive vetting, don’t you? Something like that would definitely show up.’
‘Are you serious?’ asked Malik, leaning forward, then he saw from the look on Shepherd’s face that he wasn’t. He sat back. ‘You’re as bad as he is.’
‘All right, guys, let’s get back to the matter in hand,’ said Shepherd. ‘A phrase that I’ve used in the past is “like my grandfather always used to say”. You can start pretty much any sentence with that. How does that sound?’
‘I never knew either of my grandfathers,’ said Malik.
‘Grandmother?’ asked Shepherd.
Malik nodded. ‘Yeah, that’ll work.’
Shepherd looked across at Chaudhry. ‘Works for me as well.’
‘Excellent,’ said Shepherd. ‘And it can work both ways too. If you hear me use that phrase it means there’s a problem and you need to treat with suspicion anything that I say.’
Chaudhry frowned. ‘Say what?’
‘Suppose there’s somebody listening in and I know they’re there. I could use that phrase to tip you off. Or say I was being forced to arrange a meeting with you — if I used that phrase you’d know right away that you’re not to turn up.’
‘Are you saying that someone might be after you?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘Is that what you mean?’
‘It’s just a safety net,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s standard in undercover work. There’s another useful phrase I’ll give you. If I call you I’ll ask what the weather is like. If you say it’s fine then I’ll know that everything is okay. If you say it looks like rain or snow or anything negative then I’ll know you’ve got a problem.’
‘Well, why haven’t we needed it before now?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘What’s happened to bring this up?’
‘Nothing’s happened,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s just standard procedure. We’re obviously getting close to the critical stage so we need to have all our ducks in a row. Show me your hands.’
‘What?’
‘Just let me see your hands. Palms down.’ Chaudhry held out his hands and Shepherd studied the fingers. Then he nodded at Malik. ‘You too.’ Malik held out his hands and Shepherd looked at them. ‘Okay, neither of you is a nail-biter, so we can use that as a visual sign. If there’s a problem, if you’re in danger or there’s something wrong, and we have visual contact but can’t speak, then make a point of biting your nails.’
Chaudhry frowned. ‘Now you’ve really lost me,’ he said.
‘Suppose we arrange a meet. And you turn up and you’re waiting for me. But then you realise that you’re being watched. You might not have time to text me. I might be there already and walking towards you. If you start biting your nails I’ll immediately abort the meeting. Ditto if you’re on your way to see me and I spot somebody who might know you. I see you, I bite my nails, you back off. Again, it’s a safety net. You’ll probably never have to use it but we have it in place, just in case.’
‘Okay,’ said Chaudhry, but Shepherd could hear the uncertainty in his voice.
‘Trust me, we’re just being cautious,’ said Shepherd. ‘Best to talk it through now rather than trying to put something together at short notice. I’ll give you another one while we’re at it. You both wear coats with hoods, right?’
‘Now you’re the fashion police?’ said Malik.
‘I’m just saying that you normally wear your parka and Raj has his duffel coat. Changing the hood can be a sign that there’s a problem. Say it’s up and you want to let me know there’s a problem. If you’re sure I’m watching you, you put your hood down. Or vice versa. If it’s down you pull it up. It’s a natural gesture but it can let me know that something’s wrong. Got it?’
Chaudhry nodded. ‘Got it.’ He looked over at Malik and grinned. ‘Think that’ll work with your dominatrix?’
Shepherd finished the last of his coffee. ‘Okay, let’s run through a few exercises in the mall. There’re a few more tricks I want to show you, then I’ll put you on the train back to London.’
Shepherd was half an hour from Hampstead in his Volvo when his mobile rang. He took a quick look at the screen. It was Hargrove. He took the call on hands-free.
‘I’ve had Fenby on the phone. Good news and maybe not so good news,’ said Hargrove. ‘Kettering and Thompson are okay to meet you in London. But they want to see you at a charity boxing night.’
‘What?’
‘They’re down tomorrow for a charity do at a hotel in Russell Square. The Royal National Hotel. They’ve got a table and they want you there.’
‘That’s not on, is it? What if I bump into someone I know? Is it a big event?’
‘Four hundred-odd people, mainly from south London. The event’s to raise money for a boxing club in Croydon. A couple of fighters that Kettering knows are coming down from Birmingham so Kettering has told Ray that he wants to kill two birds with one stone.’
‘We’re not going to be able to arrange an arms deal at a table full of boxing fans,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re going to have to give this a body swerve.’
‘No can do,’ said Hargrove. ‘You’ve got to look at this from their point of view. They don’t know you — you’re Fenby’s contact. So they want to meet you in a social context first.’
‘So we’ll have a pint in a quiet pub somewhere off the beaten track. I’ve done God knows how many jobs south of the river and if anyone there recognises me I’ll be blown.’
‘We can run a check on the guest list for you,’ said Hargrove. ‘Look, Ray has already tried to put them off but Kettering is insisting and if we start to make a fuss he’s going to get suspicious. He just wants to sit down with you and get to know you.’
Shepherd sighed. ‘If that’s the way you want it I won’t argue, but don’t blame me if
it goes tits up,’ he said.
‘Your reservations are noted,’ said Hargrove. He cut the connection.
Shepherd phoned Damien Plant and asked him how he was getting on with the Garry Edwards legend.
‘I put the finishing touches to it this morning,’ said Plant.
‘I need it for tomorrow evening,’ said Shepherd. ‘The clothes and bling, anyway.’
‘Where are you?’
‘On my way to Hampstead.’
‘I could drop it off on my way home,’ said Plant. ‘In an hour.’
‘Perfect,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’ll give me time for a shower.’
‘Don’t go to any trouble on my account,’ said Plant.
‘I’ll have coffee ready for you,’ said Shepherd. ‘How do you like it?’
‘Same as I like my men,’ said Plant. ‘Black, sweet and with bulging forearms.’
Shepherd laughed and ended the call.
The traffic was light heading into London and he had parked the car, showered and changed, and was stirring sugar into a mug of black coffee when his intercom buzzed. He pressed the button to open the downstairs door. Plant was wearing blue Armani jeans and a blue blazer over the sort of tight white T-shirt that he’d threatened to make Shepherd wear. He was carrying a blue nylon holdall in his left hand and three grey garment covers in his right.
Shepherd showed him through to the sitting room.
‘I’d forgotten how cosy this place was,’ said Plant, looking around. He had chosen everything in the flat, from the furniture and LCD television to the books on the shelves and the pictures on the walls.
‘Yeah, it’s not exactly a cat-swinging room, is it?’
‘Perfectly in keeping with a freelance journalist,’ said Plant. ‘Frankly we were lucky to get you into Hampstead the way rents are moving here.’
He sat down and sipped his coffee as Shepherd opened the garment covers. There was a dark-blue single-breasted suit, several shirts, a black linen jacket not dissimilar to the one that Plant had been wearing at Thames House, and a brown leather jacket that zipped up the front.
‘The leather jacket’s Armani,’ said Plant. ‘I’ve scuffed it a bit to give it some character. I wouldn’t mind it back when the job’s finished; it’s the sort of thing I can use again and again. The suit you can keep. The shirts too.’
Inside the holdall was a padded manila envelope. Shepherd opened it and slid out a driving licence. It had his photograph and the name of Garry Edwards, with the signature that he’d given Plant in Thames House. Shepherd didn’t recognise the address on the licence and he frowned at Plant.
Plant smiled. ‘I’ve used an office address for you. They’ll have the Edwards name on file so will field any enquiries.’
‘I doubt I’ll be flashing it around,’ said Shepherd. Also inside the envelope was a gold Cartier wristwatch, a gold money clip and a heavy gold bracelet.
Plant took a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it and a slim gold pen to Shepherd. ‘The jewellery you’ll have to sign for,’ he said. ‘It’s fully insured but please take care of it.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Shepherd, signing the form and giving it back to Plant.
‘I’ll love you and leave you,’ said Plant. He finished his coffee and stood up. ‘Thought I might swing by the Heath for old times’ sake.’
‘Bloody hell, Damien, be careful.’
Plant winked. ‘Not to worry, I’m loaded up with fake ID.’
‘I meant gay-bashers. It still goes on, you know.’
Plant grinned. ‘I’m just off the close-combat course and there’re a few new tricks that I’m dying to try out.’
Shepherd opened the door for him. ‘Why would they send a dresser on the close-combat course?’
‘Have you been to the Harrods January sales?’ said Plant. ‘Middle-aged women with fur coats and umbrellas are bloody lethal.’ He laughed and headed down the stairs.
The black cab turned into Russell Square and joined a queue of cars and coaches heading towards the Royal National Hotel, a massive nondescript concrete building that looked more like an office block than a hotel. ‘I’m not happy about this, Razor,’ said Shepherd.
‘What, because it’s got only three stars?’
‘No, because there’re going to be more than four hundred people here including a fair sprinkling of south London villains, any one of whom might know you or me.’
‘Hargrove has checked the guest list, right?’
‘Yeah, but most of the tables are in one name. I tell you, this could all turn to shit very quickly if someone recognises us.’
‘We could always grab a pair of gloves and sort it out in the ring,’ joked Sharpe.
‘Why am I the only one worried here?’
Sharpe patted Shepherd’s knee. ‘Because every day of our lives we run the risk of coming across someone who might recognise us. It can happen in the street, at a football match, at a restaurant. If you start worrying about it then you’ll end up a basket case. What happens, happens. Que sera, sera.’
‘Bloody hell, Razor, when did you go all Buddhist on me?’
The taxi pulled up in front of the hotel and Sharpe reached for the door handle. ‘If it happens, we’ll deal with it,’ he said. ‘You can pay for the cab, right? You get better expenses than me and, as you love to point out, I’m not getting overtime.’ He got out of the taxi as Shepherd handed the driver a twenty-pound note. Shepherd told the driver to keep the change and asked for a receipt, then joined Sharpe on the pavement. To their right was a pub with more than two dozen men standing around drinking and smoking. Like Shepherd they were wearing lounge suits and ties but there was plenty of bling on show as well, expensive watches, gold chains and diamond rings. Shepherd scanned faces as the cab drove off but he didn’t see anyone he recognised. A coach began disgorging its load of Chinese tourists, led by a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit holding a red flag above his head.
The reception area of the hotel was gloomy and despite the fact that it was almost eight o’clock there was a long line of guests waiting to check in. The Chinese tourists filed in, chattering excitedly.
‘I hope it’s boxing and not that kung fu bollocks,’ growled Sharpe.
A printed sign with an arrow pointing to the left showed them the way to the boxing. They went down a wood-panelled corridor to a large room with a bar packed with a couple of hundred men. Half a dozen bar staff in black T-shirts were working hard to keep up with the orders, with most of the drinkers paying with fifty-pound notes. Shepherd scanned faces again. His memory was near-photographic and he didn’t see anyone that he’d ever met but he recognised at least twenty criminals whose records he’d seen and one face that the Met were looking for in connection with a Securicor van robbery two years earlier.
To the left of the room was a seating plan on an easel. They went over to it and found Kettering’s table. It was number 21, close to the ring and just behind the judges’ table.
‘Drink?’ asked Sharpe, nodding at the bar.
Shepherd looked at his watch. ‘Let’s get to the table,’ he said.
They weaved their way through the bar to the entrance of the main hall. A boxing ring had been erected in the centre of the room underneath a massive dome-shaped chandelier. A long table had been erected on a podium against the far wall giving the organisers and VIP guests a clear view of the ring. There were another thirty tables around the ring, each seating a dozen people. Most of the tables were empty and a few Indian waiters were making last-minute adjustments to the cutlery and glasses.
‘Remind me again who I am?’ said Sharpe.
‘Don’t be a tosser all your life,’ said Shepherd. ‘Come on, let’s sit down. Might as well get ourselves a good view of the door.’
They were both using legends that they’d used before. Sharpe was James Gracie, a Scottish criminal who’d served time for armed robbery in the eighties before moving out to the Costa del Sol, from where he ran his arms business. The leg
end was rock-solid and even a check on the Police National Computer would come up with Gracie’s record. He’d used it several times over the years.
Shepherd sat down at the table, choosing a seat that allowed him a clear view of the entrance. Sharpe sat a few seats away so that he was directly facing the ring.
There were unopened bottles of red and white wine on the table. Sharpe reached for one and sneered at the label. ‘Cheap plonk. Fancy champagne?’
‘Let’s wait until the guys get here,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can make a show of it.’
Guests were moving into the hall and taking their places. A group headed for the VIP table, including a large black man wearing a floppy pink hat and what appeared to be a black mink coat, and a good-looking black man with a greying moustache, dressed in a sharp suit.
‘That’s John Conteh, isn’t it?’ said Sharpe, nodding at the man with the moustache.
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘What is he, sixty? I hope I look that good when I’m sixty.’
‘Do you think he runs marathons with a rucksack of bricks on his back?’
‘I don’t run marathons, you soft bastard.’
The VIP table began to fill up. Sitting next to Conteh was a sharp-faced man in a beige suit. He was talking animatedly to the heavyweight boxer and demonstrating an uppercut to the chin. Like most of the guests on the top table his head was shaved.
Four stunningly pretty black girls, as tall and willowy as supermodels, walked to one table followed by four heavyset men in Italian suits. Shepherd recognised one of the men; he was a well-known drug dealer based in Beckenham, south London. He looked over at Sharpe to see if he’d spotted him and Sharpe nodded.
‘Problem?’ asked Sharpe.
Shepherd shook his head. He’d worked on a case involving the drug dealer but had never met him. Shepherd saw Kettering and Thompson at the doorway but kept his face blank. Edwards and Gracie had never met the two men so they had to wait until they’d been introduced. ‘Here we go,’ he whispered to Sharpe. Then in a louder voice he began telling Sharpe a joke about a one-legged safecracker. He stopped when Kettering and Thompson arrived at their table.
Kettering grinned amiably. ‘You James and Garry?’ he said.
False Friends ss-9 Page 13
