[Spider Shepherd #13] - Dark Forces

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Yes, agreed. Now, please, sit down.’

  Shepherd threw Wedekind a final withering look, then dropped into his chair.

  ‘I apologise, Terry. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Damn right it won’t,’ said Shepherd. ‘I need a fucking drink.’ He stood up and went over to a drinks cabinet. ‘You?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Wedekind. Shepherd poured himself a gin and tonic, shielding the glass with his body so Wedekind couldn’t see how little gin went into it.

  ‘So, what did you want to talk about?’ Shepherd sat down again.

  ‘The brothers have another job for you, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Sure.’ He sipped his drink. ‘What do they have in mind?’

  ‘Similar to the Larry McGovern job. Take care of business and make sure no one finds them.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘A father and son. They’ve been giving the brothers all sorts of grief.’

  ‘No kids,’ said Shepherd. ‘I made that clear from the start.’

  ‘The son’s twenty-eight,’ said Wedekind. ‘A Scouser by the name of Karl Palmer. They call him Lippy because he talks too much. His dad’s Gerry. They ripped off a delivery the O’Neills had arranged. Container-load of marijuana coming on the cross-Channel ferry.’

  ‘They must have balls, ripping off the O’Neills,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘They might not have known – but when they were told they didn’t seem fazed. Tommy sent an emissary to negotiate for the return of the consignment but they broke his legs and bust his spleen. They took the view that they rule the roost in Liverpool and there’s nothing the brothers can do to them.’

  Shepherd sipped his drink as Wedekind reached for his briefcase. He opened it, took out a couple of photographs and passed them to Shepherd. One was of a slightly overweight man in his fifties with a greying mullet and a sweeping grey moustache. The son also had a mullet but his hair was a shade of dark brown that looked as if it might have come from a bottle. He was wearing a denim jacket with the arms hacked off over a black leather motorcycle jacket. ‘The son’s a biker?’ asked Shepherd.

  Wedekind nodded. ‘So’s the father. A group called the Outlaws.’

  ‘They can be dangerous, bikers.’ He turned over the photograph of the father. The man’s name and address were on the back.

  ‘You can do it, though, can’t you?’

  ‘Sure. I know Liverpool well enough. It’s just a question of timing.’

  ‘You won’t be alone on this one,’ said Wedekind. ‘I’ll put you in touch with another guy we’re using. His name’s Mark Ashton. He’s based in Manchester.’

  ‘What the fuck?’ said Shepherd. ‘I fly solo.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but the father and son tend to stick together. It’s too tough a job for one.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, with respect, that’s not your area of expertise, is it? I work best alone, end of.’

  ‘Tommy and Marty don’t want any fuck-ups.’

  ‘I don’t fuck up,’ said Shepherd. ‘I never have and I never will. I don’t see how you can expect me to work with a stranger. That’s asking for trouble.’

  ‘Mark’s never let us down before. The brothers would use him more down here if they could but he prefers to stay up north.’

  ‘Howard, you can’t take two professionals who’ve never worked together and assume they’re going to get on. Everyone works differently.’

  ‘They do. You can sit down with Mark and work out how best to proceed.’

  ‘How best to proceed? The best way to proceed is to let me get on with it.’

  Wedekind forced a smile. ‘The brothers want a two-man team. If you’re telling me you can’t work as part of a team, I’ll relay that back to them. But I think we both know how they’ll react to that.’ He looked at Shepherd expectantly. ‘It’s your call, Terry.’

  Shepherd glared at him, then took a long pull on his drink. He put down the glass, his eyes still on Wedekind. ‘Fine,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Wedekind.

  ‘How do I go about meeting this Ashton?’

  ‘I’ll arrange something,’ said Wedekind, standing up and grabbing his briefcase. ‘And, once again, my heartfelt apologies for what happened earlier.’

  ‘Yeah, well if you fix me up with the money thing I’ll let bygones be bygones.’

  Shepherd showed Wedekind out and called Willoughby-Brown. ‘Did you get all that?’ he asked.

  ‘Every word, sound and vision,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘Nice job on muddying the waters re the M4.’

  ‘Did you know they’d done a PNC check on Terry Taylor?’

  ‘That was news to me. You’re flagged so we should be told as soon as it happens. Either he was bluffing or there’s a problem. I’ll check, obviously.’

  ‘Do we have enough now?’

  ‘We’re getting there,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘We have enough to pull in Wedekind, certainly. But the brothers aren’t tied up yet.’

  ‘What do you think about this new job?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘It could be another test,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘Or it could be they think of you as a team-player.’

  ‘He didn’t buy the “I work best alone” story.’

  ‘Taking out two targets needs two operatives, at least.’

  ‘Sure. But we’re not going to be able to fake it if I’ve got a sidekick.’

  Willoughby-Brown chuckled. ‘To be honest, Daniel, I got the impression that Wedekind regards you as the sidekick.’

  ‘Semantics aside, you get my point?’

  ‘I do, I do. We can hardly fake it if you’re part of a team. Let me make some enquiries about Mark Ashton before we decide what to do. We might be able to take him out of the equation.’

  ‘We have Wedekind on video planning a murder. That’s enough to nail him for conspiracy.’

  ‘Sure. But that’s, what, somewhere between five and eight years? Out in four at the most. Is that likely to be enough to get him to give evidence against the O’Neills? I think not.’

  ‘So offer him witness protection?’

  ‘It’s four years, Daniel. Plus if we do show our cards, he’ll know where he was recorded, which blows your cover.’

  Shepherd gritted his teeth in frustration. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear but he knew Willoughby-Brown was right.

  ‘Let me give it some thought,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

  ‘Not too long,’ said Shepherd. ‘If they come for me I’m going to have to bail and then it’ll be over.’

  ‘I hear you,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘My thinking cap is on. Oh, and while I have you, Miles Davies will see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Seriously? In the middle of this?’

  ‘If you think about it, the timing is pretty much perfect. You’re in town and all you’re doing is waiting for the call. Miles will see you first thing. It’s unlikely that the job will be that soon.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Daniel,’ said Willoughby-Brown, and ended the call.

  Omar finished washing the grease and oil from his hands and grabbed a paper towel. The door burst open and Zack walked in, clearly angry. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ said Omar, tossing the screwed-up towel into the waste bin.

  ‘We’ve work backed up,’ said Zack, putting his hands on his hips and jutting his chin, like their father did when he was angry. ‘You need to help Toby with that gearbox. It has to be done by first thing.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Omar, taking his motorcycle jacket and helmet.

  ‘You have to stay here,’ said Zack. ‘There’s work to be done.’

  Omar tried to push past his brother but Zack grabbed his arm. Omar reacted instinctively. He had been taught unarmed combat by hardened jihadists in the desert and Zack was weak and flabby. In less than a second Omar had his brother up against the lockers, his face squashed against a metal door.
Zack yelped in pain as Omar yanked his arm up behind his back. ‘Don’t you dare lay your hands on me,’ hissed Omar.

  ‘I’m sorry – I’m sorry!’

  Omar knew he had gone too far and released his grip. Zack twisted around, rubbing his injured arm. ‘What the fuck was that?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Omar. ‘You caught me by surprise.’

  ‘What was it? Kung fu?’

  ‘I dunno. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘Bruv, are you okay?’

  ‘Of course I am. I’ve just got stuff on my mind, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah? Like what?’

  Omar’s mind raced. He needed a lie and a good one. He wouldn’t get away with the dental ruse again, but he needed some reason why he was leaving early. He had to take delivery of the fourth and final vehicle and had promised to pick it up at six.

  ‘I’ve got a problem with a girl.’

  Zack frowned. ‘What girl?’

  ‘I met her a few months back. English girl.’

  Zack’s face broke into a grin. ‘You fucking an English girl, bruv? You always said you weren’t into that.’ He punched Omar’s arm. ‘You sly fuck.’

  Omar pretended to be embarrassed. ‘It’s not funny,’ he said. ‘Girl says she’s pregnant.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Says she’s pregnant and swears it’s mine but I think she’s a slag, so who knows?’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘She says she wants to see me to talk it through. I thought I’d give her money to get rid of it.’ He put his hand on Zack’s arm, ‘Don’t tell Dad – he’ll kill me.’

  ‘I won’t. But be careful, bruv. She could be scamming you. Make sure you see her pee on a stick before you do anything. Bitches lie, you know that.’

  ‘I will, bruv. Thanks. So are you okay if I push off?’

  ‘Yeah, you go and take care of business. I’ll help Toby.’ He pointed a finger at Omar’s face. ‘And don’t forget. She pees on a stick before you do anything.’

  Omar thanked him and rushed out. He felt nothing but contempt for his brother. Zack was weak and a fool, but lying was better than confrontation. If Zack found out what he was really up to he’d turn him in. Omar had no doubt about that. He was a bad Muslim, a traitor to Allah, and one day he would pay the price for his disloyalty. But not today.

  Shepherd had the black cab drop him around the corner from the address on the business card Willoughby-Brown had given him. The company that Miles Davies worked for was in the Shard, the tallest building in London. Their offices were about halfway up and the views were spectacular, though Shepherd barely noticed. He wasn’t happy about having his psychological evaluation done by a new face. He’d always got on well with Caroline Stockmann and her no-nonsense approach. His evaluations with her had generally consisted of a chat over a few drinks in a pub. That didn’t mean she wasn’t professional: she was as sharp as a whip and didn’t let anything get past her, but she made it more of a social occasion than an official visit.

  The company that Willoughby-Brown was sending him to was called Mind-Set and had a logo of a lightning bolt zigzagging through the outline of a skull. The lift opened into a minimalist reception area, as gleamingly white as an operating theatre, with a tall blonde girl, wearing a headset, standing behind a plinth with a computer screen on it. ‘Can I help you?’ she said, in a voice so flat and emotionless that he thought she might be mechanical.

  ‘I’m here to see Miles Davies.’ He couldn’t say the name without instantly being reminded of the jazz musician.

  She smiled and tapped on a keyboard. ‘Your name, please?’

  ‘Dan Shepherd.’

  ‘Please take a seat, Mr Shepherd. I’ll let him know you’re here.’ She smiled again, and her face went professionally blank. It was very disconcerting, and Shepherd looked at her closely, just to check that she was a real, breathing, human being. Her skin was flawlessly white, her eyes were unnaturally blue and her hair glistened like plastic.

  There was only one place to sit: a low white sofa that was just inches off the floor. When Shepherd sat down his knees were above his waist and he knew he’d have trouble getting up. He wondered if it was a psychological trick, a way of putting visitors off balance. If it was, it didn’t bode well.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink, Mr Shepherd?’ The blonde receptionist was smiling again. She had perfect teeth.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

  The smile vanished and she tapped on her keyboard. Shepherd wondered if she was recording his refusal to accept a drink. A large screen on the wall to his left showed a constantly changing pattern of swirling colours that seemed totally random. He stared at it until he felt light-headed and had to tear his gaze away.

  ‘Mr Shepherd?’

  He hadn’t heard the woman walk up to him. She was a near-twin of the blonde behind the lectern, though this girl was a brunette. She was tall and model-thin, wearing a black suit and high heels that put her pretty much on tiptoe. Like the blonde, her eyes were dull and flat, though she had a toothpaste-commercial smile.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ll take you through to Dr Davies,’ she said, and motioned towards two glass doors at the far end of the room.

  Shepherd grunted as he pushed himself up off the sofa, and followed her through the doors. It was as minimalist and impersonal as the reception area, with white walls, steel bookcases and leather and stainless-steel chairs. Miles Davies was sitting behind a desk with only an Apple computer and a steel Newton’s cradle on it. Davies’s head was as smooth and shiny as the steel balls on the desk ornament, and the skin glistened in the sunlight streaming through the window behind him. It was only when he stood up and walked around the desk that Shepherd discovered how tall the man was – well over six feet. He had a slight stoop, as if he was ashamed of his height, and several inches of bare wrist stuck out of his jacket. He was in his forties, with ears like mug handles and deep creases across his forehead.

  ‘Miles, good to meet you,’ said Shepherd, holding out his hand.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Mr Shepherd,’ said Davies. ‘I’m Dr Davies in the office. It prevents any confusion.’ He waved Shepherd to the chair facing his desk. ‘Please, take a seat.’

  Shepherd sat down, wondering why the psychologist was so averse to using first names. Caroline Stockmann had always been Caroline. And all the psychologists he’d met before her had used their first names.

  Davies sat in his chair, which was several inches taller than Shepherd’s. ‘So, we’ll have a quick chat and then I’ll run you through some tests,’ he said. He had the bland, featureless accent of a BBC newsreader.

  ‘Tests?’

  Davies held up his hands. ‘There’s no need to be worried,’ he said. ‘Just a few profiling programs that we’ve developed.’

  ‘I wasn’t worried,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just interested. In the past the interviews have always been oral.’

  ‘We take a more scientific approach here,’ said Davies. ‘But don’t worry, it’s quite painless. So, you’ve been undercover for how long now?’

  ‘On my present case, or as a career?’

  ‘Well, both, I suppose.’

  ‘The present case, going on six months. As a career, well, I started working undercover for a Home Office unit in 2000, moved to SOCA, and then to my present position.’

  ‘Always undercover?’

  ‘Pretty much. Though sometimes I’m running teams rather than being undercover myself.’

  ‘And would you say it’s getting easier or harder as the years go by?’

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘The same, I suppose.’

  ‘And has the nature of your targets changed over the years?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Shepherd. ‘We only heard of al-Qaeda after Nine Eleven and Islamic State is a recent phenomenon. But organised crime and overseas agents have always been with us.’

  ‘Do you do much undercover work in the fight against jihadists?’
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br />   Shepherd smiled. ‘I’d stick out in a mosque, wouldn’t I?’

  Davies didn’t smile. If anything his eyes became a little colder, and Shepherd saw his attempt at levity wasn’t appreciated. ‘But, yes, in jihadist cases I tend to be running agents or helping in undercover operations.’

  Davies nodded slowly. He wasn’t taking notes and Shepherd wondered if the conversation was being recorded.

  ‘Tell me a bit about your current task,’ said Davies.

  ‘It’s the long-term penetration of a South London crime family,’ he said. ‘Drugs, extortion, fraud. They’re a close-knit team, which is one of the reasons they’ve been so successful for so long. I’m posing as a hired killer and, if all goes to plan, they’ll invite me into their inner circle.’

  ‘It sounds dangerous.’

  ‘It can be.’

  ‘You sound confident.’

  ‘I’ve been doing it for a long time.’

  ‘Familiarity breeds contempt?’

  ‘No. I’m never complacent about the danger I’m in. But I’m a professional and I minimise the risks at all times. Wherever possible I’m around other people, or there’s back-up close by.’

  ‘What if these criminals asked you to walk with them down a dark alley?’

  ‘A lot would depend on what had happened up to that point,’ he said. ‘I’d be reading their body language, trying to get a handle on what was going on. Is the walk down the alley logical? Do they go ahead of me? Are they carrying? I’d be tapping into my subconscious feelings. Am I worried? Tense? Or does it all feel okay? It’s a dark alley but do I have back-up close by? If there’s doubt, I might test them. Lag behind to see how they react. Take out my phone, see if that provokes a reaction.’

  Davies smiled without warmth. ‘Must make for quite a bit of tension.’

  ‘Tension is a good thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘It keeps you on your toes.’

  ‘It can also result in high blood pressure, which in turn can lead to heart attacks and strokes.’

  ‘I have a yearly physical. Everything was just fine last time.’

  ‘The body can cope with increased levels of stress for long periods, then suddenly snap,’ said Davies. ‘Like putting a rope under pressure. Everything seems okay until one day the rope breaks.’