‘Does he take you to Spain?’ Kerr had a large villa overlooking Marbella. Six bedrooms, six bathrooms, and a pool twice the size of the one in Hale Barnes.
‘Three or four times a year,’ she said.
‘Does he go on his own?’
‘Why?’
‘I could do it there. If you were in the UK, no way would the police be looking at you. Shootings are ten a penny on the Costa del Crime.’
‘Usually I go with him, but I could come up with an excuse next time.’ She frowned. ‘Problem is, I don’t know when he’ll be going next. And I’d rather you did it sooner than later.’
‘Is there a rush?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s just that now I’ve decided I want it done, I want it done. I don’t want it hanging over me. Is it okay if I smoke?’
Shepherd nodded and she took a packet of Marlboro menthol out of her bag. She lit one and put the packet back. ‘Do you always ask this many questions?’ she asked. She opened the window and blew smoke through the gap.
‘The better prepared I am, the less chance there is of something going wrong,’ he said, ‘and from what you’ve told me, Charlie Kerr isn’t the typical target.’
‘What is typical?’ she asked.
‘Usually it’s a business disagreement that can’t be solved any other way. Or a way of teaching somebody a lesson.’
She chuckled throatily. ‘You don’t teach somebody a lesson by killing them,’ she said.
‘No, but you can kill someone as a warning to others,’ he said.
‘And you’ve done that?’
‘I do what I’m paid to do,’ he said. ‘You asked what a typical job was.’
‘You don’t have many wronged wives contacting you, then?’
‘Most wronged wives head for a solicitor,’ said Shepherd.
‘You think I’m being a bit drastic, don’t you?’
Shepherd didn’t reply.
Angie turned to him and pulled down the neck of her sweater. Just below the collar bone, on her right breast, was a circular scab. A cigarette burn, healing nicely. ‘Last time we had an argument, he did this to me. He’d had a bit to drink. Said he was sorry afterwards, said he only did it because he loves me so much, but it wasn’t the first time and I doubt it’ll be the last.’ She let go of the sweater and took a drag on the cigarette. ‘Bastard,’ she hissed.
‘How much is he worth, your husband?’
‘Not planning to raise your price, are you?’ she asked.
‘Just background,’ he said.
‘Forewarned is forearmed?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Seven million, give or take,’ she said.
‘And do you know where it all is?’
‘It’s not buried under the swimming-pool, if that’s what you mean.’
‘What I mean is that, once he’s dead, you’ll have to make sure you can get your hands on his assets. Most heavy criminals hide their ill-gotten gains and if your husband’s done that you might find you’re penniless when he’s gone.’
Angie smiled thinly. ‘Most of the bank accounts are in my name,’ she said. ‘I’m the majority owner of most of his businesses. In fact, nothing’s in his name. He doesn’t even have a credit card. Says the filth can track you anywhere you go if you use plastic.’
He was right. One of the easiest ways to keep someone under surveillance was to watch their credit-card spending. Restaurants, hotels, plane tickets. It was indelible proof of where a target had been. The smart ones stuck to cash. And the really smart ones made sure that no assets were in their name.
‘So, you’re going to do it?’ she asked. She flicked the stub of her cigarette through the window.
‘I’ve taken your money,’ he said. ‘It’s as good as done.’
‘When?’
‘Give me a day or two. I’ll have to watch him for a while, get used to his habits.’
‘What if he sees you?’
‘He won’t.’
‘He’s edgy. Thinks the cops are watching him. Doesn’t discuss business on a land line, only uses pay-as-you-go mobiles.’
‘If the cops are watching him, I’ll spot them,’ said Shepherd. He knew they weren’t. Hargrove had checked with the head of the Greater Manchester Police Drugs Squad and been told that Kerr wasn’t under active surveillance.
‘And if they are?’
‘It’ll make it more difficult, that’s all. Once I’ve accepted a job, Mrs Kerr, I follow it through, come what may.’
‘Tony,’ she said. ‘You and I are about as close to each other as two people can get without having sex, right?’
Shepherd laughed again, then forced himself to straighten his face.
‘You look different when you smile,’ she said.
‘Everybody does,’ he replied.
‘No, you look like a totally different person.’
‘I don’t have too much to smile about in this line of work,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s not like I get to see people in their best light. I’ll call you once I’ve decided when and where.’
‘And I fix up an alibi?’
‘The more people the better. Ideally somewhere with CCTV. You mentioned the casino last time. That’s the perfect place.’
‘Will I see you again?’
‘Afterwards. To pay me the rest of the money.’
‘So that’s it, then?’
‘That’s it,’ said Shepherd.
She opened the door and climbed out of the Volvo, then leaned back in. ‘I’m not a hard-hearted bitch, you know.’
‘I never said you were,’ he said.
‘And it’s not about the money. I couldn’t give a shit about how much he’s got. It’s just . . .’
‘You’re scared,’ he finished for her. ‘You’re scared of what he might do to you.’
‘He’s always said he’d rather I was dead than with someone else.’ She slammed the door and walked towards the supermarket.
Shepherd leaned his head on the rest. So that was that. He had the money in his pocket and she’d handed it to him with bare hands so her fingerprints would be on the envelope. He had her on video discussing the murder of her husband. Life behind bars. Unless she co-operated.
One of his mobiles rang. He was carrying two, the one used by Tony Nelson and the other to take calls from Hargrove. It was the latter. ‘Excellent, Spider,’ said Hargrove. ‘Perfect sound and vision.’
‘Now what?’
‘I’ll run it by the CPS.’
‘Are we going to use her to get the husband?’
‘Doesn’t sound like she’s got much to offer,’ said the superintendent.
‘She knows where the money is,’ said Shepherd. ‘And we could use her in Spain.’
‘You heard what she said, Spider. She doesn’t know when he’ll be over there again.’
‘So she gets thrown to the wolves?’
‘She’s conspiring to commit murder, not shoplifting a can of catfood,’ said Hargrove. ‘Look, it’s been a stressful couple of days. Take an early bath, you’ve earned it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. He cut the connection and tapped the phone against his chin. He wasn’t proud of himself. Angie Kerr was a victim, yet the full weight of the law would be used against her. If there had been any justice in the world the authorities would have moved against her husband years ago. But it was always easier to go for the soft targets.
He drove back to the rented flat and changed into his running gear. At the bottom of the wardrobe there was an old canvas rucksack containing half a dozen housebricks wrapped in newspaper, a habit from his SAS days. A run without weight on his back wasn’t a challenge. And he didn’t wear state-of-the-art nylon trainers stitched together by Chinese juveniles earning a dollar a day: he ran in army boots. For Shepherd running wasn’t a fashion statement, it was a way of keeping his body at the level of fitness his job required.
He took the stairs down to the ground floor and pushed through the double glass doors t
hat led out to the pavement. It didn’t matter whether he ran in the city or through woodland. After the first ten minutes he wasn’t aware of his surroundings. Now he ran on automatic pilot, his thoughts never far from Angie Kerr and the unfairness of it all.
Angie parked next to her husband’s Range Rover. She picked up the supermarket carrier-bags from the passenger seat – the ingredients for paella and three bottles of Frascati. She liked the Italian wine. Her husband was always getting her to drink expensive champagne when they were out but she preferred Frascati. It was smoother and didn’t have the acidic aftertaste she always got from champagne.
She unlocked the front door. ‘Charlie, it’s me,’ she called, but there was no reply. She went through to the kitchen and put the wine in the fridge.
‘Where were you?’ said her husband. She jumped. She hadn’t heard him come up behind her. He was leaning against the doorway, a smile on his face.
‘I told you. Shopping.’
‘You were gone almost two hours.’ He enunciated each word as if he was speaking to someone who had to lip-read.
‘Charlie, I had to park, I had to get the food. The supermarket was busy.’
‘It’s Monday. It’s never busy on a Monday. And you went to the supermarket on Saturday.’
‘For general food shopping. But I wanted more Frascati. And I said I’d make paella, right?’
Kerr nodded at the carrier-bag on the kitchen table. ‘So that’s why you were gone so long, yeah? For paella and cheap Italian plonk.’
‘And petrol.’
Kerr lit a cigarette and blew smoke at her. ‘So you filled up the Jag?’
Angie nodded.
Kerr took another long drag on his cigarette, held the smoke in his lungs, then exhaled through clenched teeth, all the time watching his wife’s face. ‘So,’ he said, ‘if we go outside and check, the tank’ll be full, will it?’
‘Charlie, why are you doing this?’ she whispered.
‘Because I don’t like being lied to. In fact, I hate it – hate it more than anything. And you know why?’
Angie knew. He’d told her a hundred times or more.
‘Tell me why I hate being lied to.’
‘Because it means people think they’re smarter than you. When they’re not.’
Kerr smiled.‘That’s right. And do you think you’re smarter than me?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’
He pushed himself away from the door and walked across the kitchen, passing so close that she could smell his aftershave. She stiffened when he drew level with her but she forced herself not to flinch because she knew he would take that as a sign of guilt. Her heart pounded and her mouth was dry, but she tried not to swallow. He picked up the carrier-bag and looked inside. ‘Paella,’ he said.
‘I know you like paella.’
‘You like paella,’ he said. ‘I’m more of a lobster man.’
‘You know you can’t get decent lobster in Manchester,’ she said.
‘Not a patch on Spanish lobster, you’re right there,’ he said. He put the carrier-bag down on the work surface. ‘So, let’s go and have a look at the Jag, shall we?’
‘Charlie . . .’
‘What?’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Want to change your story? A last-minute amendment to the details of where the hell you’ve been for the last two hours?’
Angie felt tears spring to her eyes and blinked them away. He took a perverse pleasure in making her cry, then having sex with her as the tears ran down her face. It wasn’t making love – it wasn’t even sex. It was rape. Without love, without tenderness, just grunts, curses and threats of what he wanted to do to her. It was hardly ever in bed, either. It was in the kitchen, over the back of one of the sofas in the sitting room, or against a bathroom wall. He was always sorry afterwards. Or he said he was. He’d stroke her hair and kiss her neck and say he really loved her, that it was only because he loved her so much that he hurt her. And he made her a promise as he stroked her hair and kissed her neck: if she ever left him, if he ever thought she was going to leave him, he’d kill her. Because he loved her so much.
‘I went to the supermarket for the shopping and I got petrol,’ she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. She kept smiling at him because he’d take any other facial expression as an excuse to get physical – a push, a pinch, a slap. Then her tears and the violence.
He took a step towards her and raised his cigarette. She flinched. He grinned and put the cigarette slowly to his lips. He inhaled slowly and the tip went bright red. Then he took it out of his mouth and held it a few inches from her left cheek. Her face ached from smiling. She knew he wouldn’t stub it out on her face. He was too clever for that. When he marked her it was on a place no one else would see.
‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’ he said. He blew smoke into her face. ‘Got the keys?’
‘Sure,’ said Angie.
He walked into the hallway. Angie followed him. Kerr opened the front door and headed for the Jaguar. He stopped when he reached the driver’s side and held out his hand. Angie gave him the keys. He pressed the electronic tag and the locks clicked open. ‘You okay?’ he asked her.
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘Anything you want to say?’
Angie shook her head.
Kerr opened the door and the internal light winked on. He slid on to the driver’s seat and inserted the ignition key. He peered at the fuel gauge. The needle swung up to the full position. Kerr stared at it for several seconds, then pulled out the key and climbed out of the car. He closed the door and tossed the keys to his wife. ‘Come on, let’s have a drink,’ he said. ‘I’ll open a bottle of Dom.’
He went into the house. Angie stared after him, her hands trembling.
The phone woke Shepherd from a dreamless sleep and he fumbled for it. ‘Are you awake, Spider?’
‘I am now,’ said Shepherd, rubbing his face.
‘I’ve had a word with the CPS and NCIS. They’re all getting very hot over Angie Kerr.’
‘Yeah, well, she’s a sexy girl.’
‘The initial response is that they want her turned,’ said Hargrove. ‘They don’t feel they’ve any other way of nailing her husband.’
‘Which says a lot about the sad state of policing in this country, doesn’t it?’
‘Now, now, Spider, you’re getting all bitter and twisted.’
‘He’s a criminal, right? I’ve read the files you gave me. MI5, the Church, the Manchester cops, they all know he’s bad. Even the DEA’s been on his case in Miami. But no one does anything.’
‘It’s a question of resources, you know that. Even we have to choose whom we assist. My unit gets hundreds of requests every year, but we take on a couple of dozen at most.’
‘A guy like Kerr should be a priority, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘There are hundreds of Kerrs in the UK. Thousands, maybe. We have to choose our targets carefully.’
‘We take the cases we know we’ll win, is that what you’re saying?’
‘What’s the alternative? We spend our time chasing dead ends? There’s no point in mounting an investigation if we know we’re going to fail. You have to play the odds. A guy like Hendrickson, we know we can put him away. Kerr’s a bigger fish and you need a bigger hook to catch him.’
‘And Angie Kerr is the hook?’
‘Hopefully,’ said Hargrove. ‘The Drugs Squad and the Church can act on anything she gives them.’
‘He’ll kill her,’ said Shepherd grimly.
‘She’ll be protected,’ said Hargrove. ‘Look, this isn’t a conversation for the phone, and I need to run something else by you. You know the pub by the canal, the place where we first discussed the Hendrickson case?’
‘Sure.’
‘Can you be there at eleven?’
Shepherd squinted at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was just after nine. Plenty of time. ‘Yeah.’
‘See you, then,’ said the superintendent. �
�And remember, we’re on the same side here. I’m no happier about using Angie Kerr than you are, but sometimes the end justifies the means.’
Shepherd pulled on an old pair of shorts and a tattered T-shirt and went for a short run, a quick two kilometres without the rucksack, then shaved, showered and changed into a pullover and jeans. He retrieved his leather jacket from the sofa where he’d thrown it the previous night and headed out, picking up a coffee from his local Starbucks as he walked to the meeting-place. The pub was only fifteen minutes from his apartment, on the edge of the city’s vibrant Canal Street gay area.
Hargrove was sitting on a wooden bench outside the pub. He stood up as Shepherd approached, and the two men walked along the canal path.
‘Two guys taking an early-morning stroll, people will get the wrong idea,’ said Shepherd.
‘Since when have you cared what people think?’ said Hargrove. ‘Besides, you’re not my type.’
As ever, the superintendent was immaculately dressed: a well-cut cashmere overcoat over a blue Savile Row pinstripe suit, starched white shirt with cufflinks in the shape of cricket bats, and an MCC tie. ‘I could be your bit of rough,’ said Shepherd.
‘You’ve been up north too long,’ said Hargrove. ‘You’re developing the northern sarcasm.’
‘Aye, and I’ve started eating mushy peas, too. But you’re right, I wouldn’t mind being closer to home.’
‘That’s good, because I need you on another job in London, ASAP.’
Shepherd grimaced. ‘I was hoping for a few days off. It’s been a while since I saw Liam.’
‘This is urgent, I’m afraid.’
‘It always is,’ said Shepherd, and regretted it. No one forced him to do the work he did. He was an undercover cop by choice and could walk away any time he wanted to. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in Tony Nelson’s skin too long.’
‘Well, you’ll be leaving him behind for this next case,’ said the superintendent. ‘You’ll be a cop. Investigating cops.’
Shepherd groaned. An operation against other cops was dirty work at best, dangerous at worst, and he’d tried to steer clear of it. ‘Can’t IIC handle it?’
Soft Target: The Second Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Page 10
