‘I want you to tell my daughter I loved her,’ said Jones. ‘Can you do that for me?’
‘Barry—’
The gun went off and the top of Jones’s head exploded. Blood splattered across Shepherd’s cheek but most of the brain and skull fragments sprayed over the grass. Jones’s shoulders hit the ground with a dull thud. For a second or two Shepherd thought Rose had fired but his ears were ringing and he realised Jones had pulled the trigger.
‘Stu, are you okay?’ Rose’s voice crackled in Shepherd’s ear.
Shepherd nodded but didn’t say anything. The gun lay on the ground, the barrel pointing towards him. Jones’s eyes were wide open. His left leg twitched once, then was still. There was a faint gurgling sound in his chest, which stopped.
Boots thudded across the grass. Shepherd felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘Stu, are you hit?’ It was Rose, but he sounded as if he was talking through water.
Shepherd continued to stare at Jones. A fist-sized chunk of his skull was missing and blood pooled on the grass. There were shouts in the distance and a woman screamed.
Rose knelt in front of Shepherd, put his hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. ‘Come on, mate, it’s okay.’
‘It’s not okay,’ said Shepherd flatly.
‘You did everything you could. It wasn’t your fault.’
‘Who’s fault was it, then?’
‘He shot himself – no one forced him to pull the trigger. Just be grateful that no one else got hurt.’
Rose pulled Shepherd to his feet. Two paramedics rushed across the grass with a trolley but slowed when they saw the damage to the man’s skull.
Rose put an arm round Shepherd and guided him away from the body. ‘You need a drink,’ he said.
‘I’m fine,’ said Shepherd.
‘First time you’ve seen a kill?’
‘No, but it’s the first time I’ve seen anyone kill themselves,’ he said. ‘He was talking to me and then . . .’
‘Did he mean to do it? It wasn’t an accident?’
‘He knew what he was doing. The gun he had doesn’t have a hair trigger. You don’t fire it by mistake.’ Shepherd looked over his shoulder at the paramedics who were zipping Jones into a black plastic body-bag. ‘I fucked up,’ he said.
‘No, you didn’t,’ said Rose. ‘He was hell-bent on doing it. There was nothing you could have said or done.’
Shepherd wondered if that was true. Maybe if he’d told Jones that he, too, had been in the SAS, maybe if he’d made that connection Jones would have talked for longer. And if he’d kept talking maybe Shepherd could have persuaded him not to take his life. But Rule Number One of living undercover was that you never told an outsider who you really were.
Rose put his arm round Shepherd’s shoulders. ‘You did the best you could, Stu. There aren’t many guys who would have gone out there the way you did.’
Shepherd gestured at the house. ‘The guy’s daughter, is she in there?’
‘Yeah. Emma, her name is.’
Shepherd shook off Rose’s arm and headed for the house.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Rose.
‘I’ve got something to tell her,’ said Shepherd.
Charlie Kerr poured himself a large measure of gin, splashed in tonic water and dropped in a slice of lemon. He drained half, then poured in more gin and belched.
He took a roll of black rubbish bags from one of the kitchen drawers and went upstairs. He put the glass between the twin basins in the master bathroom, then picked up Angie’s cosmetics and dumped them into one of the bags. He took her sanitary towels from the cupboard under the sink, her soap, her shampoo, her medicines, her cotton buds, everything she had ever touched, and tossed them into the bag. He took a long pull at his gin and tonic, checked that he hadn’t forgotten anything, then smiled at his reflection in the mirror. He’d be able to bring back all the women he wanted now. There was no nagging wife to bitch and moan.
He carried the bag into the bedroom and dropped it on to the king-size bed. He pulled open the drawers in the dressing-table, grabbed handfuls of her underwear and thrust it into the bag with her brushes, combs and hair spray. The book she was reading – the latest John Grisham – went in, with her alarm clock and slippers. He’d barely started on her wardrobes before the bag was full. He knotted the top, opened the bedroom window and threw it out. It landed on the lawn with a thump. He cursed when he saw it had burst and the contents were strewn across the grass.
Eddie Anderson appeared from behind the garage. ‘You okay, boss?’
‘Sort that out, Eddie.’ He went back to the wardrobes and filled the rest of the bags with Angie’s clothing. Gary Payne had told him she was dead. But the moment she had climbed into the car with Tony Nelson, she’d signed her own death warrant. No way could he have let her live. She’d wanted him dead so badly she’d been prepared to pay a stranger to put a bullet in his head. ‘Stupid cow,’ Kerr muttered. Stupid to have thought she could ever get the better of him. Stupid not to have spotted that she was dealing with an undercover cop. Stupid to have thought he would let her live. Now she was dead and soon Tony Nelson would be, too.
He finished filling another bag with Angie’s clothes and tossed it out of the window. Tony Nelson had it coming, whether or not he was a cop. He must have known who Kerr was. He must know who he was dealing with. And despite that, despite Kerr’s reputation, he’d still tried to entrap Angie. That was what riled Kerr more than anything: the fact that Nelson, or whatever his real name was, thought he was so much smarter than Kerr. ‘I’ll show you,’ muttered Kerr. ‘I’ll fucking show you what happens when you mess with Charlie Kerr.’
There’d be an inquest, of course, but there was no doubt that Angie had taken her own life. The cops would want to know how she got hold of the sleeping tablets and they’d be looking for someone to blame. Payne would never tell, of course. Kerr paid him handsomely for his loyalty. The custody sergeant would probably end up taking the blame for not searching her properly. And if that happened, Kerr would take pleasure in suing the police for millions. He smiled malevolently.
Sutherland drove the ARV into the car park from East Tenter Street and parked next to an undercover van belonging to the Specialist Firearms teams. It had the name of a fictitious florist on the side and a stencilled bunch of flowers that looked as if it had been done by a five-year-old.
Shepherd unlocked the gun-holder and handed the MP5s to Rose and Sutherland, then he climbed out and stretched. The heavy bulletproof vest played havoc with his spine but it had to be worn. He followed Rose and Sutherland through the rear entrance and along to the armoury. Two Specialist Firearms officers were already making their MP5s safe, the barrels pointed into Kevlar-lined metal containers with sand at the bottom while they pulled out the magazines and checked there were no rounds in the breech. The police were safety-conscious to a fault. It was a far cry from the laid-back attitude of the SAS where live weapons were carried as casually as mobile phones.
Rose and Sutherland unloaded, checked their carbines and Glocks, then handed them over to the armoury officer. As Shepherd cleared his weapons, Rose and Sutherland counted their ammunition and handed it in. ‘You okay, Stu?’ asked Rose.
‘Knackered,’ said Shepherd.
‘You need a pint at the Bull’s Head,’ said Rose.
‘Nah, raincheck,’ said Shepherd. ‘I need some kip.’
‘What happened today, there’s people you can talk to here. I don’t know how they did it north of the border but we’ve got psychiatrists and occupational health advisors on tap.’
Shepherd gave his Glock and ammunition to the armoury officer. ‘We had them in Glasgow, but they’re more trouble than they’re worth. I’ll go for a run when I get home.’
‘At night?’
‘Best time,’ said Shepherd. ‘Not so many cars around. A few miles will clear my head.’
‘What you did today, it was above and beyond, you know?’
‘Didn’t
do any good, did it?’
‘You tried, and that was more than a lot of guys would have done.’ Rose patted Shepherd’s shoulder. ‘He was going to do it anyway, no matter what you said to him. He just wanted an audience.’
Shepherd knew Rose was right, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with. He looked down at his bulletproof vest. There were still spots of Jones’s blood on it.
Shepherd woke with a start. His heart was pounding and he swung his feet off the bed. He sat with his head in his hands, trying to work out why he had been so affected by Barry Jones’s suicide. He had seen men die at close range, and some had been friends and colleagues. Jones was a stranger – yet he was the one giving him nightmares. He stood up and took deep breaths. He was wearing only pyjama bottoms and padded down the landing to the bathroom. He drank from the cold tap.
The door to Liam’s bedroom was open and the glow of his nightlight seeped out. Shepherd went into the room and found Liam on his side, mouth open, hair over his eyes. Shepherd knelt beside the bed and brushed it off his face. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for an eight-year-old boy to lose his mother – to see her die. He shook his head, trying to kill the train of thought.
Shepherd rested his forehead against his son’s cheek and swore silently that he’d never put Liam through the pain that Emma Jones was now going through. He had lost one parent and that was enough. Liam murmured in his sleep, and Shepherd kissed him, then returned to his room and lay down. He pulled the quilt up to his chin but he doubted that he’d get any more sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes he was back on the housing estate, waiting for Barry Jones to pull the trigger.
Eddie Anderson wasn’t happy about the way things were going, but he knew there was no way he could tell Kerr. Charlie Kerr didn’t listen to anyone except maybe Gary Payne, but even the lawyer had to tread carefully. Eddie drove in the outside lane at a steady ninety miles an hour, flashing his headlights at anyone in front of him. It wasn’t the way he preferred to drive, but it was what Kerr wanted. Kerr hated being overtaken, so Anderson kept his foot hard on the accelerator and checked the rear-view mirror every couple of seconds.
He was sorry about what had happened to Mrs Kerr. She had never seemed the type who’d want to kill herself, but he’d never thought she’d be stupid enough to try to have Kerr killed. Charlie Kerr was a face, and anyone she hired to kill him would soon realise they’d bitten off more than they could chew.
Anderson didn’t approve of the way that Kerr had treated his wife, but it wasn’t his place to say anything. What Kerr had done, throwing her stuff out of the window before her body was even cold, that was wrong, too, but Anderson still hadn’t said anything. Kerr had made him burn the lot at the end of the garden. He’d had to siphon petrol from the Range Rover to get it going, and he’d used a garden fork to keep turning the clothes until there was nothing left but ashes. The brushes and combs had melted and he’d smashed the perfume bottles.
Anderson had reservations about why they were driving to London, but he could tell that Kerr was in no mood to take, or even tolerate, any advice. He would have to hold his counsel. He looked across at Ray Wates. It was obvious from the way he was grinding his teeth that he was as unhappy as Anderson about what was happening. Kerr sat in the back, chain-smoking. A sawn-off shotgun and two silenced automatics were in the boot.
It was madness, thought Anderson, as the Range Rover powered past a coachload of Japanese tourists. They were driving to London to kill a cop. It made no sense at all. If Kerr wanted the cop killed, he could pay a professional, someone who could take the time to do it right. Kerr was behaving irrationally and had been since he’d watched Angie get into the car with the undercover cop. There was a glazed look in his eyes, and he kept smiling to himself. He’d been taking cocaine, too, and in the rearview mirror Anderson saw Kerr sniff and wipe his nose with the back of his hand. Anderson had a bad feeling about the way Kerr was behaving. If they succeeded in killing the cop, the police would do whatever it took to track them down and bring them to justice. If they failed, God alone knew how it would end.
‘You okay, Eddie?’ asked Kerr.
‘Sure, boss,’ said Anderson.
‘Something on your mind? You’re breathing like a train.’
‘Nothing, boss.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Kerr opened the rear window, flicked out the butt, then lit a fresh cigarette.
It had been a quiet shift: the ARV had spent most of its time cruising around Central London. They had been called out to Hampstead Heath in the early evening by nervous gays after there had been reports of two men with guns prowling around. It turned out to be two teenagers with airguns, shooting squirrels, which had prompted Sutherland into an hour of anti-gay jokes. Towards the end of the shift they helped a team of CID officers from Paddington Green police station arrest two suspected terrorists, but the men weren’t armed and went quietly, protesting their innocence.
They drove in through the East Tenter Street entrance five minutes before their shift was due to end. Sutherland noted the mileage and fuel details as Rose and Shepherd went inside. They unloaded their weapons and handed them in at the armoury, then went together to the locker room and changed into civilian clothing.
‘Quick one before you head off?’ asked Rose.
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. He wanted to go home but it was important to keep building bridges with Rose and Sutherland. Several times he had dropped hints about being short of money but he couldn’t do it too often. Soon after he’d joined Hargrove’s undercover unit, Shepherd had memorised a host of sports statistics going back five years and could talk knowledgeably about football, horseracing and boxing. He wasn’t interested in sport but most villains were, and the information was useful to back up his legend as an enthusiastic, and unsuccessful, gambler.
They waited for Sutherland, then walked together out of the main entrance. Immediately next door was a pub called Mr Pickwick’s, a green frontage with a restaurant upstairs. ‘What about here?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Too close to home,’ said Sutherland. ‘Every man and his dog walks by. Can’t relax.’
They headed down Leman Street and into the Bull’s Head, where half a dozen Specialist Firearms officers were standing at the bar. ‘White team,’ said Rose.
Sutherland and Shepherd went over to a table and sat down. Rose carried over their drinks and they toasted each other.
‘Any news of Andy?’ asked Shepherd.
Sutherland frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just wondered if there was any news, that’s all.’
‘I don’t think we’re expecting any,’ said Rose. ‘He’s done a bunk – I don’t see how he can show his face here again.’
‘Strange business, all said and done,’ said Shepherd. He raised his glass. ‘What the hell? It got me back to London, didn’t it?’
Anderson twisted in his seat. The Range Rover was parked down the road from the Leman Street building and they had watched Nelson and two of his colleagues walk to the Bull’s Head.
‘We wait for him to come out,’ said Kerr. He had a silenced automatic on his lap. ‘Then we teach the bastard a lesson.’
‘That pub’s full of armed cops,’ said Wates. He was holding the sawn-off shotgun between his legs. Anderson had a silenced automatic at his feet.
‘They don’t take their guns home with them, Ray,’ said Kerr.‘It’s against the rules. That’s the great thing about doing what we do. There are no rules.’ He rubbed his nose and sniffed.
Anderson wasn’t happy about his boss snorting cocaine, especially not when he was going to be waving a gun around. Drugs and guns were a dangerous mix. And drugs, guns and Charlie Kerr were about as dangerous a mix as you could wish for.
Shepherd and Rose left the Bull’s Head at just after eleven. They walked back to the underground car park where the SO19 officers kept their cars, arguing over who was the best boxer of all time, a conversation that had started in the pub.
>
Shepherd drove out first, beeping his horn and waving goodbye to the sergeant. He didn’t see the black Range Rover pull away from the kerb and follow at a safe distance.
Kerr looked around. The streets were deserted. ‘We should do this now,’ he said. ‘He’s gonna see us if we leave it much longer.’ He clicked off the safety. ‘Let’s do the bastard now.’
Anderson glanced at Wates. He looked as worried as Anderson felt. Attacking a cop in the street was just plain stupid, but Kerr had taken it personally, and that, with the cocaine, had pushed him over the edge. There was nothing they could say to him – or nothing that wouldn’t make him as angry with them as he was with Nelson.
‘Whatever you say, boss,’ said Anderson.
‘Don’t fire that unless you have to,’ Kerr said to Wates. ‘Let’s try to do this as quietly as we can.’
Ahead, the Toyota was stopping at a set of traffic-lights turning from amber to red.
‘Okay, let’s do it,’ said Kerr. ‘Let’s do the bastard.’
Rose was about a hundred yards from the traffic-lights when he saw the Range Rover pull up next to Marsden’s Toyota. He was braking when he saw the rear passenger door of the Range Rover open and a man get out. At first Rose thought the man was going to ask directions but then he saw the gun in his hand. A large automatic with a silencer.
The man took a step towards the Toyota just as the front passenger door opened and a second man got out with a sawn-off shotgun.
Shepherd sat with his fingers loosely on the steering-wheel, deep in thought. Liam would be asleep when he got home. The way things were going, he was seeing as little of his son as he was when Liam was in Hereford with his grandparents. The sooner he got on the day shift the better, because then he could spend the evenings with him. Help him with his homework. Read him a story. Do some real father-and-son stuff.
He heard car doors open and turned. Two men were in the road, staring at him, a black Range Rover behind them. Shepherd experienced a surge of adrenaline as he recognised them. Charlie Kerr and Ray Wates. And they had guns.
Soft Target: The Second Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Page 33
