‘Bureaux de change? Makes sense. They ship in the counterfeit euros, run them through their shops and into the banking system.’
‘We’re going to put the bureaux under surveillance, see who else they’re dealing with. We’ll run checks on their banks and contacts, put their whole operation under the microscope.’
‘I guess the notes alone aren’t enough to bust them.’
‘We don’t have any evidence that they’ve opened the cans. Anyway, we’d like them for conspiracy and to bust the French end so that we can find out where the notes are coming from.’
‘I’ll make a call this afternoon, see if I can get them to bite on the boat plan. If they agree, I’m going to need a crash course in driving the bloody thing.’
‘It’s in hand,’ said Hargrove. He picked up the photographs and slipped them back into his pocket.
Shepherd sipped his coffee. ‘I get the feeling there’s something else,’ he said.
‘Something else?’
‘Some other reason for you getting me here. Or am I being paranoid?’
The superintendent smiled. ‘I’m that transparent, am I?’ He exhaled through pursed lips. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Spider, but I’m leaving the unit. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more warning’.
‘What happened?’ asked Shepherd. ‘I thought everything was hunky-dory.’
‘The unit’s being co-opted into the Serious Organised Crime Agency.’
‘The British FBI, right?’
‘That’s the plan,’ said Hargrove. ‘Targeting drug-traffickers, people smugglers, paedophile networks, international fraudsters. The sort of stuff we do at a local level. SOCA’s going to go after the big fish and they want to hit the ground running. They figured the best way to do that was to absorb our unit.’
Shepherd scowled. ‘Why fix something that’s not broke?’ he said.
‘We’re a victim of our own success,’ said the superintendent. ‘SOCA’s going to need some major successes to justify its funding and they reckon a few good undercover operations will do that.’
‘The reason we’ve been so successful is because we’ve never blown our own trumpet,’ said Shepherd. ‘We always let the local cops take the credit. We’re never in the papers. We never give evidence.’
‘I explained all that,’ said Hargrove, ‘but the world is changing. The powers that be need to show they’re being effective.’
‘So we’ll be dragged out at press conferences, will we? It doesn’t work like that, and you know it.’
‘No one’s going to blow your cover, Spider,’ said Hargrove, ‘but SOCA wants to be able to show that it’s doing its job.’
‘This is madness.’
‘It could be a major step up for you,’ said Hargrove. ‘Bigger operations, bigger targets. Bigger challenges. SOCA will have more resources than my unit. More manpower.’
‘The more people involved, the more chance of a leak,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s why your unit works so well. Hell, I don’t even know half the guys who work for you and they don’t know me. Once we’re part of a bigger bureaucracy, who knows who’ll be looking at my file?’
‘What do you want, Spider? You want them to put you in uniform? You’re still employed by the Met, remember. Officially they can put you where they want you.’
Shepherd’s jaw dropped. ‘Is that what they’re saying? I join SOCA or I start wearing a pointy helmet? Fuck that.’ He grimaced, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ said the superintendent. ‘But it’s a done deal. In two months’ time my unit becomes part of SOCA and there’s nothing you or I can do about it.’
‘And you can’t get some form of autonomy for the unit? Special circumstances and all that.’
The superintendent looked pained. ‘That’s the second bit of news,’ he said. ‘I’m moving on. Promoted, finally. And I won’t be in SOCA.’
Shepherd slumped in his chair. The undercover unit had been Hargrove’s brainchild, his baby. He had hand-picked the undercover operatives and had been involved in every assignment. He had personally persuaded Shepherd to join the unit when Shepherd had applied to join the Metropolitan Police, offering him the chance to use his specialist skills rather than pounding a beat. Shepherd had trusted Hargrove from the outset and the superintendent had never once let him down. The sort of work Shepherd did required him to have absolute faith in his controller, and it couldn’t be transferred at short notice. ‘How long have you known?’ he asked.
‘It was first raised last year,’ said Hargrove. ‘As a suggestion. I made my views clear, that we functioned best as an autonomous unit. I was overruled, but they took their time doing it. That was why I was over at the Yard today. You’re the first person I’ve told, Spider.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I haven’t even told the wife yet.’
‘And the promotion was to make the transfer smoother, was it?’ said Shepherd, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
‘I was due one anyway,’ said Hargrove. ‘Don’t get paranoid on me, Spider. You’ll be up for sergeant before long. Look, I didn’t expect you to be happy about this, but there was no way I could have told you earlier. Button’s appointment won’t even be confirmed until this afternoon.’
‘Button?’
‘Charlotte Button. She’s heading up undercover operations.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘I’m not surprised. She’s MI5.’
Shepherd groaned. ‘Oh, terrific! A spook and a woman. Anything else I should know?’
‘Only that she’s a damn fine operator. I know you SAS boys tend to be disparaging about women and the intelligence agencies, but Charlotte Button has a track record second to none, both in the field and as a controller. SOCA is only recruiting the best, Spider. That goes for you and for her. Between you and me, three guys in my unit won’t be joining SOCA. They’re not even being considered.’
‘Because?’
‘Because SOCA’s standards are higher. That’s all I’ve been told. I’d put my men up against anyone but MI5 has been positively vetting all of you and three got the thumbs down.’
‘But if I move to SOCA I stay as a cop, right?’
‘Strictly speaking, no. At the moment you’re employed by the Met, same as I am, although the unit has always been answerable to the Home Office. The individual police authorities are funded by local councils. SOCA will be funded by central government.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll become a civil servant, with pay, pension and the like being handled by the new agency.’
‘But the work will be the same?’
‘My understanding is that the various forces around the country will still be able to call on the resources of the undercover unit by making an application to the Home Secretary, exactly as they do now.’
Shepherd watched a crocodile of Korean tourists walk by, following a tour guide holding aloft a furled red umbrella. ‘I suppose I should congratulate you,’ he said, ‘on the promotion.’
‘It’s a big hike in salary,’ said Hargrove. ‘My wife’s been hankering for a villa in Tuscany and it looks like she’ll get it now.’
‘You’re not retiring?’
Hargrove shook his head. ‘I think she plans to be in the villa on her own, actually. I’m being co-opted on to the emergency planning committee – national disasters and all that. Deskbound until the shit hits the fan.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ said Shepherd. ‘This can’t be happening. Why fix something that isn’t broke?’
‘Think of it as an opportunity,’ said Hargrove. ‘A bigger playing-field for you.’
‘It’s a question of trust,’ said Shepherd. ‘If I put my life on the line, I need to trust my back-up one hundred per cent.’
‘You’ll be able to meet Button before you sign up,’ said Hargrove. ‘You’ll see that she’s sound.’
‘You’ve met her?’
‘No, but I know her reputation. She’s rock solid, Spider.’
Shepherd put his head into his hands. ‘I really don’t need this, not now.’
‘It was going to happen one day, we all knew that,’ said Hargrove. ‘Nothing lasts for ever. Especially in the police. They move us around to stop us getting stale.’
‘How do you think the rest of the unit will take it?’
‘About the same as you, I suppose. No one likes change.’
Shepherd sat back in his seat. ‘Maybe it’s time for me to move on, too.’
Hargrove frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been spending too much time away from Liam – and there was that business on the trawler . . . If anything had happened to me, Liam would’ve been on his own.’
‘Time for a quieter life?’
‘Maybe,’ Shepherd said. ‘Maybe it’s for the best.’ High overhead a passenger jet banked right and headed for Heathrow. He stared up at the plane. ‘Maybe I need a holiday,’ he mused.
Shepherd caught a black cab back to Ealing. He went upstairs to change into his running gear. As he took off his jeans he realised he still had the mugger’s flick-knife in his pocket. It was about seven inches long with fake pearl insets on either side of the handle and a chrome button on one side. Shepherd pressed it with his thumb. The blade flicked out and clicked into place. It was a vicious weapon, long and sharp enough to kill with one thrust, even in the hands of an amateur. He put it down by the basin. He’d destroy it: a few blows with a hammer would render it useless.
He pulled on an old sweatshirt and shorts, went downstairs and picked up his rucksack. He ran for the best part of an hour, pushing himself harder than usual, and was drenched with sweat by the time he got back to the house.
Katra was in the kitchen, ironing. She laughed as he walked into the kitchen and took off the rucksack.
‘What?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘You’re laughing at something,’ he said, as he took a bottle of Evian water from the fridge.
‘It’s those bricks,’ she said.
‘Well?’
‘In Slovenia they would think you were crazy, running with bricks.’
‘They might be right.’ He twisted the top off the bottle and drank half of it.
‘It makes you stronger?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘But you don’t look strong.’
Shepherd wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You are not big.’
‘Size isn’t everything,’ said Shepherd, looking at her playfully.
Katra looked perplexed.
‘Strength and size aren’t the same thing,’ he explained. ‘A lot of big people aren’t strong. I train for stamina. I want to be able to run long and hard, and the bricks help me do that. They make my heart stronger.’
‘You trained like that in the army, yes?’
‘A lot of the time. Being a soldier is often about moving a lot of equipment from place to place in the shortest possible time. It’s all very well being able to run in shorts and expensive trainers, but in the real world you’re wearing heavy clothes and boots, and carrying a pack on your back.’
‘But you’re not a soldier any more.’
‘Old habits,’ said Shepherd.
‘Old habits?’
‘It’s an expression. Old habits die hard. It means that once you’ve done things one way for a long time, it’s hard to do things differently.’
Shepherd went upstairs to shower and change. He pulled on a denim shirt and black jeans, then grinned as he caught sight of his reflection in the wardrobe mirror: his own taste in clothes pretty much matched Tony Corke’s.
The three mobiles were lined up in their chargers by the bedside table. Shepherd picked up the Tony Corke phone, then paced up and down for a few minutes, getting into character. He connected the digital recorder, then hit ‘redial’. The Uddin brothers’ number was the only one in the phone.
‘It’s me,’ said Shepherd. ‘Is that Ben?’
‘Yes,’ said Salik.
‘Everything okay with the cans?’
‘They were fine.’
‘Still not going to tell me what was inside them?’ He kept the tone light, chatty.
‘You were paid.’
‘Thanks for that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Though to be honest, it’s going straight into the pockets of my lawyer. Look, have you thought about what I said about my boat?’
‘I have thought about it, yes.’
‘So?’
‘We should talk.’
‘That’s why I called.’
‘Not over the phone,’ said Salik. ‘We must sit down and talk. You and me and my brother.’
‘The guy with the money was your brother?’
‘I don’t want to discuss anything on the phone,’ said Salik. ‘Today’s Monday. Let’s say we get together on Wednesday. We’ll have dinner. You can tell me about this boat of yours.’
‘Excellent,’ said Shepherd. ‘Where and when?’
‘I’ll phone you on Wednesday,’ said Salik. ‘Where are you?’
‘Dover,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I can come in to London, no problem. Call me when you’re ready.’ He ended the call, pleased with the way it had gone. There was plenty of time for Hargrove to decide how to play the meeting, and Salik had seemed genuinely hooked.
Shepherd put down the Tony Corke mobile and picked up his work phone. He called Hargrove and told him about the conversation with Uddin.
‘Well done,’ said the superintendent. ‘The timing’s perfect because I’ve just got the boat fixed up. Former SBS guy, now lives in Southampton, Gordon McConnell. Ever come across him?’
‘No,’ said Shepherd.
‘He’s expecting you tomorrow. I’ll text you his number. He’ll do a couple of night runs with you – that way you’ll be up to speed before your sit-down with the brothers.’
Shepherd went downstairs. ‘I’m going to be away tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘Make sure Liam does his homework.’
‘Of course,’ said Katra. ‘Don’t forget you’re going to his grandmother’s this weekend.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ he said, ‘and I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.’ He could tell from her blank look that she had made as much sense of his sarcasm as she did of his humour. He winked.
Shepherd drove down to Southampton in the ten-year-old Land Rover. The battered, mud-splattered vehicle was registered in the name of Tony Corke at the Dover address and was full of the sort of gear a sailor might need, including wet-weather clothing, boots, a tool-kit, and various sailing magazines.
He phoned McConnell on the way and they arranged to meet at a pub on the outskirts of the city. ‘Keep an eye open for the big man with the beard and a look of bored contempt on his face,’ said McConnell, in a Northumberland accent.
Shepherd spotted him as soon as he walked into the pub. The self-description was bang on, although McConnell wore an amused smile as he shook Shepherd’s hand. ‘So, I’m going to turn you into a sailor in twenty-four hours, am I?’ he said.
‘That’s the plan,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re Gordon?’
‘Gordy on dry land,’ said McConnell. ‘Skipper when I’m at the helm. Okay, lesson one. We need antifreeze in the system before we go anywhere near the water. What are you drinking?’
‘Jameson’s. Ice.’
‘On the rocks, as the Yanks say,’ said McConnell. ‘Bad bloody omen for a start.’ He pushed himself off the bench seat and ambled over to the bar. He had the rolling gait of a man used to a moving deck rather than solid ground. The beard made it difficult to place his age but Shepherd figured he was probably in his late fifties and that it had been a decade or so since he had last squeezed into an SBS wetsuit.
McConnell returned with a double whiskey and ice for Shepherd, and a pint of beer for himself. They clinked glasses and McConnell drained half of his in one gulp. ‘I needed that,’ he said. ‘So, from the Sass to the cops. Like paperwork, d
o you?’
‘My wife wanted me out,’ said Shepherd. ‘Too many nights away.’
‘Ah, wives,’ said McConnell. ‘I’ve had four, bless them.’
‘A girl in every port?’
‘All local, as it happens. Kids?’
‘A boy. Nine.’
McConnell grinned. ‘I’ve got five. Can’t remember how old they are.’
Shepherd could see that McConnell was the competitive sort, but that was generally the way it was with men who had served in the Special Forces. You didn’t get into the SAS or SBS by hiding your light under a bushel.
‘So, what’s your sailing experience?’ asked McConnell.
‘I did a crash course in trawlers, but as I was only a deck-hand I didn’t have to do much. But I’m okay on navigation.’
‘And you’ve used night-vision equipment?’
‘Sure.’
McConnell belched loudly. ‘Then the rest of it is like driving a car,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we have another round and then I’ll show you the boat? We can pop over to France and back to get the feel of it, then do a few night-runs.’
The sea spray blew across his face like a light shower and Shepherd narrowed his eyes. High overhead, seagulls soared on the breeze coming in from the English Channel. Whichever way he looked he saw other boats. A huge cross-Channel ferry heading for France, as big as a skyscraper turned on its side. Flotillas of small sailboats, some barely bigger than bathtubs. Freighters caked with dirt. Gleaming white executive toys with massive outboard engines. Fishing boats with rusting hulls.
‘It’ll be quieter at night,’ shouted McConnell, over the roar of the massive outboard engine behind them. He was standing up, leaning back against his seat, legs planted like trees, shoulder-width apart. His right hand was on the wheel, his left on a chromium-plated throttle lever. ‘This is us doing thirty knots.’ He banked to the left to avoid a twin-masted sailboat ahead.
Shepherd was standing next to the skipper, his left hand on a grab rail at the side of the boat. Even at thirty knots he could see the high degree of concentration necessary to keep the boat away from trouble. All the craft around them were heading at different speeds in different directions. Working out where they were all going in relation to one’s own boat was like some huge mathematical problem that required constant computations.
Cold Kill Page 16
