Cold Kill (44 page)

‘Just standing?’

‘On a stool. Or a brick. For hours on end. It’s painful, but it’s the pain of the body working against itself. The Gestapo perfected the technique. They had cells built just big enough to hold a standing man. Like an upturned coffin. A week was enough to drive a man mad. I tell you, forced standing is one of the most effective tortures there is. But, like I said, it takes time.’

The Saudi was bucking and kicking and Scarred Lip lifted him out of the water. He spat out water and groaned.

‘Can’t we use drugs or something?’ asked Button.

‘There’s no such thing as a truth serum,’ said Yokely. ‘People can lie as easily when they’re doped as they can when they’re sober. Trust me, Charlie, I know what I’m doing.’

Scarred Lip let go of the plank and the Saudi fell back into the water.

‘You should go back in there,’ said Yokely. ‘Keep the pressure on him.’

Button sighed.

‘You’re okay, yeah?’ asked Yokely.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You look a bit pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ repeated Button.

‘We need you in there.’

‘I’m going.’

Yokely turned back to the monitor and watched the Saudi drown again.

The train slowed as it approached Paddington. Shepherd was standing by the carriage door. He’d go first, get ahead of Hagerman, and Sharpe would bring up the rear. Then they’d play it by ear. If Hagerman was heading for the airport they’d board the Heathrow Express with him. If he got on to another train, it might be more complicated, but they’d be above ground and could be in phone contact with Bingham and the back-up teams.

The train juddered to a halt and the doors clattered open. Shepherd glanced to his left. Hagerman hadn’t moved. He was still sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped on his suitcase as if he was in prayer. Shepherd looked at Sharpe, who shrugged almost imperceptibly. Their quarry was staying on the train.

Shepherd stepped off and walked down the platform, away from Hagerman. He passed one carriage, then got into the next and sat down.

The train lurched off and, within seconds, was roaring into the tunnel once more. There was a map of the Tube network above the door. Marylebone station was on the Bakerloo Line. So were Charing Cross and Waterloo. Liverpool Street, King’s Cross and Victoria were on the Circle Line, so Hagerman would have changed at Paddington if he’d been heading for any of them. But if he was only making a rail journey, why the rush to pick up a passport from the Uddins? Shepherd studied the map. Waterloo. The Eurostar. Hagerman was leaving the country, but he wasn’t flying. He was going by train.

He counted the stations between Paddington and Waterloo. Eight. At about two minutes between stations, it would be sixteen minutes at least before they could phone Bingham. And depending on where the back-up had got to, there might not be enough time for them to get to Waterloo before Hagerman boarded the Eurostar.

Shepherd’s eyes flicked across the stations on the Bakerloo Line. The line was one of the deepest on the underground system. He wouldn’t get a mobile signal until they arrived at Waterloo. On the bright side, if Hagerman was aiming to travel on the Eurostar, he’d be a lot easier to tail. There was only one way in and one way out. Europol would have plenty of time to mount a surveillance operation at their end. Shepherd started to relax. From where he was sitting he couldn’t see Hagerman but he had Sharpe in vision and he didn’t have to move until Sharpe did.

The train rattled south. Oxford Circus was the busiest station and so many shoppers crowded on that Shepherd gave up his seat so that he could stand and see through the connecting door. He made brief eye-contact with Sharpe, and then his view was blocked by a housewife struggling with half a dozen Debenhams’ carrier-bags.

By the time the train reached Embankment the carriage was half empty and Shepherd was back in his seat. There was only the dip under the Thames and then they’d be at Waterloo.

The train left Embankment and snaked through the tunnel. There was no sense of what was above them, or even how far below the ground they were. Shepherd disliked all forms of public transport: trains, buses, planes, even taxis. It wasn’t because he was worried about safety – he knew that he was a thousand times safer in the Tube than he was at the wheel of his CRV – it was a matter of control. And he didn’t mind admitting, to Kathy Gift or anyone else, that he preferred to be in control.

As the train slowed on its approach to Waterloo, Shepherd pushed himself out of his seat and stood by the door. He looked to his left and saw Sharpe get up, which meant that Hagerman must be preparing to leave the train.

The train stopped, the doors opened, and Shepherd stepped out onto the platform. He strode confidently towards the exit, following the signs for Eurostar, his coat slung over his shoulder. Sharpe would follow Hagerman, while Shepherd got above ground fast to make contact with their back-up.

He hurried up the escalator, snatched a glance over his shoulder as he reached the top and saw Hagerman. He pushed his ticket into the slot in the barrier, retrieved it and walked through. He took out his phone. Still no signal.

He followed the Eurostar signs to a second escalator that opened out into a coffee shop full of suited businessmen drinking cappuccinos and barking into mobile phones. As he walked into the main Eurostar departure area, the signal returned to his mobile. He called Charlotte Button and went straight through to voicemail. He left a brief message, then phoned Bingham. He sighed with relief when the man answered. At least someone was taking calls. ‘David, it’s Shepherd.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Waterloo. Bear with me a few minutes.’

‘You’re following Hagerman?’

‘He’s right behind me, I hope. I’m at the Eurostar terminal.’

‘He’s on the train?’

‘I’m pretty sure that’s where he’s heading. Wait a minute and I’ll know for certain.’

Shepherd saw Hagerman emerge from the Underground, still carrying the suitcase.

‘Yeah, he’s going on the Eurostar. That’s definite. I have eyeball now.’

‘I’ll phone Europol. Do you know which train?’

Shepherd turned to the departure board. The next train was the 16.39 to Brussels, the one after it the 17.09 to Paris and the next the 17.42 also to Paris. Next to the departure board a huge clock with a yellow hand sweeping off the seconds. There was still thirty minutes before the Brussels train was due to leave. ‘It looks like Brussels, the sixteen thirty-nine, but we won’t know until he’s passed through check-in.’ Sharpe walked out on to the concourse. He’d picked up a newspaper from somewhere and was swishing it as he walked, a businessman in a hurry. ‘As soon as we know for sure we’ll call you.’

‘We? Is Sharpe with you?’

‘Yes. He’s got his warrant card so we’ll be able to get on to the train.’

‘There’s no doubt about this, Dan?’ Shepherd could hear the uncertainty in Bingham’s voice.

Hagerman walked towards the check-in desks.

‘He’s getting ready to board now,’ said Shepherd.

Sharpe went across the concourse, away from Check-in.

‘So this is a straightforward surveillance operation?’ said Bingham. ‘He’s not behaving suspiciously? There’s nothing we should be worried about?’

‘He seems tense, but that might be because of the passport. He doesn’t seem to be concerned about tails, other than the odd glance over his shoulder.’

‘Good work. You and Sharpe follow him over. Stay in touch. The mobiles are only inoperative for the twenty minutes or so that you’re under the Channel. The rest of the time you’ll be able to reach me.’

‘But not Button?’

‘She’s still uncontactable. Sorry.’

‘Yeah, well, “sorry” doesn’t cut it. But that’s for later.’

‘Agreed,’ said Bingham. ‘It’s between you and the boss.’

‘Your boss,’ said Shepherd. ‘Not mine. I’ve got to go.’

Shepherd put away his phone and hurried to the side entrance of the departure area, where Sharpe was talking to two uniformed British Transport Police officers.

‘Everything okay?’ asked Shepherd.

‘This is DC Shepherd,’ said Sharpe. ‘Don’t bother asking for his warrant card because he’s undercover.’

The two uniforms nodded at Shepherd, unsmiling. One was in his late thirties and might have been in the army. The younger man was scrawny with a rash of acne across his forehead.

‘The trains aren’t full so there’s no problem with us getting seats,’ said Sharpe. ‘But I don’t have a passport.’

‘I do,’ said Shepherd. ‘But that shouldn’t be a problem, right? You don’t have to get off the train at the other end. And you didn’t have a passport last time, did you?’

‘The guys I saw last time were more flexible,’ said Sharpe. ‘They let me and Hargrove on with our warrant cards. These jobsworths are insisting on passports.’

‘French territory starts at the mid-way point of the tunnel,’ said the younger of the two policemen, as if he was answering an exam question.

‘Okay, so he can get off when we’re halfway there. Guys, come on. This is important.’

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ said the other cop. ‘It’s not us, it’s Immigration.’

‘Either of you guys know Nick Wright? He’ll vouch for me. We worked together a while back.’

The two men shook their heads. Shepherd could see there was no point in arguing with them. He walked away, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and hitting ‘redial’. He told Bingham what had happened, and Bingham promised to sort it out.

Shepherd went back to the cops. ‘Assuming we can get his passport, we’ll need tickets.’

‘You can show your warrant card,’ said the younger cop.

‘First, I don’t have my card. He just told you that. Second, I don’t want to have to explain myself to ticket inspectors or Immigration officers or anyone else who decides he wants to stick his nose into my business. I want a ticket.’ He nodded at Sharpe. ‘And he wants a ticket. In fact, we want tickets for the next three trains because we still don’t know which one he’s on. And we want them now.’ He nodded at the departure board above the entrance to the boarding area. ‘We’ve got twenty minutes to get on to that train.’

The older cop’s radio crackled and he walked away to talk into his microphone. A few seconds later he was back and nodded at his colleague. ‘Get the tickets now,’ he said. He looked at Shepherd. ‘First or standard?’

‘Whatever,’ said Shepherd.

The younger cop hurried off.

‘Sorry,’ said the older cop. His cheeks were red and he was smiling nervously now.

Bingham must have swung some heavy artillery their way, Shepherd thought. ‘Can you walk me through?’ he asked. ‘We’re still not sure which train he’s on so I want to get eyeball on him before he boards.’ To Sharpe, he said, ‘You follow with the tickets, yeah? I’ll phone you when I know which train.’

The transport cop walked Shepherd through passport control and the security check. The waiting area was packed. Every seat was taken and passengers unable to get seats were standing in groups around their suitcases. Upwards of a thousand people were crammed into an area about a third the size of a football pitch. ‘Where’s the CCTV control room?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Through there,’ said the cop, indicating a grey door with ‘Staff Only’ on it.

‘Can you take me in?’ asked Shepherd.

The cop swiped a card and pushed open the door. Shepherd followed him through. The CCTV room was fully computerised with two men in shirtsleeves in front of large, flat-screen terminals.

‘Guys, sorry to burst in on you. I’m DC Shepherd. I need to find a passenger quickly.’

One of the men pulled over a chair and told him to sit down.

‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m assuming he’s in the waiting area. Can you run through the different cameras?’

‘Do you need me for anything?’ asked the uniform.

‘No,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can handle it from here. Can you tell my colleague where I am? And thanks.’

The uniformed cop left the room as the various CCTV pictures flashed on to the screen. With so many people packed into the waiting area, Shepherd needed a minute or so to study the faces on the screen. Once he was satisfied that Hagerman wasn’t in view, he nodded at the operator to switch viewpoints. He spotted Hagerman on the fifth camera, at the end of a row of seats next to a bank of payphones. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Where is it?’

‘At the far end of the waiting area,’ said the operator. ‘Close to the bottom of the escalators.’

‘When do they let the passengers up to the platform?’

‘Fifteen minutes before departure,’ said the operator.

‘I don’t suppose there’s any way of knowing which train the guy’s going to get on, is there?’ asked Shepherd.

‘If you know his name, sure.’

‘That’s the problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t. At least, I don’t know the name he’s travelling under.’

‘Then you’ll have to wait for him to move,’ said the operator.

Shepherd stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

He phoned Sharpe and arranged to meet him at the security-check area.

‘Get a move on, Razor,’ he said. ‘They’ll be boarding the first train in the next ten minutes.’

The older uniformed cop appeared again – he’d walked Sharpe through Immigration and the security check. Sharpe was holding half a dozen tickets. ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

‘I’ll show you,’ said Shepherd. He thanked the uniformed cop again for his help then took Sharpe to the coffee shop that overlooked the area where Hagerman was sitting. It was called Bonaparte’s. Someone’s attempt at humour, no doubt, but Shepherd wondered how the French felt to be offered coffee in a bar called Bonaparte’s at a station named Waterloo. He ordered two cappuccinos and they sat down.

Sharpe turned casually. ‘I see him,’ he said.

‘Looks tense, doesn’t he?’ said Shepherd.