Dead Men (12 page)

Hassan Salih strode towards the EU nationals line. Ahead, a group of Indian women in brightly coloured saris clutched British passports and chattered in Urdu. The line moved quickly. There were no questions, no interrogations, just a quick look at the passport, a swipe through a terminal and a curt nod. Salih was travelling on a French passport under a Moroccan name. The passport was genuine, as was the photograph. It had been applied for under the name of a French Moroccan labourer who was about Salih’s age. Salih had paid the man ten thousand Euros to apply for the passport and then killed him and dropped him from a motorboat some twenty miles off the coast near Marseille, the body weighed down with a length of anchor chain.

There were just two immigration officers dealing with the EU line, compared with more than a dozen handling the non-EU visitors. Anyone with an EU passport had automatic right of entry into the United Kingdom. No visas were necessary, no forms had to be filled in, and there were no questions to be answered. Provided the passport was valid, and provided the face of the person holding it matched the photograph inside, entry was guaranteed. It was a major weakness in the country’s border controls, Salih knew, and one that he was more than happy to take advantage of.

Salih had his story well prepared, but it would only take a few careful questions for a suspicious immigration officer to realise that he wasn’t French. There would be no questions. There never were. If the passport was genuine, the holder could not be refused entry. And Europe had allowed itself to become so multi-racial that there was no way of telling a person’s nationality from their appearance. Salih could spot an Egyptian at fifty feet, could list half a dozen differences between a Saudi and an Iraqi, could recognise a Palestinian among fifty Jordanians. But there was no way of telling if someone was British by looking at them. The British had granted citizenship to every race and creed on Earth, everyone from Bosnian war criminals to Jamaican drug-dealers, and once granted it was virtually impossible to revoke. The French, too, had been eager to offer citizenship to anyone who wanted it. The line moved forward. Behind Salih were a Pakistani couple and three small children. The husband was clutching five British passports.

One of the immigration officers was a middle-aged Chinese woman with thick-lensed spectacles, the other a young man barely out of his twenties, with a neatly trimmed goatee beard. Both smiled politely as they handed back passports. The famous British politeness.

The Indian women continued to chatter in their own language as their passports were checked. The immigration officers didn’t speak to them. Salih shuffled forward. When it was his turn he handed over his passport with a smile and kept his head up. The Chinese woman studied the photograph, then looked up at him. Salih maintained eye contact. She scrutinised his face for a couple of seconds, then returned to the photograph. She pursed her lips and flicked through the passport. There were only a couple of visa stamps, one for South Africa and another for Dubai. She ran the bar code inside the cover through the reader on her terminal. A copy of the passport picture flashed up on the screen. She closed the passport and handed it back to him. ‘Have a nice day,’ she said.

‘You too,’ said Salih. He headed down to Baggage Reclaim, then straight out through the green channel. He only ever flew with hand luggage. Everything he needed he could buy.

The arrivals area of Heathrow’s Terminal Three belonged more to a third-world country than the capital of the United Kingdom. It was packed with people waiting to greet passengers and the authorities made no attempt to keep the walkways clear. Africans,Indians and Arabs were pushing,shoving and shouting. Salih had to ask half a dozen times for people to move so that he could get through, and most did so grudgingly. He emerged to find a line of drivers, men in dark suits, holding signs with the names of their clients. Most were Afro-Caribbean or East Asian. Salih ignored them and walked out of the terminal building to where the black cabs waited.

Shepherd sat at his kitchen table sipping a mug of coffee and reading the
Belfast Telegraph
. It was the strangest undercover operation he’d ever been on. Usually he was tasked with infiltrating gangs which meant hanging around pubs and bars, putting himself about and making his presence felt. Often it was a matter of working his way up the food chain, targeting a low-level villain, befriending him, then using him to get close to the target. But Elaine Carter was a different proposition. She was a woman and he was a man, and if he came on too strong he’d scare her off.

He finished his coffee, put the mug into the sink, then went down the hallway to the sitting room. Elaine’s VW was parked in the driveway. He didn’t want to appear too keen so he’d ruled out approaching her. She was a financial adviser and he’d made it clear that he’d like advice. All he could do now was wait for her to take the bait.

He switched on the television. There was no cable, just the regular terrestrial channels, and nothing but mindless daytime chat-shows to watch. He paced up and down, swinging his arms back and forth, feeling like a caged animal. He went back into the hallway and picked up the phone book, flicked through it, looking for local gyms, then realised that that wasn’t an option. He had to be in the house, close to Elaine.

He went back into the kitchen and picked up the paper again. This was worse than being in prison – at least there he’d have people to interact with. He switched on the kettle but almost immediately switched it off again. He didn’t want another coffee. He wanted something to do. The garden was a mess. The lawn was overgrown and the flowerbeds were filled with weeds. He could start work on it. It would give him something to do, and it was a good way of reminding his neighbour that he was there.

His mobile phone rang. It was Button. ‘Willie McEvoy’s dead,’ she said.

‘Same MO?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Button. ‘Two might possibly be coincidence but three means we’ve got a serial killer.’

‘Well, Elaine Carter was at home last night, so far as I know. Her car was parked in the driveway.’

‘McEvoy was shot the night before last. The body was only discovered this morning.’

‘Same gun?’

‘The bullets are being checked as we speak. I’ve had them sent to our technical people in London to compare with the test-fired round we got from the Weapons and Explosives Research Centre. But they were the same calibre, for sure.’

‘Makes a loud noise, the .357,’ said Shepherd. ‘And you can’t silence a revolver.’

‘McEvoy’s house is in Short Strand in East Belfast and Short Strand isn’t the sort of area where people dial nine-nine-nine when they hear gunshots,’ she said. ‘The police still aren’t trusted.’

‘And I suppose nobody saw anything.’

‘Deaf, dumb and blind,’ said Button. ‘You’ve got to remember that for years the Catholic population regarded the RUC as the enforcers of the Protestant administration. If they had a problem that needed policing, they’d go to the paramilitaries. That’s not going to change overnight.’

Shepherd’s doorbell rang. ‘I think Elaine’s a-calling,’ he said.

‘That was quick,’ said Button.

‘I met her when I moved in. She’s coming to sell me insurance.’

‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘Remember, we’ll be listening to every word.’

Shepherd ended the call and went to answer the front door. It was Elaine Carter. She was dressed casually in jeans and a pink sweater over a white shirt, carrying her briefcase in her left hand and a bottle of Moët et Chandon in her right. Under her left arm she had a spiral-bound notebook. ‘Moving-in present,’ she said, offering him the champagne.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘If I had orange juice I’d offer you a Buck’s Fizz, but as I haven’t, I can’t.’

‘It’s a bit early for me and I’ll be driving this afternoon, so I’ll settle for coffee.’

Shepherd took her through to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and put the champagne in the fridge next to a bottle of milk.

‘Settling in okay?’ she asked. She sat at the table and put her briefcase beside her chair.

‘I was just realising how much work I’ve got to do on this house,’ he said.

‘The previous owners were quite old,’ she said. ‘The husband was in his eighties and his wife was bed-bound for the last couple of years so they weren’t able to do much in the way of DIY.’

‘The garden’s a mess, too.’

‘You should have seen it ten years ago,’ said Elaine. ‘Madge kept it lovely. She used to win prizes for her roses. Then she got Alzheimer’s and her husband spent all his time taking care of her so it just went downhill.’

‘Are they still alive?’

‘She died three years ago and he’s in a home. Who did you buy it from?’

‘My solicitor handled everything,’ said Shepherd. The kettle boiled and he poured water into a cafetière and put it, with a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar, on the table next to a large glass ashtray.

‘You smoke?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Shepherd. He picked up a packet of Marlboro and a disposable lighter and sat down opposite. ‘But I can wait.’

Elaine smiled. ‘I smoke, too,’ she said, ‘and that’s my brand.’

‘Thank God for that, I’m dying for a cigarette,’ said Shepherd. He offered her the packet, took one for himself and lit both.

Elaine laughed. ‘It feels almost illegal these days, doesn’t it?’

‘You ever tried to give up?’

‘A few times. You?’

‘My grandfather smoked his whole life and died in his sleep at eighty-seven,’ he said. ‘Cigarettes and coffee are my staples while I’m working. I don’t think I could get through the day without them.’

‘What is it you do?’

‘Website design. I specialise in purchasing systems, encouraging people to buy on-line. Boring.’ He pushed down the plunger of the cafetière and poured the coffee. ‘You said you were scared of flying. Were you serious?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ she said. ‘I know it’s totally irrational, I know that flying is pretty much the safest way of travelling, but there’s something about being in a metal tube thirty thousand feet above the ground that just seems so . . . unnatural.’

‘I do have trouble with the concept of metal being lighter than air, but they seem to work,’ said Shepherd. ‘Have you ever flown?’

‘Never,’ said Elaine.

‘That must make holidays difficult.’

‘Ireland’s a beautiful country,’ she said, ‘and there’s the ferry to the UK. You came over from Liverpool, right? On the Norfolkline?’

Shepherd nodded.

‘I do business in Liverpool and Manchester and I use the Norfolkline every few months. I get the overnight ferry, then do a day’s work and take the night ferry back. If I need to get to London I go to Dublin and get Stena Line or Irish Ferries to Holyhead and drive from there. It’s less than twelve hours door to door and I get to use my own car. If I want to go to France I take the ferry to the UK, and Eurotunnel gets me to the Continent. I took the
QE
2 to the States a few years ago. Really, it’s no biggie. And I tell myself I’m doing my bit for global warming by not flying.’

‘Have you tried hypnosis or tablets?’

‘Everything,’ said Elaine. She held up her cigarette. ‘I think there’s more chance of me giving up smoking than getting me on a plane.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Do you know many people here in Belfast?’

‘There’s a couple of guys who work from an office in the city, sales, mainly, but with email and the phone, there’s no need for us to meet in person. Most of the office staff are in London and I’m lucky if I see them once in three months.’

‘That sounds a bit sad,’ said Elaine.

‘It’s the way of the world,’ said Shepherd. ‘My work is mainly computer-based and it doesn’t really matter where that computer is.’

‘So why did you move here?’ she asked, tapping her cigarette into the ashtray.

‘We’ve quite a big customer base in the city and they like to see a human being from time to time. I was flying in about once a week and we decided it made more sense for me to set up here, for a while at least.’

‘No family?’ She opened her notebook and clicked a black Parker ballpoint pen. ‘I’ll make a few notes.’

‘Just little old me.’

‘Are you employed by a company?’

‘I work mainly for one firm, but I’m effectively freelance,’ said Shepherd.

‘So you’re self-employed?’

Shepherd nodded.

‘And how much would you earn in a year?’

‘It varies, depending on the contracts we get. Between sixty and eighty thousand, I guess.’

Elaine swung her briefcase on to the table and clicked open the locks. ‘This isn’t a sales pitch,’ she said, ‘but I’ve a few brochures you should read, about pensions and the like.’ She handed him some printed leaflets. ‘What about investments?’ she said.

Shepherd shrugged. ‘This house, I guess,’ he said. ‘Some cash in the bank.’ He stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Pension plan?’

‘Nope.’

‘ISAs?’

‘I’ve no idea what they are. Sorry.’

‘So you probably don’t have a PEP tucked away?’

‘No idea what a PEP is, either.’

‘Don’t worry, that’s why I’m here to help,’ she said. ‘Shares? Unit trusts?’

‘Nope. Nope.’

‘Insurance?’

Shepherd held up his hands. ‘I’m hopeless, aren’t I?’

‘You’re like most people,’ she said. ‘You’re too busy earning your money to think about investing it.’ She handed him more leaflets. ‘I can suggest a range of tax-free investments that you should think about. The big one for you is your pension. Have a look at those and see if anything interests you.’

‘Elaine, retirement is years away,’ said Shepherd, ‘and I’ll probably die in harness anyway.’

She took a final drag at her cigarette and put it out, then picked up her pen again. ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ she said, scribbling in her notebook. ‘Sixty is the new forty, these days. You want to retire at – what? Fifty-five? Sixty? You could live to be eighty or ninety. How are you going to fund all the things you want to do after you’ve retired?’