Dead Men (34 page)

‘Kiss me, Jamie. Please.’

Her hand slipped round his neck and she pulled him close, her mouth opening as she pressed her lips to his.

Shepherd felt something warm pressing against his back and a hand on his thigh. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at his clothes, piled untidily on an unfamiliar chair in the corner of the room. He closed his eyes again and cursed silently. His assignment had been to get close to Elaine Carter, not to climb into her bed.

‘I know you’re awake,’ she whispered.

‘How?’

‘Your breathing changed,’ she said.

Shepherd rolled over and smiled.

She smiled back. ‘Well, this is awkward,’ she said.

‘It’s fine,’ he said.

‘I don’t make a habit of sleeping with the neighbours,’ she said. ‘Mind you, old man Hutcheson was in his eighties and did smell a bit.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd.

‘For what?’ she asked. ‘What the hell do you have to apologise about?’

‘I sort of feel like I took advantage of you.’

Elaine sat up and wrapped the duvet round herself. ‘I’m a big girl, Jamie. I don’t let people talk me into doing things I don’t want to do. Are you thinking you made a mistake, is that it?’

‘No, it’s not that.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘Elaine, you were pretty emotional last night, with the cops and everything. I was a shoulder to cry on, I didn’t expect . . .’

‘That I’d fuck your brains out?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, you did that right enough.’

‘No complaints, then?’

‘No complaints.’ He sat up and propped his pillow behind his neck. ‘Still awkward?’

‘A bit.’

‘I guess it’s been a while, has it?’ he said.

‘What’s been a while?’

‘You know . . .’

She smiled mischievously. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘You know, since you . . .’

‘Had sex?’ She was amazed. ‘Do you think I’m a nun?’

Shepherd felt his cheeks flush. ‘I just thought . . .’

She arched one eyebrow. ‘Yes, Jamie, tell me what you thought.’

‘You’re making this really hard for me, Elaine.’

Her hand crept along his thigh. ‘Hmm, yes, I can see that.’

He shuffled away from her and pushed the duvet down as a barrier between them. ‘I’m serious.’

‘Are you now?’

‘You were upset because they were asking questions about your husband. You still . . . you know . . .’

‘Love him?’ Elaine sighed. ‘Robbie’s been dead for a long time, Jamie. Do I still love him? Of course, but it’s the memory I love now, not the man. Timmy, too. I love them both as much as I ever did, but they’re gone and I’m still here. Robbie’s picture is on the mantelpiece because I can’t move it. His parents come round every weekend. How could I tell them I’ve put their boy’s picture in a drawer somewhere, locked it away like a dirty secret? I’ll never put it away, no matter what happens in my life. The same goes for Timmy. Timmy’s my son and will be until the day I die. I saw Robbie die on my kitchen floor and I saw Timmy die in a hospital bed, with tubes in him and a machine beeping. But that doesn’t mean my life has stopped.’ She pushed away the duvet and reached for him. ‘You’re not the first man I’ve slept with since Robbie died, and you probably won’t be the last. So don’t worry. I’m not a mad widow desperate for a man, much as that might appeal to your adolescent fantasies.’

‘Elaine . . .’

‘Now, if you tell me I was a one-night stand, I will get upset.’

‘You weren’t,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m so glad to hear that,’ she said, rolling on top of him. ‘Now prove it.’ Her hair cascaded over his face as she kissed him.

It was just before noon when Shepherd got back to his house. He shaved and showered, then changed into a clean polo shirt and jeans. He stared at his reflection as he splashed aftershave on his face. He hadn’t planned to sleep with Elaine, and a sexual relationship would just complicate matters. He liked her, there was no question of that, and the sex had been good – better than good. It had been great. Shepherd swore. ‘You cannot get too close,’ he said to himself. ‘She is under investigation. You cannot get too close.’ He leant close to the mirror and stared himself in the eye. ‘Listen to me, you daft bastard,’ he whispered. ‘It’s going to end in tears if you carry on like this.’ His breath fogged on the glass.

He pushed himself away from the mirror, went downstairs and switched on the kettle. He wanted to go for a run, and grinned as he wondered what SOCA’s psychologist would make of that – he’d met a woman he really liked and his first instinct after getting out of her bed was to put on his running shoes.

Shepherd went through to the sitting room, sat on the sofa and put his feet on the coffee-table as he dialled Charlotte Button’s number. She answered immediately and Shepherd asked what she knew about the Historical Enquiries Team. ‘It was set up after the Good Friday Agreement,’ said Button. ‘There’s a squad of about seventy-five officers headed by a guy from the Met. They’re split into two teams, one staffed locally by PSNI officers, the other by officers from outside.’

‘To ensure impartiality?’

‘Horses for courses,’ said Button. ‘The HET has been tasked with looking at all murders that occurred between 1968 and the signing of the Good Friday Agreement in 1998. Some cases can’t be dealt with by former RUC personnel so they’ve brought in outsiders. Why the sudden interest?’

‘Two cops came round to talk to Elaine. They were asking questions about her husband.’

‘Curiouser and curiouser. Robbie Carter’s murder was cut and dried. There were no loose ends that I’m aware of.’

‘They weren’t asking about his death. They wanted his work diaries for the late eighties. She wasn’t happy.’

‘Understandable,’ said Button.

‘Thing is, she lied to them. They were asking about any diaries he might have kept and she didn’t mention the ones in the trunk.’

‘Trunk?’

‘The trunk where I found the ammunition. There were diaries in there along with photograph albums and stuff. Look, I don’t want to sound paranoid, but their visit wasn’t part of some grand plan, was it?’

‘What are you insinuating, Spider?’

‘I just thought it might have been a way of putting her under pressure, a visit from heavy cops.’

‘Good cop, bad cop, you mean? Them bad and you good? Spider, do you really think I’d play a game like that?’

‘It’s a complicated world.’

‘It is indeed, but I wouldn’t do that to you. You should know better. If I thought outside pressure was a good idea, I’d run it by you first.’

‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd. ‘Doing what I do, you get to suspect everybody’s motives. Is there any chance of you finding out what’s going on? It occurred to me they might be trying to pin something on Carter.’

‘On a dead RUC hero? Is that likely?’

‘The dead can’t defend themselves,’ said Shepherd. ‘I just thought you should know what was going on, that’s all.’

‘It’s noted, Spider, but I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to find out. I don’t want to start alarm bells ringing, but I’ll see what I can do. How’s it going with Elaine?’

Shepherd’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t want to lie to Button but he didn’t want to tell her he’d made love to Elaine either. ‘She trusts me,’ said Shepherd. ‘All I’ve got to do now is abuse that trust.’

‘Spider . . .’

‘I know, I shouldn’t get all bitter and twisted,’ said Shepherd. ‘But it’s a funny old world, isn’t it? She’s the widow of a dead hero and we’re trying to put her away because the men who killed her husband were set free for political reasons. If they’d stayed where they belonged, they’d still be alive.’

‘Interesting theory,’ said Button. ‘Setting them free is what killed them – is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m saying that for bastards who shoot coppers’ life should mean life, no matter what their politics.’

‘No argument there,’ said Button, ‘but it’s not our call.’

Shepherd left the phone on the coffee-table and went back to the kitchen. He made himself a cup of coffee, took it out into the garden with his pay-as-you-go mobile. He phoned Jimmy Sharpe and asked if he knew either Staniford or Ferguson. Sharpe had worked for the Strathclyde force for almost two decades before joining SOCA’s undercover unit.

‘Colin Staniford, I know,’ said Sharpe. ‘Good guy, but not averse to giving a villain a slap, if you get my drift.’

‘But a straight arrow?’

‘Sure, straight as they come,’ said Sharpe. ‘What’s the story?’

‘He’s been seconded to the Northern Ireland cops, working for a unit clearing up the murders that took place during the Troubles.’

‘That sounds right,’ said Sharpe. ‘He wouldn’t take shit from anyone, least of all a Paddy.’

‘I can see the racial-awareness courses are paying off.’

‘Paddy’s an affectionate term, like Yank or sheepshagger,’ said Sharpe. ‘Not been giving Staniford a hard time, have you?’

‘Trying to make an impression on the girl next door, that’s all. Thought if I stood up for her she’d see me as a white knight.’

‘Just give her one,’ said Sharpe.

‘You really are in touch with your feminine side, aren’t you?’

‘I do what I can.’

‘What are you up to at the moment? I could do with some help.’

‘Worming my way into a marijuana syndicate in East Kilbride,’ said Sharpe. ‘Spreading lots of cash around, drinking champagne until it runs out of my arse and staying out until it’s way past my bedtime. Nothing I can’t slip away from for a few days.’

‘I need you to find out why he’s looking at this woman’s husband. He’s dead now, murdered by the IRA. His name was Robbie Carter.’

‘Cold case?’

‘Nah. His killers were caught and sent down. I’m trying to prove that the wife’s knocking off the guys who killed her hubby, but Staniford’s looking at Carter for something else and I need to know what.’

‘So, I just ring Staniford and pick his brains?’

‘I was hoping you might fly over and do a face to face. Less obvious.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Sharpe, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘I fly over for a chat, he won’t suspect a thing.’

‘I was assuming you’d be more circumspect,’ said Shepherd. ‘Crack on you’re working on a case with a Belfast end.’

‘Carter, you said?’

‘Robbie Carter. Murdered by the IRA on the twenty-eighth of August nineteen ninety-six.’

‘I’m on it,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’ll call you for a pint when I’m done.’

‘I owe you one, Razor.’

‘You owe me another one,’ Sharpe corrected him. ‘But who’s keeping score? Are you okay there?’

‘I’m fine. It’s just messy, that’s all.’

‘Northern Ireland’s always been messy. Back in the old days I was a uniform at the Old Firm games and you could feel the hatred there. They’re never going to get on, no matter what the politicians say. Catholics and Protestants are natural enemies. Like cats and dogs.’

‘With respect, Razor, that’s bollocks. People are people.’

‘Are you getting all Rodney King on me? Why can’t we just get along? Because there’s hundreds of years of history and hatred, that’s why. Too much bad blood.’

‘It’s changing, Razor. It’s not like it was.’

‘Tell you what, Spider, you put on a Rangers shirt and take a walk down the Falls Road. See how far you get.’

‘The barriers are down in the city centre. The troops have gone. The IRA has decommissioned its weapons. The UVF has called it a day. It’s a different Belfast now.’

‘On the surface, maybe,’ said Sharpe, ‘but if they’re sending in cops to investigate sectarian killings, you need a guy like Colin Staniford. The villains in Belfast aren’t scared of the local cops, no matter which foot they kick with. You watch your back, you hear?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I mean it, Spider. There’s a lot of very hard men in that city, and I’m not just talking about the paramilitaries.’ Sharpe cut the connection.

Tariq pulled in at the side of the road and consulted the street map for the twentieth time since he’d left London. The gun and silencer were in the glove box, with a pair of binoculars. He still wasn’t sure where and when he was going to kill Daniel Shepherd. He kept having to fight the urge to phone Salih and ask his advice, but he knew he was being tested and that Salih would see any contact as a sign of weakness. Salih hadn’t given him a photograph of the man he was supposed to kill. All he had was a name and address. Tariq knew that first he had to check out the house, find out what Shepherd looked like and what car he drove. Then he could decide on the when and where.

He ran his finger along the route to Shepherd’s street. It was trembling and he fought to keep his hand steady. If he was shaking now, how would he be when he was pointing his gun at Shepherd? Or at the man’s family? He clenched and unclenched his hand, then willed the shaking to stop. He could do what Salih wanted, and once he had proved himself, Salih would teach him everything else he needed to know.

Tariq put the map on the passenger seat. He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror. He had washed out the styling gel and given himself a parting. He was wearing a checked shirt, cargo pants and brown Hush Puppies. He had left his gold chains at home. He bared his teeth and snarled, then grinned. Anyone who saw him would think he was a nonentity, a waiter in an Indian restaurant or a shelf-filler at a corner shop. Nobody would suspect he was a killer. A stone-cold killer. ‘I’m going to kill you, Daniel Shepherd,’ he said to his reflection. ‘I’m going to put a bullet in your head. Then I’m going to kill your family.’

A horn sounded behind him and Tariq jumped. It was a delivery van. The horn sounded again as the van sped by. The driver waved at a woman pushing a pram along the pavement. Tariq’s heart was pounding and his hands were shaking again. He put them on the steering-wheel, took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled slowly.