Dead Men (39 page)

‘And the IRA are Catholics, right?’

‘They are, but it’s not really about religion. It’s about who runs the country. Over the last few years they’ve hammered out a deal whereby both groups share power so they’ll run the country together.’

‘Why do they need you there?’

Shepherd sat back in his chair. ‘Because Belfast is a relatively small city so everyone knows who the cops are. They needed a fresh face.’

‘You’re hardly fresh,’ Liam giggled.

‘Less of the cheek,’ said Shepherd. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to be going.’

Liam had noticed the plastic Casio wristwatch with its tiny calculator keyboard. ‘That is such a lame watch,’ he said.

‘It’s got lots of functions,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s a watch,’ said Liam. ‘All it has to do is tell the time.’

‘You could say that about your expensive mobile phone,’ Shepherd said. ‘All it needs to do is make calls but you want it to take photographs and videos and play all sorts of stupid games, don’t you?’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Tomato, potato,’ said Shepherd.

‘What?’ said Liam, frowning.

‘It’s an expression,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s from an old song.’

‘Oh, back in the days when dinosaurs roamed the earth?’

Shepherd patted his son’s head. ‘Get ready for school. I’ll take you today.’

The pub Caroline Stockmann had chosen for their meeting was half a mile from Shepherd’s house, and as it was a warm evening he decided to walk.

When he arrived she was sitting at the bar with a half-drunk pint of beer. Shepherd grinned as they shook hands. ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked, as he sat down next to her.

‘I was thinking your glass looked half empty, then wondered if I should pretend I’d thought it was half full, thereby showing a more optimistic frame of mind.’

Stockmann smiled. She picked up her glass, and drank the rest of the beer. ‘No argument now,’ she said. ‘Empty, plain and simple. So, is everything okay?’

‘Peachy keen,’ said Shepherd.

‘See, I’ve never understood that expression,’ she said. ‘Why are peaches keen? Lemons are zesty, bananas are bent, but what’s keen about a peach?’

Shepherd caught a barmaid’s eye. ‘Jameson’s, ice and soda,’ he said, ‘and whatever my friend’s having.’

‘You’re in Northern Ireland, I gather,’ said Stockmann.

‘Belfast,’ said Shepherd.

‘Interesting part of the world,’ she said. ‘The enemies of the past now working together to bring about peace.’

‘So much for not negotiating with terrorists,’ said Shepherd.

‘You don’t think that peace is worth any compromise?’ The barmaid brought their drinks, and Shepherd paid her.

‘The IRA, a.k.a. Sinn Fein, wants a united Ireland,’ said Shepherd. ‘Nothing has changed on that front. They laid down their weapons because they sensed that the British Government’s position on Ireland was weakening. But they’re still the same heartless killers they always were. And if things don’t continue to go their way, they’ll buy new weapons.’ He sipped his whiskey and put his glass on the bar. ‘This isn’t supposed to be a political discussion, is it?’ he said. ‘I thought I was here for a psychological assessment?’

‘So, what would you like to talk about?’

Shepherd shrugged carelessly. ‘Have you heard the one about the runaway wagon and the guy standing at the points? If he does nothing, six people die, if he changes the points just one dies.’

‘Sure,’ said Stockmann. ‘It’s first-year philosophy material. Then you make it more difficult by bringing in the fat guy on the bridge, right?’

‘What’s the right answer?’

‘It’s philosophy. There’s no right or wrong answer. What’s interesting is the way in which people consider the options. In the case of changing the points, most decide to sacrifice the one person and reach that decision very quickly. When it comes to pushing the fat guy off the bridge, the decision is more equally split but takes longer to reach.’ She drank some beers. ‘Let me give you another railway one. You’re standing on an electrified railway line, with your leg trapped. You can’t move. The power’s off, so for the moment you’re okay. But down the line a man is about to reconnect the supply. He doesn’t know you’re there, and he doesn’t know that if he reconnects the power you’ll die. Now, you happen to have a sniper’s rifle with one bullet in the chamber.’

‘We call them rounds,’ said Shepherd, ‘not bullets.’

Stockmann grinned. ‘It’s about philosophy, not ammunition,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you have a loaded rifle and you can kill the guy before he reconnects the power and kills you. Are you morally justified in killing him?’

‘You do what you have to do to stay alive,’ said Shepherd.

‘Indeed,’ said Stockmann. ‘But think about this. If you shoot him, you’ve killed him deliberately. But if he kills you, he’s done it by accident. There’s a world of difference. Do you have the moral right to kill a man who might kill you by accident?’

‘Why does morality have to come into it?’ asked Shepherd. ‘As I said, you do what you have to do to stay alive.’

Stockmann didn’t say anything, but a smile spread across her face.

‘What?’ said Shepherd, defensively.

‘You say it with such conviction, but have you thought about the ramifications?’

Shepherd toyed with his glass. ‘If I do nothing, I die.’

‘Agreed. But kill him and you’ll have killed an innocent man. A man who was doing nothing wrong. Who was breaking no law.’

Shepherd stopped playing with his glass. ‘It’d be murder, wouldn’t it?’

‘Well, that would probably be for a jury to decide. Or at least for the Crown Prosecution Service to take a view on.’

‘So, what’s the answer? I maintain the moral high ground by allowing the guy to kill me?’

Stockmann laughed. ‘As I said, there’s no right or wrong. It’s philosophy. But it’s puzzles like that which help us analyse our thought processes.’

Deep furrows creased Shepherd’s brow.

Stockmann patted his shoulder. ‘It’s hypothetical, Dan,’ she said.

‘I get that, but hypothetical or not, I’d pull the trigger, guaranteed.’

‘Because your survival instinct would kick in. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s your instinct for survival that makes you so good at what you do.’

‘It worries me that I’d kill an innocent man to survive. But what if the positions were reversed? What if I was the one doing something that would kill someone else? Even inadvertently. Doesn’t that mean he’d be justified in killing me?’

‘Justice isn’t what the conundrum is about. But it’s good that it makes you think. Is it something you think about much?’

‘Killing?’

Stockmann nodded.

‘Every time it’s happened, there’s been no doubt in my mind that what I was doing was legally and morally right. When I was in the SAS I had to follow rules of engagement, and when I was a cop I had to follow PACE, the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. It’s a bit greyer now that I’m with SOCA because I’m effectively a civil servant rather than a police officer, but there are still rules that have to be followed. If at any point I were to break the law I’d be out of a job and probably facing criminal charges.’

‘And providing you’re within the law, there’s no guilt?’

‘Pretty much, yeah. But there’s more to it than just following the law. More often than not, when I took a life it was because my own was threatened. Either at the point of a gun or because the person I shot was about to detonate a bomb. It was self-defence, pretty much.’

Stockmann held up her glass. ‘Half full again,’ she said. ‘The Belfast job’s a bit different from what you normally do, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not trying to penetrate a gang, but basically it’s the same old routine, getting a person to trust me so that I can betray them,’ he said. ‘It’s what I do, and I do it well.’

‘It can’t be easy,’ she said.

‘Winning their trust is easy,’said Shepherd. ‘It’s the betrayal that takes its toll.’

‘This latest job is a woman, right? That must make it harder. And it’s not as if she’s a drug-dealer or gangster.’

‘We’re not supposed to get specific about operational matters,’ said Shepherd.

‘That was when you were a policeman. SOCA has different rules.’ She smiled. ‘Actually, we can pretty much make up our own,’ she said, ‘and I do have a very high security clearance. Higher than yours, actually.’

‘Because you worked for MI5?’

‘I still do, from time to time,’ she said. ‘So, this woman you’re trying to get close to, she might not be guilty of anything?’

‘True.’

‘Which makes it a very different job, because normally you’d be targeting hardened criminals, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yeah, we’d know in advance that the target was guilty. I’d be put in to gather the evidence. This case is different because at the end of the day she might not be a killer.’

‘But she might be, so it’s a valid investigation.’

Shepherd smiled ruefully. ‘If she’s guilty, what I’m doing is justifiable. But if she’s just the widow of a hero cop, I’m a piece of shit for lying to her as I am.’ He raised his glass in salute to her, then drained it and waved at the barmaid for a refill. Stockmann was looking at him anxiously. ‘I’m fine, Caroline,’ he said. ‘It’s what I do, but it doesn’t get any easier. They’re targets, but that doesn’t make them less than human. Civilians probably assume that villains are villains, end of story, but they’re sons, they’re often fathers, they have friends, they go to weddings, they buy presents, they tell jokes. Some of the villains I’ve helped put inside have been great guys, guys I’ve got drunk with, guys who would have helped me without hesitation if I was in trouble. I’m not always proud of what I’ve done, but at the end of the day they’re villains, and villains belong in jail.’

‘I can’t imagine how it must feel to live a lie.’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘It’s probably what acting’s like, but there’s no director to shout,“Cut.” And no script. Everything’s off-the-cuff, spur-of-the-moment stuff, reacting to what’s going on around you.’ The barmaid put a fresh drink in front of him and looked questioningly at Stockmann. She shook her head. ‘You know what the hardest thing about it is?’ he said. ‘It’s remembering what you don’t know.’ He smiled. ‘I know that sounds crazy but it’s true. It’s easy enough to remember what you’ve been told, or what you’ve said, but as an undercover cop you know things about the target that your character wouldn’t. So when you’re in character a mental wall has to divide what you know from what you’re supposed to know.’

‘It sounds positively schizophrenic,’ said Stockmann.

‘It is,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s a constant battle between your two selves, a constant checking and rechecking. And while that’s going on, you have to appear calm and collected.’

‘The proverbial swan,’ said Stockmann. ‘Serene on the surface, paddling like crazy under the water.’ She sipped some beer. ‘Have you thought that the same would apply to the woman you’re targeting? She has to be playing a part, too.’

‘If she’s guilty.’

‘Agreed,’ said the psychologist. ‘But if she is, she’ll also be playing a role. Like you, she’ll be running anything she says through an internal filter, constantly checking her reality against how the world perceives her.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it that way,’ said Shepherd. ‘The thing is, she doesn’t seem to be playing a part.’

‘Can you tell?’ asked Stockmann.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Because if you can, isn’t it possible that someone you’re targeting can tell that you’re playing a role? Surely the only way you can function as an undercover agent is by being totally convincing.’

‘But I’m a professional. It’s my job. If she’s guilty, she’s an amateur who’s killing the men who killed her husband. There should be signs, shouldn’t there?’

Stockmann grinned. ‘Like looking up to the left when she’s lying? Or scratching her nose? It’s not as easy as that, Dan. If it was, I’d be making a fortune playing Texas Hold ’Em. And she could be a sociopath, of course.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Now, that I would spot.’

‘Actually, I doubt it. Sociopaths are natural mimics. They lack feelings of empathy with others and are totally uncaring about their effect on people, but can behave completely to the contrary. That’s why serial killers are so effective. They can appear charming. And paedophiles can appear genuine and caring. If they looked like monsters, kids would never go near them.’

‘What are you saying? That you can’t judge a book by its cover?’

‘It’s a cliché, but it’s true,’ said Stockmann. ‘You can’t tell a murderer by looking them in the eye.’

Shepherd smiled. ‘I’m not sure that’s so,’ he said.

‘You can tell if someone’s killed by looking at them?’

‘There’s a look that people who’ve been in combat have. They call it the thousand-yard stare. There’s a coldness in their eyes as if they’re looking through you.’

‘And does everyone who’s been in combat have it?’

‘No,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know men who have killed several times and they’re the most laid-back guys you’ll ever meet. But I’ve never met someone with the thousand-yard stare who hasn’t killed. I’ve seen it in the eyes of non-soldiers, too. Gangsters. Drug-dealers. Blaggers.’

‘Blaggers?’

‘Armed robbers,’ said Shepherd. ‘What I’m saying is, if they’ve got the look, they’ve killed.’

‘Unless they’re faking it,’ said Stockmann.

‘Faking it?’

‘Say there’s a hard man who wants you to think he’s a killer. He fakes the thousand-yard stare. How would you know?’

‘I’d know.’

Stockmann grinned. ‘But if they were sociopaths, they’d be good at faking it.’

‘So a sociopath would fake a thousand-yard stare to make me think he was a killer?’ Shepherd exhaled through pursed lips. ‘You’re giving me a headache here, Caroline.’

‘I just want you to understand that it’s virtually impossible to tell if someone is guilty or not by looking at them,’ said Stockmann. She beckoned the barmaid. ‘If it was possible, the police’s job would be a lot easier, wouldn’t it?’