Soft Target (22 page)

There was also a photocopy of the application form she had filled in to join Miss Malcolm's agency. Everything seemed in order. Halina spoke good English, had a clean driving licence and a consistent work history. But something was not right about her. He didn't know what it was, but he knew she wasn't to be trusted. His policeman's instinct had kicked in and he had been in the job long enough to know that,

more often than not, he could rely on his gut feelings. He made small-talk with her for fifteen minutes, then sent her on her way with a promise that he'd call Miss Malcolm on Monday. He didn't want her within a mile of his son, no matter how glowing her references.

He phoned Miss Malcolm and explained that the girl she'd sent wasn't suitable. She promised to call as soon as she had any other prospects, but pointed out that it was a seller's market. 'Like plumbers or electricians,' she said, 'sometimes you just have to take what's available.' t ¦

Shepherd thanked her and rang off. His personal opinion was that the welfare of his son was a hell of a lot more important than a leaking tap or a blown fuse, but he knew there was no point in picking a fight with her. If he was going to find someone suitable, he needed Miss Malcolm on his side.

He picked up the Tony Nelson phone and took a deep ]

breath. He had to stop being Dan Shepherd, single parent and undercover police officer. Everything he said on the phone had to be in character. Cold, efficient, ruthless. He focused on what he was about to do. Then he rang Angie ¦

I Kerr. Her voicemail kicked in and Shepherd cut the connection.

He'd try later.

He changed into his running gear and picked up his weighted rucksack. He did a fast ten kilometres and by the time he got back to the house he was drenched with sweat.

Two cars were parked in the road outside the house, a new 172 red Rover and a three-year-old white Toyota. Two men were standing at the front door, one with a clipboard, the other with an A4 manila envelope. Shepherd didn't recognise either but they both had the short hair and stout shoes that marked them out as police officers in plain clothes. 'Dan Shepherd?'

said the man with the clipboard.

'Yeah,' said Shepherd. He slipped off the rucksack and dropped it on the path.

'Compliments of Superintendent Hargrove,' said the man,

nodding at the Toyota. He held out the clipboard and a pen.

'Sign at the bottom, please.' The car would be registered,

taxed and insured in the name of the legend he was using as an SO 19 officer.

'The gear's in the back, sir,' said the man, handing him the keys. 'You can check it if you want.'

'I'm sure it's fine.'

'Second page, sir.'

Shepherd signed for the equipment he'd need for his SO 19 duty, bulletproof Kevlar vest with ceramic plate, black Nato-style ballistic helmet, Kevlar gloves with leather trigger finger, equipment belt with plastic retention holster for the Glock, Sure-Fire combat light, CS spray, plastic handcuffs,

retractable baton, radio pouch and magazine pouches.

'And page three is for documentation, sir.' The man fished a white envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to Shepherd, who signed on the third page, then handed the clipboard back to the man.

The second man gave him the manila envelope.

'Background files, no need to sign for them,' said the man.

He had a Northern Irish accent. 'Normal procedures apply.'

They went back to the Rover and drove off.

'Normal procedures' meant memorise and destroy.

Shepherd opened the boot of the Toyota, took out the black nylon equipment bag and let himself into the house. He 173 dropped the bag and the rucksack in the kitchen, then showered and changed back into his grey pullover and black jeans.

He made himself some coffee before he opened the manila envelope.

It contained a CD disk and a dozen sheets of paper in a clear plastic file. Shepherd dropped down on to his sofa and swung his feet on to the coffee-table. The file contained his SO 19 legend. He scanned the sheets, committing them to memory. He was Stuart Marsden, armed cop. Three years on the beat in Glasgow followed by four years in a Strathclyde armed-response unit. Two commendations for bravery,

promotion on the horizon, single with no children. No emotional baggage. It was a far cry from Shepherd's own situation.

Marsden's date of birth was his own. That was par for the course: the people who put together the legends stuck as close as possible to the operative's own history. It was the small things that could trip up an agent. Getting his birth sign wrong. Forgetting the name of the station in the town where he was born.

He'd worked undercover in Glasgow on several long-term operations so he knew the geography of the city, and an hour or two with a guidebook and map would fill in any gaps.

When he'd finished he closed his eyes and ran through the details. It was all there. He had no idea why he had almost total recall while most people struggled to remember their own telephone number, but it had saved his life on at least two occasions. Once he'd been tied to a chair in a basement faced with three men with axe handles and it had only been his memory that had convinced them he was an art thief who specialised in early-nineteenth-century religious works.

The second time he'd been helping to load a yacht with several hundred kilos of Moroccan hashish when one of the crewmen recognised him from a previous operation. He had 174 pulled a gun and threatened to shoot. Shepherd had been using a different identity on the first operation but his faultless memory had pulled up enough detail from the original legend to persuade the sailors that he'd switched identities because he was being pursued by the DEA. He'd ended up drinking brandy with them all night, their new best friend.

He tossed the plastic file on to the coffee-table, then slotted the CD into the laptop. It contained the personnel files of Sergeant Keith Rose and two dozen members of SO 19.

Shepherd didn't want to read the files: it felt like eavesdropping on colleagues. It was one thing to target drugs dealers and armed robbers, quite another to go against fellow police officers. Keith Rose might well be a bad cop, and there might well be others among the files on the CD, but the majority of the men Shepherd had to read about would be good, honest officers. Shepherd knew how he would hate another cop to read his personnel file - with information about Sue's death, or what Kathy Gift thought of the way he was dealing with stress. He wouldn't want a fellow officer to look for signs that he was corrupt.

He stood up and paced around. It was always up to him whether or not he accepted an assignment, but the only reason he had for saying no to this case was that he didn't want to investigate other cops. And Shepherd knew that wasn't a good enough reason. He sat down again and started to read.

Norman Baston ambled down the corridor towards Larry Hendrickson's office. He grinned amiably at Hendrickson's secretary. 'Is your lord and master in?'

'Good morning, Norman,' she said. 'Let me check.'

She picked up her phone and spoke to her boss, then nodded for him to go through.

Hendrickson looked up from his terminal as Baston walked into his office. 'What's up, Norm?' he asked.

Baston closed the door behind him. 'Have you and Roger got a problem?'

Hendrickson frowned. 'What do you mean?'

Baston sat down in one of the two chairs facing Hendrickson's desk and stretched out his legs. 'You still want to sell the company, right?'

'You know I do. If it wasn't for Roger, we'd have done the deal six months ago, but he's the majority shareholder.'

'Do you think he might be trying to force you out? And by you, I mean us.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

Baston took a typed sheet from his jacket pocket and slid it across Hendrickson's desk.

Hendrickson blanched as he read it.

'If everything's rosy, why is he asking John to check the company accounts and not say anything to you?'

Hendrickson fought to keep calm. 'He's maybe got a better offer on the table and wants to juggle the figures.' He stared at the heading on the email, then glanced at the calendar on his desk. The email had been sent on Wednesday night. Five days after Roger Sewell had been shot and buried in the New Forest. And Sewell was dead: Nelson had shown him the photographs. Hendrickson dropped the sheet of paper on to his desk. 'There's no way anyone else could have sent that,

is there?'

Baston's brow creased into deep furrows. 'What do you mean?'

'Someone messing about with Roger's email address.'

'Not unless he gave someone his password. And why would he do that?'

Hendrickson's heart was pounding and he had a headache.

If Nelson was accessing the computer and sending emails under Sewell's name, what was he hoping to achieve? And why would he email John Garden? If it was money that Nelson 176 wanted, he could have forced Sewell to sign a few cheques before he put a bullet in his head. None of this made any sense. Unless Sewell wasn't dead. A cold shiver ran down Hendrickson's spine. And if he wasn't dead, how had Nelson got the Polaroids?

He tried to keep his voice steady. 'Has John replied to Roger's email?'

'Not yet. What do you think Roger's up to?'

'He's the boss, Norm. He can do what the hell he wants.'

'But I get the feeling he's cutting you - and me - out of the loop.'

'Now you're being paranoid.'

Baston tapped the sheet of paper. 'He wants John to check the company accounts, get back to him on his personal email and not tell you. That's being devious. He's up to something.

For all we know he could be selling his stake to some multi national and we'll get sod all.'

¦ 'Roger wouldn't do that.' Hendrickson was close to throwing up. 'Look, he's taken a few days off and he wants to keep a check on things. He probably doesn't want me to know he's looking over my shoulder.' Hendrickson got up,

came round the desk and opened the door. 'It's nothing,

Norm.'

Baston scratched his neck. 'I've got a bad feeling about it,'

he said.

'It's all that junk food you eat,' said Hendrickson. 'Go on,

I'll give you a call as soon as I hear from him.'

Baston didn't seem convinced. Hendrickson patted his shoulder and eased him out of the room. He closed the door,

then rushed over to the desk, picked up the sheet of paper and reread it. If Sewell wasn't dead, what had Nelson been playing at? And why hadn't Sewell turned up at the office?

Sewell had to be dead. What was happening now was the prelude to some blackmail attempt. He took out his mobile ¦ 177 and called Angie. Her phone went straight to voicemail.

Hendrickson didn't like to leave a message but he couldn't spend all day calling her. 'Angie, hi, it's Larry. Look, I need to talk to you. It's urgent. Your husband - don't do anything until you've talked to me, okay?' He cut the connection, then realised he hadn't said anything about Tony Nelson. Maybe he should have warned her about him. He put his thumb on the redial button but had second thoughts. He didn't want to sound too worried - it might spook her. Besides, she'd know what he meant. He had to stay in control. A plan was already forming in his mind. He'd get Angie to fix up a meeting with Nelson, then he'd turn up and force the man to tell him what he was playing at.

Charlie Kerr closed one eye, sighted along his cue, and hit the white ball. It clipped the red into the corner pocket and pulled back behind the brown. 'Nice,' said Eddie Anderson.

He was standing by the Scoreboard, balancing his cue on his left foot.

Angie appeared at the door in her pale blue towelling robe,

with a glass of orange juice. 'I'll be by the pool, babe.'

'Don't forget we're out tonight,' he said. Two members of the Carlos Rodriguez cartel were coming over to finalise a cocaine deal he'd been putting together. The plan was to take them out to dinner with a couple of high-class escort girls.

Dinner at an upmarket Thai restaurant followed by a visit to one of the city-centre casinos, then straight to Aces where they'd get the full VIP treatment.

'I'll look good for you, babe,' she said. She walked up and kissed his cheek. 'Don't worry.'

Kerr patted her backside. 'You always look good,' he said.

He grinned at Anderson. 'What do you think, Eddie? She looks good, yeah?'

'A sight for sore eyes,' said Anderson.

Angie flashed him a smile and headed for the pool. Kerr bent over the table and potted the brown. 'Nice shot,' said Anderson.

Kerr went for another red but it hit the edge of the pocket and spun across the table. He swore. 'I need a coffee. Angie!'

he shouted. There was no answer. 'I don't know why we even have a pool,' he said. 'She never bloody swims in it, just lies down next to it. Angie!'

'I'll make it,' said Anderson.

'Your coffee tastes like shit,' said Kerr.

He went through to the kitchen and switched on the kettle.

Angie's mobile was on the black marble work surface, plugged into a mains socket. Kerr picked it up. It was switched off.

He pressed the power button, then spooned coffee into the cafetiere. He picked up the phone. There was a single voice message. Kerr played it. Who the hell was Larry?

Shepherd took the black nylon equipment bag up to the bedroom and laid out the contents on the bed. It had his Stuart Marsden cover name scratched into it and looked as if it had been in use for years. The equipment was all labelled,

too. Police officers were as bad as SAS troopers when it came to liberating or souveniring equipment. A name-tag was sewn into the inside of the bullet-proof vest and the belt, and 'Marsden' had been scratched into the side of the holster. A printed name-tag had been sellotaped to the stem of the flashlight and the CS spray, while 'SM' was painted inside the helmet. All the equipment was in good condition but had clearly been used. It was the little things that mattered when it came to maintaining a cover. If he turned up at SO 19 with brand new gear, questions would be asked.