Soft Target (27 page)

'Look what Katra made for me,' said Liam through a 212 mouthful of egg. 'I showed her how to do it, but she uses water instead of milk.'

Katra handed Shepherd a mug of coffee. 'There's no need to get up,' she said. 'I can take him to school.'

'I said I'd show her where to go,' said Liam.

'Are you sure?' Shepherd asked Katra, and sipped his coffee. She'd made it just as he liked it.

'It's no problem,' said Katra.

Shepherd forced a smile. It was the first time he'd entrusted his son to anyone other than family, and he barely knew Katra. 'Okay,' he said.

'Is the white car yours too?' asked Katra.

'It's for work,' said Shepherd. 'You can use the CRY.' He hadn't told Katra the exact nature of his work, but she knew he was a police officer.

Liam finished his breakfast and Katra helped him put on his coat. Shepherd kissed him. 'You be good, yeah?' he said.

'I'm always good,' said Liam.

| 'I'll do the shopping on my way home,' said Katra.

Shepherd took out his wallet and gave her two fifty-pound notes. Then he knelt beside Liam. 'I won't be here when you I get home,' he said. 'My shift finishes at ten, so I won't be back until you're in bed.'

'I could stay up,' said Liam.

Shepherd laughed. 'You'll be in bed by nine, young man.'

S'But you'll come in and see me, even if I'm asleep?'

'Sure,' said Shepherd.

He stood at the front window and watched Katra and Liam climb into the CRY. Panic gripped him and he fought to control it. Liam had been in the back of the car when Sue had jumped the red light and crashed into a delivery truck.

He'd emerged from the accident unscathed but he'd seen his mother die and Shepherd couldn't imagine what that must have been like for an eight-year-old boy.

Liam waved. 'Seatbelt,' mouthed Shepherd. Katra turned and said something to the boy, then Liam clipped on his belt.

The CRY was a big four-by-four with airbags and antilock braking system and it was high off the ground, more crash resistant than the VW Golf Sue had been driving when she'd died. Even so, Shepherd had to fight the urge to run out and tell Katra he'd drive Liam to school. It was ridiculous,

of course. Moira had been running Liam to and from school in Hereford and Shepherd hadn't given it a second thought. Sue's accident had been a stupid mistake, coupled with bad luck. Liam was no more at risk in the CRY with Katra than any other child on the school-run that morning.

He'd be fine. Katra beeped the horn and Shepherd raised his coffee mug in salute. Suddenly he remembered that he hadn't given Katra a mobile phone so that she could contact him in an emergency. 'Relax,' he whispered. 'He's in good hands.'

He stood at the window until the CRY was out of view,

then changed into his running gear and the black army boots.

He ran on auto-pilot, barely aware of his five-kilometre route through the streets of Ealing and on to Scotch Common,

skirting three golf courses, a circuit he'd run almost a thousand times during the four years since he'd bought the house.

Sue had suggested he joined the local gym or even put a treadmill in the garage, but Shepherd wanted the ground beneath his boots and the wind in his face - the smell of grass and trees, or even car exhaust, was preferable to the perfumed deodorants that pervaded the gym. He wanted to run outdoors and he wanted to run hard; he wanted peace and quiet so that he could think. He had to become Stuart Marsden.

By the time he got back to the house he was in character.

He shaved, showered and changed into his off-duty policeman 214 I I I clothes: blue denim shirt, black jeans and leather jacket. He put the boots into the black nylon bag with the rest of the SO 19 equipment, set the burglar alarm, locked the front door and headed for the Toyota.

He called Miss Malcolm as he drove along the A40 towards the SO 19 base at Leman Street and told her he wanted to hire Katra. She said she'd put the paperwork in the post to him.

He reached Leman Street at midday. He'd been told to report two hours before his shift was due to start so that he'd have time for a briefing with Rose.There was a confusing one-way system and he passed Aldgate tube station twice before he got on to the northern end of Leman Street. He found a space and bought a pay-and-display sticker that gave him an hour's parking.

The nondescript building halfway down the street looked as if it had once been a police station but the only indication that it was a Metropolitan Police building was a sheet of paper stuck to the glass door that had the force's blue and white logo in one corner. It was a six-storey concrete and glass block, bland and featureless except for a forest of radio antennae on the roof. Three Vauxhall ARVs were parked in front.

Shepherd pulled open the glass door and went over to the reception desk to find out where he could park for the duration of his shift. A bored uniformed constable checked his warrant card and gave him directions to an underground car park.

After he'd moved the Toyota, he walked back to Leman Street with his kit-bag and went in search of Keith Rose. A civilian secretary told him he was in the indoor range in the basement. Shepherd had to ask for directions and felt like the new boy at school.

As he went down the stairs he heard the sharp cracks of 215 an MP5. He let himself in. Six men in black overalls were standing twenty-five metres from bullseye targets. They were all wearing bright orange ear-protectors. Shepherd took out a small plastic case containing yellow foam earplugs and fitted them as he headed towards the group. He recognised Keith Rose from the photographs in the file Hargrove had given him. He was just under six feet tall and broad-shouldered. His head was shaved and he had a sweeping Mexican moustache.

He was talking to one of the men who had been shooting at the targets.

They looked over at Shepherd. 'Stuart Marsden,' said Shepherd. Tm looking for Sergeant Rose.' He had to pretend he didn't know what Rose looked like.

'Guilty as charged.' Rose stepped forward and held out his hand. Shepherd shook it and dropped his kit-bag. Like the rest of the men, the sergeant had an MP5 hanging off his shoulder on its nylon sling. 'Stuart's here to show us how the Jocks do it.'

'I'm not Scottish, sir,' said Shepherd.

Rose frowned. 'Strathclyde, they told me.'

'That's right, but I was born in London.'

Rose handed his MP5 to Shepherd and gestured at the targets. 'Show us what you can do, then.' He grinned.

Shepherd checked the weapon, then slid the safety selector to fire. He swung the gun smoothly up to his shoulder and fired six single shots into one of the targets. His grouping was good, all within the two inner circles.

'Nice,' said Rose. Shepherd gave him back the carbine.

'Let's go into the canteen for a chat. Then we'll get you fixed up with a Glock.'

Shepherd picked up his kit-bag. Rose held open the door and took him along a corridor. 'Word is you were in the army,' he said.

'For a few years. The Paras.'

I 1 I 'Why did you leave?'

Shepherd smiled easily. 'Didn't realise I was being interviewed for the job. Thought I was being transferred here.'

Rose didn't smile. 'In the Trojans it's all about knowing your team,' he said. 'If we go into a building and there's bad guys with guns, we all have to be on the same wavelength and that's down to knowing everything about each other. No secrets.'

'Same in the army,' said Shepherd.

'So why did you quit?'

'Difficult to answer. Boredom, for one. The training got to me, running up and down mountains, waiting for the shit to hit the fan. And when the shit hits, it's pretty shitty.

Afghanistan wasn't much fun.'

'What about Ireland?' They reached the canteen.

'A couple of tours, but the IRA had pretty much called it quits when I was there.'

Rose pointed at an empty table. 'Drop your gear and we'll grab some food. You hungry? No haggis but the chef can probably stuff a sheep's stomach for you if you ask him nicely.'

'I guess I'm stuck with the Scottish jokes.'

'For the foreseeable future, yeah. Until we find something else to pick on. Newbie syndrome.'

'No sweat,' said Shepherd. He dropped his bag and joined Rose in the queue for food.

'So, you reckoned the cops was a cushier number?' asked Rose.

'I wouldn't have to sleep in a barracks, and I'd be dealing with real people. The army's a closed community - you're either in it or you're an outsider. I was fed up with the same old faces, day in, day out.'

'It's not that different in the Trojans,' said Rose. 'We're tight. Have to be.'

'But they don't make you run up and down mountains with a Bergen on your back.'

'SO19 isn't a soft touch.'

'Didn't mean to suggest it was,' said Shepherd. 'I've been a cop for seven years, and carrying a gun for most of that time.'

'I don't see why you'd want to move south,' said Rose. j i 'The London weighting might be attractive, but property's still twice the price you'd be paying north of the border.'

'My dad's in hospital down here, I wanted to be closer to him.' They reached the front of the queue. Rose took I 1 steak and kidney pie and chips and Shepherd the same.

They collected mugs of coffee and headed back to their i g table. ' i 'What do we call you?' asked Rose, as he poured brown sauce over his pie.

'Up to you. The guys in Glasgow called me Irish.' I ]

Rose frowned. 'You're not a Paddy, are you?'

'Irish Stew. They thought it was funny.' It was one of the details in his legend that served no other function than to add colour to his cover story. I 'Stu it is, then. I'll leave it up to the lads to give you a . .

nickname. They call me Rosie in the pub, Sarge or Skipper 1 when we're on duty.' ¦ '

'Yes, Sarge.'

'Cards on the table, Stu. I was hoping to get someone local 1 in our vehicle. Mike Sutherland's one of the best drivers in 1 the Met and I ride shotgun, so it's a map man we're short of.'

'I'm up to speed,' said Shepherd. 'I was born in London,

remember.'

'You've been in Scotland for almost a decade and things change,' said Rose. 'Last thing I need is for you to take me the wrong way down a one-way system.'

'My dad was a black-cab driver,' said Shepherd. More colour. 'Used to test me on the Knowledge when I was still in short trousers. But we've got GPS, right?'

'Computers don't always know the quickest way,' said Rose,

'and sometimes they crash. If that happens I need someone in the back who knows where they're going.'

'Try me,' said Shepherd.

Rose grinned. 'Okay,' he said. 'We get a call to Grosvenor Road, which is the quickest way to get there?'

'I'd guess you mean Grosvenor Road in Pimlico in which case I'd head over Vauxhall Bridge. But there are Grosvenor Roads in Upton Park, Forest Gate, Leyton and Wanstead, so I'd ask first.'

Rose raised an eyebrow. 'Grantully Road,' he said.

'Maida Vale. One way, entrance from Morshead Road.

Runs parallel to Paddington recreation ground.'

Rose nodded. 'Had a suicide there three months ago. Guy blew off his head with a shotgun. Okay, you're my map man.'

He stabbed at a chunk of steak. 'Why did you join the Strathclyde cops and not the Met?'

It was a good question, and was also covered in the Stuart Marsden legend. 'Had a mate in the Paras who was from Glasgow and his dad was a chief inspector. He put in a good word for me.'

'But you didn't fancy London?'

Shepherd looked uncomfortable. 'Long story, Sarge. My mum died when I was a kid and my dad remarried. Turned out to be the stepmother from hell. That's why I joined the army. When I got out, I wanted to be as far away from her as possible.'

A police officer in black overalls and bulletproof vest walked over to their table carrying a tray. Rose grinned up at him.

'Hiya, Mike, say hello to our new map man, Stu Marsden.

Stu, this is Mike Sutherland. Our driver.'

Sutherland nodded at Shepherd and sat down opposite him. He had a plateful of bacon and sausage and four slices of bread and butter. 'The Jock, yeah?' said Sutherland.

'Nah, he's not Scottish,' said Rose. 'He was just explaining.'

'Family stuff,' said Shepherd, 'but my dad's on his own now and he's not doing so well, so I want to be around when he needs me.'

'And it was easy to transfer to the Met?' asked Sutherland.

'I'd been asking for a move and the SO 19 vacancy came up.'

'You must have friends in high places. There's a long waiting list for ARV slots.' Sutherland stabbed a sausage and bit off the end.

'I was lucky.'

'Just don't get me lost.'

'He's fine,' said Rose. 'His dad was a black-cab driver.'

'Funny, he doesn't look black,' said Sutherland.

Rose flashed Sutherland a tight smile. 'PC Sutherland is one of the least PC of our officers. We try to keep him in the car as much as possible.'

Kerr got the early-morning flight to Heathrow and took a taxi to the Kings Road. He had made a phone call the previous evening and Alex Knight was expecting him. He told the taxi driver to wait.

'The meter's at sixty quid already,' said the man.

Kerr pointed at the black door between an antiques shop and a hairdresser's. 'I'll be in there ten minutes at most. Then we're straight back to the airport.'

The driver beamed at the thought of a double fare.

Kerr got out and walked along the pavement to the black door. A small brass plaque read 'Alex Knight Security' beside a bell button and a small grille. He pressed the button and was buzzed in. He took the stairs two at a time and when 220 he reached the top Knight's secretary had the door open for him. 'Charlie, we can FedEx orders, you know,' she said.

Kerr kissed the striking brunette's cheek. 'Just wanted to see you, love.'

'He's expecting you,' she said, and opened Knight's office door.

He looked up from his computer terminal and grinned boyishly, stood up and shook hands with Kerr. He was several inches taller than Kerr, but stick-thin with square-framed spectacles perched high on his nose. 'We do deliver,' he said.