Stephen Leather - True Colours

‘I had a run-in with armed cops a while back,’ said Shepherd. ‘Found myself on the receiving end of a taser.’

The Major laughed. ‘And how was it?’

‘Hurt like hell,’ said Shepherd. ‘And as I was covered in petrol at the time, it could have been lethal.’

‘Better than a bullet,’ said the Major.

‘No argument there,’ said Shepherd. ‘Boss, I need a favour. Jock McIntyre. Any idea where he is?’

‘Now there’s a blast from the past,’ said the Major. ‘It’s been a couple of years since I’ve seen him. I was in Iraq with him five or six years ago and I used him in the Increment a few times.’ The Increment was one of the government’s best-kept secrets, an ad hoc group of special forces soldiers used on operations considered too dangerous for the country’s security services, MI5 and MI6. The Major had headed the unit for several years. ‘I haven’t heard from him for at least three years.’

‘He’s left the Regiment?’

‘Yes, he had a couple of close calls during the last tour and he started drinking more than was good for him. I had him in for a couple of chats and we put him through a detox programme but it didn’t do much good. He’d put in the years so he left with a decent pension but he wasn’t happy about going.’

‘He wasn’t dishonourably discharged?’

‘Hell no, he was always professional in the field. It was just when he got back to Hereford that he had problems. He’d have a few too many drinks in the pub and then get into fights with the local yobs. You know what it’s like here, Spider. There’s always some tough guy who wants to prove he can take on the SAS. Most of the guys just walk away but Jock seemed to welcome the attention. It got so that we had to ban him from the local pubs.’

‘Can you find out where he is? I need to get in touch.’

‘Something I can help with?’

‘It’s personal, boss.’

‘Personal is sometimes when you need the most help, Spider. You were there when I needed you, I’m here for you if you need me.’

‘I appreciate that, boss,’ said Shepherd. ‘But it’s no biggie, seriously.’ Shepherd wasn’t happy about lying to the Major but the fewer people who knew what he was planning, the better.

‘No problem,’ said the Major. ‘I’ll take a walk over to the admin office and pull his file. OK to call you on this number?’

‘Yeah, I’m at home,’ said Shepherd.

‘Hereford?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Sorry, no. London. I’ve been in this flat so long it’s starting to feel like home.’

The Major ended the call and Shepherd went through to the pokey kitchen and opened the fridge. There were a couple of Marks and Spencer salads, a pack of cheese slices and a pack of yoghurts. Shepherd wasn’t a great food shopper and tended to eat out more often than not when he was away from Hereford. He pulled out the salads but both were a week past their sell-by date and he tossed them into the bin by the cooker. There was half a pack of Hovis bread that was just within its sell-by date so he made a couple of slices of cheese on toast and took them and a cup of Nescafe back into the sitting room. He had barely flopped down on to the sofa when his phone rang. It was the Major and he had an address in Reading and a phone number for Jock McIntyre. ‘I think the number’s out of date,’ said the Major. ‘There’s a note in the file saying that someone from the SAS Association tried to get in touch last year but didn’t get any reply.’ The SAS Association looked after former members of the Regiment who had fallen on hard times and paid out more than?120,000 a year in financial support. ‘According to the file he’s separated from his wife and working as a security guard.’

‘A security guard? Jock?’

‘He’s not the Jock you remember, Spider. Look, if you do see him, get him to get in touch with me, will you?’

‘Will do, boss.’ Shepherd ended the call, finished his sandwich, and then tapped out McIntyre’s number. It went straight through to voicemail.

The Major hadn’t given Shepherd a work address for McIntyre so Shepherd’s only option was to try catching the man at home. He figured it would take just over an hour to drive to Reading. It wasn’t a town that he was familiar with but the Major had given him the postcode and the X5 had satnav. He looked at his watch. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. There was probably no good time to get there — there was no guarantee that McIntyre was still at the address, and if he did still live there he could be working days or nights.

He locked up the flat and walked downstairs. He’d parked a short walk away and within minutes he was driving west, the destination programmed into the car’s satnav. The navigation system took him to a street of run-down terraced houses close to the town centre. The houses were on three floors, with a large bay window on the ground floor, two smaller windows on the first floor, and a single arched gable window set into the roof. Most appeared to have been converted into flats and had multiple doorbells by the front door.

Shepherd parked on the opposite side of the street and walked over to McIntyre’s address. He was in Flat 3 but Shepherd couldn’t work out whether that was the top-floor or the ground-floor flat. He pressed the bell and waited. There was a small speaker below the three bell buttons but it remained resolutely silent. He pushed again, and then a third time. He was just about to turn away when the door opened. A large black woman in a bright green African-style dress and a matching headscarf started to back through the door, pulling a double stroller. Shepherd helped keep the door open as she manoeuvred the stroller on to the pavement. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Two small boys looked up at Shepherd with matching grins. They couldn’t have been more than eighteen months old, still at the stage where every stranger was a source of amusement. He couldn’t help smile back at their cheery faces and one of them put a hand to his mouth and blew Shepherd a kiss.

‘No problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘You don’t happen to know Jock McIntyre, do you?’

‘The Scottish man?’ said the woman, pulling the door shut. ‘He drinks a lot, and he scares my children sometimes.’

‘I’m told he lives in Flat 3.’

‘That’s right, the top,’ said the woman. ‘He lives above me. The one good thing is he’s quiet. I never hear him when he’s home.’

‘But he’s not in now?’

‘I don’t think so. Did you ring the bell?’ She was clutching a leather handbag to her ample chest as if she feared he might try to take it from her.

Shepherd nodded. ‘I’ll come back later.’ He turned to go.

‘Is he your friend?’

‘Sure.’

She looked at him earnestly. ‘You should tell him not to drink so much. Sometimes he falls over on the stairs. He’s going to hurt himself. Alcohol is a bad thing.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ said Shepherd. He went back to the car as the woman manoeuvred the pushchair down the street.

Shepherd was about to get into the car when he saw a small shop down the road, so he wandered down and bought a bottle of water, a box of Jaffa Cakes and a copy of the Daily Mail . Back in the car, he reclined the front seat, nibbled on the Jaffa Cakes and read the paper.

It had been dark for almost an hour when McIntyre came walking down the road from the direction of the station. He was carrying a backpack slung over one shoulder and was walking slowly, as if every step was an effort. It was a far cry from when Shepherd had seen him in Afghanistan, where McIntyre had no problem running with thirty kilos of equipment on his back plus a loaded weapon and ammo. He had been one of the fittest men in the Regiment and one of the few who could give Shepherd a run for his money in the stamina stakes.