Stephen Leather - Dead Men

The Major slapped him on the back. ‘If that’s any indication of your marksmanship, you’d better stick with an MP3,’ he said. ‘Or, better still, an iPod.’ He handed the MP7 to Shepherd and bowed theatrically towards the targets. ‘Pray try again, m’lord,’ he said, in his best Jeeves impersonation.

Shepherd raised the weapon to his shoulder. He slipped his finger inside the trigger guard. The weapon had a similar safety feature to the Glock pistol – the trigger was in three sections of which the middle had to be pulled first before the outer sections would move. It helped prevent an accidental discharge. It wasn’t a feature that Shepherd appreciated. It made the trigger less sensitive and Shepherd believed that a man who could accidentally fire a weapon shouldn’t be handling one in the first place. In all his years as an SAS trooper and undercover cop he’d never once fired without meaning to. He loosed a quick burst and smiled at the almost total lack of recoil. There was none of the kicking and bucking he associated with the UMP yet a tight cluster of holes had appeared above the terrorist’s heart. ‘Nice,’ he said.

‘And the rounds have enough velocity so that once they’ve punched through body armour they start tumbling,’ said the Major. ‘The ammunition is pretty much exclusive to the gun, the bullet is made of hardened steel and it’s smaller than a nine-millimetre so you can get loads of them in a magazine. It’s a real man-stopper. The German Army’s already using it and the Ministry of Defence police here have already signed up for it.’

‘It’s a good gun,’ said Shepherd. ‘I just hope the bad guys don’t start using it.’ He handed it back. ‘What did you hear about Charlie?’ he asked.

The major raised his eyebrows. ‘What makes you think I heard anything about the lovely Mrs Button?’

‘Because I’m a cop and you’re transparent,’ said Shepherd.

Gannon laughed. ‘Fair point,’ he said. ‘Seems that Charlie’s a bit of a hero with MI5. And they reckon she’ll be back there before long.’

‘Office gossip or something more substantial?’

‘Substantial gossip, from what I understand. The way my little songbird told it, Charlie was one of several MI5 high-flyers who were seconded to SOCA at its inception. The spooks were worried that SOCA might get ideas above its station, so they wanted their own people on board from the get-go. But it was never a permanent attachment, and my source is guessing that before long she’ll be back in the fold.’

‘There’ll be lots of movement back and forth between SOCA and the other agencies,’ said Shepherd.

‘She’s a spook,’ said the Major. ‘Graduate entry, dyed-in-the-wool MI5. What I’m saying is, don’t nail your colours to her mast because, come the day, she’ll sail off into the sunset.’

‘Leaving me high and dry? You do love your metaphors, don’t you?’

‘In your line of work, your boss means everything,’ said the Major.

‘I’ve changed bosses before,’ said Shepherd.

‘But this is different,’ said the Major. ‘She’s not with SOCA because she wants to put criminals away. She’s there because MI5 sent her. And when they click their fingers, she’ll be back. You want a boss who’s committed, not one who’s plotting her career path.’

‘I hear you,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m just watching your back, Spider, same as always.’

‘And I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now, do you want to put the targets back to fifty yards and see who’d be better off with the iPod?’

The Judge fiddled with the papers in front of him, then peered across the crowded court at the man in the dock, who stared back at him, head held high. The Judge had a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and looked over the top of them as he addressed the man.

‘Noel Marcus Kinsella, you have pleaded guilty to the callous murder of Inspector Robert Carter, a man who was murdered on the orders of the Provisional wing of the Irish Republican Army, for no other reason than that he was a serving police officer.’

Kinsella folded his arms and stood with his legs shoulder-width apart.

The Judge spoke slowly. The regular court reporters had perfect shorthand but he knew that most of those in his court were from the British media and usually depended on electronic recording equipment, which was banned in courtrooms, and he didn’t want to be misquoted.

‘I therefore sentence you to life imprisonment with a recommendation that you serve a minimum of sixteen years.’ He leant back in his seat. ‘But, as we both know, my recommendation counts for nothing, and neither does the sentence I have imposed on you.’ He gazed coldly at Kinsella. ‘Under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement I have no doubt that you will not serve a single day in prison for the brutal murder of a brave young police officer. While I, like most of the population, are grateful for what the Peace Process has achieved, I have to say that some issues concern me greatly. The murder of Robert Carter is one such. Mr Carter was doing his job, protecting both sides of the community. He was a good father and a loving husband. You were part of a group who decided to murder him, to shoot him in the knees and then the head in front of his wife and young child. You have shown no remorse, and you have made it clear that you are pleading guilty for no other reason than to expedite the process so that you can gain your freedom.’

The Judge took a deep breath as if steadying himself. ‘Get on with it!’ shouted a man in the public gallery.

The Judge ignored the interruption. ‘Under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement, a minimum of two years must be served before early release can be considered. But it has been made clear to me that, in your case, you will be freed under the Royal Prerogative of Mercy, which means that you will serve no time.’ The Judge scowled at Kinsella. ‘There is a certain irony in that, considering that you showed Mr Carter not one iota of mercy.’

The Judge lifted a glass of water to his lips and drank slowly, his eyes continuing to burn into Kinsella’s. He put down the glass, then dabbed his lips with a handkerchief before he went on. ‘The court system is charged with deciding guilt or innocence,’ he said slowly, ‘but we are also charged with apportioning punishment. The murder of a brave young police officer should not go unpunished. Yet that is what is happening here. You have pleaded guilty, but there is no doubt in my mind that you feel no guilt. You deserve to be punished for what you did that evening in nineteen ninety-six, but that will not happen, which disgusts me today. Justice is not being served, but political expediency is.’ He paused again. ‘Take him down,’ he said, shaking his head in disgust.

Two uniformed prison officers reached for Kinsella, who shook them away. ‘You’re not to touch me,’ he said. He looked at his two lawyers.

‘Take him down, but do not restrain him,’ said the Judge.

The British lawyer stood up. ‘Your Honour, in view of the fact that Mr Kinsella will almost certainly be released later this afternoon, could he simply not walk free from the court now?’ he said, in an upper-class English accent.

The Judge scowled at him. ‘Mr Kinsella can sit in a cell until the paperwork arrives,’ he said. ‘If it was up to me he’d rot in Hell.’

Kinsella grinned at the Judge. ‘Thank you, your Honour,’ he said. ‘You have a nice day, now.’ He went down the stairs leading to the cells below the court, followed by the two prison officers.

There were loud cheers from the public gallery and two young men at the front unfurled an Irish flag. Two burly bailiffs moved to grab it but the Judge waved them back. There was nothing to be gained from confronting the demonstrators. He left the room by his private entrance. He had a bottle of malt whisky in his office and intended to make full use of it.