Stephen Leather - Dead Men

‘I wouldn’t advise that, Spider,’ said Button. ‘We can track you through the phone, too. It’s got GPS. We’ll need to know where you are.’

‘I’m not sure I want you eavesdropping on my every word.’

‘If you get close to her, if you win her over, she might give herself away at any time. We’ve got the house covered but we need to have you wired when you’re outside. I decided the phone was better than you wiring yourself up.’

‘You’ve got the house covered?’

‘I was coming to that,’ said Button. ‘Amar went in two weeks ago, posing as a surveyor. All the rooms are wired for sound.’

‘What?’

‘There’s a microphone in every electrical socket,’ Singh told him.

‘So every time I burp or fart, it’ll be recorded?’ said Shepherd.

‘The on-off switch on the socket turns the microphone on and off too, so you’ll have some privacy,’ said Singh.

Shepherd gestured at the door. ‘Can I have a word,Charlie?’

‘Of course,’ she said, and they went outside. She waited until he’d closed the door, then asked, ‘Is there a problem?’

‘I didn’t realise this was going to be so personal,’ he said. ‘Everything I say and do, I’ll be watched.’

‘No cameras, Spider, but yes, someone will be listening. How else are we going to get evidence against her?’

‘Usually we wait till I’m in, and then I’m wired up.’

‘Same principle here.’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘This is different.’

‘Not shy, are you? Is that the problem?’

‘It’s not a problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just not happy about everything I say and do being on the record. Being under cover means telling lies, and I don’t want that coming back to haunt me.’

‘We all know you have to do what you have to do,’ said Button. ‘Anything not relevant will be deleted, you have my word.’

‘Will I be expected to give evidence in court?’

‘Not if I can help it,’ said Button. ‘The last thing we want is to have her on trial. There’ll be a lot of sympathy for her, after what the IRA did to her husband. If she goes on trial, it’ll stir up a whole lot of bad feeling.’

‘So you expect her to plead guilty?’

‘If you get her confessing on tape, and if you get the gun, I don’t see that she’ll have much choice.’

‘Yeah? Any chance of her cutting a deal under the Good Friday Agreement? Like the bastards who shot her husband?’

Button flashed him a warning look. ‘Spider . . .’

‘Her husband was a cop, Charlie. A cop doing a difficult job. They shot him in cold blood and the Government released them as part of a political settlement. I don’t think there’s much that’s political about shooting a man in front of his wife and child, do you?’

‘It doesn’t matter what I think, Spider. I’ve as much sympathy for Elaine Carter as you, believe me, but if she’s killing, she has to be stopped. Between you and me, the powers-that-be’ll probably do a deal, a reduced sentence in exchange for a guilty plea.’

‘It’s a shitty world, Charlie.’ He sighed.

‘You’re preaching to the converted,’ said Button. ‘Look at it this way. Better you’re the one rather than some hard-arsed cop with an axe to grind. At least you can empathise.’

Shepherd took out a packet of Marlboro and popped one into his mouth. He offered them to Button but she declined. He lit the cigarette and blew smoke into the air.

‘How are you getting on with those?’ asked Button.

‘At least I can inhale without coughing now. I just hope I don’t get addicted before the job’s over.’ Button was looking longingly at the cigarette and he offered her the packet again.

She wrinkled her nose,then sighed and took one. ‘I suppose it doesn’t count if I didn’t buy it,’ she said.

‘One won’t hurt you,’ said Shepherd. He lit it for her.

Button inhaled deeply, held the smoke in her lungs, then blew it out. ‘Disgusting habit,’ she said.

Tears sprang to Willie McEvoy’s eyes and he blinked them away, not wanting to die like a crying baby. ‘There’s half a kilo of cocaine upstairs,’ he said, ‘and money. There’s thirty grand under the bed. It’s yours. Take it.’

The barrel of a gun was pushed against the back of his neck. He heard the click-click-click of the hammer drawn back.

‘Look, if I’m on your turf, I’ll leave,’ said McEvoy, his voice trembling. ‘I’ll up and go. I’ll leave Belfast. There’s no need to do anything stupid, okay?’

McEvoy stared at the wall in front of him. There was a small wooden cross with a figure of Jesus next to a framed photograph of the Pope. ‘Please, Jesus, don’t let me die like this,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll do anything, anything, just don’t let me die.’

McEvoy heard a rustle and a gloved hand reached over his shoulder, holding a photograph. McEvoy recognised the face in the picture and his heart sank. Robert Carter, in his RUC uniform and cap. McEvoy had been hoping he was being robbed, that all he had to do was to give up his money or his drugs and he’d escape with a beating or, at worst, a bullet in the leg. Now he knew this wasn’t about drugs or money.

Tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘I only drove the car,’ he said. ‘That’s all I did. I drove the sodding car. I didn’t even have a gun, they said that at my trial. I didn’t even have a gun.’ McEvoy put his hands up to his face and sobbed. He knew what had happened to Adrian Dunne and Joseph McFee. ‘I’ve got money in the bank and I own three apartments in the city. Two apartments in Liverpool. More than a million quid’s worth. I’ll get the money for you tomorrow and I’ll sign the apartments over to you.’

The gloved hand took the photograph away from his face.

‘I did my time,’ said McEvoy. ‘I didn’t shoot him. I didn’t have a gun. I drove the car. I waited and I drove them away. That’s all.’ McEvoy felt a warm wetness spread round his groin and smelt his own urine. He’d pissed himself. He was crying like a baby and he’d pissed himself. Anger flared through his system and he lowered his hands, his tear-filled eyes blazing with hatred. He clenched his hands into fists. ‘I’m not going to die like this,’ he said. ‘Fuck you, I’m not going to . . .’

The gun barked and McEvoy felt a searing pain in his left leg, as if he’d been hit with a hammer. He staggered to the right and almost immediately there was a second bang and his right leg buckled. McEvoy screamed. He lurched forward, arms flailing. His knees felt as if they were being pierced by red-hot pokers and the strength drained from his legs. ‘This isn’t fair . . .’ he said. He didn’t hear the shot that blasted through the back of his skull and tore through his face, spraying his brains and blood across the wall in front of him.

It took Shepherd less than twenty minutes to drive to the ferry terminal. He was directed to one of the lines of cars waiting to board, and an hour later he was sitting in the cafeteria eating an egg-mayonnaise sandwich and drinking coffee as the ferry headed across the Irish Sea. The Norfolkline ship took just over eight hours to make the crossing and he had booked a cabin so that he could get some sleep. His fellow passengers were a mixed bag. There were middle-aged motorcyclists in black leathers, families with children, and groups of workmen travelling with the tools of their trade.

Shepherd studied a Belfast street map as he ate. He had been to Belfast three times in the past when he had worked for Superintendent Sam Hargrove’s police undercover unit, twice to infiltrate drugs gangs and once as back-up for a local Irish cop who had been trying to penetrate a counterfeit-currency ring. He had missed out on the IRA years, when members of the SAS put their lives on the line working under cover in Northern Ireland. It had been a dirty war, with casualties on both sides. There had been successes and failures, and war stories were still told in the bars and pubs of Hereford by the guys who had been through it.