Stephen Leather - Dead Men

‘You could say that,’ he said.

‘A good night’s sleep cures a lot of ills,’ she said, and kissed his neck.

Khan forced a smile, but inside he was more scared than he’d ever been. He knew there was no hiding from a man like Hassan. Khan either did what Hassan wanted, or his family would die.

Shepherd looked down from the bedroom window. Elaine had driven off in her VW at just after nine o’clock that morning and it was now close to midday. He went downstairs, switched on the television, went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. Then he saw the four dirty mugs in the sink and realised he’d probably had enough caffeine that morning. The view from the kitchen window reminded him of the state of the garden. He needed something to occupy him so he might as well tidy it, he thought.

He’d found the key to the garden shed in a drawer in the kitchen shortly after he’d moved in. Now he unlocked the door. Inside he found an old petrol mower, a selection of rusty garden tools, a green plastic watering-can and stacks of chipped terracotta flower-pots. Earwigs scuttled away from the daylight and there were curtains of cobwebs in the corners of the sloping roof.

His mobile rang and he took it out of his back pocket and looked at the display. It was Button. ‘Everything okay?’ she asked.

‘Just thinking about doing a little gardening,’ he said. ‘She’s gone out, not sure when she’ll be back.’

‘You’re getting closer, aren’t you?’

‘Softly, softly,’ said Shepherd. ‘But, yes, I’m getting closer.’

‘I’ve had the results on the bullets they took out of Willie McEvoy. They came from Carter’s service revolver, same as the ones that killed Dunne and McFee. We’re going to have to up the ante, Spider. We’ve kept a lid on this so far but eventually someone’ll talk.’

‘I can’t push her too hard, Charlie.’

‘We need to find that gun.’

‘I’m working on it.’

Shepherd ended the call and pulled out the mower. He unscrewed the cap on the fuel tank. It was empty. He went back into the shed and rooted around for a petrol can. Among the spades and forks he found a pole with a metal hook at the end. It wasn’t a garden implement he had ever seen before. He pulled it out. There was a dark red centipede on the handle, which he shook off. It scurried under the shed. Shepherd held up the pole and stared at it, wondering what it was. Then he smiled.

Charlotte Button handed over her SOCA credentials to a bored uniformed sergeant. She flashed the man a smile, ‘I have a two o’clock appointment with Chief Superintendent Khan,’ she said.

The sergeant noted her details on a clipboard and handed back her ID card. ‘I’ll phone his office,’ he said. ‘Visitors have to be escorted upstairs, I’m afraid.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Button. She sat on an orange plastic chair and put her briefcase on the floor beside her. The waiting area smelled of stale sweat and there were grubby fingermarks on the walls. A poster offered an amnesty on all knives handed in before the end of the year. Another informed victims of domestic violence that they could phone the police for help. An old lady was standing at the counter, telling a young blonde policewoman that her next-door neighbour’s dog was barking all night and keeping her awake. Button wanted a cigarette so she took a stick of chewing-gum from her handbag to stifle the cravings. She looked for a bin to throw the wrapper in but there wasn’t one so she put it into her coat pocket. The old lady was crying now and dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

A door opened and a woman in her late twenties, wearing a dark skirt and blazer, smiled at Button. ‘Can you come with me, please?’ she asked, holding the door open. She handed Button a plastic tag with VISITOR on it and a bar code. Button clipped it to her coat. ‘You’re not carrying a weapon by any chance, are you?’ asked the woman.

‘Good Lord, no,’ said Button.

‘I’m sorry, I have to ask,’ said the woman. ‘We get all types in here, and everyone has to go through the security. Sorry.’ Button put her handbag and mobile phone on a conveyor belt that passed through an X-ray machine, followed the secretary through a metal detector, picked up her things, then walked to the lift. They went up to the sixth floor.

Khan had a corner office, as befitted his rank. The woman showed Button in straight away. He was wearing his uniform and stood up when he saw her. She had never met the chief superintendent but she had seen him on television many times, usually touted as one of the top Muslim police officers in the country. He was a big man with wide shoulders and a bulging stomach that strained at his jacket. His heavy jowls overhung his starched shirt collar. He strode round his desk, his arm outstretched, and his stubby fingers grasped Button’s hand. ‘Thank you so much for coming, Ms Button,’ he said.

Button smiled. ‘Charlotte, please,’ she said. Her eyes flashed across Khan’s desk. There was a framed photograph of the chief superintendent with his wife, son and daughter, a clear plastic in-tray filled with correspondence, a brass paperweight in the shape of a cat, and a large mug with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on the side filled with pens. A computer terminal stood on a side table and on the wall behind it hung framed photographs of Khan meeting the great and the good – shaking hands with Ken Livingstone, the Mayor of London; looking solemn with two bearded mullahs; with his arm around David Beckham; standing next to the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police; sharing a podium with Tony Blair; and being presented with a certificate by an earnest-looking man in a dog-collar. By the door there were several framed certificates, including an honorary degree from Leeds University.

‘Please, sit down,’ said Khan. He showed Button to a black leather corner unit by the window. ‘Tea, coffee?’

‘Tea would be lovely,’ said Button, taking off her coat. ‘Anything but Earl Grey.’

The chief superintendent smiled at his secretary. ‘Iced tea, please, Anita,’ he said, and sat down as she left the office. ‘Have you been to Leicester before?’ he asked.

‘My first time,’ said Button. ‘It’s hardly a hotbed of crime.’

‘We have our moments,’ said Khan, ‘but I know what you mean. I doubt there are many villains on our patch that SOCA would consider targeting.’

‘But you have something for us now, I gather.’

‘Possibly,’ said Khan. ‘But I wanted to talk it through with you before making an official request for your undercover unit.’ He smiled but not with his eyes. ‘I was one of those who expressed reservations about SOCA when it was first mooted,’ he said. ‘There was a fear that you’d cherry-pick the high-profile cases and leave us under-resourced to cope with the rising levels of street crime.’

‘The powers-that-be saw us as a resource that all forces across the country could draw on,’ said Button.

‘A British FBI, they were calling it,’ said Khan, ‘and in the States there’s constant friction between the federal and state agencies.’

‘There’s a world of difference between the FBI and SOCA,’ she told him. ‘Funding for one.’

‘Policing is all about money,’ agreed Khan. ‘I’m more of a resource manager than a thief-catcher these days.’

‘Well, anything I can do to help.’

‘There’s something I’m not quite clear about. Where were you before you joined SOCA?’

‘MI5.’

Khan nodded thoughtfully. ‘And how is SOCA working out for you?’

‘It’s challenging,’ she said, ‘but I was never particularly deskbound during my time with Five. I ran agents and spent a lot of time in the field.’