Stephen Leather - Dead Men

‘She’s your boss,and it’s your country,’said Yokely. ‘I can’t go around killing people on your turf. It’s only the Russians who do that.’

‘So what are we talking about here, Richard? Are we talking about protecting Charlie, or about protecting you?’

Yokely smiled. ‘Tomato, potato,’ he said.

Shepherd drove from Belfast airport to Dublin and caught the Stena Line high-speed catamaran to Holyhead. The sea was mirror flat and the crossing took less than two hours. As he drove off the ferry he used his hands-free to call Martin O’Brien. O’Brien sounded out of breath. ‘You’re not having sex, are you, Martin?’ he asked.

‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’said O’Brien. ‘Just done a twelve-mile run.’

‘How fast?’

‘Just over the hour,’ said O’Brien.

‘Well done you.’

‘And I’ve lost three kilos in the last week.’

‘Kudos.’

‘Mind you, I’d kill for a burger. What’s up?’

A Porsche drove past Shepherd at breakneck speed. The driver was barely out of his twenties with a mobile phone pressed to his ear. Shepherd’s natural competitiveness kicked in and he had to fight the urge to stamp on his accelerator and give chase. ‘How’s it going with Charlotte?’

‘Bloody hard work,’ said O’Brien. ‘I’ve got four guys in rotation but she’s as slippery as an eel.’

‘Yeah, I told you she was shit hot at surveillance.’

‘You weren’t wrong. But we haven’t shown out and we haven’t seen anyone else on her tail.’

‘Have you spoken to the Bradford boys?’

‘Yeah, they said you had a spot of bother in Hereford.’

‘They handled it just fine.’

‘So, all’s well that ends well, as my old gran used to say.’

‘I’m not sure about that, Martin,’ said Shepherd. ‘The guy who went to my house didn’t fit the profile of a professional hitman. A bit young.’

‘So there’s more than one?’

‘I don’t know for sure, but I’m assuming so. I’m going to pick up a weapon from the major, just in case. And I’d like you to keep an eye on Charlie for a bit longer.’

‘Pleasure,’ said O’Brien.

Shepherd ended the call, then rang Caroline Stockmann and explained that he was back in England for two days. ‘We can meet tomorrow evening, say six o’clock,’ said the psychologist. ‘How about the Stag?’

‘In Hereford?’ said Shepherd, surprised. He had assumed she’d want to see him in London.

‘Mountains, Muhammad, and all that jazz,’ she said. ‘You’re a busy man and I get a very generous allowance from SOCA.’

‘Six it is,’ said Shepherd. ‘ Inshallah .’

‘Indeed,’ said Stockmann. ‘God willing.’

It was late at night when Shepherd arrived at his house in Hereford. He parked the Audi in the street and let himself in. As he flicked on the light one of the Bradfords put away his gun and grinned. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t hear you drive up.’

‘Hey, my fault for not calling first,’ said Shepherd. ‘And I’m sorry – normally I’m good with faces but I can’t tell you guys apart.’

‘I’m Billy, the good-looking one.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘Everyone asleep?’

‘They went up at nine,’ said Billy. ‘Jack’s coming at midnight. I was making a coffee. Do you want one?’

‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. He went upstairs to his son’s room. Liam was asleep, hugging a pillow. Shepherd knelt beside the bed and brushed the boy’s hair away from his eyes. Liam muttered something but didn’t wake. Shepherd kissed his forehead. ‘Sweet dreams,’ he whispered.

He went downstairs. Billy had made the coffee and handed him a mug. ‘Everything okay?’ Shepherd asked.

‘No problems,’ said Billy.

‘Katra and Liam have no idea what went down?’

‘Slept through it all. I’ll show you the damage.’ He took Shepherd to the sitting room and showed him the small hole in the sofa. ‘Bullet’s still in there,’ he said. ‘Probably lodged in the frame. I think you can leave it where it is.’ He went to the wall by the fireplace. ‘This one’s a bit more complicated,’ he said. There was a picture on the wall, a pen-and-ink drawing of the clock tower at the old Stirling Lines barracks. Engraved on it were the names of SAS members who had died in action. He moved the picture to reveal a hole that had been gouged in the wall. ‘We dug out the bullet and moved the hook a few inches to the left so that the picture covers the hole but you’ll have to get it patched up,’ said Billy.

‘I’ll decorate the room as soon as I have a chance,’ said Shepherd.

Billy put the picture back and sat in an armchair.

‘The guy who came here, Tariq?’

‘Tariq Chadhar,’ said Billy.

‘What sort of gun did he have?’

‘Glock 17 with a silencer.’

‘A professional rig,’ said Shepherd. ‘Did he seem like a pro to you?’

‘Definitely not,’ said Billy. ‘Nervous as shit, slow reactions, damn near pissed himself. Is there a problem?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was warned there was a pro around, a pro who knew where I lived. But the guy you dealt with doesn’t fit the profile.’

‘Jack and I are here as long as you need us, you know that?’

‘Thanks, Billy. For everything.’

Shepherd woke at dawn, pulled on a running vest, a pair of old tracksuit bottoms and two pairs of thick woollen socks. He retrieved his boots and a battered old rucksack from the cupboard under the stairs and carried them into the kitchen. The rucksack was packed with bricks wrapped in newspaper. One of the Bradfords was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of black coffee.

Shepherd squinted at him. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Jack?’

‘Jack it is,’ said Bradford.

‘I’m starting to get it,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m the good-looking one, right?’

Shepherd sat down to put on his boots. ‘Actually, Billy’s nose is slightly curved.’

‘Yeah, he broke it when he was a kid.’ Bradford grinned. ‘On my tennis racquet, as it happens.’ He nodded at the rucksack. ‘Bricks?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I use old telephone directories. They don’t move around as much.’

Shepherd pulled on the rucksack. He took a bottle of Evian water from the fridge and left by the front door. He ran for the best part of an hour, keeping at a fast pace. The rucksack banged uncomfortably against his back but he ignored it. He didn’t run for pleasure. He ran to stay fit so that he could do his job properly.

He had worked up a sweat by the time he let himself in through the front door and went upstairs to shave, shower and change into clean black jeans and a denim shirt. He opened the door to the walk-in wardrobe. There were six drawers, all lockable, on one side. In the top ones, which he never secured, he kept his socks, underwear and ties. He took out his key-ring and unlocked the bottom drawer. Inside, a black case contained his official issue SIG-Sauer semi-automatic, two filled magazines and several boxes of ninemillimetre ammunition. One box was a different brand from the rest. He took it out and relocked the drawer. He slid the box into his pocket and went downstairs.

Liam was sitting at the kitchen table, studying a maths book and bolting down a bowl of cereal opposite Jack Bradford. ‘How long are you here for,Dad?’he asked,through his breakfast.

‘Just today. I’m off to Belfast again tomorrow,’ said Shepherd. ‘And don’t talk with your mouth full.’

‘Why are you working in Ireland?’

‘It’s Northern Ireland,’ said Shepherd, ‘part of the United Kingdom.’

‘But I don’t see why you have to work there,’ said Liam. ‘Don’t they have their own policemen?’