Stephen Leather: Hot Blood

They heard footsteps at the door and turned to see Charlotte Button walking confidently towards them, brushing a lock of dark chestnut hair behind her ear to reveal a moulded plastic earpiece. ‘Well done, guys,’ she said. She was wearing a belted fawn raincoat and her high heels clicked on the concrete floor.

An Asian man in his late twenties had followed her. Amar Singh was Button’s technical specialist. He was carrying a briefcase.

‘Sorry about Razor’s improvisation, but there was method in his madness,’ said Dan Shepherd. He unbuttoned his denim shirt to reveal a microphone taped to his shaved chest.

‘I heard,’ said Button. ‘If anything, it added to the scenario. There’s nothing like a loose cannon to ratchet up the authen ticity.’

Singh helped Shepherd to remove the microphone and the transmitter that was taped to the small of his back.

‘You wouldn’t have shot him, would you, Razor?’ teased Button. ‘Please tell me you wouldn’t have blown a two-month operation by putting a bullet in Mr Corben’s chest.’

‘I knew exactly what I was doing.’ Sharpe scowled.

‘You went off menu,’ said Shepherd, rebuttoning his shirt. ‘I always hate it when you do that.’ He grinned to show there was no ill-feeling. He had worked with Sharpe on countless occasions and had total faith in him. It had to be that way when you were under cover.

Four men in black overalls appeared at the doorway, members of the Metropolitan Police’s firearms unit, and began to pack up the weapons. Singh put the transmitting equipment into his briefcase and went to Sharpe, who was taking off his shirt. Like Shepherd, he had also been wearing a transmitter.

Shepherd indicated the roof. ‘Pictures okay?’ The three small cameras that Singh had fitted the previous day were hidden in the metal rafters. They had transmitted pictures to the temporary control centre in one of the adjacent warehouses.

‘Perfect,’ said Button. ‘We’ve everything we need. The transmitters that Amar embedded in the guns are good for seven days so we’ll track them for five and see how many of O’Sullivan’s gang we can pull in. Hopefully one of them will roll over on the Hatton Garden robbery in which case O’Sullivan and Corben will go down for life.’

Three weeks earlier a security guard had been shot in the stomach at close range with a sawn-off shotgun. Half a million pounds’ worth of diamonds and rubies had been stolen, and the man had died in hospital two days later, his wife and three sons at his bedside. O’Sullivan hadn’t fired the fatal shot, but he had orchestrated the robbery, one of more than half a dozen he was thought to have carried out in the previous year. Conor O’Sullivan was a professional criminal who, either through luck or good judgement, had never been to prison. The Serious Organised Crime Agency’s undercover operation was about to change that.

‘Is that it, then?’ asked Sharpe.

‘Keep the mobiles going for a week or so just in case,’ said Button. ‘There’s always a chance that O’Sullivan will spread the good word.’

The men in black overalls carried out the cases containing the weapons and ammunition. One, a burly sergeant with a shaved head, flashed Button a thumbs-up as he walked by. ‘Thanks, Mark,’ she said. ‘I’ll have the paperwork for you by tomorrow morning.’

‘What’s next for us?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Don’t worry, Dan, there’s no rest for the wicked. I’ll have something for you.’ She consulted her watch. ‘I have to be at the Yard this afternoon. I’ll call you both later. But job well done, yeah? O’Sullivan’s needed putting away for years.’ She headed towards the door, then stopped. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ‘you’ve both got biannuals this month, haven’t you?’

Shepherd and Sharpe nodded. Every six months all SOCA operatives had to be assessed by the unit’s psychologist.

‘We’ve a new psychologist on board,’ said Button. ‘Caroline Stockmann. She’ll be getting in touch to arrange the sessions.’

‘What happened to Kathy Gift?’ asked Shepherd.

‘She’s moved on,’ said Button.

‘To where?’

‘Academia. Bath University.’

‘Couldn’t stand the heat?’ asked Sharpe.

Button’s expression registered disapproval. ‘She got married, actually.’

‘To a man?’ asked Sharpe, unabashed. He raised his hands as if to ward off her glare. ‘Hey, these days, who knows?’

‘Razor, not everyone gets your sense of humour.’

‘But you do, right?’

Button smiled. ‘You’re a bloody dinosaur,’ she said.

‘But dinosaurs have their uses,’ said Sharpe.

‘Actually, they don’t,’ said Button. ‘That’s why they’re extinct.’

‘She got married?’ said Shepherd.

‘It was all quite sudden,’ said Button.

‘Probably up the spout,’ said Sharpe.

‘Jimmy…’ said Button.

‘This Stockmann, what’s her story?’ asked Shepherd.

‘She’s top notch,’ said Button. ‘Very highly qualified. I’ve known her for ten years.’

‘She’s worked with undercover agents before?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Not per se,’ said Button. ‘She was in MI5’s Predictive Behaviour Group.’

‘Which means what?’ said Shepherd.

‘The group is used to determine the way various people might react in a given situation. Generally heads of state. So, if you wanted to know how the Iranian government will react to EU pressure to drop their nuclear programme, you’d ask the PBG. The group has other uses, too. Mostly classified.’

Shepherd groaned. ‘So a spook’ll decide whether or not I’m fit for undercover work.’

‘She’s a highly qualified psychologist who happened to work for the security services,’ said Button. ‘It’s only because she knows me that she’s agreed to work for SOCA. We’re lucky to have her.’

‘It’s not about qualifications,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s about understanding people – understanding what we go through. And if she’s only ever been behind a desk, she’s not going to know what life’s like at the sharp end.’

‘So tell her,’ said Button. ‘That’s the purpose of the biannual, to get everything off your chest.’

‘That’s not strictly true, though, is it?’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s also a test we have to pass to remain on active duty.’

‘Spider, you’re fine. I know you’re fine and you know you’re fine. You have a chat with Caroline and she’ll confirm what we both know.’ She glanced at her watch again. ‘I have to go.’

As she headed for the door, Shepherd saw that Sharpe was grinning at him.

‘What?’ said Shepherd.

‘What happened to Kathy Gift?’ said Sharpe, in a whiny voice.

‘Behave,’ said Shepherd.

‘You had a thing for her, didn’t you?’

‘How old are you, Razor?’

‘Spider and Kathy, sitting in a tree…’ sang Sharpe.

‘Screw you,’ said Shepherd, walking away.

‘… K-I-S-S-I-N-G.’ Sharpe’s voice followed Shepherd out of the warehouse. Button’s black Vauxhall Vectra was driving away. She was in the back, reading something.

‘You okay?’ said Singh, behind him.

Shepherd shrugged. ‘What do you make of her?’ he asked.

‘She’s a good boss,’ said Singh. ‘Gives you room to do your own thing but she’s there when you need her.’

Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, she’s growing on me.’ He jerked a thumb at the warehouse. ‘That went well, from start to finish.’

‘She had all the bases covered,’ agreed Singh. ‘I had to laugh at Razor, though. Pulling a gun like that.’

‘Yeah, he’s a bugger sometimes. But he’s a pro.’

‘Fancy a drink?’

‘Nah,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got to get home. Rain check, yeah?’