Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

The Saudi took no pleasure in killing children – he took no pleasure in killing anyone, but there was no alternative. The Israelis had killed thousands of innocent Palestinians. The Americans had killed tens of thousands of men, women and children in Iraq with bombs and bullets. The Saudi saw no difference between what the Israelis and the Americans did and the actions of the shahid. Death was death, whether it was carried out by soldiers or martyrs.

The jihad was continuing in Iraq, with Allied soldiers dying almost every day. But it was only when civilian contractors were kidnapped and beheaded that the world took notice and governments acted. The death of a civilian was worth the death of a hundred paid soldiers. It was simple economics.

The father handed over the money for the didgeridoo and picked up his daughter. She squealed, threw her arms round his neck and kissed his cheek. The Saudi walked away towards the harbour. He had never married and had no children. What he was doing was too important to jeopardise with a family. Families were a weakness for soldiers of the jihad.

Superintendent Hargrove arrived at the hospital with two of his agents playing ordinary detectives. They flashed their warrant cards at the uniformed officer and told him they would be taking Corke to Newcastle police station and that they would be accompanied by his solicitor. Hargrove said nothing, playing the part of a solicitor who was about to break bad news to his client.

The men with him were wearing dark raincoats over shabby suits and the world-weary look of policemen who had been in the job long enough not to be surprised by anything. Shepherd knew one of them – Jimmy ‘Razor’ Sharpe, a twenty-year veteran of the Strathclyde Police. As soon as the uniform had left the room Sharpe winked and unlocked Shepherd’s chain. ‘Always the hero, Spider,’ he said, in a heavy Glaswegian accent.

‘Why is it they always call on you when I need a taxi service?’ said Shepherd, slipping his legs over the side of the bed.

Sharpe grinned and nodded at his companion. ‘Spider, this is DC Paul Joyce. Joycie, this is DC Dan Shepherd, Spider to his friends. Spider is ex-SAS so we use him whenever we need someone to jump out of a plane or a burning building or throw themselves into the North Sea in the middle of the night. Personally, I think he does it just to make the rest of us look bad.’

Joyce handed Shepherd a kitbag, containing the clothes he had been wearing when he had been dragged out of the water: a blue denim shirt, cheap jeans, boxer shorts and socks. They had been cleaned and pressed. His work boots had been stuffed with newspapers and dried out.

‘I brought you a denim jacket and a pullover,’ said the superintendent. ‘I gather it’s what the best-dressed human trafficker’s wearing this season.’

Shepherd stood up. Sharpe and Joyce chuckled at his surgical gown. ‘Maybe we should take him to the factory as he is,’ said Joyce.

‘Careful, Joycie,’ said Sharpe. ‘Spider’s trained to kill.’

Shepherd flashed Hargrove a pained look. ‘Did you have to bring Cannon and Ball with you?’

Hargrove smiled. ‘Manpower shortage.’

The three men turned their backs while Shepherd changed.

‘We’re going to have to cuff you,’ said Hargrove, once Shepherd was tying his bootlaces. ‘It’s got to look right.’

Shepherd held out his arm. Joyce cuffed the wrist and fastened the other end to himself. Then the four men walked along the corridor and out into the car park. They took Shepherd to a black Vauxhall Vectra. Sharpe sat in the driver’s seat next to Hargrove, while Shepherd and Joyce climbed into the back.

Joyce waited until Sharpe had driven away from the hospital, then removed the handcuffs. Hargrove opened the glove compartment and passed Shepherd a flask and a carrier-bag containing two plastic-wrapped sandwiches.

Shepherd unwrapped a sandwich and bit into it. Ham and mustard. He poured himself some coffee and settled back in the seat.

‘They’re going to drop me in town,’ said Hargrove. ‘I’ve got to get back to London. Anyway, there’s no reason for your solicitor to be with you as you’re not going to be interviewed.’

‘No sweat,’ said Shepherd.

‘The local cops will transfer the father later this afternoon. I’ve cleared it with the local chief super that he’s to be put into a holding cell with you.’

‘He knows I’m undercover?’

‘He’s sound – Garth Carpenter. I’ve known him for years.’

Shepherd nodded. He was never happy about strangers knowing his true role, but there were times when it was necessary.

Sharpe wound down his window and showed the young uniformed constable his warrant card. ‘He’s expected,’ said Sharpe, and waved at Shepherd, who was again handcuffed to Joyce.

The constable scrutinised Shepherd’s face. ‘Who is he?’

‘Name’s Corke. Floats like one, too. Pulled him out of the water after he jumped off a trawler full of illegal immigrants. He’s here to be questioned before we put him up before a magistrate.’

Joyce held out his warrant card and the constable nodded. He straightened up and waved at his colleague, who was watching from a cubicle at the entrance to the car park. The metal gate rattled back and Sharpe edged the Vectra forward. ‘Wonder if he joined the force so that he could be a bloody security guard,’ he muttered.

‘We can’t all be high-flyers,’ said Joyce, grinning at the constable as they drove past him.

They parked between two white vans with mesh-protected windows and walked into the rear entrance of the station. Sharpe flashed his warrant card and asked to speak to Chief Superintendent Carpenter. Then Shepherd was taken to a holding cell that contained a mattress on a concrete plinth, a single plastic and metal chair and a stainless-steel toilet.

He sat on the bunk and bent forward, arms resting on his legs, to run through his legend. Tony Corke. Fifteen years at sea, mostly on cross-Channel ferries, married but divorced, one child, a boy, a short spell inside for assault after a drunken brawl in a Portsmouth bar. Not a particularly nice guy, but not an outright villain. He lay back on the bed and relaxed, staring up at the ceiling. Someone had scraped ‘ ALL COPPERS ARE BASTARDS ’ into the plaster. He smiled to himself. Not all coppers were bastards, but he had met a fair few whose parentage might be called into question. He closed his eyes but didn’t sleep.

Time seemed to crawl by. He wondered what was taking so long. An hour passed. Then another. The only light filtered in through a square of glass breeze blocks in the wall close to the ceiling. As the sky darkened, he stood up and switched on the light. Something must have gone wrong. He glanced at his watch. He’d been in the cell for almost five hours and all he’d had to eat were the sandwiches in the car. There was a bell push beside the door but Shepherd didn’t want to start asking for favours.

He sat down on the bunk again. It wasn’t his first time in a cell and he was no stranger to long waits. On SAS surveillance operations he’d spent days at a time lying in a rain-swept hide, pissing and shitting into plastic bags, so a few hours in a cell with plumbing was no real hardship. But that didn’t make it any less boring. He should have asked Sharpe for a newspaper or magazine.

He lay back on the bed. The concrete was hard against his back through the thin plastic mattress but, considering the number of drunks who had probably spent the night here, the smell wasn’t too bad.

Hargrove had definitely said that Rudi would be put in the cell that afternoon. Now it was evening. Hargrove wasn’t the sort of man who made mistakes so something must have disrupted his plans. It happened on every operation, and Shepherd knew there was nothing he could do but ride it out.