Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘And you’ll keep Pepper and Mosley out of the way?’

‘It’s already in hand. So, you’re up for this?’

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’ll text you the number. Be handy if you could record the conversation with them.’

‘I’ll do it from home later tonight,’ said Shepherd. He cut the connection.

He was still half a mile from Liam’s school but already the traffic had slowed to a crawl. Ahead all he could see were middle-aged women at the wheel of expensive SUVs. As a kid Shepherd had spent thirty minutes on the bus to get to and from school, with a ten-minute walk at either end – his parents had been happy for him to go out on his own. At weekends he’d disappear on his bike for hours and they were perfectly happy, providing he was back before dark. Those days were long gone. Now Shepherd lived in Ealing, which was as safe as anywhere could be, but every year across the UK children were raped and murdered, or disappeared never to be seen again. Teenagers were out on the streets with knives and guns. Twelve-year-old crack addicts thought nothing of mugging a kid for his mobile phone and lunch money, while paedophiles were allowed to roam at will. There was no way Shepherd would allow Liam to use public transport to get about, and while he knew that the school run was a waste of time and fuel he, like most other parents, preferred it to the alternative.

Liam was waiting outside the school gates. He waved at the CRV and ran towards it, sports bag banging on his hip. He frowned when he saw that Shepherd was driving. He pulled open the passenger door, climbed into the front seat, dropped his bag in the back and fastened his seatbelt. ‘Where’s Katra?’

‘I said I’d pick you up today. We can go and have a burger.’ Shepherd put the CRV in gear and pulled away from the kerb.

‘You said we’d play football yesterday,’ said Liam sullenly.

‘I got held up,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Where were you?’

‘I had to go and see someone and they were late.’

‘It was a pinkie promise,’ said Liam, folding his arms and staring straight ahead.

‘I know.’

‘Pinkie promises are real promises.’

‘I meant it when I promised, I really did, but something happened.’

‘And you didn’t even get up this morning.’

‘I was tired.’

‘It’s like you don’t care.’

‘I care, Liam. Of course I care – I’m your dad.’

‘You don’t always act like my dad.’

Shepherd felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He didn’t know what to say, because he knew that Liam was right. Recently he hadn’t been behaving much like a father. He was a policeman who happened to have a son, and more often than not his son ended up playing second fiddle to the job.

‘Do you want McDonald’s or Burger King? Or we could have KFC?’

‘I don’t like KFC much.’

‘McDonald’s, then? Or Burger King?’

‘McDonald’s, I guess.’

Shepherd drove to the nearest branch and they went inside. Liam ordered a Big Mac, fries and a Coke. Shepherd had a cheeseburger. They sat at a table by the window. ‘How was school?’

‘School’s school,’ said Liam.

‘I was hoping for a bit more information than that,’ said Shepherd.

‘We did geography. And literature.’

‘Yeah, what are you reading?’

‘Anthony Horowitz’s new Alex Rider book.’

‘Alex Rider?’

‘He’s great. He’s a kid who’s a secret agent. He does the coolest stuff.’

‘And you read that at school?’

‘Yes.’

‘In my day we did Dickens and Jane Austen.’

‘Who?’

‘Never mind,’ said Shepherd. ‘What does he do, this Alex Rider?’

‘Fights bad guys and saves the world.’

‘And how old is he?’

‘He’s a teenager.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘And you believe that a teenager can save the world?’

Liam raised his eyebrows. ‘They’re books, Dad. Stories.’

Shepherd rarely spoke to his son about his work. He hadn’t told Sue much, either. Not the details. Not that every now and again his life was on the line, that he’d looked down the barrels of several guns, and that while he hadn’t actually saved the world he had fought more than a few bad guys. Part of him wanted to tell his son a few war stories, to see his eyes light up with excitement, but he didn’t want Liam to know how dangerous his work was. In the real world, heroes didn’t get shot in the chest and live to fight another day. Fist fights hurt like hell, and when you did shoot someone you never forgot the way the body slumped to the ground and the blood pumped out of them as they died. There was nothing glamorous about violence, although Shepherd couldn’t deny the adrenaline rush it gave him.

‘What about we go and play football tonight?’ asked Liam.

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can have a kickabout.’ Liam grinned. Then Shepherd remembered Major Gannon. ‘I’m sorry, Liam,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to meet someone.’ Liam’s face fell. ‘I’m really sorry. It’s important.’

‘It’s always important,’ said Liam. He put down what was left of his burger.

‘Come on, finish your Big Mac and we’ll buy you some comics. Maybe a new game for your PlayStation.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ said Liam.

‘Tomorrow’s Saturday. We can play football then.’

‘Whatever.’

Shepherd could see he was close to tears. ‘Liam…’

‘I want to go home.’

Shepherd reached over to ruffle his son’s hair, but Liam leaned back, out of reach. Then he pushed himself out of his chair and headed for the door.

Shepherd walked through Harrods, taking a circuitous route through the perfumes department as he checked for a tail, then headed for the street behind the shop. The Special Forces Club was in a red-brick mansion block, typical of the upper-class residences in Knightsbridge. There was no plaque on the wall to identify it: it had been taken down in the wake of the terrorist attacks in America. The front door was never locked – the club was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

There was a small reception desk in the hallway, manned by a short, stocky former SAS staff sergeant who had once killed three men with his bare hands. Shepherd nodded at him as he signed in. ‘How are they hanging, Sandy?’

‘Fine, sir,’ he said, with just a touch of irony. There were no ranks in the club.

Shepherd jogged upstairs to the first-floor bar. He saw Major Gannon sitting in a winged leather armchair by the window. Shepherd ordered a Jameson’s and ice from the white-jacketed waiter and went over to shake hands. As he sat down in an armchair, he saw the Major’s metal briefcase by the wall. It contained the secure satellite phone that those in the know called the Almighty.

‘Working hard, Spider?’ said Gannon.

‘No rest for the wicked. Immigration scams. People-smuggling.’

‘The new frontier,’ said the Major. ‘Last I heard there was more money to be made out of people-trafficking than there was from drugs.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘I think that, pound for pound, cocaine still has the edge, but overall you’re right. It’s a bigger business.’

‘With less of a downside,’ said the Major.

‘Yeah. Get caught with a few hundred kilos of a class-A drug and they’ll throw away the key. Get caught with a containerload of Chinese workers and you’d be unlucky to get three years. Plus the traffickers get paid in advance, cash on the nail. The going rate into the UK is six thousand dollars. The drugs guys don’t get their money until the drugs are delivered.’

‘We’re in the wrong business,’ laughed the Major. ‘Here we are, defending the free world for a pittance and the chance of a pension, while the bad guys live like princes.’