Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

Shepherd put his phone on the kitchen counter. He hoped the investigation hadn’t run into problems.

Shepherd took a Piccadilly Line train from South Ealing to South Kensington, where he changed platforms and waited for an eastbound Circle or District Line train. He let the first two trains go by to check that he wasn’t being shadowed. The third was on the Circle Line and he sat opposite two Italian tourists, facing the platform. There was a copy of Metro, the free newspaper, on the seat next to him and he flicked through it as the train headed east, but couldn’t concentrate and soon tossed it aside. The Italian couple were pointing at the Tube map above his head and murmuring to each other.

Shepherd folded his arms and closed his eyes. He knew why he was tense: Victoria station was down the line. It had been more than six months since he’d shot the would-be suicide-bomber on the westbound platform, then left the station unchallenged and been picked up by one of Gannon’s men in an unmarked car. The CCTV footage of the fatal shooting had been erased, and the body removed by MI5 technicians, who had also sanitised the area. An hour after Shepherd’s last shot had echoed around the tunnel it was as if nothing had happened.

The train stopped and Shepherd opened his eyes. Sloane Square. The Italian tourists got off and three black teenagers got on, baseball caps, Puffa jackets and baggy jeans. They sat opposite Shepherd and started talking about football. Shepherd closed his eyes again. The killing ran through his mind in slow motion. Running through the tunnel on to the platform. The man, his back to Shepherd, wearing a brown raincoat, black trousers and black shoes, his hair jet black and glistening under the lights. Shepherd raising his Glock, the gun kicking, the front of the man’s forehead exploding in a shower of blood, brain matter and bone fragments. Firing again. And again. The man slumping to the floor. Shepherd pumping more rounds into his head at close range.

The train moved off again. He didn’t feel guilty about what he’d done. There was no way he could have called a warning, not when the terrorist had his finger on the trigger. He had done the only thing he could, and neutralised the threat. The American at the Special Forces Club sprang to his mind and he smiled. The terrorist had been well neutralised.

One of the youths glared at him, showing a gold tooth. ‘What you laughing at?’ he sneered.

Shepherd smiled amiably. ‘Nothing, really,’ he said.

‘Someone might wipe that grin off your face,’ said the youth, leaning forward. His companions were sniggering maliciously and clenching their fists.

Shepherd shrugged. ‘You could try, I suppose,’ he said.

A man in a suit with a shiny leather briefcase turned away pointedly, not wanting to get involved.

‘That a real Rolex?’ asked the young man, jerking his head at Shepherd’s watch.

‘I hope so,’ said Shepherd.

‘I want it!’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Shepherd.

The train swayed as it rattled through the tunnel. The youth’s hand disappeared into the pocket of his Puffa jacket and reappeared with a flick-knife. ‘Give me your watch and your mobile,’ he said, and got to his feet. His thumb depressed the silver button on the handle and a gleaming blade snapped out.

Shepherd’s left hand grabbed the boy’s wrist and twisted savagely. At the same time he hit his throat with the back of his right hand, hard enough to cause intense pain but not to splinter the cartilage. The knife dropped from the youth’s fingers and clattered on the floor of the carriage. His hands went to his throat, as his mouth opened and closed like that of a stranded goldfish. Shepherd grabbed his jacket and lowered him on to his seat. The others sat where they were, too stunned by the violence to move. Shepherd kept his eyes on them as he bent to pick up the knife. He retracted the blade, then slid it into the back pocket of his jeans and sat down.

The train burst out of the tunnel and into Victoria. The injured youth’s two friends helped him out on to the platform. They jeered at Shepherd as the doors closed and made obscene gestures, but he could see the fear in their eyes.

The train moved off. The businessman with the briefcase nodded approval but Shepherd ignored him: he took no pride in his ability to use violence, even when it was controlled – he could easily have put the youth in hospital, or worse. But now he’d attracted attention, and that was never a good thing. He felt the knife pressing into his backside. It was an offensive weapon: just carrying it could have earned the boy a prison sentence. Shepherd had seen from the look in his eyes that he would have used it without any thought of the consequences. It made no sense to stab someone on the Tube for a watch and a mobile: every platform and exit was covered by CCTV cameras.

The train plunged into the tunnel. Did he really make a difference? Shepherd wondered. Would anything he did as an undercover cop make the world a better place? He’d stopped a suicide-bomber, but al-Qaeda continued to wage war against the West. He’d put drug-dealers behind bars, but cocaine and heroin continued to flood into the country. He’d put away armed robbers, murderers and fraudsters, but for every one he put away there were a dozen more to take their place. As a soldier he’d fought in wars, and wars could be won and lost. But the war against crime was never-ending because the fight was against human nature. He sighed. What the hell? It was his job, and he could only do it to the best of his ability. If the world was going to hell in a basket, that was the world’s problem, not his.

He got off the train at Embankment, walked out of the station and down to the Thames, where he stood and watched the London Eye, the huge ferris wheel that dominated the South Bank. He glanced around, searching for any faces he might recognise from the train but saw none and began to walk slowly across Westminster Bridge, with the Houses of Parliament to his right. The wind tugged at his hair and he turned up the collar of his leather jacket.

Hargrove preferred to meet in public places – sporting events were a favourite, or tourist attractions. In the unlikely event that either of them was followed, a watcher would stand out among sports fans or tourists.

Hargrove was sitting at a table outside a cafe with a cup of coffee, wrapped up against the cold in a long black coat and a scarlet scarf. Shepherd ordered a cappuccino and sat next to him.

‘Everything okay?’ asked Hargrove.

Shepherd told him what had happened on the Tube.

‘Bastards,’ said the superintendent.

‘It’s the way of the world,’ said Shepherd. ‘Kids with no hope and nothing to lose. Crime is pretty much their only option and once they take that route they either end up in prison or dead.’

‘By choice, Spider. Let’s not forget that. Everyone makes choices.’

‘Maybe.’ He sighed. ‘He pulled a knife on me in a Tube train.’

‘He was lucky you only winded him. You could have done a lot worse.’

Shepherd smiled. ‘Yeah. I’m sure he sees it that way. He’ll be on liquids for a week.’ A pretty blonde waitress brought him his coffee and he waited until she’d left before he leaned towards Hargrove. ‘Any joy identifying the guys from yesterday?’

The superintendent took two photographs from the inside pocket of his coat and laid them in front of Shepherd. They were surveillance pictures, taken from high up with a long lens. In one the thickset Asian was taking the rucksack from Shepherd. In the other, the taller, thinner man was watching as Shepherd flicked through the banknotes in the sports bag. Hargrove tapped the man with the rucksack. ‘Salik Uddin,’ he said. ‘British passport, but born in Bang ladesh. Like ninety per cent of Bangladeshis in this country, he’s from the Sylhert region.’