Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘What?’ said Shepherd.

‘I said I’m sorry,’ Liam mumbled.

‘You are in so much trouble,’ said Shepherd.

‘I know,’ said Liam. ‘They’re going to exclude me.’

‘No, they’re not,’ said Shepherd. He started walking away and Liam hurried after him. Shepherd held up his right hand, the thumb and first finger almost touching. ‘But you were this close to getting kicked out. You’re lucky the headteacher decided to give you a break. What the hell were you thinking of?’

‘I don’t know. It just looked kind of cool.’

Shepherd stopped dead. ‘ Cool? There’s nothing cool about knives.’

‘I’d never seen a flick-knife for real, only on telly.’

‘Yeah? Well, the reason for that, Liam, is that they’ve been banned since 1959. Since before I was born. And since 1988 no one has been allowed to carry any knife with a blade more than three inches long unless they’ve a very good reason. And why would you even think you could go waving it around at school?’ He started walking again.

Liam followed. ‘I wasn’t waving it, Dad. I was just showing it to my friends.’

‘Well, your little show-and-tell has cost you your PlayStation. And the TV comes out of your room. And I want you to help Katra with the washing and cleaning. You’re going to be in the garden every weekend, pulling up weeds.’

‘Okay,’ said Liam.

‘You know how dangerous knives are, right?’

‘Of course.’

‘And flick-knives are just about the most dangerous of them all. You press the button and the blade is there. It serves only one purpose. It’s not like a Swiss Army knife. The only thing you can do with a flick-knife is attack someone.’

Liam said nothing.

‘Do you know where I got it from?’

Liam shook his head.

‘Someone tried to stick it into me. And they weren’t playing. The only reason you carry a weapon like that is if you want to hurt someone. And you don’t want to hurt anyone, do you?’

‘No. I just wanted to show it to my friends.’

‘Can you imagine what would have happened if someone had taken it off you and started waving it around? Someone could have been cut – or worse. And it would have been your fault. What were you doing in my bathroom anyway?’

‘I wanted some toothpaste and I saw the knife by the basin.’

‘You shouldn’t have taken it, Liam. Hell, if you’d asked me about it I could have explained what it was and why I had it. Why didn’t you ask me first?’

Liam was silent.

‘Because you knew I’d say no, right?’

‘I guess.’

‘So you knew that what you were doing was wrong, didn’t you?’

Still Liam said nothing.

‘That makes it worse. You were being sneaky.’

‘I wasn’t, Dad.’

‘You thought that if I didn’t know you had it you could take it to school. That’s being sneaky. I thought you were better than that, Liam.’

Liam muttered under his breath.

‘What?’ said Shepherd.

‘I said I’m sorry,’ said Liam.

‘Okay,’ said Shepherd. ‘And I’m sorry, too.’

‘For what?’

‘For having it in the house. For not locking it away. We both made mistakes, kid, but it’s not the end of the world.’

‘So will you have a punishment, too?’ asked Liam.

Shepherd pointed a finger at his son. ‘It’s punishment enough being your father sometimes,’ he said. ‘Don’t push your luck. And we’d better get a move on, because you’re going to be cleaning the toilet before dinner.’

Shepherd took the Central Line to Tottenham Court Road, walked down Oxford Street, checking reflections in store windows, and headed into the Virgin megastore. He spent a full fifteen minutes in the classical-music section, then wandered round hip-hop, checking faces. There was no overlap.

He took the escalator to the ground floor, then walked along Oxford Street to Borders bookstore. He took the escalator up, then went down in the lift, did a final check at Oxford Circus Underground station then left through the Regent Street south exit and walked as rapidly as the crowd of shoppers allowed to the Ritz Hotel.

He felt underdressed as soon as he entered the lobby. Even the receptionists were better dressed than he was and for a moment he regretted not putting on a suit. He’d known there would be a dress code so he’d forgone his regular jeans and put on grey flannel trousers but he’d decided to keep his leather jacket. He didn’t exactly blend in, but here it was more about having the right attitude than about the name on the label inside a suit.

He heard the sound of clinking cutlery and a piano to his left and strode confidently in that direction. Middle-aged women in Gucci and Chanel, wearing Rolex or Cartier watches, were nibbling at finger sandwiches and sipping tea from delicate china cups, trying not to disturb their perfectly applied make-up. He scanned the faces. Botoxed foreheads. Lifted brows. Collagen lips. Bleached hair. Then he saw a face that was smiling naturally, without the benefit of a surgeon’s intervention. Dark chestnut hair, brown eyes that were almost black and a well-cut dark blue jacket and skirt that suggested quiet professionalism rather than ostentatious spending. She got to her feet and flashed him a small wave. He wasn’t surprised that she had recognised him so easily. Charlotte Button would have had access to his Metropolitan Police file: she would know everything about him and would have seen every photograph, surveillance and official, that had ever been taken of him.

He went over to her and shook her hand. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he said.

She glanced at the discreet Rolex on her left wrist. ‘You’re bang on time,’ she said. ‘I’ve only just got here myself.’

She sat down and smoothed her skirt. Shepherd sat opposite her. A young waiter in black hovered at her shoulder and she ordered afternoon tea for two, with English Breakfast and Blue Mountain coffee. Shepherd knew that the coffee was for him and she went up another notch in his estimation: that she had remembered he didn’t drink tea showed that she was attentive to detail.

‘I though we could have a bite as we talk,’ she said. ‘I’ve been on the go all day.’

‘No problem,’ he said. There were only half a dozen men in the room and he was the youngest by a good two decades. It wasn’t the sort of place Hargrove would have suggested as a venue.

When he looked back at Button, he was surprised to find her smiling at him. ‘I can hazard a guess as to what you’re thinking, Dan. I hope you don’t mind me being so informal, but I can hardly keep calling you Mr Shepherd.’

‘Dan’s fine.’

‘So, you’re probably thinking, tea at the Ritz, she’s a fast-track Oxbridge graduate, Cheltenham Ladies’ College perhaps, rode to hounds as a kid, father was a lawyer or maybe even a judge, mother spent her time on various charitable committees, family connections got her into Five, silver spoon, playing at a career until she finds the right man to make her happy. Am I close?’

‘Close.’ Shepherd grinned. ‘I’d have said your father was a doctor, though.’

Button smiled. ‘No, he was a lawyer,’ she said. ‘There’s the thing, Dan. I’ve been able to go through your file with a fine-tooth comb and there’s almost nothing I don’t know about you. But my working life is a closed book. Totally hidden from view to all but those with the highest security clearance.’

She stopped speaking as the waiter reappeared with a laden tray. With a minimum of fuss he put down the pot of tea and the cafetiere of coffee, a selection of sandwiches and cakes, then left with a courteous half-bow. ‘Isn’t the service just out of this world?’ she said to Shepherd.

Shepherd figured that the question was rhetorical, so he shrugged. She picked up the cafetiere and poured coffee into his cup, then added a splash of milk. Just as he liked it. He glanced at her left hand. No wedding ring. Her nails were short with clear varnish. And there was a faint nicotine stain between the first and second fingers of her right hand. At least she had one weakness.