Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd, putting his shirt back on.

‘You heard he’s leaving, right?’

‘Onwards and upwards.’

‘Hard act to follow,’ said Singh.

‘No question.’

‘You heard about his replacement?’

Shepherd shrugged. Singh was on attachment from NCIS and, as such, wasn’t a full member of Har grove’s team so he didn’t want to say too much. ‘I’ve only just found out he was moving on,’ he said. ‘Why? What have you heard?’

Singh stashed the equipment in his briefcase. ‘Just that he’s going to New Scotland Yard. Office job.’

‘Promotion, right?’

‘Yeah. Chief super. At least we’ll have friends in high places.’

Shepherd drank two cups of coffee and ate a beef-salad sandwich before he drove back to London. It was seven thirty in the morning when he parked in front of his house. Liam was sitting at the kitchen table, eating toast and jam.

‘What happened to the cheesy scrambled eggs?’ asked Shepherd, dropping on to a chair opposite him.

‘I fancied a change,’ said Liam.

Katra appeared at the door. ‘You’re back!’

‘Well, if I’m not, a stranger just stole this kid’s toast.’ Shepherd grabbed a slice off Liam’s plate and stuffed it into his mouth.

‘Hey!’ shouted Liam.

‘I’ll make more,’ said Katra.

‘How were Gran and Granddad?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Okay. They’ve got a PlayStation Two.’

‘What?’

‘And a load of games.’

‘Well, that must be for your benefit. I can’t see Tom and Moira playing video games.’ He frowned. ‘Hey, didn’t I say that losing your PlayStation was part of your punishment?’

‘It wasn’t my PlayStation, it was Gran’s PlayStation,’ said Liam, speaking slowly as if Shepherd was hard of hearing. ‘Anyway, it was a PlayStation Two, not a PlayStation One.’

‘Sounds like you’re going to be a defence lawyer when you grow up,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s happening about the piano lessons?’ he asked.

‘What piano lessons?’ said Liam.

‘You wanted to learn the piano, right?’

Liam pulled a face. ‘The guitar’s better – bass guitar.’

Shepherd leaned back in the chair, grinning. ‘She likes somebody else, right?’

‘I dunno what you mean.’

‘The piano girl. She’s not as pretty as she was a few days ago. Hey, I’m not complaining. A guitar is a tenth the price of a piano.’

‘You’re going to buy me one?’

Shepherd held up a hand. ‘That’s not what I said. You’re grounded, remember? But you’ll be out on remission by Christmas, so unless you’ve fixated on the trombone by then, I don’t see why you can’t have one.’

‘Cool!’

‘Did your gran say anything about me?’

‘Asked how you were.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I said you were okay.’

‘And am I?’

‘What?’

‘Am I okay?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Yes.’

Shepherd leaned over and gave him a hug.

‘But you don’t half smell bad.’

Kathy Gift’s high heels clicked along the walkway as she headed towards the Starbucks outlet. Down to her left were the platforms of Paddington station, and below, harried-looking men in suits with briefcases next to their stools plucked small plates off the Yo Sushi conveyor belt. She smiled to herself. Fast food, literally.

She took off her raincoat and shook it, then went into the coffee shop. A woman in her forties was already getting to her feet. Gift wasn’t surprised at the ease with which Charlotte Button had recognised her. As an MI5 high-flyer, she would have had access to Gift’s police file, and more.

Button smiled and extended her hand. ‘Good to meet you, Dr Gift.’

‘Kathy, please,’ said Gift.

‘Excellent,’ said Button. ‘Titles do get in the way, don’t they? I’m Charlie.’ They shook hands. Gift noted the elegantly painted nails and the thin gold bracelet with half a dozen charms. It was a strangely old-fashioned piece of jewellery for an intelligence officer to wear, she thought, especially one who was meeting a psychologist.

‘My grandmother’s,’ said Button. ‘She left it to me and I always wear it on her birthday. What can I get you?’

Gift asked for a low-fat latte. As she sat down she wondered if she’d been staring at the charm bracelet. She was sure she hadn’t, but even a glance hadn’t gone unnoticed. Gift was normally the one who did the observing, picking up on the body language and subtle signals, spoken and unspoken, that gave her the clues she needed to assess the personality of her clients. It made her feel uneasy to be in the presence of someone equally adept at reading people. She was sure that Button had already noticed the Star of David on the gold chain round her neck, and the absence of a ring on her wedding finger.

She watched Button order the coffee. The other woman looked like the naturally slim type. Her heels weren’t low enough to be frumpy, or high enough to be tarty. Bally, perhaps. Or Gucci. Good legs, a skirt that ended a few inches above the knee, and a long jacket, a blue so dark it was almost black. Her hair shone glossily, black without a trace of grey. Her make-up was expertly applied, a touch of eye-shadow, mascara and lipstick, which might be Lancome’s Chilled Rose. Gift used the same colour. Button could have been a merchant banker or a sales director: efficient, confident, with an accent that suggested a Home Counties childhood and a public-school education. No wedding ring. A Rolex watch. Her money could have come from her inheritance or she might have a wealthy husband who didn’t mind that she didn’t wear a ring.

Button returned with the latte and placed it on the table, then sat opposite Gift. ‘I’m sorry to ask you to meet me here, but I’ve got a train to catch and I thought I’d kill two birds, as it were.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Gift. ‘Actually, I’m a caffeine addict.’ She smiled brightly but kicked herself mentally for the slip. Addiction was a weakness, and she didn’t want to show any in front of this woman.

Button raised her mug. ‘Me too,’ she said. She took a sip and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. ‘So, Dan Shepherd.’

‘Right,’ said Gift.

‘Superintendent Hargrove has told you about the new arrangement? The undercover unit is being co-opted into the Serious Organised Crime Agency and he’s moving on to pastures new. I’m taking some of his operatives into the agency. Others will return to regular police work.’

Gift nodded but didn’t say anything.

‘I’m interested in your assessment of Dan, as a person and as an undercover officer.’

‘You’ve seen my reports.’

‘I never rely solely on written reports,’ said Button. ‘People are always so much more careful when they commit to paper, aren’t they?’

‘The written word encourages accuracy and precision, of course.’

Button smiled encouragingly. ‘Of course. But we both know the world isn’t black and white. There are so many shades of grey. And it’s the grey I’m interested in.’

‘Specifically?’

‘You gave him a clean bill of health after your last session,’ said Button.

‘He was fit for undercover work,’ said Gift.

‘Your report is pass or fail, isn’t it? An operative is either suitable or not suitable?’

‘If I have specific reservations, I make a note of them,’ said Gift. ‘In Dan’s case, I had no reservations.’

‘He’s very intelligent, isn’t he? A quick thinker?’

‘His IQ is high, and he’s helped by having a photographic memory.’

‘I read that,’ said Button. ‘Is it genuinely photographic?’

‘Total recall of anything he sees or hears,’ said Gift. ‘He can remember content but not necessarily context. He could memorise a physics book, for instance, but that wouldn’t mean he could explain the laws of relativity to you. Knowing something and understanding something aren’t the same thing, which is why he never did especially well academically.’