Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

Heading down didn’t require too much physical effort but he had to concentrate: one wrong step would send him tumbling. He tried to keep track of the number of stairs as he hurtled down. Sixty. Eighty. A hundred. He wondered how quickly the lift would descend – it had probably been designed for reliability and passenger numbers rather than speed. A hundred and twenty-five.

Ahead of him a sign indicated the direction of the two platforms. To the left, Harrow and Wealdstone. The North. To the right, Elephant and Castle. The South. Shepherd stood still and listened. He heard a rumble to his right and walked in that direction. He reached the platform as the train roared into the station. He caught a glimpse of the driver, a ginger-haired man with square-rimmed spectacles, then the carriages whizzed by. Fewer than a dozen passengers were waiting to board and Shepherd quickly scanned their faces. The man wasn’t there. The train stopped and three middle-aged women got off with five young children in tow. Shepherd waited until the train doors had closed, then walked away. That left the northbound platform. He took out his mobile even though there was no signal so far underground. He tapped out a message to Sharpe, NORTH, then put the phone back into his coat. It would keep trying to send the message until there was a clear signal.

He waited where he was until he heard the rumble of a train on the northbound track, then moved on to the platform. A breeze from the tunnel to his right heralded the imminent arrival of the train and a few seconds later it appeared, brakes screeching as it slowed to a halt. Shepherd’s quarry was at the far end of the platform, at the rear of the train. Shepherd walked slowly down the platform, hands deep in his pockets, and boarded the second carriage from the end. He sat close to the door that linked the two carriages so that he had a good view of the man, then ignored him as the door shut. There was no need to keep him under observation; all Shepherd wanted to know was at which station the man left the train.

At Paddington, Shepherd glanced across as the doors opened but the man was still seated, arms folded. The doors opened and passengers poured off, then more piled on, mainly businessmen with briefcases. Shepherd tensed in case the man made a last-minute dash as the doors closed, but they slammed shut and the train moved off.

An overweight woman in a dark raincoat was standing in the other carriage with her back to the connecting door, obscuring his view. It was a nuisance but not a major problem: while the train was moving, there was nowhere for the man to go.

The next stop was Warwick Avenue. The man stayed where he was, arms still folded, chin on his chest, almost as if he was asleep.

Maida Vale. The woman in the dark raincoat got off so Shepherd had a clearer view of his quarry.

Kilburn Park. The train slowed. The doors rattled open. Shepherd looked at his watch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. The man had stood up and was peering at the signs on the wall of the station as if confused as to where he was. Shepherd stood up, and as he did so the man hurried off the train. Shepherd followed – narrowly missing being caught in the closing doors.

He followed the man up the escalator to the surface, keeping close enough to him to see which way he went on leaving the station. The man passed through the ticket barrier, Shepherd behind him.

The Saudi folded his arms and stared at the woman. She stared back with unblinking brown eyes. She looked like a secretary in her dark blue two-piece suit. A woman trying to be a man, he thought contemptuously. ‘You have no right to keep me here,’ he said quietly. He had no need to raise his voice: he had the law on his side, and he knew his rights to the letter.

‘You’re absolutely correct,’ she said brightly.

The Saudi said nothing. He turned his head slowly and stared at his reflection in the large mirror to his right. There would be a man on the other side, he knew. The woman’s boss. Watching to see how he reacted to being questioned by a female. They were assuming that because he was an Arab he would be uncomfortable facing a woman in a position of authority, but they were wrong. She had a Bluetooth headset on her right ear and the Saudi was certain that her boss was relaying instructions to her. She was a robot, nothing more, a machine carrying out her master’s instructions.

The only furniture in the room was the metal table and the two chairs they were sitting on. The floor was tiled and the walls were concrete, painted pale green. To his left there were four plasma screens, all blank. Above them a large white-faced clock ticked off the seconds. Two small speakers were set into the ceiling.

‘I don’t have to say anything,’ he said.

The woman wore no wedding ring but she had the look of one who had been married. Her hands were together on the table, nails glistening with colourless varnish. Her lipstick seemed to have been freshly applied and her hair brushed. A typical woman, thought the Saudi. She needed to look her best, even for an interrogation.

‘I want a lawyer,’ he said, more firmly this time.

‘I’m sure you do,’ she said. She glanced at the clock and checked the time against her wristwatch. A Rolex, the Saudi noted, but a cheap one. Steel. The Saudi had half a dozen Rolexes, all gold, and four were studded with diamonds, but he rarely wore them. ‘I’m so glad it’s got a second hand,’ she said.

‘What?’ he said, frowning.

The woman nodded at the clock. ‘I always feel that unless a timepiece has a second hand, it’s not really performing its function. I do hate those digital models, don’t you? You have no real sense of time passing.’

‘Who the hell are you?’ hissed the Saudi. ‘Have you brought me here to talk about clocks?’ A brief smile flickered across her face and the Saudi realised that she regarded his flash of temper as a victory. ‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘At least I have the right to know the identity of my interrogator.’

‘Actually, Mr Ahmed, you have no rights at all. Not in here.’

‘I am a British citizen. I travel on a British passport. I am entitled to all the rights and privileges of a British citizen, and I am covered by the European Convention on Human Rights.’

‘Let me tell you what we know,’ said the woman. ‘And then I will tell you what we want to know.’

‘ Anta majnuun,’ said the Saudi contemptuously.

‘No, I am not crazy, Mr Ahmed.’

‘I demand to see your superior,’ said the Saudi.

‘I am in charge of this investigation.’

‘But you won’t even tell me your name.’

‘You do not need to know my name.’

The Saudi scowled. ‘Man ta’taqid annaka tukhaatib?’

‘I know exactly who I am talking to, Mr Ahmed. Now, if you would just remain quiet while I run through what we already know, I’d be most grateful. Your name is Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed although the name on your UK passport is just Abdal Ahmed.’

Her accent, when she said his name, was perfect, the Saudi noticed. She was refusing to speak to him in Arabic but he had no doubt that she was fluent.

‘Abdal Jabbaar – Servant of the Compeller. A religious name,’ she said. ‘You father is Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed. For many years he was a facilitator for the Saudi Royal Family, and became very rich as a result. Now he is semi-retired, although he still acts as a consultant when required.’

‘My father is a well-respected businessman,’ said the Saudi, but the woman held up a hand to silence him.

‘Please let me finish, Mr Ahmed. We need to get this out of the way as quickly as possible. Your father was granted British citizenship thirteen years ago, as were you, your mother and your siblings. You were educated at Eton, and the London School of Economics. A first-class degree. Well done.’