Hard Landing (36 page)

‘I want to play with my PlayStation.’

‘Go on, then,’ said Shepherd, and left him to set it up. He went into the kitchen, where Moira was busying herself over a casserole. ‘It’ll be ready in an hour or so,’ she said. ‘Do you want mash or chips?’

‘Anything’s fine,’ said Shepherd. He sat down at the kitchen table and poured himself a cup of tea. He didn’t take sugar but he stired it round and round, with a teaspoon, staring into the vortex. ‘I can’t believe it’s happened. It’s not sunk in yet.’

Moira bent down and put the casserole into the oven. When she straightened up there were tears in her eyes. Suddenly it hit Shepherd that Moira had lost her only daughter. He’d been so tied up with his own and Liam’s pain that he hadn’t considered how Moira must be feeling. She only had two children – Sue, and a son who was in Australia and whom she was lucky to see once a year. Her lower lip was trembling.

Shepherd stood up quickly and went over to her. ‘Oh, God, Moira, I’m sorry,’ he said, and put his arms round her.

‘I’m not going to cry, I’m not,’ she said.

‘It’s okay,’ said Shepherd, stroking the back of her head. ‘Really, it’s okay.’

‘It’s not fair.’ She sniffed. ‘She never did anyone any harm, she loved everybody, she didn’t deserve to die like that. Damn it, damn it, damn it.’

It was the first time Shepherd had heard his mother-inlaw swear. Tears sprung into his own eyes but he fought them back.

‘I never thought I’d be burying my daughter,’ said Moira. ‘Children aren’t supposed to die before their parents.’

A tear escaped, and trickled down Shepherd’s right cheek; he brushed it away on Moira’s shoulder.

‘A stupid car accident,’ said Moira. ‘A stupid, stupid accident. If she’d driven another way to school, if the truck hadn’t been there, if she’d seen it sooner – there are so many “ifs” that it tears me apart. She shouldn’t be dead. It’s not right. It’s not fair.’

She sobbed into his chest and Shepherd stood there, his arms round her. It was the first time he’d ever held his mother-in-law. The first time he’d ever seen her cry. There were so many firsts. But with Sue there’d be no more. They’d had their last meal together. Their last sex. Their last fight. Everything to do with Sue was now in the past.

Shepherd helped Moira to a chair and poured her a cup of tea. He gave her a piece of kitchen towel to dry her tears.

‘I never wanted her to marry you,’ she said.

‘I know,’ said Shepherd. Moira and her bank-manager husband had made that clear from the start. They had regarded Shepherd as unsuitable, because of both his working-class background and his profession. There was nothing they could do about his parentage, but they did all they could to persuade him to leave the Regiment. He’d steadfastly refused, and it was only when Sue had threatened to elope that Moira and Tom had caved in and agreed to a full church wedding. All Shepherd’s Regimental friends were told to dress in civvies, but he was delighted that they had worn small SAS pins in their lapels.

‘She loved you so much, you know that?’ said Moira.

‘Yes,’ said Shepherd.

‘We told her, marrying a soldier leads to nothing but heartbreak.’

Shepherd put his hands round his cup of tea. Sue had kept the cups for best and they usually drank from mugs, but Moira didn’t have a mug in her house. It was always cups and saucers. Tears streamed from his eyes and he put his head down so that his forehead rested on the edge of the table.

Carpenter nodded at Lloyd-Davies as he walked along the landing. ‘How’s it going, Miss Lloyd-Davies?’ he asked.

‘Hunky-dory, thanks for asking,’ said Lloyd-Davies.

‘Your hair looks good like that,’ said Carpenter.

Instinctively her hand went up to touch it.

Carpenter smiled. ‘It shows off your cheekbones.’

Lloyd-Davies was half flattered and half annoyed. She knew he was only trying to press her buttons: Carpenter could turn the charm on anybody and it just happened to be her turn. But it was the first time she’d tried wearing her hair tied up and not one of her colleagues had noticed.

Carpenter leaned against the railing, looking down at the prisoners congregating on the ground floor. The evening meal was about to be served. Usually one of his men fetched his food for him, but today he had reason for mingling with the general population.

He headed down the metal stairs. The food had arrived and inmates were lining up with plastic trays. A couple of guys at the head of the line motioned for Carpenter to cut in front of them, but he shook his head. He saw Lee at the pool table, practising his stroke, and went over to watch him. ‘How’s it going, Jason?’

Lee straightened and put his cue back in the rack. ‘Same old, same old.’

‘Your cellmate’s got a pass, then?’

‘Glasgow cops have taken him up north for an ID parade.’

Lee moved to get past him, but Carpenter gripped his elbow. ‘Hang on a minute, Jason, I want to pick your brains.’

Lee looked uncomfortable, but stayed where he was, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

‘What’s he like, Macdonald?’ asked Carpenter.

‘Keeps himself to himself. Doesn’t say much.’

‘Listens a lot, does he?’

‘Just stays quiet.’

‘Hard or soft, would you say?’

‘He’s civilised, that’s for sure, but if push came to shove he’d shove back.’

Carpenter nodded thoughtfully. ‘Has he said much about the job he was done for?’

‘Armed robbery, some warehouse out at Gatwick. Silicon chips, he said. State-of-the-art stuff. Went in with shotguns and it all went tits-up.’

‘What about the guys with him?’

‘Hasn’t said a word about them.’

‘He was in to see his brief yesterday, wasn’t he?’

Lee nodded. ‘Yeah, said he was looking for more cash. You know what lawyers are like. Bloody leeches.’

‘They pulled him out of the gym, like the meeting wasn’t expected.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I heard.’

‘Did he say anything about it back in the cell?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like, was the visit by the cops a surprise? Did his brief tell him the Jocks were on their way?’

Lee’s brow furrowed as he concentrated. ‘Nah, he didn’t say nothing. Just lay on his bunk.’ He chewed the inside of his mouth. ‘He was upset. Really upset. Maybe he did know they were coming to get him.’

‘You saw him being taken out, yeah?’

‘Yeah. Amelia took him.’

‘How did he seem then?’

Lee rubbed his chin. ‘Okay. Called to me to tell me what was happening.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Yeah, but it was kosher. Hamilton was having a laugh about it later. Little old lady took pellets in the leg when he was knocking over a post office. She’s in intensive care so Macdonald gets a day out.’

Carpenter patted Lee’s shoulder. ‘Do me a favour, Jason.’

‘Anything, Gerry.’

‘Keep an eye on him when he gets back. Ear to the ground, yeah?’

‘You want me to go fishing?’

‘No need for that. Just keep a watching brief.’

‘No problem. Whatever you want’s fine by me.’

Carpenter winked at him and went over to the food line. Eric Magowan was standing behind a tray of lasagne with a metal spatula in his hand. He was a tall, cadaverous man in his fifties who’d been accused of poisoning three old women at the nursing-home where he’d worked as a care assistant. He’d been given the hotplate job on the basis of his catering experience, but Carpenter reckoned that the screws got a sadistic pleasure from having a poisoner, albeit an alleged one, serving meals. Magowan saw Carpenter and said something to the men in the line. They parted to allow him space. A prisoner handed Carpenter a tray.

‘How’s it going, Eric?’ said Carpenter. ‘What’s least likely to make me ill, huh?’

Liam was engrossed in a video game, his thumbs almost in spasm over the control pad of his PlayStation, his eyes fixed on the screen where a shotgun was blowing away Russian soldiers.

‘You know they’re illegal,’ said Shepherd, as he dropped on to the sofa next to his son.

‘What are?’ asked Liam, still watching the screen.

‘Shotguns. Can’t use them in war. They’re against the Geneva Convention.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The rules of war.’

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said Liam. ‘You can use rifles but you can’t use shotguns?’

‘Them’s the rules,’ said Shepherd.

‘Guns are supposed to kill people, right?’

‘Sure.’

‘So why can’t soldiers use shotguns? They do more damage than regular guns.’ On screen he blasted away at a Russian trooper, whose head dissolved in a cloud of red mist. ‘Look at that!’ he said.

‘Yeah. Doesn’t this game have some sort of parental guidance warning?’

‘Mum always lets me play it.’

Shepherd smiled to himself. From the age of three Liam had tried to play him off against Sue, and vice versa. ‘Your dinner’s ready.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

Shepherd didn’t feel hungry either, but he knew they both had to eat. ‘Your gran’s gone to a lot of trouble,’ he said. ‘Try to eat something to make her feel better, okay?’

‘Okay.’ Liam went on playing his game.

‘Now,’ said Shepherd.

‘Okay.’

Shepherd picked up his son and shook him until he dropped the control pad, then carried him, giggling, into the kitchen. Moira had set the table for three, using Sue’s best china.

Liam frowned at the plates. ‘Mum doesn’t let us use those, they’re for best,’ he said.

‘It’s okay,’ said Shepherd.

‘I didn’t know . . .’ said Moira.

‘It’s fine, really,’ said Shepherd.

‘Mum always lets us eat in front of the TV,’ said Liam.

‘Well, we’re eating here tonight,’ said Moira, using a ladle to pour helpings of beef stew on to the plates.

Shepherd sat down. Moira had put mashed potatoes and boiled carrots into two bowls. He heaped vegetables on to Liam’s plate, then helped himself.

Moira sat down, smiled at them, then closed her eyes and put her hands together in prayer. Liam looked at his father, who nodded at him to follow suit and they put their hands together as Moira said grace. The prayer was short and to the point, but Shepherd barely heard the words. He didn’t believe in God. His time in the SAS had destroyed whatever religious beliefs he might ever have held, and his police career had done nothing to convince him that a higher power was taking care of things. The world was a mean, vicious place where the strong devoured the weak and where bad things happened to good people. Shepherd wanted nothing to do with any god that countenanced such unfairness.

Carpenter lay on his bunk, staring out of the small barred window above his desk at a sliver of the moon. Along the landing he could hear spyglasses clicking as a member of the night staff did the hourly visual check. Carpenter could never understand its purpose: if an inmate was serious about suicide, they’d simply wait until it had been done before they went ahead. An hour was more than long enough to fashion a noose from a torn pillowcase or cut a wrist.

Carpenter’s spyglass flicked open. He didn’t react. Then it closed. He was still staring at the moon. The inspection hatch below the spyglass opened. That was unusual. He sat up. A hand appeared and tossed a folded piece of paper into the cell. The hatch was shut. Carpenter rolled off his bunk and picked up the note. The spyglass clicked open. An eye winked and the spyglass closed. Carpenter switched on his light and opened the note: ‘Phone me.’

He took his CD player off its shelf and used the metal clip from his ballpoint pen to unscrew the back. He laid the four screws on his blanket, then eased off the plastic casing. The tiny Nokia phone was tucked behind the left speaker and the battery behind the circuit board. Carpenter’s cell was rarely turned over, and even when it was he was usually given plenty of notice. Any search was generally cursory, but that didn’t mean there was any point in taking risks so the mobile was always well hidden. He always kept the battery out of the phone to minimise the risk of it accidentally discharging. He clipped the battery into place, switched on and tapped out a number. The phone rang for some time and Carpenter cursed. ‘Come on, Fletcher, you lazy bastard,’ he muttered.

Just as he was convinced that the answering-service was going to kick in, Fletcher answered. ‘Yes, boss?’

‘What’s happening, Kim?’

‘We’ve found Roper.’

‘Where?’

‘Milton Keynes.’

‘Safe-house?’

‘Seems so. We’re taking a run up today.’

‘Softly, softly, yeah? If they know that we know, they’ll bury him so deep we’ll need a submarine to get to him.’

Shepherd tucked the duvet under his son’s chin and kissed his forehead. He smelt of spearmint: Shepherd had made sure he’d cleaned his teeth for a full two minutes, despite Liam’s protests that his mother never made him do it that long. Now Liam mumbled something in his sleep, then started to snore quietly.

Shepherd closed the bedroom door and went downstairs. There was a bottle of Jameson’s in the kitchen cupboard over the fridge and he poured himself a large measure. He added a splash of tap water and took it through to the sitting room where Moira was sitting on the overstuffed sofa in front of the television. She frowned critically at the drink in his hand but didn’t say anything. Moira was a confirmed teetotaler and always had been.

‘Straight off to sleep,’ said Shepherd, and sat in an armchair. There was something hard under the cushion and he pulled out a paperback book. Philip Roth.
The Human Stain
. She’d folded down the corner of the last page she’d read, about midway through. Shepherd sniffed the book, wondering when Sue had last held it. He wondered if she’d enjoyed it, and if she’d planned to give it to him to read. She’d always done that when she found a book she enjoyed. She’d loved to sit down with him and talk for hours about something they’d both read. She’d drink white wine, he’d have his whiskey, and truth be told it was Sue who did most of the talking. Most of the time Shepherd would just sit and listen to her, loving the enthusiasm in her eyes, the excitement in her voice. He’d kept telling her she should try writing herself, maybe do a course or join a book group, but she’d always insisted that it was reading she loved, not writing.