Soft Target (14 page)

he doesn't get into fights. Everybody likes him.'

'He's got you as a role model, Spider. And he couldn't have asked for a better mother than Sue.'

'I don't think it's down to that. I don't remember teaching him the difference between right and wrong,' said Shepherd,

'but there isn't an ounce of badness in him. Then you look at the kids prowling in packs doing drugs and mugging other kids for their mobiles and you wonder why they went bad.

It's not too big a step from playing truant to dealing drugs,

and the next thing you know they're shooting each other with automatic weapons.'

'Kids go bad,' said Hargrove, 'and bad kids grow into bad adults, and our job is to put away as many of the bad guys as possible.'

'Treat the symptoms, not the disease?'

'Hell's bells, Spider, are you having a crisis of confidence?'

Shepherd didn't reply.

'Do you want to see our psychologist?' said Hargrove quietly. 'Talk things through?'

'I'm not crazy.'

'It's not about being crazy,' said the superintendent. 'It's about stress and how you deal with it. That's why we have a psychologist as part of the team, to nip problems in the bud. The last twelve months you've been through a lot.'

'I know.'

'Knowing it and dealing with it are two different things.

You never really grieved for Sue.'

Shepherd stopped walking and glared at Hargrove.

'Bullshit,' he said. 'Bull-fucking-shit.'

Hargrove put up his hands defensively. Tm just saying,

when it happened you were in prison undercover. You didn't 108 have time to deal with it. When you got out you had Liam to take care of. Then you wanted to get back into harness.

You needed to work, you said. I thought maybe you were right, but you've gone from one job to the next and maybe you need time to grieve.'

'I'm not the crying sort.'

'Again, crying and grieving aren't the same thing.'

'I'm not seeing a shrink. End of story.'

'Right. I'm just saying it's an option.'

'This isn't about Sue. Or Liam. Or my stress levels. It's about pissing on a forest fire.'

'If we don't try, if we let them get away with it, how does that make the world a better place? You were in Afghanistan with the SAS and we were supposed to have won that one,

but did it really solve anything? That doesn't stop us fighting for what we think is right.'

'And now I'm going up against other cops?'

'Cops who've gone bad, Spider. And in my book they're worse than dyed-in-the-wool villains. Is that what this is about? Going after cops?'

Shepherd started walking again. 'I'll be fine. Trust me.'

Shepherd drove his CRY towards London at a steady seventy miles an hour, resisting the urge to join the stream of executive cars whizzing by in the outside lane. He used his handsfree to phone an au pair agency in Ealing and arranged an appointment for the following morning at ten o'clock. He'd already filled in their questionnaire, but they required a personal interview before they would send a woman to his house. From the sound of it, it was easier to get into the SAS than on to the agency's books.

His second phone call was to Major Allan Gannon, who answered on the third ring.

'Not caught you at a bad time, have I?' said Shepherd.

'Spider! Business, social, or are your nuts in the fire again?'

It was a fair enough question. Usually when Shepherd phoned the major he needed a favour. He explained that he was about to join a police armed-response unit and that he needed a refresher course in the equipment and tactics he'd be using.

Gannon chuckled. 'Guess you're a little rusty,' he said.

'When?'

'Soon as possible,' said Shepherd.

'What are you doing over the next couple of days?'

'I'm on my way to London and I've a few things to do in the morning, but then I'm yours.'

'Come to the Duke of York barracks at noon,' said Gannon.

'Bring an overnight bag.' He cut the connection, leaving Shepherd to wonder what he had planned. One thing he was certain of: he was putting himself in good hands. He'd served with the major in Ireland, the former Yugoslavia, Sierra Leone and Afghanistan, and trained with him everywhere from the jungles of Brunei to the Arctic wastelands of northern Norway. There wasn't a man he trusted more.

There was a double-knock on the hotel-room door. Sewell was staring at a spreadsheet on his laptop. 'Go away,' he said.

'I don't need the bed turning down.'

'It's not Housekeeping, Mr Sewell,' said a man's voice. It was the superintendent.

Sewell got up and walked to the door. He was naked except for a hotel towel wrapped round his waist.

Superintendent Hargrove was wearing an immaculate pinstripe suit, a crisp white shirt and a blue tie with red cricket balls on it. He was holding two bottles of Bollinger.

'I gather this is your tipple.'

'Does this mean we're celebrating that shit Hendrickson being arrested?' asked Sewell.

no Hargrove looked pained. 'Not exactly.' He closed the door.

'We said Monday. Today's Tuesday. Forty-eight hours has become four days.'

'I'm sorry,' said Hargrove, 'I really am. It's just that this is bigger than we first thought.'

'Bigger than attempted murder?'

Hargrove looked around for somewhere to sit. Sewell had the only chair, facing his computer. 'Do you mind if I sit on the bed?' he asked.

'Suit yourself,' said Sewell. He popped the cork out of one of the bottles of champagne, went to the cramped bathroom and took two plastic cups off the glass shelf by the basin. He poured champagne into them and gave one to the superintendent. That Hargrove knew Bollinger was his favourite champagne suggested that he had done more than get the laptop from his car when he visited Sewell's house, but Sewell wasn't up to picking a fight. 'You realise you're running out of any goodwill you might have had?'

he said.

'I don't know what to say,' said Hargrove.

Sewell doubted that was true. The superintendent had obviously come to the hotel with something on his mind, and he'd never been lost for words during their previous conversations.

'Enough is enough,' he said. 'I've given you four days,

which is twice as long as you said it would take. You said you had all you needed to arrest Hendrickson.'

'We do,' said Hargrove.

'So arrest him. Throw the shit into a cell and let me get back to running my company.'

'I wish it was as simple as that,' said Hargrove. He sipped his champagne. 'I don't suppose there's any whiskey in the minibar is there?' he asked.

'There isn't a minibar. Hendrickson will have better facilities in prison than I've got here,' Sewell said.

in 'But you've got your computer. And I've given the sergeant cash for any food you want bringing in.'

'I want to go home,' said Sewell flatly.

'We need more time,' said Hargrove.

Sewell swore.

'Possibly the rest of this week.'

'I told you already, Hendrickson could be bleeding my company dry. By the time I get back into my office there might be nothing left. What then, Superintendent? The police will come up with three million quid, will they? Out of petty cash?'

'Actually . . .' Hargrove took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Sewell, who put down his beaker and opened it. It was from the chief constable of Greater Manchester, agreeing to reimburse him for any money he lost as a result of his co-operation with the ongoing investigation.

He would also guarantee a consultancy fee of twenty five thousand pounds, whatever the outcome of either case.

'He can do that?' asked Sewell.

'He can do whatever he wants with police funds,' said Hargrove.

'This guy you're after, the second investigation, he's big,

yeah?'

'Oh, yes,' said Hargrove. 'He's big.'

'Big kudos for you if you get him, commendations all round, the chief constable looks good?'

'If it wasn't important, we wouldn't have put your case on hold,' said Hargrove.

'So he's bigger than me, is that what you mean?' Sewell bristled. 'I sit here in this pokey hell-hole while you find bigger fish to fry?'

'No one's saying your case isn't important, Mr Sewell. Larry Hendrickson will go to prison for a long time, and rightly so.

But what we're working on now is a different sort of case. I 112 wish I could go into details, but I can't. What I can tell you is that the guy we're going after is a nasty son-of-a-bitch and the police here have had all sorts of problems with him. You'll win all sorts of Brownie points if you help take him out.'

Sewell reread the chief constable's letter. 'The twenty-five grand's mine whatever happens?'

'Providing you cooperate.'

'And if I come to you after this is over and tell you that as a result of that shit Hendrickson being in charge of my company I'm a hundred grand down, the Greater Manchester Police will write me a cheque to cover the loss?'

'That's what the letter says,' said Hargrove. 'The chief constable might want to see a breakdown of your losses, but I can't see him going back on his word.'

'All right, then.'

'You're okay to lie low for the rest of this week?' asked Hargrove.

'Yes, but not here,' said Sewell. 'I want an upgrade.'

'I don't think that'll be a problem. We'll move you tomorrow.'

'Five stars.'

'Agreed,' said Hargrove wearily.

'A suite. Not a room.'

Hargrove nodded.

'And sex,' Sewell added.

'I'm going to have to draw the line there, Mr Sewell,' said the superintendent.

'I've had nothing but my right hand for company,' said Sewell. 'That's a cruel and unusual punishment in my book.'

'I can't risk you meeting a girlfriend,' said Hargrove. 'It's only four or five more days.'

'It wouldn't have to be a girlfriend,' said Sewell. 'I'd use an escort agency. They'll send a girl round. I'll make sure it's not one I've had before.'

I 113 Hargrove rubbed the back of his neck. 'Okay,' he said wearily.

'And the sergeant uses his money to pay for it.'

'For God's sake, man!' said Hargrove.

Sewell shrugged. 'I can't use my credit cards, can I?' he said. 'Besides, if the chief constable wants me to be happy,

he'll pay.'

Hargrove stood up. 'I think I'd better go before you take the shirt off my back,' he said.

'It wouldn't fit,' said Sewell, grinning, 'but I'll have the tie.'

Angie Kerr climbed out of the shower and stood watching her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror as she towelled herself dry. The scab on her breast was about to come off and she dabbed it carefully with the edge of her towel. It wasn't the first time her husband had burned her, but if everything went to plan it would be the last. No more burns,

no more slaps, no more punches to the stomach that he knew would hurt but not leave a permanent mark. All his friends knew how he treated her. Sometimes when he abused her in public, she got a sympathetic glance or some small acknowledgement that they knew what she was going through, but they were all too scared of Charlie to say anything.

Eddie Anderson had come closest to talking to him about it. Charlie had punched her in the stomach while they were in the VIP section of Aces after she'd asked him to stop flirting with one of the waitresses. The girl was a tall, leggy blonde, barely out of her teens, and Charlie had had his hand on her backside, squeezing it as if he was checking a melon for ripeness. The girl was leading him on, flashing her eyes and flicking her hair, and she had known full well that Angie was his wife.

Angie had waited until she and her husband were alone before she told him she didn't like him making a fool of her. He'd 114 ~Jr I smiled coldly, then slammed his fist into her belly. She'd been unable to breathe for a minute or so, gasping as tears streamed down her face. Charlie had stood up and walked over to the bar where Eddie and Ray were drinking. Angie had just about recovered her breath when Eddie came over and told her he was to drive her home. Angie didn't argue. She knew that if she did, her husband would hurt her all the more.

He had given her his arm, she had taken it gratefully and they had walked out together. Angie would never forget the look of triumph on the waitress's face. She wondered if the girl knew what Charlie was like, if he ever showed her his violent side. Maybe he only needed one woman to dominate,

and it was her bad luck that he'd chosen her. Eddie had helped her into the back of the car, but he didn't say anything until he was sitting in the front with the engine running. He'd looked at her in the rear-view mirror. 'Are you all right, Mrs Kerr?' he'd asked.

He'd kept looking at her, waiting for her to answer. Angie had wondered what he expected her to say. If she'd said no,

she wasn't, that her husband had hit her one time too many,

would he have taken her to hospital? To the police station?

Had Charlie asked Eddie to pretend to be concerned to see how she'd react? And if she had told Eddie that she was sick to death of the beatings and the verbal abuse, would he have told Charlie, and would Charlie have made her life more of a misery than it already was?

'The way he treats you, it's not right,' Eddie said quietly.

This time she had seen concern in his eyes.

Angie had found herself smiling, even though her stomach felt as if it had burst. 'I'm okay, Eddie,' she'd said. 'I know he loves me really.'

Eddie had stared at her for several seconds, then put the car into gear. He hadn't spoken again all the way home, even when he'd walked her to the door.

Angie towelled her hair dry, brushed it, and sprayed Kenzo perfume around her neck. Charlie liked her to smell good when she got into bed. She turned off the light and walked into the bedroom.

He was standing by the window, looking up at the moonlit sky. 'I love you, Peaches,' he said, without turning.

She knew he meant it. But 'love' didn't mean the same to Charlie Kerr as it meant to most people. It meant control.

It meant ownership. He loved his car. He loved his house.