Hard Landing

Carpenter rubbed his chin. 'Let me think about it,' he said.

'You'd be doing me one hell of a favour. I'd owe you.'

'That's for sure,' said Carpenter. He headed up the stairs to the threes and his cell.

Shepherd leaned on the railing. A queue was already forming at the hotplate. One of the West Indians playing pool cheered and slapped the hand of his opponent. Shepherd realised that Needles was propped against the wall close to the pool table, staring up at him. Shepherd stared back. Needles pushed himself away from the wall and folded his arms. His lips curled back in a contemptuous snarl. Shepherd straightened, but continued to stare back at him. He wasn't worried by the show of aggression. He'd beaten the man once and he'd beat him again, if necessary. And the fact that Needles was being so up-front about his hostility meant that Shepherd could be prepared. He could feel hatred pouring out of the man and he knew that whatever Needles had planned wouldn't be long in coming.

'Don't tease the animals,' said a voice.

Shepherd turned to see Ed Harris behind him. 'He started it, miss,' he said, grinning.

'You didn't bother with the anger-management booklet, I take it.'

'This isn't about anger,' said Shepherd. 'It's about Needles down there wanting to do me harm and me not letting him.'

'Needles works for Digger, and Digger can pull together a dozen guys on this spur alone,' said Harris.

'Digger's not the problem,' said Shepherd.

'He'll back up his man if he has to.'

'We'll see.'

'Fighting on the wing makes life difficult for everybody. We all get banged up and that causes resentment.'

'Is that a threat, Ed?'

Harris smiled genially. 'I don't make threats, Bob. I'm a Listener. I help where I can.'

'I don't need help.' Shepherd gestured at Needles, who was still glaring up at him. 'You should talk to him. If anyone needs lessons in anger management, it's your man down there.'

Harris leaned on the rail, his back to the suicide mesh. 'This isn't racial, is it?'

'Give me a break,' said Shepherd.

'They come down on it really heavily in here, racial attacks.'

'You mean, has Needles got it in for me because I'm white?'

Harris snorted. 'It doesn't work that way. They'll see it as you picking on him because he's black and you'll be back on basic, maybe even removed from association, which means twenty-three hours a day in your cell.'

'It's nothing to do with his colour,' said Shepherd. 'It's about power and status. He wants everybody to know he's a big man.'

'And that upsets you?'

'Don't bother trying your amateur psychology on me, Ed,' said Shepherd. 'There's no power struggle going on. He doesn't have anything I want. He got heavy with me, I retaliated. That hurt his pride so now he wants to stamp on me. It'll make him feel better and show everybody how hard he is.'

'Just be careful, that's all I'm saying.' Harris headed down the stairs towards the hotplate.

Shepherd looked back at the ones. Needles was still glaring at him. Harris was right about one thing: if his quarrel with Needles erupted into open warfare the officers might well react by locking down the whole spur. Or, even worse, they might try to transfer Shepherd to another. If that were to happen then the only way for him to stay where he was would be for the governor to intervene and that sort of special treatment would only raise eyebrows among officers and inmates. There was no way Shepherd could allow that to happen, and the only way to prevent it would be to get in his retaliation first. He smiled down at Needles and made a gun of his right hand. He pointed it at the man: 'Bang,' he whispered to himself.

It was stifling inside the hood, and sweat was trickling down the back of Hargrove's neck. The car made a right turn and he took several small breaths, trying to quell the gag reflex.

'Are you okay, Sam?' asked Raymond Mackie. He was sitting next to Hargrove in the back of the Rover.

'I'll be a darn sight more okay when this bloody hood's off,' said Hargrove. The Rover made another turn and his stomach lurched. He had a throbbing headache and his mouth had filled twice with acidic vomit that he'd had to swallow. It wasn't how he'd planned to spend his Sunday afternoon.

'I'm sorry about the cloak-and-dagger,' said Mackie. 'It's as much for Roper's peace of mind as anything.'

'It's not a problem, Ray,' said Hargrove. 'I'd probably do the same if it was my man under siege.'

The car accelerated suddenly and Hargrove's stomach churned. He breathed in. The hood was made of black cotton and loose at his throat but, even so, the air he took into his lungs was hot and stifling. The Customs and Excise Head of Drugs Operations had handed it to him as they drove through north London and had requested apologetically that he put it on. Hargrove hadn't had to ask for a reason: he'd already been told that Roper's life had been threatened and that the location of the safe-house was known to only a handful of men from the Church. A more sensitive man might have taken the request as an insult, but Hargrove knew that the murder of Jonathon Elliott meant the police no longer held the moral high ground. He'd put on the hood and suffered in silence.

The Rover slowed and turned again, then braked and came to a halt. 'I'd be grateful if you'd keep the hood on for a little longer,' said Mackie. 'I'm sure you understand.'

Hargrove understood exactly. The procedure wasn't so much to keep him from seeing the safe-house, it was more to reassure Roper that all precautions were being taken to ensure his safety. Hargrove smiled, despite his discomfort. If there was ever a case of rushing to shut stable doors after horses had bolted, this was it.

The car moved as the driver climbed out, then the rear passenger door opened and Hargrove felt a light touch on his arm. 'Mind your head,' said the driver, and helped the superintendent out of the car.

Mackie walked with Hargrove to the front door, knocked, then guided him over the threshold. As soon as the door was closed, he removed the superintendent's hood.

Hargrove blinked in the hall light, then ran his hand over his hair. A man in his fifties was standing in a doorway, a woman with a tear-stained face behind him.

Mackie smiled amiably. 'Sandy, Alice, can I introduce Superintendent Sam Hargrove? I hope he will able to allay some of your fears.'

'Are you with the Drugs Squad?' asked Roper.

Hargrove shook his head. 'No, Sandy, I'm not.' He smiled at Alice. 'I don't suppose I could have a cup of tea, could I, Mrs Roper? I've been wearing that hood for the best part of an hour and I'm parched.'

Alice hurried off to the kitchen. Roper went back into the sitting room. A small colour television was on in the corner, the sound muted. Mackie and Hargrove followed him and sat down on the cheap red plastic sofa. Roper stood with his back to the television, his arms folded across his chest. 'With all due respect, I'm not happy about police involvement, not after what happened to Jonathon Elliott,' Roper said to Mackie.

'Superintendent Hargrove is not involved in your protection, nor will he be,' said Mackie. 'He's here only to offer you some reassurances. Just hear what he has to say.'

Roper looked as if he was about to argue, but then the fight went out of him and he sat down on an armchair, made of the same red vinyl as the sofa. It produced a soft farting noise as he settled into it and he looked pained. 'My wife hates this suite,' he said. 'Hates the whole house.'

'I can understand why,' said Hargrove. 'But it won't be for much longer. I gather you had a phone call?'

Roper nodded, then related what Carpenter's man had said. Hargrove listened in silence until he had finished. 'I'm not in the business of teaching anyone to suck eggs, but you realise that all he did was call your mobile? They've no idea where you are.'

'It was my personal mobile,' said Roper.

'Which means the number would be in general circulation,' said Hargrove. 'I agree that it is a worry how they got it, but it's not the end of the world.'

'They photographed my wife and children.'

'Gerald Carpenter doesn't hurt families,' said Mackie. 'He's a nasty piece of work but he's old school and, to the best of my knowledge, he's never hurt a woman or a child.'

'Other than by selling them drugs, you mean,' said Alice from the kitchen.

Hargrove nodded, conceding the point. 'What I mean is that the photographs and the threats to your family are just a way of intimidating you. I don't believe for one minute that he would actually carry them out.'

'My husband tells me that Carpenter has already killed a police officer. I have to say, if he'd told me that sooner I'd never have let him get into this.'

'The undercover agent he killed was in his way. And the shooter made sure that the agent's wife wasn't in the line of fire. Mrs Roper, I want to reassure you that your family are not in danger.'

'As far as you know.' She looked around the door.

Hargrove nodded again. 'Agreed, but I doubt that anyone knows Gerald Carpenter as well as I do.'

'You've only met him since he was arrested,' said Roper. 'I was close to the man on the outside. I drank with him, broke bread with him. I know very well how dangerous he is.'

'There was always a risk that he'd identify you. It's a risk you take every time you go undercover.'

Roper shook his head. 'This is different. Carpenter's getting help from someone, either within the Church or within the Drugs Squad. I don't mind going in to bat against a demon bowler, but I'm damned if I'm going to put my life on the line if members of my own team are helping to threaten my family.'

'We don't know for sure that there's a bad apple,' said Mackie.

'They know my date of birth,' said Roper. 'They know I'm due to retire. They have my mobile number. They know my home address. Someone's leaking, sir.'

'And because of that you're threatening to walk off the case?' said Mackie.

'I don't see I've any choice, sir. You can see the state my wife's in. The boys are like caged animals. I asked to be put in a safe-house and, fine, that's happened, but then I get a call on my mobile and it's all up in the air again. I don't know who I can trust any more.'

'Let's not get ahead of ourselves here, Sandy,' said Mackie. 'I know this is tough for you, but refusing to give evidence will just get you into even more trouble.'

'Is the job threatening me now, too?'

Mackie put up his hands as if trying to soothe a nervous horse. 'We've invested a lot of time, money and manpower on this case,' he said. 'We can't afford to have it go down the toilet. It's bigger than you, Sandy. It's bigger than all of us.'

'So you'd let a judge send me down for contempt, is that what you're saying? I don't believe I'm hearing this.'

Alice reappeared at the doorway with a tray of tea-things and some biscuits. She looked tired. Hargrove stood up and took the tray from her. 'Let me help you with that,' he said.

Alice pulled a small coffee-table in front of the sofa and Hargrove put the tray down on it. 'The biscuits are shop-bought,' she said. 'The oven is a mess.'

'They're fine,' said Mackie. He picked one up and took a bite. 'Delicious.'

Alice looked around the room. Mackie's ample frame took up most of the sofa and her husband was in the only armchair. Hargrove waved at his place on the sofa. 'Sit there, please, Mrs Roper.'

Alice sat down and poured milk into the cups. They were all chipped.

'I was just telling your husband what a terrific job he's doing, and how we do understand the stress you're all under,' said Mackie. 'I know that this house isn't the most comfortable of places, but it is secure, and at the moment that's what counts. How are the children bearing up?'

'They're upset. They're missing their friends and their school.'

'Where are they now?'

'In their room.' Alice's hand shook and milk dribbled on to one of the saucers. 'I don't want Sandy testifying,' she said.

She'd been watching too much American television, thought Hargrove, but he didn't say anything. Witnesses in UK courts gave evidence, they didn't testify.

'I understand your fears,' said Mackie, looking around for somewhere to put the uneaten half of his biscuit. Hargrove handed him a plate. It was scarred from years of washing. 'What you've been through so far is more than we could ever have asked from you. It's above and beyond the call of duty.'

'It's not me I'm worried about,' said Alice. Her hand shook even more and she put down the milk jug and sat with her fingers entwined in her lap. 'It's the children.'

'I know, but as I have explained they are absolutely not at risk,' said Hargrove. 'The man we're dealing with doesn't hurt women or children, certainly not civilians.'

'He sent us photographs,' said Alice.

'To intimidate your husband,' said Mackie.

'He's not testifying,' said Alice. She was staring at her fingers.

'Can I just ask you both to hear what Superintendent Hargrove has to say?' said Mackie. 'He's come a long way and I made him wear a ghastly hood most of the time he was in the car.'

Alice smiled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Hargrove pulled a crisp white handkerchief from his top pocket and gave it to her.

Mackie looked up at Hargrove and nodded. Hargrove moved over to the door so that he could see Roper and his wife. He waited until they were both looking at him before he spoke. 'First let me reinforce what Mr Mackie has said. You've both been through far more than we could reasonably have asked of you. And do sympathise with your desire to put the matter behind you. But please do believe me when I say that you and your family are under the best possible protection. I know you're upset about the death of the Drugs Squad undercover officer, but he was out in the open, going about his daily business. He wasn't being protected, he wasn't taking anything more than normal precautions.'

'Why weren't you protecting him?' asked Alice.

'He wasn't one of my officers,' said Hargrove. 'I don't work for the Drugs Squad. Nor do I report to the Metropolitan Police. I'm not passing the buck by saying that. Even if he had been working for me, I doubt that we'd have handled things any differently. Jonathon Elliott didn't realise he was in jeopardy. No one did. He assumed his cover was intact and that no one knew his true identity. The attack came out of the blue.'

'They didn't threaten him first?' asked Roper.

'Not as far as we know,' said Hargrove. 'But I'm not here to talk about the measures taken to ensure your safety. That's in the hands of the Church. I'm here to let you know that we haven't finished with the Gerald Carpenter investigation. Far from it. We have a man undercover as we speak, trying to get close to him.'

'But he's in prison . . .' said Roper. His voice tailed off as he grasped the implications of what the superintendent had said.

'As a rule I wouldn't be discussing operational matters with you,' said Hargrove, 'and certainly not with a civilian,' he nodded at Alice. 'But under the present circumstances, coupled with the fact that you are now effectively isolated from the outside world, we've decided to bend the rules.'

Roper leaned forward in his armchair, his head tilted to one side as he stared at Hargrove.

'I head up an undercover unit that reports directly to the Home Office,' said Hargrove. 'We are a police unit, but separate from all police forces. If and when a chief constable requires our assistance, a request is made to the Home Secretary. If it is approved, our unit is seconded to a particular case. More often than not it involves the positive targeting of a named individual, someone who has been able to evade conventional police operations. A request was made last week for my unit to move against Gerald Carpenter, and an operation to that effect is now in place.'

'You've got a guy undercover in a Category A prison?' said Roper, astonishment on his face. 'He must have balls of steel.'

Hargrove smiled. That pretty much described Spider Shepherd. 'His mission is two-fold,' the superintendent continued. 'We are trying to find out how Carpenter is continuing to run his organisation from behind bars, and we hope our man will be able to gather evidence that Carpenter was responsible for ordering the killing of Jonathon Elliott. Our man is risking a lot - everything, in fact - and I wanted you to be awareof that. He's undercover twenty-four hours a day in horrendous conditions that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. And if you do pull out and the case against him collapses, Carpenter walks and our man will have risked his life for nothing.'

'This man, he's a policeman?' asked Alice.

'He's a former soldier but he's a policeman now. He's been undercover for most of his police career, but this is the most dangerous mission he's ever undertaken.'

'And does he have a family?' Alice looked anxiously at Roper.

'Yes, he does,' said Hargrove. 'And his wife is as fearful for his safety as you are for your husband's.'

Roper was smiling now. 'You're going to get him, aren't you? Carpenter's going down?'

'We're going to get him,' said Hargrove. 'You and my team. Together we'll put him where he belongs. Hopefully for most of the rest of his life.'

'Sandy . . .' said Alice.

'You heard the man, Alice,' said Roper. 'This isn't just about us now. It's not as if the whole case rests on my evidence.' He looked up at Hargrove earnestly. 'Conspiracy to murder, right?'

'At the very least,' said the superintendent.

'That's life,' Roper said to his wife. 'He'd be awayfor life. And this time it wouldn't all be hanging on my evidence.' Alice's shoulders slumped. Roper got up and stood next to her. Then he knelt beside her and took her hands. 'What if it was the other way round?' he said. 'What if it was me in prison, putting my life on the line, and he was at home with his family? Wouldn't you want him to do what was right?'

Alice looked at him. A tear ran slowly down her cheek, but as he was holding her hands she couldn't wipe it away. 'It's not about what's right and what's wrong,' she said. 'I know that what you're doing is right, but I'm not a child. I know that sometimes bad people get away with doing evil things, and good people get hurt. I don't want our family hurt, Sandy.'

'You won't be hurt, I promise.'

'That's not a promise you can make,' she said. She took a deep breath, then looked across at Mackie. 'My husband can do what he wants,' she said, her voice suddenly stronger, 'but the children and I are not staying here.'

'Mrs Roper--' began Mackie, but Alice continued to speak.

'We're leaving now. I have a sister in Bournemouth. We'll go and stay with her.'

'Mrs Roper, that's really not wise,' said Mackie.

'You can have men watching the house there, but if what you say is true we'll be in no more danger there than we are here. It's Sandy who's in the firing line, so it makes sense for us to be as far away from him as possible.'

Mackie and Hargrove exchanged a look. Roper stood up. 'It's probably for the best,' he said to Mackie. 'It's a guest-house near the seafront. The Church could put people in there without attracting suspicion.'

'And you're still with us on this?'

'One hundred per cent,' Roper said. He smiled reassuringly at his wife, but she looked away, stony-faced.

Shepherd dropped to the ground in the corner of the exercise yard and started doing slow press-ups. He did twenty on the flat of his hands, then another twenty on his fingertips. He rolled on to his back and did a hundred crunches, then leg-raises.

As he stood up he saw Needles in the far corner, deep in conversation with Dreadlocks. Both West Indians turned to look at him and he knew they were talking about him. He had the feeling that whatever truce there had been with Dreadlocks following the fight on the landing was about to be rewritten. He'd already assumed that Needles wouldn't come for him one-on-one.

Shepherd knew that as long as he was in the yard he was safe. When the attack came it would be out of sight of the officers and CCTV cameras, in a cell or the showers. And this time Needles wouldn't be fighting empty-handed. It would start with a mug of boiling water thrown into his face or a plastic toilet-brush handle carved into a spike and thrust between his ribs. Needles wouldn't be fighting fair because nothing in prison was fair: all that mattered was winning.

Shepherd started touching his toes, swinging his arms and building up a rhythm. It was four o'clock in the afternoon so the inmates were allowed another forty-five minutes out of their cells before the evening meal was served and they were locked up for the night. If anything was going to happen that day, it could only happen within the next forty-five minutes.

Shepherd straightened up and started to walk round the perimeter of the exercise yard. He went clock-wise - everyone did, even though there was no rule that prevented them going the other way.

Lee and his football cronies were leaning against the wire fence, deep in conversation. Lee nodded at Shepherd as he walked by. He nodded back. He had to walk past Needles and Dreadlocks to get out of the yard. He didn't look at them, although he could feel them staring at him. He had gone past the stage of sour looks and menacing stares: he'd made his decision. All he needed now was the opportunity.

He walked out of the exercise yard, back on to the spur, and slowly towards the stairs. Half a dozen of the older inmates were sitting at a table playing dominoes, and four Jamaicans were playing pool. One of them was Stickman, the tall, thin guy that had attacked Shepherd with Dreadlocks on his first morning. Shepherd sensed no hostility from him as he walked past the pool table. No sullen look, no hard stare.

He reached the bottom of the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Needles and Dreadlocks emerge from the exercise yard. They'd been searched when they went into the yard so Shepherd knew they wouldn't be carrying weapons. He went up to the twos. Needles and Dreadlocks walked along the ones and into Needles's cell, which he shared with another West Indian who was still in the exercise yard. Shepherd leaned over the rail. Rathbone was at the entrance to the exercise yard, patting down prisoners who wanted to go outside. There were no other officers on the ones.

There were two in the bubble, drinking coffee and talking.

Shepherd turned and hurried down the stairs. The Jamaicans were intent on the pool game. The old lags were bent over their dominoes. He walked towards Needles's cell. Charlie Weston was at the water-boiler, filling his metal Thermos flask. A middle-aged prisoner in a prison-issue tracksuit was filling out a visitor application.

Shepherd reached Needles's cell. The door was ajar. He took a final look round and pushed it open.

Ray Mackie waited until the Rover was within a mile of the City, then told Hargrove he could remove the hood. He took it off and ran a hand across his hair and down the back of his neck. 'I look forward to taking you on a clandestine meet one day, Ray,' he said.

Mackie chuckled. 'You're lucky we didn't get the rubber gloves out.'

Hargrove settled back in the plush leather seat and looked out of the window at the passing traffic. The Rover's rear windows were tinted so other motorists wouldn't have been able to see that he was hooded. 'I didn't like having to lie to them like that,' he said quietly.

'We didn't have a choice,' said Mackie.

'Even so.'

'Are you saying your people don't bend the truth?' asked Mackie, rhetorically. 'How far would an undercover agent get if he never lied?'

'There's lying to the villains, and there's lying to your own,' said Hargrove.

'And if we'd told Alice Roper that Gerald Carpenter would kill his mother if it meant his freedom, how would that have helped our present situation?' asked Mackie. 'You saw how close to the edge she is.'

'She'd be better off in the safe-house,' said Hargrove. 'Wherever it is,' he added drily.

'The further away from her husband she is, the better,' said Mackie. 'She's making him nervous. If he thinks she and the kids are out of harm's way, he's less likely to have any thoughts of pulling out.'

'And what about this guest-house?'

'She's probably right. We can screen any guests as and when they make bookings, and we can put our own people in.'

'This is one hell of a mess, isn't it?' said Hargrove.

'It was never going to be easy,' said Mackie. 'There was no way Carpenter was going to go down without a fight.'

'With Roper in the witness box and the evidence that hasn't gone up in smoke, Carpenter's going away, isn't he?'

'CPS says so.'

'And the Crown Prosecution Service has never been wrong in the past, has it?' said Hargrove, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

'Which is why your man Shepherd's in play,' said Mackie. 'How's he bearing up?'

'He's the best I've got,' said Hargrove.

'Like Roper said, he must have balls of steel. Twenty-four hours a day among some of the hardest bastards in the realm.' Mackie peered out of the window. 'I'm heading south of the river to Wimbledon,' he said. 'Can I drop you anywhere?'

It was a warm, sunny day and Hargrove wanted some fresh air. He needed thinking time too. 'Here's fine,' he said.

'Pull over, Stan,' said Mackie. The driver indicated and brought the Rover to a halt at the kerb. Mackie looked earnestly at Hargrove. 'I do appreciate what you did today, Sam,' he said.

'I know you'd have done the same,' said Hargrove. The two men shook hands and Hargrove climbed out of the car. He turned up the collar of his overcoat and started to walk westwards, his hands deep in his pockets.

Needles was on his knees by the two-tier bunk, reaching under the mattress. Dreadlocks was standing by the table. He was holding a blue toothbrush into which two razor blades had been set. They were a couple of millimetres apart so that no surgeon could repair damage done to the skin.

'What the fuck--' said Needles. Shepherd kicked the door closed behind him.

Dreadlocks raised the home-made cutter - a mistake because the weapon was designed for slashing, not stabbing. Shepherd moved quickly. He grabbed the steel Thermos flask from the sink with his right hand and stepped forward. As Dreadlocks brought down the blade, Shepherd smashed the Thermos against his hand. Dreadlocks grunted and the weapon clattered to the floor. Shepherd backhanded the Thermos into Dreadlocks's mouth. Blood and bits of tooth splattered across the wall and Dreadlocks fell back, his arms flailing. He stumbled over Needles and crashed into the bunks.

Shepherd punched him twice, right and left, a blow to each kidney, then grabbed him by the scruff of his football shirt and slammed his head against the wall. Dreadlocks sagged to the ground, on top of Needles.

Needles struggled to get to his feet. In his right hand he was holding a piece of broom handle that had been sharpened to a point. He pushed Dreadlocks away with his left hand. 'You're fucking dead meat!' he spat.

Shepherd said nothing. There was no point in talking: all that mattered was the fight. And winning it. He still had the Thermos. Needles had his left hand out, fingers splayed. He kept the sharpened stick close to his body, the point angled up. It was a killing weapon, sharp and long enough to drive up through Shepherd's ribs and into his heart, or through his eye deep into his skull. He was breathing heavily, his eyes were wide and staring, gearing himself up to attack, making small jabbing movements with the stick.

Shepherd stared into the man's eyes and not at the stick. The eyes were the key to seeing where the attack would come. The stick could be faked, a jab down and then a thrust up, but the eyes never lied, unless the man was a professional, but nothing Needles had done suggested he was anything more than a violent amateur. Shepherd unscrewed the top of the Thermos as he continued to stare at Needles. It was half full of hot water.

Needles swallowed, then his lips curled into a snarl. He took a deep breath and his eyes flicked towards Shepherd's stomach. Before Needles could stab him, Shepherd threw the hot water into his face, blinding him, then slammed the Thermos flask against his throat, not hard enough to shatter the voicebox but enough to stop him screaming.

Needles lashed out with the stick but it was a slashing motion and Shepherd easily blocked it with his left arm, pushing the weapon up into the air and exposing the big man's stomach. There were kilos of fat and massive blocks of muscle to absorb the strongest blows, Shepherd slashed his open palm across the man's neck.

Needles staggered back and his left hand went to his injured throat. His breath was coming in ragged gasps and his chest was heaving. His eyes were still filled with anger and hate and the sharpened stick was pointing at Shepherd's chest.

Shepherd was treading a dangerous line. He couldn't kill Needles - his undercover role wasn't a licence for that - but he had to injure him badly so that he'd be moved off the wing. And he had to do it with a minimum of noise. If the officers broke up the fight Shepherd would be moved to solitary and the operation would be over.

Needles stabbed at Shepherd's face with the stick but Shepherd swayed back, avoiding the blow, then lashed out with his foot and caught Needles between the legs. Needles bent forward and Shepherd punched him on the side of the chin, hard. The big man's head snapped to the side and his eyes rolled back in the sockets. He slumped on top of Dreadlocks.

Shepherd stood looking down at the two unconscious men. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Neither man was seriously damaged, certainly not enough to be taken off the wing. He went to the door and eased it open. The Jamaicans were still playing pool, giving each other high-fives after each shot.

Shepherd shut the door. He looked at his watch. Ten past four. He picked up the makeshift knife Dreadlocks had been using. The two blades had been taken from a plastic safety razor. The bristles had been shaved off the toothbrush and the plastic melted over a flame until it was soft enough to push in the two blades. It was a nasty weapon whose only purpose was to produce a wound that would never heal properly.

Needles was lying face down on top of Dreadlocks. Shepherd pulled him off. He put the toothbrush handle into Dreadlocks's right hand, then ran it across Needles's arm. Blood flowed in two parallel lines. Then he pulled up the T-shirt Needles was wearing and made two long cuts across his stomach. They spurted blood. Shepherd cut Needles again, from side to side. The wounds were in no way life-threatening but they would need careful stitching and Needles would have to remain immobile while the wounds healed. Any movement would rip the double cuts apart.

Blood dripped down on to Dreadlocks's tracksuit bottoms. If Shepherd did this right, it would look like the two men had been fighting. He doubted they would tell the authorities what had happened. No matter how badly injured they were, they were unlikely to grass. Plus there was the embarrassment factor of admitting that one man had put them both in hospital.

Shepherd undid the laces from Dreadlocks's trainers and tied them together, then used them as a tourniquet around the man's right thigh. Then he picked up the sharpened stick and put it into Needles's hand. He pulled up the right leg of the man's tracksuit bottoms then stabbed at the calf with the pointed stick in Needles's fist. It pierced the flesh and skewered the calf muscle. Blood spurted over Needles's fingers and the leg twitched. Shepherd slowly withdrew the stick. Blood pooled in the wound, then dribbled down the leg towards the trainer. It was a slow, steady flow so he hadn't ruptured any major vessels - a serious wound but not a fatal one.

Shepherd stood up. He washed his hands in the sink, then checked in the mirror for blood spots on his shirt. He looked down at his black Armani jeans and white Nike trainers. No blood.

Needles was groaning. His stomach glistened wetly and blood was pooling around Dreadlocks's leg.

Shepherd slipped out of the cell, leaving the door ajar. He walked slowly up the stairs, went into his own cell and lay down on his bunk. A few minutes later he heard three loud blasts on a whistle, then shouts.

Shepherd climbed off the bunk and went to the door. Prisoners all over the landing were rushing to the railings and looking down at the ones. Shepherd joined them - to have stayed in his cell while all hell was breaking out would only have drawn attention to him.

Four prison officers rushed in from the bubble carrying two metal stretchers. The prisoners on the twos and threes cheered and yelled obscenities. Rathbone came out of Needles's cell, his face pale.

Two officers went into the cell with a stretcher, and two minutes later they came out carrying Needles. He was shivering, his eyes wide open, his stomach covered in blood. The other two officers went inside with a stretcher for Dreadlocks.

More officers came on to the spur and started to usher the inmates back into their cells. 'Come on, there's nothing to see,' said one.

'What happened, boss?' asked Lee. The officers were applying dressings to the wounds on Needles's stomach.

'Nothing,' said the officer.

'We're supposed to be getting our tea,' said Lee.

'Get back in your cell or you'll be on a charge,' said the officer. 'I'm easy either way.'

Down on the ones, Dreadlocks was carried out on the second stretcher. They took him straight to the stairs and up to the twos. His leg was drenched in blood, despite the tourniquet. More prisoners were crowding against the railings, trying to get a better look. The officers were shouting for them to get back into their cells.

'Would you look at all that blood!' said Lee.

The officer put a hand on Lee's arm. 'In your cell, laddie, or you're on a charge.'

Lee backed away from the railing, complaining, but headed for his cell. Shepherd followed him. He glanced up and saw Carpenter staring down from the threes. Carpenter wasn't watching the action on the ground floor, he was gazing thoughtfully at Shepherd. Then he pushed himself away from the railing and Shepherd lost sight of him. He followed Lee into the cell and the prison officer clanged the door shut behind them.

At five o'clock the prisoners were shouting and banging on their cell doors. Tea should have been served at a quarter to but the doors had remained locked after the injured men had been carried out of the spur.

'This is a bloody liberty,' said Lee. 'We're entitled to our food.'

Shepherd lay on his bunk and stared at the ceiling.

'What do you think happened down there?' asked Lee. 'Did you see all that blood?'

'Dunno,' said Shepherd.

'Looked to me like Needles and Bunton had a set-to with shivs.'

Bunton must be Dreadlocks, Shepherd realised. He hadn't known his name. Hadn't cared.

'Thought they were tight, those two,' Lee went on.

'You never know,' said Shepherd.

Down below they heard cell doors being unlocked. Lee started banging on the door again. 'Come on, we're starving here!' he yelled.

At five thirty Rathbone unlocked it. 'What's going on?' Lee asked.

'We're doing the landings one at a time.'

'You can't,' said Lee.

Rathbone grinned. 'Jason, we can do what we like.' He gestured for Lee to go and get his meal. 'You too, Macdonald.'

'I'm not hungry,' said Shepherd.

'If you don't eat, it's got to go down on your report,' said Rathbone. 'Save me the paperwork and get your tray, will you? You can always give it to Jason.'

Shepherd climbed down and went to the ones with his flask. The doors there were already locked.

He had chosen the roast turkey option, and had it with mashed potatoes and carrots, then a raspberry yoghurt. He filled his Thermos with hot water and headed back to his cell. Lloyd-Davies was by the bubble. She waved over at him. 'Bob, I got you on the gym list for tomorrow.'

'Thanks, ma'am,' said Shepherd.

'No need to thank me, your name was next on the list,' she said.

As Shepherd walked back to his cell he realised what had happened: Needles or Bunton, possibly both, must have been on the gym list. Two birds with one stone.

Shepherd and Weston were supposedly under the supervision of Hamilton while they cleaned the twos, but he was in the bubble talking to Tony Stafford. Weston worked in silence, humming, as they moved methodically along the landing with their mops and buckets.

Shepherd heard footsteps behind him. It was Carpenter, holding a mop and bucket. He smiled at Weston. 'Give us a moment, will you, Charlie?' he said.

Weston picked up his bucket and headed to the far side of the landing.

Carpenter put down his bucket and began to mop the floor. 'What's your game, Bob?' he asked.

'It's not a game,' said Shepherd.

'That's three men you've put in hospital now,' said Carpenter. 'Are you taking on Digger, is that it?'

'I don't want to run the spur, I just want out of here.'

'And how does crippling cons achieve that?'

'Needles started it.'

'This isn't the fucking playground,' said Carpenter.

'If I hadn't given it to him, he'd have given it to me,' said Shepherd.

'You carry on this way you'll fuck it up for everyone.'

'How does me taking care of myself fuck it up for you, Gerry?'

Carpenter stopped cleaning. 'If cons start fighting each other we're going to be banged up twenty-three hours a day. That's one. We're going to have the cells turned over every day for weapons. That's two. And if the governor thinks Tony Stafford's lost control of the block, he'll be moved. That's three. Any one of those fucks up my life, and I'm not going to stand for it.'

'That'd be a threat, would it?' asked Shepherd.

'You want to fight me now, do you?' asked Carpenter.

'I don't want to fight anyone. Like I said, I just want out of here.'

Carpenter started mopping again. 'You carry on like this, they'll put you in segregation.'

'The only way they'll know what happened is if someone grasses,' said Shepherd. 'And if someone grasses, they'll have me to deal with.'

'Now you're the one making threats.'

Shepherd looked across at him. 'It's only a threat if you're planning to grass me up,' he said.

'I don't have to grass anyone up,' Carpenter sneered. 'I'm perfectly capable of taking care of business myself.'

'So I don't have a problem. I wanted out of my cell, so I had to take care of the Bosnian. Needles was planning to cut me up, so I took care of him.'

'And what next?'

Shepherd shrugged. 'Like I said, I need someone on the out to get my case sorted. One way or the other.'

Carpenter leaned on his mop. 'What if I help you get a message out? Will you stop sending inmates to hospital?'

Shepherd grinned. 'I'll be as good as gold.'

'Let me think about it.'

They heard the buzz of prisoners arriving back from the workshops. Carpenter picked up his bucket and headed for the stairs.

Shepherd smiled to himself. He'd just picked up two nuggets of gold from Carpenter. He had a vested interest in Tony Stafford running the block. And there was something in his cell that he didn't want found.

'You're going to be late for school,' said Sue Shepherd, ruffling her son's hair. 'You're always like this on a Monday.'

'This toast's burnt,' said Liam. He was sitting at the kitchen table, his backpack on the chair next to him.

'It's not burnt. It's fine.'

'It's black.'

'It's brown.'

'It tastes burnt.'

'Well, put more jam on it.' Sue looked at her wristwatch. It was a Cartier, a present from Dan. He'd given it to her as she lay in her hospital bed with newly born Liam in her arms.

'Just because I put jam on it doesn't mean it's not burnt,' said Liam slowly, as if she was a simpleton.

'I know that,' said Sue. 'If you don't want to eat it, leave it. I've got things to do, Liam, don't make life difficult for me. Please.'

Liam sniffed at his toast, then put it down and drank his milk.

Sue picked up her bag and a handful of bills that needed paying. 'Ready?' she asked. She looked out of the kitchen window. The grass needed cutting. Just one of a hundred jobs Dan had been promising to do. She mentally cursed her husband.

'What?' asked Liam.

Sue realised she must have spoken aloud. 'Nothing,' she said. 'Come on, let's go.'

Liam grabbed his backpack and rushed into the hallway. He stood at the front door as Sue set the burglar alarm, then opened it for her. She double-locked the door and waited for the alarm to stop bleeping.

She opened the door of her black VW Golf and Liam climbed into the back and fastened his seat-belt. The school-run was a necessary evil, the price of living in London. Sue had been pestering her husband for years to move to the countryside, but his job with the Met meant he had to be in the city. It was her own fault, she thought ruefully, as she slotted in the ignition key and started the car.

Shepherd had acceded to her demand that he quit the SAS, but she hadn't been specific enough about his replacement career. When he'd told her he'd been offered a job as a policeman she imagined him in a uniform, driving a police car, manning a desk, maybe, working shifts, but at least spending most of his time at home with her and Liam. She'd never imagined that his job as a policeman would be every bit as dangerous and demanding as his military career, and that she'd see even less of him than when he was a soldier.

'What's wrong, Mummy?' asked Liam.

'Nothing,' said Sue.

'Were you thinking about Daddy?'

Sue twisted around in her seat. 'Why do you say that?'

'You look sad.'

Sue forced a smile. 'I'm not sad,' she said. 'Ready for blast-off ?'

'All systems go!' Liam laughed.

Liam's school was half an hour's drive away and the main roads were packed with early morning traffic but, like most hard-pressed mothers, Sue knew several rat-runs to the school, weaving in and out of narrow streets. At one point she drove across a filling-station forecourt to cut out a set of traffic lights. She'd made the journey so many times that she drove on auto-pilot, her mind running through all the household tasks she had to get done before she picked up Liam.

'Mummy, I can't get my bag.'

'What?' A black cab braked in front of her. Sue pounded on her horn then pulled round it. The driver scowled at her as she drove by.

'My bag, Mummy, it's on the floor.'

Sue glanced over her shoulder. Liam's backpack had fallen off the seat and he was reaching for it.

'Leave it, we're nearly there,' said Sue, blipping the accelerator and crossing a traffic light as it turned red.

'I want my book!' whined Liam. Sue heard him unclip his seat-belt.

She glared at him in the rear-view mirror. 'Just behave, will you?' she shouted. 'Do that seat-belt up now!'

'I want my bag.'

'Seat-belt. Now!'

Liam muttered under his breath but did as he was told.

'You can get it when we stop,' said Sue.

'I want it now.'

Another set of lights turned amber. Sue's foot instinctively pressed on the accelerator but she realised she'd be cutting it too close so she braked instead, so hard that the seat-belt cut into her shoulder.

'Ow!' squealed Liam. 'That hurt.'

Sue unclipped her seat-belt and twisted round to reach for the backpack. It was heavy with books and sports equipment and she felt a stab of pain in her back and swore.

'What's wrong, Mummy?' asked Liam.

'Nothing,' said Sue. She grunted as she heaved the bag on to the seat next to Liam. A car behind her sounded its horn. 'All right, all right,' she muttered.

She turned back, put the car in gear and stamped on the accelerator. It was only as the car leaped forward that she saw the lights were still red against her. She swore and took her foot off the accelerator. Then saw the truck, and time seemed to stop as if all her senses were in overdrive. It was a Tesco truck, white with the supermarket's logo across the side. She could see the driver, his mouth open, his eyes fearful and staring. He had a shaved head and was wearing wire-framed spectacles. The horn of the car behind her was still beeping. But not beeping at her, not telling her that the lights had changed. She could see the sky overhead, pure blue and cloudless. She could hear Liam screaming. Then time speeded up as she stamped on the brakes and swung the steering-wheel hard to the right. It was too late and she knew she was going to hit the truck - and hit it hard. She wanted to turn round and tell Liam she was sorry for shouting at him, sorry for swearing, sorry for what was about to happen, but there was no time. She screamed as the car ploughed into the side of the truck.

Shepherd waited until after dinner before he went down to use the phone. He'd changed into his prison-issue trackshirt and was carrying a blue prison towel. As he headed down the stairs Lloyd-Davies called, 'Macdonald, gym list!'

'I just want to make a phone call, ma'am,' Shepherd shouted. 'Won't be a minute.'

'If you're not right back we go without you,' said Lloyd-Davies.

Shepherd passed Digger on the stairs. He was wearing a Nike tracksuit and spotless white trainers. He glared, and muttered something under his breath that Shepherd didn't catch.

One of the phones was being used by Simon Hitchcock but the second was free. Shepherd tapped in his pin number, and then Uncle Richard's. His call was short and to the point. He said he wanted his Walkman to be sent in. As soon as possible. He replaced the receiver. He knew he was taking a risk, but it was a calculated one. Carpenter had opened up to him, and his offer to pass a message to the outside was a huge step forward. Shepherd was ready to take advantage of it. Carpenter had as good as admitted that he was being helped on the inside. Shepherd's next step was to try to get him to talk about his plan to kill Sandy Roper. If he could get Carpenter talking about it on tape then he'd stay behind bars for the foreseeable future, no matter what happened to the drugs charges. The downside? Shepherd didn't want to think about it. He just wanted to be on the out. With his wife and son.

As he walked up to the gym group Gerald Carpenter smiled at Lloyd-Davies. 'Sorry I'm late, ma'am,' he said. He was wearing shorts and a Reebok sweatshirt, and carrying his towel and a bottle of Highland Spring.

'You're not the last,' said Lloyd-Davies, ticking off his name on her clipboard.

Digger was standing by the barred gate doing stretching exercises. He nodded at Carpenter, who went over and stood next to him. 'How's Needles?' he asked.

'All cut up,' said Digger. He grinned at his own joke.

'He'll be okay, yeah?'

'The cuts were tramlines, almost impossible to stitch. He's going to have to lie in bed for a couple of weeks.'

'Do you know why Bunton went for him?'

Digger looked at Carpenter. He was still smiling but his eyes were hard.

'What?' asked Carpenter innocently.

'Don't fuck me around, Gerry. You know as well as I do what went down.'

'I heard that Bunton laid into Needles with a shiv and that Needles gave as good as he got.'

Digger chuckled, but his eyes had narrowed to slits.

Carpenter held up his hands. 'Fine, whatever.'

'Nothing happens in this houseblock without you knowing,' said Digger, 'and mostly it happens because you say it happens.'

'You saying that I put Needles in hospital?' asked Carpenter.

'No profit in you doing that,' said Digger, 'but you know as well as me that it was Macdonald done the dirty deed.'

'Anyone see him?'

'He was seen going in and he was seen coming out. Did anyone see him cut Needles? No. But I don't need no calculator to add two and two.'

Carpenter leaned on the rail. Down below, Macdonald was walking away from the phones. 'It ends here and now,' he said quietly.

'Needles isn't going to be on his back for ever,' said Digger. 'And he's going to come after Macdonald, big-time.'

'Didn't you hear what I just said? I said it ends now. You tell Needles that if he moves against Macdonald, I'll destroy his life, inside and outside.'

'Is Macdonald your man now? Is that it?'

'If he was, that'd be my business, not yours,' said Carpenter. 'But it's nothing to do with him working for me. It's to do with wanting a quiet life. You do what you have to do to keep Needles quiet, okay?'

'Okay,' said Digger.

'I mean it, Digger,' said Carpenter. 'I'm holding you responsible.'

'I hear you.'

Carpenter patted Digger on the back. 'Tell him, I'll take care of any expenses. And I'll put a couple of grand his mother's way, too.'

'He'll appreciate that,' said Digger.

'Come on, let's go and burn off some of that excess energy.'

Shepherd upped the speed on the treadmill. On the outside he tried to run at least five kilometres a day, ideally on grass, and he was determined to take full advantage of whatever gym time Lloyd-Davies could get for him.

There were more than two dozen prisoners in the gym. Most of the West Indians had gathered at the weights area where Digger was holding court. A prison officer watched them from the balcony with a look of disdain. Carpenter was on a bike, his legs pumping furiously. The machine next to him was unoccupied, but Shepherd didn't want to seem too eager to approach him. Carpenter's routine never varied. He did thirty minutes' running on the treadmill, ten minutes on bike, and whatever time was left he spent on one of the multi-gyms. The only variation came on the multi-gym when he'd work either his arms or his legs. He never went near the weights area, and he rarely spoke to anyone. He never had to ask for a piece of equipment to be vacated: prisoners always moved away as soon as he approached. He'd acknowledge them with a tight smile and a nod, but never a word of thanks, accepting the deference as his right.

Shepherd upped the speed of the treadmill and increased the incline. His calf muscles burned but he ignored the pain. He fixed his eyes on the wall and concentrated on maintaining his rhythm. A couple of minutes before Carpenter was due to finish cycling, Shepherd got off the treadmill and went over to one of the multi-gyms. He was working on his pecs when Carpenter came over. He got off and nodded for Carpenter to take his place.

'Can I ask you something, Gerry?' said Macdonald, as Carpenter pulled the metal bar down to his chest.

'What?' Carpenter grunted.

'It's just that you're smarter than the average bear, right, so why are you inside?'

'I was set up. Undercover cops. Got me on conspiracy.'

'Bastards.'

'I was so bloody careful. Followed the golden rules. Never went near the drugs. Never went near the money. Never wrote anything down.'

'What - nothing? Not even phone numbers and stuff?'

'Especially phone numbers. Never write them down, never store them in your phone's memory.'

'Yeah, but I can't remember my own, never mind anyone else's,' lied Shepherd. His memory, of course, was infallible. 'If it wasn't for the phone book in my mobile, I'd never be able to call anyone.'

'Recipe for bloody disaster. You know the cops can access them whenever they want?'

'If they get hold of the phone, you mean?'

'Nah, that's the point. They don't need it. They can access all the info on the Sim card over the airwaves. Every number you've called, every number that's called you, every number in the phone book.'

'Bloody hell,' said Shepherd. It was old news to him. Getting access to a suspect's phone records was one of the first things the police did when they had a target under surveillance. All they needed was the number and the technical boys did the rest.

'I've known half a dozen guys go down because of info on their phones,' said Carpenter. 'They're a liability. Stick to landlines or throwaway mobiles, and never write anything down.'

'That's what I was asking,' said Shepherd. 'How do you remember everything? Is it a photographic memory?'

Carpenter stopped working on his arms and wiped his neck with his towel. 'It's a technique,' he said. 'Anyone can do it. You have to remember images instead of numbers. Say the first digit is five. You represent it with a five-letter word. Like tiger. Then say the next digit is three. Use dog for that. So you have a tiger, followed by a dog. Easy to remember, right? Five then three. You just do that for every number.'

The technique made sense, and Shepherd could see how an image would be easier to remember than a string of numbers. It wasn't the way his own memory worked - he simply remembered the numbers.

'How many numbers have you remembered that way?' Shepherd asked.

'Couple of hundred. It's virtually foolproof.'

'And what about bank-account numbers and stuff? It works for that?'

Carpenter looked at him and for a moment Shepherd thought he'd pushed it too far. He shrugged. 'Just interested, that's all. I have to write down all my pin numbers and I'm buggered if I know my bank-account number.' The lie came easily. He had spent several months being coached by actors and psychologists before he'd gone on his first undercover operation and he knew how to mask the tell-tale signs of dishonesty.

'What the hell? It's not as if it's a secret,' said Carpenter. He started working his arms again. 'Memory experts do it all the time. You know pi, right? From school. The circumference of a circle divided by whatever. The number never ends.'

'Sure.'

'Well, there's a guy in Tokyo who can rattle off the value of pi to more than forty-two thousand places.'

'Sounds like he should get a life,' said Shepherd.

'Macdonald!'

Shepherd turned his head. It was Hamilton, standing at the door to the gym. 'Stop nattering,' Hamilton shouted, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. 'Your brief's here.'

Shepherd walked away from the multi-gym, frowning. 'Have I got time to change, Mr Hamilton?' he asked.

'He's waiting for you,' said Hamilton, 'and I've got work to do.' He waved at the officer on the balcony. 'Macdonald's brief is here,' he shouted. 'I'll take him back to the wing when he's done.'

The prison officer flashed Hamilton a thumbs-up but his face remained impassive.

Shepherd followed Hamilton out of the gym. When they reached the administration block, the officer showed him into one of the private interview rooms. Hargrove was sitting behind the Formica table and stood up awkwardly. Shepherd could tell that something was wrong.

'Press the bell when you're done,' Hamilton said to Hargrove.

Shepherd wondered what had happened. His first thought was that the operation had been blown and that he was about to be pulled out, but if that was the case there'd be no need for a conversation in the interview room. His second thought was that Hargrove was there to tell him Roper had been killed. The superintendent's face was like granite and he was avoiding Shepherd's eyes.

It was when Hargrove asked him to sit down that Shepherd realised he was there for personal reasons and that could only mean Sue or Liam. 'What is it?' he asked. 'What's happened?'

'Sit down, please,' said Hargrove, folding his arms across his chest.

'What's happened?' repeated Shepherd, his voice shaking. 'Is it Liam?'

Hargrove put his hands up, fingers splayed, and when he spoke it was with the measured tones that a trainer might use to calm a restless horse. 'There's no easy way to say this, Spider. It's Sue. There's been an accident. She's dead.'

Shepherd stared at Hargrove, unable to say anything. He felt light-headed, as if all the blood had drained out of his brain. He wanted to tell Hargrove that there must have been a mistake, that there was no way Sue could be dead.

'I'm sorry, Spider. I'm so, so sorry.'

Shepherd's mouth was bone dry. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. It was Hamilton, watching from one of the observation windows. He sat down and put his hands on the table, palms down.

Hargrove sat opposite him. 'It was a car accident. She died instantly, Spider. It was nothing to do with Carpenter.'

Shepherd put his head into his hands, clenched his fists and pulled at his hair, wanting to feel the pain, trying to use it to blot out the reality of Sue's death. Images flashed through his mind. The first time he'd set eyes on her, walking down the main street in Hereford, one of half a dozen girls out on the town. She was wearing a bright yellow dress, cut low to show lots of cleavage, the hemline mid-thigh, a thin gold chain and crucifix round her neck, a cheap plastic watch on her left wrist, a gold charm bracelet on the right. The bracelet had belonged to her grandmother.

Shepherd had been with three of his friends from 22 SAS and they'd stopped and chatted with the girls. Shepherd hadn't been able to take his eyes off Sue. She'd had a couple of drinks and kept insisting that she'd never go out with a soldier, that she knew what they were like, how they broke hearts wherever they went. She'd walked away and called for her friends to follow her, but Shepherd had hurried after her and begged her to go for a drink with him. He could remember every word of their first conversation in the snug of a smoky pub. How she hated her job, how her boss had body-odour, how she was bored with Hereford and how she wanted more than anything else to travel the world. How she didn't want kids because kids only held you back, and wanted to live her life to the full before she thought about settling down. They'd married six months later in a small stone church on the outskirts of Hereford and Liam had been born the following year. She'd never got to travel the world. Then, images of the last time he had seen her flashed through his mind. 'I hate you!' she'd shouted. 'I hope I never see you again, ever! You can rot in here for all I care!' and she'd dragged Liam out of the visitors' room. The last thing she'd said to him was that she hated him. She hadn't meant it, it had been a lie, but the words had hurt then and the hurt was a million times worse now. Now that she was dead.

'Spider?'

Shepherd opened his eyes. 'How's Liam?'

'He's fine.'

'Where is he?'

'Sue's mum's taking care of him.'

'I've got to see him.'

'Absolutely. We're arranging it as we speak.'

Shepherd pushed back his chair and stood up. 'Now,' he repeated. 'I want to see him now.'

'Spider, sit down and listen to what I have to say.'

'It's over,' said Shepherd firmly. 'This operation is over. My son needs me. I'm out of here.'

'Hear me out,' said Hargrove. 'Listen to what I've got to say and then we'll get things sorted.'

Shepherd glared at him, then slowly sat down.

'Liam is with Sue's mum, and he's fine. He was wearing his seat-belt, Sue wasn't.'

'He was there when she died?' asked Shepherd. 'For God's sake, what the hell happened?'

'She was taking him to school. Jumped a red light. Hit a truck. It was an accident, pure and simple.'

'Sue always wore her seat-belt,' said Shepherd. 'She had a thing about it. Wouldn't even start the car if everyone wasn't buckled up.'

'The front of the car went under the truck, Liam was in the back. The emergency services were there within minutes. He was shaken but physically he's fine.'

'Oh, Christ,' said Shepherd, putting his head in his hands again. 'He saw what happened? He saw her die?'

'He was in shock, Spider. He doesn't remember the accident.'

'He's blocking it out. He needs me.'

'No question. And we're going to take you to see him. Soon as we can arrange it.'

Shepherd leaned back in his chair. Hamilton had walked away from the observation window. 'Sue's mum came down from Hereford?'

'The Regiment sent a helicopter. You've still got friends there.'

Even a career policeman like Hargrove wouldn't understand the bond that linked the men of the Special Air Service, Shepherd thought. Once you joined the Regiment you were part of it for ever, and it remained a part of you. It was a bond as strong as blood. Stronger, sometimes. Walking away from the SAS had been the hardest thing Shepherd had ever done, but he'd done it for Sue.

'She's moved into your house, and we've fixed up a psychiatrist to talk to Liam.'

'He doesn't need a psychiatrist,' said Shepherd. 'I'll talk to him.'

Hargrove nodded sympathetically. 'We've spoken to the school, and they'll do everything they can,' he said.

'I'm not staying here,' said Shepherd. 'This operation is over.'

'We're entering the end phase, Spider. We're almost there. Just a few more days.' He held up his right hand, his thumb and first finger almost touching. 'We're this close to getting Carpenter. His men are putting the frighteners on Roper. All we have to do is tie them together and we put the lot of them away.'

'My son is more important than a shit like Carpenter.'

'Of course he is. And of course he needs you. But if you pull out now, we don't have time to get anyone else close to Carpenter. He'll finish what he's started and he'll walk. He'll walk, Spider. He'll be out on the streets bringing in heroin and cocaine and more kids are going to die.'

'That's not my problem.'

'And what about Elliott? Carpenter had him killed. Is that going to be for nothing?'

Shepherd's eyes hardened. 'You can't lay that on me,' he said quietly.

'I'm not laying anything on you,' said Hargrove. 'But Carpenter's evil and he needs to be stopped. The only person who can do that is you. There is no one else, Spider. If you pull out now, Carpenter's home, free, and everything we've worked for turns to shit.'

'It's just a job,' said Shepherd. 'Liam is my son. Carpenter is an assignment.'

'Carpenter ruins lives. God knows how many die from the drugs he brings into the country. And he kills people. Let's not forget that. Elliott wasn't the first undercover agent he's killed, and if he gets out he won't be the last.'

'It's not fair to dump that on me.'

'I'm not dumping anything on you. If you decide you want to pull out, I'll respect that. Hell, I don't have any choice. No one can force you to do what you do, Spider. I, of all people, know that.'

Shepherd sighed. His mind was still whirling through memories of Sue. The way she'd rubbed his backside as they stood in front of the altar and prepared to say their vows. The first time they'd made love in her bedsit, her on top, her long blonde hair round her shoulders, the way she'd kissed him afterwards and whispered his name. The look of pride in her eyes when the nurse handed Liam to him, his face all red and puffy, wrapped in a soft white towel and crying as if he hated the world and everyone in it.

'We'll get you together with Liam, you have my word on that. But hold fire on making a decision about the operation a while longer.'

'You're asking me to go back on the wing after what's happened?'

'If you leave with me now, you won't be able to come back. Too many people will know. But if you let me arrange it, we can get you out of here for a few hours, then get you back in.'

'A few hours isn't going to cut it. Liam has lost his mother. I've lost . . .' Shepherd couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

'I know,' said Hargrove.

'I can't believe you're asking me to do this. Anyone else would have taken me straight to see my son.' He paused. 'I've never asked you, but have you got kids?'

'Two. Girl and boy. Charlotte's married with a daughter of her own and James is off to university next year.'

'Liam is seven,' said Shepherd.

'I know.'

'He needs his father.'

'And you need time to grieve. I know that.'

'It's not about me. It's about my son.'

'It's about both of you. You need each other. I know what I'm asking, Spider, and I wouldn't if I didn't think it was absolutely necessary.'

'He's one man. We put him behind bars and someone else will take his place. Just because Gerald Carpenter goes down it doesn't mean the drugs business will grind to a halt.'

'He's a murderer.'

'He's not charged with murder, though, is he?'

'If you stay undercover, he might be.'

Shepherd cursed.

'I am sorry about your wife,' said Hargrove.

Shepherd closed his eyes and more images of Sue flashed through his mind. Curled up on the sofa, watching EastEnders as if her life depended on it. Testing the heat of the iron by patting it with her fingers, then yelping when she burned herself. The expression in her eyes when she told him she wanted him to leave the Regiment because he was going to be a father and a father's place was with his family, not fighting wars in distant lands. Her pride the first time she'd seen him in his constable's uniform. And the despair when he'd told her that he was being seconded to the undercover unit. From a soldier's wife to the wife of an undercover policeman. Out of the frying-pan into the fire, she'd said. That he'd never be happy until he'd been shot again. That he had a death wish. It wasn't fair, he thought bitterly. He'd put his life on the line time and time again after joining Hargrove's unit, taking risks he'd never told Sue about, but she was the one who'd died in a stupid, meaningless accident.

'Okay,' he said. 'Let me think about it.' There was something he'd meant to tell Hargrove. Something about Carpenter. Then he remembered. 'Carpenter's pally with Ronnie Bain,' he said. 'Marijuana importer who got eight years a while back. They were pretty tight in the prison chapel. Bain's in another block but he might be helping Carpenter get messages out.' He felt disloyal to his wife. He'd just been told she was dead and now he was talking shop with Hargrove.

'We'll check him out, Spider. Thanks. And we got your message about Stafford.' The superintendent hesitated, then stood up and came round the table to put a hand on Shepherd's shoulder. 'One more thing,' he said. 'I know this is shit timing but we've got the Walkman ready. Do you want me to send it in?'

Shepherd didn't know what to say. All he could think about was that his wife was dead.

Hargrove stood up and pressed the button by the door. Hamilton opened it and stood to the side to let Hargrove out. The superintendent's feet echoed on the tiled floor, then faded. Shepherd heard the rattle of keys and a door being opened, closed, and locked. Then silence.

'Chop-chop, Macdonald,' said Hamilton. 'We haven't got all day.'

Shepherd stood up slowly and walked out of the room. Hamilton sneered at him. 'Bad news, I hope,' he said.

Shepherd stopped and turned. He took a step towards the officer, his mouth a tight line, his hands tensing into claws. He was barely breathing as he stared at Hamilton. He knew of a dozen different ways he could kill him. The heel of his hand into the nose. A chop to the bobbing Adam's apple. A finger-strike into the eyes. A back-fist to the throbbing vein in his temple. A foot-sweep to the floor followed by a stamp on the neck. Shepherd had been trained by experts, and had followed up his training with on-the-job experience that few men could match. He knew what it was like to kill and knew, too, that he could take the officer's life without a moment's regret or guilt. Hamilton swallowed and took a step back, his right hand clutching for his radio. Shepherd took a deep breath, his eyes still boring into the other man's. All he had to do was make the decision. The second he decided that Hamilton should die, the training would take over and the man would be dead before he hit the ground.

There was panic in Hamilton's eyes and his hands were shaking. The colour had drained from his face and his Adam's apple was bobbing up and down as if it had a life of its own. He took a step back.

He wasn't worth it, Shepherd decided. If he killed Hamilton he'd spend the rest of his life behind bars, undercover cop or not. No man was worth that. He turned away and headed back to the wing. By the time they reached the barred door to the main corridor, Hamilton had recovered some of his composure but he still kept a watchful eye on Shepherd as he unlocked and locked the doors on the way back to the remand block.

Hamilton took Shepherd along to his cell and unlocked the door. Lee was sitting at the table, writing a letter. 'I heard they pulled you out of the gym,' said Lee, as Shepherd lay down on his bunk.

Shepherd waited until Hamilton had locked the cell door. 'My brief wants more money,' he lied. 'I've got to get it transferred from overseas.'

'Leeches, all of them,' said Lee. 'How do you spell miscarriage?'

Shepherd told him, then rolled over and turned his back. Lee took the hint and wrote the rest of his letter in silence.

The prison officer threw the stick high into the air. The spaniel yelped and gave chase, its stub of a tail wagging furiously. The man loved being out in the open, breathing fresh air, grass under his feet, hearing the wind blow through the trees.

The mobile phone in his pocket warbled. He took it out and looked at the caller ID. It was Carpenter's man. Not that the officer was surprised. The phone was a pay-as-you-go and only Carpenter's man used it. The officer had insisted that the phone was the only way that Carpenter's man contacted him. If the shit ever hit the fan he could dump the mobile and no one would be any the wiser.

'Yeah?'

'Where are you?'

'Walking the dog.' The officer had never met the caller and had often wondered what he looked like. The voice had a trace of West Country in it and a slight lisp. It was deep and resonant, which suggested he was a big man. Possibly in his forties.

'When are you inside again?'

'Tonight. Night staff.'

'Can you get a message to the boss?'

'Not until the morning.'

'Fuck that.'

'The cells are locked by the time I get there and they're not opened until seven forty-five.'

'You've got a fucking key, haven't you?'

The spaniel came running back with the stick in its mouth. The officer pulled it from the excited dog and threw it as far as he could. 'I can't just go opening cell doors at night. I need a reason.'

'Well, find one.'

'If I open a door it's got to go on the incident sheet.'

'You're going to have to do what you've got to do. I have to get a message to the boss - and soon.'

The officer cursed under his breath. 'If you want me to get the message to him tonight, it'll cost you a monkey.'

'Fine,' said the man. 'Tell him he has to call me. Urgently.'

'Okay. When do I get the money?'

'Tomorrow. When he's called me.'

The line went dead. The officer smiled to himself. Five hundred quid for passing on a message. Easy money.

Shepherd heard the cell door open. It was Lloyd-Davies. Lee was standing at the washbasin as jittery as a racehorse waiting for the off. 'Association,' she said. Lee slipped out of the door.

Lloyd-Davies entered the cell and stood looking at Shepherd. He lay on his back, his hands behind his neck. 'What's wrong, Macdonald?' she asked.

'I'm fine,' said Shepherd.

'Legal problems?' she asked.

'Everything's fine.' Hamilton must have told her how he'd reacted after the visit from Hargrove.

'Do you want to talk to a Listener? I can send Ed Harris along.'

'I'm fine,' said Shepherd. 'Really.'

'Everyone has their ups and downs,' said Lloyd-Davies. 'The trick is not to bottle up the bad stuff. Talk it through with someone. No one expects you to open up to us, but the Listeners are on your side.'

'Nobody's on my side,' said Shepherd, but he regretted the words as soon as they'd left his mouth. Far better to say nothing.

'Do you want to see the doc?'

'I'm fine, ma'am. I just want to be left alone.'

Lloyd-Davies stood at the end of his bunk for a few seconds more, then left the cell.

Shepherd closed his eyes. All he could think about was Sue. Memories whirled through his mind. Holidays they'd taken. Meals they'd eaten. Arguments they'd had. Films they'd watched. And alongside the memories was the aching certainty that they were in the past and that he'd never hold or talk to her again. They were constant reminders that everything to do with Sue was in the past. Finished. Over.

His future now lay with his son. So why was he still in a cell, surrounded by scum who didn't care whether he lived or died? Why hadn't he just walked out with Hargrove? Even now all he had to do was walk down to the phones and play his Get Out of Jail Free card. One call and he'd be out with his son, where he was needed. Where he belonged.

'Shit, shit, shit.' He clenched his fist and pounded the side of his right hand against the cell wall, relishing the pain. He deserved to be hurt. He'd failed Sue: he hadn't been with her in the car. When they were together she always let him drive, and if he'd been at the wheel maybe the accident wouldn't have happened. Maybe she'd still be alive. 'Shit, shit, shit.'

He sat up and swivelled round so that he was sitting with his back to the wall. Lee had stuck pictures from magazines on the wall opposite - landscapes, forests, desert scenes, a sailboat on an ocean, all the vistas that were denied him on the inside. They were denied to Shepherd, too, but he was keeping himself behind bars. He knew why he hadn't bailed out, why he hadn't told Hargrove that the operation was terminated. Because he wanted to beat Carpenter. It was war, and he was going to do whatever it took to win.

Shepherd heard an officer shouting that association was over, and a few minutes later Lee appeared at the open cell door. 'You're wanted at the bubble,' he said.

'For what?' Shepherd asked.

'Didn't say. Stafford told me to get you down there now.'

'Tell them to go and fuck themselves.'

'What's up with you today?'

'I just want to be left alone.'

'Yeah, well, telling Tony Stafford to go fuck himself is going to get you all the peace and quiet you want,' said Lee. 'They'll send up the mufti squad and you'll be dragged off to solitary. Cardboard furniture and no toilet seat and they put stuff in your food to keep you quiet.'

Shepherd sat up and took a deep breath. He had to get back into character. No matter what had happened on the outside, as far as the Shelton population was concerned he was Bob Macdonald, career criminal and hard man, and if he strayed outside that role he risked blowing the operation.

He walked slowly along the landing. Healey was standing by the door and opened it as Shepherd walked up. He gestured for him to step out of the spur. 'What's up?' asked Shepherd.

'Don't you mean "What's up, Mr Healey"?' said the prison officer. Stafford was watching from the bubble.

'Forget it,' said Shepherd.

'Any more of your lip and I'll put you on report, Macdonald.'

Shepherd ignoredhim andwalkedover to the entrance of the control office. 'Mr Stafford, Prison Officer Healey is refusing to tell me why I'm being taken from my cell.'

'Just do as you're told, Macdonald,' said Stafford.

'Prison rule six paragraph two,' said Shepherd. '"In the control of prisoners, officers shall seek to influence them through their own example and leadership, and to enlist their willing co-operation." Seems to me that as a way of enlisting my co-operation, I should be told where I'm being taken.'

Stafford sighed. 'Governor wants to see you.'

'Because?'

'That's for him to tell you.' Stafford turned his back.

'Come on, Macdonald,' said Healey. 'I don't have all day.'

Shepherd figured that the governor wanted to talk to him about Sue's death. It was the last thing he wantedto discuss, but he knew he had no choice. Lee was right: refusing to comply would mean he'd be thrown into solitary.

Healey escorted Shepherd along the secure corridor to the governor's office, and waited outside while one of the secretaries took him in. The door had barely closed behind him before the governor was out of his seat, pointing an accusing finger at him. 'Just what the hell are you playing at?' asked the governor.

'What?' said Shepherd. He'd expected empty words of comfort, not a verbal attack.

'I thought going undercover meant adopting a low profile. Blending in. Now I find you've put half the bloody spur in hospital.'

Realisation dawned. The governor was talking about Jurczak, Needles and Dreadlocks.

'Nothing to do with me,' said Shepherd. He had no choice but to lie. If he admitted he'd assaulted three prisoners the governor would have the perfect excuse to call an end to the operation. And even if he didn't have the authority to have Shepherd taken out of Shelton, he could make his position untenable with just a word in the wrong ear.

'Please don't insult my intelligence, DC Shepherd,' said Gosden. 'I've a man with a broken leg, another who's been cut to ribbons, and a third with broken teeth, kidney damage and a punctured leg. Any one of those cases could get you seven years in here for real.'

'Has any of the men said I attacked them?'

'Don't play games with me, DC Shepherd. You've been in here long enough to know how it works. But the word is out. You're the new hard man on the spur.'

Shepherd shook his head. 'That's not what happened.'

'Then perhaps you'd care to enlighten me.' Gosden sat down behind his desk and picked up a pencil. He tapped it against a metal filing tray.

Shepherd stared at him. The man was presiding over an institution in which the inmates appeared to be in charge, where jobs were allocated by prisoners rather than officers, and where a drug-dealer was able to run his operation unhindered. 'I haven't done anything that hasn't been necessary to resolve this case,' said Shepherd.

'I doubt that your orders include assaulting prisoners,' said Gosden.

Shepherd took a deep breath. There was no way he could explain to the governor that his sole reason for hurting Jurczak was to get the man's place on the cleaning crew. Or that his attack on Needles and Dreadlocks had been a pre-emptive strike and that he'd been in no immediate danger. The governor was a career civil servant, and while he had once worked at the sharp end of the prison service he now dealt with inmates from behind a desk. He'd read the file on Gerald Carpenter, but that didn't mean he knew the man or understood what he was capable of. And that sometimes the end really did justify the means.

'Please don't give me any bullshit about not being able to make an omelette without cracking a few skulls,' added Gosden.

'You have my word, Governor, that any force I've had to use has been necessary and controlled.'

'Jurczak is lying in the hospital wing with a broken leg.'

'That's as may be, but he's a drug-dealer who tried to kill an immigration officer,' said Shepherd. 'He deserved what he got.'

'Unless it's slipped your mind, this is a remand wing,' said Gosden. 'Innocent until proven guilty. And even if he'd been found guilty and sentenced, what right do you have to cripple the man?'

Shepherd felt a surge of anger and fought to quell it. He wanted to tell Gosden that Jurczak had paid for his job on the cleaning crew, that the spur was so corrupt that inmates could buy themselves an easy life and that the only way they could do that was because there was at least one corrupt officer on his staff. But Shepherd knew that the time to reveal the level of corruption in Shelton was after Carpenter had been dealt with. 'Governor, you have my word on this. I had nothing to do with whatever happened to Jurczak. Or the other two men.' Outright denial was the only option available to him. There had been no witnesses to any of the attacks, nothing caught on CCTV. All he had to do was stick to his story and there was nothing the governor could do.

'So, it's just coincidence that a few days after you arrive, three other prisoners are in hospital?' said Gosden.

'It's a violent place.'

Gosden stared at Shepherd for several seconds. 'I could have you pulled out of the block,' he said eventually.

'I doubt it would be as simple as that, sir,' said Shepherd quietly. 'My boss reports direct to the Home Office. I might be a bog-standard DC but this operation was sanctioned at a level way above your pay scale.'

'Having you here risks a major riot. I can't be held responsible for what the prisoners do if they find out there's an undercover cop on the spur.'

'And how would they find out, sir?'

The two men stared at each other, neither prepared to look away.

'The way I see it, the only man in here who knows my true role is you,' said Shepherd.

'And let's hope it stays that way,' said Gosden.

'I wouldn't want to think that I didn't have your full support,' said Shepherd, his voice barely above a whisper. 'If my cover should be blown, my superiors would be looking very carefully in your direction.'

'That sounds like a threat,' said the governor.

'No more than your suggestion that the inmates might discover I was an undercover police officer,' said Shepherd. 'Neither of us has anything to gain by threatening each other.'

'I want your word that no more prisoners are injured.'

'I'll do my best,' said Shepherd.

Gosden rubbed the back of his neck. 'I'm going to talk to your boss. I've no choice. I have to make my reservations clear in case this all goes wrong.'

'I understand that, sir. You have to cover yourself. It's what I would do if I was in your position.'

'Do you have any idea yet if any of my officers are helping Carpenter?'

'No, sir,' lied Shepherd. 'As soon as I know, so will you.'

'I wish I could believe that, DC Shepherd,' said the governor. 'I really do.'

That night Shepherd didn't sleep. He lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling. His mind wouldn't give him a moment's peace. All he knew of Sue's death was what Hargrove had told him. 'Jumped a red light. Hit a truck. It was an accident, pure and simple. The front of the car went under the truck.' That was all the information he had, but his subconscious kept playing it back in a thousand variations. Different trucks. Different crashes. But the ending was always the same. Sue in the wreckage, covered in blood, her eyes wide and staring. Liam in the back of the car, crying.

At seven thirty Lee woke up, washed and ate his cereal while watching breakfast television. The spyglass clicked open and closed at seven forty and the cell door was opened at eight. Lee must have sensed that something was wrong because he said nothing to Shepherd before he disappeared on to the landing.

Twenty minutes later, Amelia Heartfield appeared at the doorway. She was wearing a black pullover with epaulettes, and black trousers that were slightly too small for her. 'What's wrong, Bob?' she asked.

'Just leave me alone,' said Shepherd. He knew he was out of character. Bob Macdonald wouldn't lie on his bed sulking: he would express his rage. He'd lash out, verbally and physically, make someone pay for what he was going through. 'I don't want food, I don't want to watch television, I don't want to clean floors or weave bloody baskets. I just want some peace and quiet.'

'Swearing will get you on report, Bob,' she said, almost apologetically. 'You know that. Don't give me a hard time.'

'I don't think "bloody" counts as swearing any more,' said Shepherd. 'Just leave me alone.'

'You've got visitors,' said Amelia. 'Police.'

'From where?'

'Glasgow.'

Shepherd swung his legs off the bed. They must be Hargrove's way of getting him out of prison. 'What do they want?'

'You know the police, Bob. They treat us like mushrooms. But I think they're taking you up north for an ID parade.'

Shepherd wanted to rush down the landing because the sooner he was off the spur the sooner he could be with his son, but it was vital to stay in character. Bob Macdonald wouldn't want to be driven up north by Scottish detectives. 'Shit,' he said, and grimaced.

'Bad news?'

'I've had better.'

'Is that what the chat with your brief was about?'

'He didn't mention it.'

'If it is an ID parade, you've got the right to have your solicitor there. Word to the wise.'

Shepherd was surprised at her concern for his welfare and smiled gratefully. 'Thanks,' he said.

Amelia gestured with her chin. 'Come on, let's not keep them waiting longer than we have to,' she said.

She walked him along the landing and down to the ground floor. Lee was there, playing pool with one of the West Indians. 'What's up, Bob?' he called, as Shepherd walked by.

'Jocks are trying to pin something on me,' Shepherd called back, loud enough for several prisoners to hear him. He wanted the wing to know why he was being hauled out.

Amelia walked Shepherd out of the remand wing and down the secure corridor to the reception area. Two men were waiting there, big men in dark raincoats. Shepherd recognised one but blanked him as Amelia dealt with the processing paperwork. He was Jimmy 'Razor' Sharpe, a twenty-year veteran of the Strathclyde Police who had worked with Shepherd on several undercover cases. Hargrove must have sent him so that Shepherd would see a friendly face.

'When will you be bringing him back?' asked Amelia.

The man Shepherd didn't know shrugged. He was over six feet tall with broad shoulders and a boxer's nose. 'We're running him to Glasgow, and then we've got to put him in front of a little old lady in intensive care. It'll take as long as it takes.'

'If he's out overnight we have to ensure that the arrangements are in place for him to be fed.'

The man walked up to Amelia and looked down his nose at her. 'There's a seventy-year-old woman up in Glasgow who got shot in the legs when three men held up her local post office with sawn-off shotguns. She's a grandmother who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and I think your sympathies would be better with her than with a scumbag like Macdonald.'

'You're saying he shot her?' asked Amelia.

'I didn't shoot anyone,' said Shepherd. 'This is a fit-up.'

The man pointed a warning finger at Shepherd. 'You speak when spoken to, Macdonald,' he said.

'Macdonald is here on remand,' said Amelia. 'Until his court case, he's innocent until proven guilty.'

'Yeah, yeah, yeah,' said the man, 'and the Tooth Fairy gives me a blow-job every night.'

'What did you say?' said Amelia, her eyes hardening.

'Just do the paperwork,' said the man. 'We'll run him by the witness, and if he isn't our man we'll have him back in his cell before his sheets are cold.'

Amelia looked as if she wanted to argue, but she countersigned two sheets of paper, put one into a file and closed it. She handed the other to the detective.

'Are we all done?' he asked, folding it and putting it into his coat pocket.

'He's your responsibility now,' said Amelia.

Sharpe took out a pair of handcuffs and fastened his left wrist to Shepherd's right.

'Remember what I told you, Bob,' said Amelia, as Sharpe took him towards the exit.

'Will do, ma'am, and thanks,' replied Shepherd.

There was a blue Vauxhall Vectra in the courtyard, its engine running. Sharpe opened the rear door and let Shepherd slide in, then joined him. Even in the car Sharpe stayed in character, his face impassive, his body language suggesting that there were a million things he'd rather be doing than babysitting an armed robber.

The other detective got into the front passenger seat and pointed towards the gate. The driver, a small, balding man with the collar of his leather jacket turned up, put the car into gear and pressed the accelerator.

Shepherd twisted in his seat. Amelia was standing outside the reception centre, a clipboard in her hand, watching them drive away.

The Vauxhall stopped at the gate. A prison officer in a padded jacket walked over to the driver and checked the paperwork through the open window. He stared at Shepherd. 'Date of birth?' he asked.

Shepherd gave him the date in the Macdonald legend.

'Prison number?'

Shepherd told him.

The officer asked to see the three detectives' IDs and one by one they held up their warrant cards. He checked their faces against their photographs, then stepped back from the car and waved at a colleague. The huge gate rattled back and the driver wound up the window. 'The sweet smell of freedom,' he muttered, under his breath.

Sharpe waited until the car was on the main road, driving away from the prison before he said, 'Sorry about your loss, Spider.'

Shepherd nodded, but didn't say anything. Sharpe introduced his two associates. The big man with the boxer's nose was Tim Bicknelle, a new addition to Hargrove's squad, and the driver was Nigel Rosser. 'We call him Tosser 'cos he once tossed a caber,' said Sharpe. 'That's what we tell him, anyway.'

Rosser grinned good-naturedly and flashed a V-sign at Sharpe.

'Just keep your eyes on the road and your foot on the pedal,' said Sharpe.

'Thanks for putting the word out that I shoot little old ladies,' said Shepherd. 'That'll put me one step above the nonces.'

'Don't worry. When we take you back we'll make sure the screws know you're not in the frame for the Glasgow job,' Sharpe told him.

Bicknelle opened the glove compartment and took out a stainless-steel flask with two plastic-wrapped Marks and Spencer's sandwiches. He handed them back to Shepherd. 'Coffee,' he said. 'The boss said you liked it black with no sugar.'

Shepherd put the flask between his legs. 'Thanks.' He studied the sandwiches. One was beef on brown bread, the other chicken salad on white.

'Thought you might like a change from prison food,' said Sharpe.

'Bloody right,' said Shepherd. He used his teeth to rip open the pack of beef sandwiches and bit into one.

'Plan is to run you round the M25 and up the motorway, checking for tails,' said Sharpe. 'Assuming we're clear, we'll take you home. Liam and his grandmother are there. We've got a change of clothes and a washbag in the boot. We can stop at a service station and spruce you up.'

Shepherd continued to chew. He was still wearing his burgundy prison tracksuit, which he'd been wearing when he was pulled out of the gym to see Hargrove, and he hadn't showered recently.

'Story we've spun is that we're taking you to Glasgow so we'll have to stay overnight,' continued Sharpe. 'Figure we'll get you back inside by tomorrow evening. Gives you the best part of a day with your boy.'

A day, thought Shepherd. Twenty-four hours. Sue had died and that was all Hargrove could give him with Liam.

'I know that's bugger-all, Spider, but any longer than that and it's going to raise red flags.'

Shepherd said nothing.

Sharpe leaned over and undid the handcuffs. 'What's it like inside?' he asked.

'Ninety per cent boredom, ten per cent on a knife edge,' said Shepherd. 'The inmates run it, pretty much. If anything were to kick off, there's nothing the officers can do except call for reinforcements, so they're given a fair bit of leeway.'

'And how's the target?'

'He's a hard bastard. I'm walking on eggshells.'

'Rather you than me,' said Sharpe. 'I'd go stir-crazy.'

'You get used to it.'

Bicknelle offered Shepherd a bottle of Jameson's whiskey. 'Do you want a stiffener in your coffee?' he asked.

Shepherd was tempted but he didn't want to turn up at home smelling of drink so he declined it. He unscrewed the top of the Thermos and poured himself some coffee.

'Got it from Starbucks,' said Sharpe. 'None of that instant crap.'

It smelt rich and aromatic, a far cry from the insipid brew Shepherd had got used to on the wing. Ahead of them two big motorcycles were parked at the roadside. One peeled away from the kerb and drove in front of the Vauxhall. The rider was dressed from head to toe in black leather with a gleaming black full-face helmet. The second waited until the Vauxhall had passed, then followed.

'They're with us,' said Bicknelle. He took a small transceiver from his coat pocket and spoke into it. 'Bravo One, check?'

The transceiver buzzed. 'Bravo One, loud and clear.'

'Bravo Two, check?'

The transceiver buzzed again. 'On your tail,' said the rider behind.

Bicknelle put the whiskey into the glove compartment and settled back in his seat.

'It's Elliott's funeral day after tomorrow,' said Sharpe.

'I didn't know that,' said Shepherd.

'He was a good guy, was Jonathan,' said Bicknelle. 'For a Spurs fan.'

'You worked with him, didn't you?' Sharpe asked Shepherd.

'Drugs bust, five years back. He was my introduction to a Turkish gang in north London, but we went back a long way. We were probationers together. You going to the funeral?'

'Hargrove's vetoed all attendance,' Sharpe said. 'Carpenter'll probably have the funeral staked out.'

'How did he die?' asked Shepherd.

'Two guys on a motorbike pulled up next to him at a red light. Bang, bang, thank you and good night. Bike was trashed, a totally professional job.'

'How's his wife bearing up?'

'Sedated to the eyeballs. She was in the car with him when it happened.'

'Christ,' whispered Shepherd. Hargrove hadn't gone into details, which was typical. He must have reckoned that Shepherd didn't need to know the manner of Elliott's murder. 'No kids, though, right?'

Sharpe grimaced. 'She's pregnant. Two months. He didn't even know. She was planning to surprise him.'

Shepherd shuddered. He hadn't opened the chicken-salad sandwich and he'd lost his appetite. He offered it to Sharpe, but the detective shook his head.

'If that's going spare, I'll have it,' said Rosser.

Shepherd passed it to him. 'Who's representing the squad?' he asked.

'There'll be plenty of uniforms,' said Sharpe, 'but Hargrove isn't going.'

'So the answer's no one?' said Shepherd. He hated the idea that none of Elliott's associates would be there to say goodbye but he understood the logic behind it. One of Carpenter's men with a long lens would be able to blow the cover of any undercover cop who turned up.

'We're sending flowers, and Hargrove has been to see her,' said Sharpe. 'But we've got to make sure that bastard Carpenter spends the rest of his life behind bars.'

'Amen to that,' said Rosser.

The sun was high in the sky when the Vauxhall Vectra pulled up in front of the three-bedroom semi-detached in Ealing. It was a warm, sunny day. As Sharpe opened the car door and climbed out, Shepherd heard birdsong. He looked out of the passenger window at the house. It had been their home for almost six years. They'd moved into it when Liam had been crawling. There were so many memories of so many good times. Shepherd got out of the car. He'd washed at a service station on the M1 and changed into a denim shirt and blue jeans. He hadn't shaved because he couldn't afford to return to Shelton clean-shaven. Scottish cops wouldn't have bothered to let Bob Macdonald shave.

'We'll leave you to it, Spider,' said Sharpe. 'We'll pick you up tomorrow. Give us a call if you need us.' He told Shepherd his mobile number.

Shepherd continued to stare at the house as Sharpe got back into the car and it drove away. He looked up at the roof. There was a slate loose near the chimneys. He had promised Sue he would fix it. The gutters needed painting, another job she had been nagging him about. He felt a sudden urge to apologise to her for all the jobs he'd failed to do, the times he hadn't been there for her.

He walked towards the front door, his feet crunching on the gravelled path. The door opened and, for a wild moment, Shepherd thought it was Sue standing there, that it had all been a terrible mistake and she was still alive. But it wasn't: it was her mother, Moira, in her late fifties, tall and striking, with Sue's high cheekbones and full mouth, her greying hair dyed a rich auburn. She wore no makeup and was wearing jeans and a floppy dark blue pullover. She forced a smile and kissed his cheek.

Shepherd didn't know what to say to her. They hugged on the doorstep.

'Where the hell have you been, Daniel?' she asked. His mother-in-law was the only person who called him by his full Christian name. At home and through his schooldays he'd been Danny. When he'd joined the army he'd decided Danny was juvenile and told his fellow recruits he was Dan. When he'd joined the SAS his troop had rechristened him Spider after a training course in the jungles of Borneo. It had all been down to a bet as to which of them could eat the most disgusting insect without throwing up; Shepherd had wolfed down a tarantula. Now everyone called him Spider, except Moira: to her he would always be Daniel, the soldier who'd stolen her daughter. Sue had always called him Dan.

'Where's Liam?' Shepherd asked, ignoring her question.

'In the sitting room, playing with his video game.'

'How is he?'

Moira wrapped her arms round herself. 'He wasn't hurt, he was strapped in. But he was there when Sue--'

She couldn't finish the sentence.

'Has he said anything?'

'Only that he doesn't want to talk about it. The doctor said he's dealing with it in his own way. He'll talk when he's ready.'

Shepherd hugged her. 'Thanks for coming, Moira. Thanks for taking care of him.'

'He's my grandson, Daniel,' she said flatly.

Shepherd released her and stepped into the hallway. The sitting room was on the right. He could hear electronic gunfire, and screams. Moira closed the front door.

Liam was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the television, his thumbs flashing over the PlayStation handset. On the screen, soldiers were exploding as machine-gun bullets ripped through their bodies. Liam didn't look up as Shepherd walked in.

'Hi,' said Shepherd.

'Hi,' said Liam, his eyes still on the screen.

Shepherd stood where he was. This wasn't what he'd been expecting. He'd assumed that his son would rush at him in tears to be hugged and picked up and told that everything was all right.

'Are you okay?'

Liam shrugged and carried on with his game. Shepherd sat down on the floor next to him. 'That looks fun,' he said.

Liam went on playing with his left hand but handed Shepherd the second control pad with the right. Shepherd looked at its coloured buttons as Liam continued to shoot make-believe soldiers with make-believe bullets.

Shepherd started to play the game with his son. Bang, bang, you're dead. Make-believe blood. Make-believe gore. No regrets, no conscience.

'Do you want coffee, Daniel?' asked Moira, from the door.

'No thanks,' said Shepherd.

'Liam? Lemonade?'

Liam shook his head.

'Say, "No, thank you,"' said Shepherd.

'No, thank you,' repeated Liam.

'Jaffa cakes?'

'No, thanks.'

Shepherd looked over his shoulder. Moira was close to tears, her hands clutched together. He smiled reassuringly, but she turned away and went into the kitchen.

'Do you want to go to the park?' asked Shepherd. 'Kick the football around?'

'Okay,' said Liam.

Liam kicked the football and ran after it. A red setter chased it, too, but Liam got there first and kicked it high into the air. The dog ran after it, barking. Liam still hadn't talked about his mother's death. He'd barely said anything. Shepherd had tried to start a conversation several times, but all Liam did was grunt or answer monosyllabically. Shepherd knew that he was bottling up his emotions and that eventually it would all come tumbling out. But just then all he wanted to do was run with the red setter.

Shepherd saw a man on the other side of the football field, walking in his direction with his hands in his overcoat pockets. It was Sam Hargrove.

Shepherd watched his son play with the dog as Hargrove walked up to him. 'Nice day for it,' said Hargrove. The evening wind tugged at his immaculately styled hair.

'Any day out of prison is a nice day,' said Shepherd.

'How is he?' asked Hargrove, nodding in Liam's direction.

'His mother just died, how do you think he is?' said Shepherd, and realised how churlish that sounded. He tried to apologise, but the words caught in his throat.

Hargrove put a hand on his shoulder. 'I'm so sorry about what's happened,' he said. 'If there's anything I can do, you just have to ask.'

'I know.'

For a few moments they were silent.

'This isn't just social, is it?' asked Shepherd.

'If you don't want to talk about the job, that's fine by me,' said the superintendent.

'I'm okay,' said Shepherd. At least if he was thinking about the case he wasn't thinking about Sue.

'Tony Stafford is Digger's man,' said Hargrove.

'I can't say I'm surprised. Carpenter told me as much.'

Hargrove took a manila envelope from his overcoat pocket and handed it to Shepherd. Inside were half a dozen surveillance photographs of Stafford meeting a pretty black girl and taking an envelope from her, then walking away with a smile on his face.

'We've found an offshore building-society account with fifty-eight grand in it.'

'Stupid bugger.' Shepherd recalled Stafford's file. Married with three children, one at university. Wife worked as a nurse. Two incomes, so money shouldn't have been a problem. Maybe it was greed. Or resentment. The same reasons that turned criminals into informers.

'Thing is, he's Digger's man. I don't think he's Carpenter's man. We've had Digger's sister under surveillance and she hasn't gone within a mile of any of Carpenter's people. Neither has Stafford. We've been through all their phone records. Nothing. No connection between either of them and Carpenter.'

'So Carpenter has someone else?'

'That's the way I read it. He uses Digger to fix up the perks on the spur, but someone else is running errands to his people.'

'Shit,' said Shepherd.

'Yeah,' said Hargrove.

'What about Bain?'

'We've checked Bain's phone calls and visitors. No connection with Carpenter's men. Also, Bain is pretty much finished. His wife took most of the cash and she's shacked up in Malaga with a Turkish waiter. A couple of his gang set up on their own using the contacts he'd made. He's a spent force. We'll keep tags on his calls and visits, but it doesn't look like he's the conduit.'

'So now what?'

'That's the thing, isn't it?' said Hargrove. 'If we pull in Stafford, we show our hand.'

'So you let him run?'

'Until we find out who else is on the take.' Hargrove paused. 'If you're up for it.'

Moira was waiting with the front door open as Shepherd and Liam walked down the road, hand in hand. 'I don't like Gran's cooking,' said Liam. 'She uses too much salt.'

'Well, tell her.'

Moira waved at them and Shepherd waved back.

'Dad, are you home for good now?'

Shepherd stopped. 'Let's talk about it tomorrow, yeah?'

'You're not going away again, are you?'

'It won't be long, Liam.' Shepherd made the sign of the cross over his heart. 'Cross my heart.'

'You're always going away.'

'It's my job.'

Tears welled in Liam's eyes. 'Don't leave me with Gran. Please.'

Shepherd scooped up his son and held him tight, burying his face in his son's hair. Liam was racked with sobs. 'I miss Mum.'

'So do I.'

'It's not fair.'

'I know.'

'It was my fault, Daddy.'

'No, it wasn't. Don't be silly.'

'She was trying to get my bag and she died.'

Shepherd kissed his son's cheek, wet with tears. 'It wasn't anybody's fault,' he said. 'It was an accident. But your mummy loves you more than anyone else in the world and she's in Heaven looking down and watching over you. She'll be watching over you for the rest of your life.'

'Are you sure?' asked Liam, blinking away tears.

'Cross my heart,' said Shepherd.

'You have to do it to make it count,' said Liam.

Shepherd cradled him in his left arm and crossed his heart with his right hand, then carried Liam to the house. He took him into the sitting room, half expecting to see Sue lying on the sofa watching TV or reading one of the trashy celebrity magazines she loved, ready to bite off his head for working late yet again.

Shepherd put Liam down on the sofa. 'Do you want to watch TV?' he asked.

'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.

'I've spoken to the school,' said Moira. 'They said he can stay off as long as he needs to.'

'Good,' said Shepherd, sipping his whiskey. 'Thanks. Dinner was lovely.' He took another sip of whiskey, then put the glass on the coffee-table. 'How's Tom?'

'It's hit him hard,' said Moira. 'His deputy's away on holiday so he has to stay with the branch. He'll be here at the weekend.'

'I should phone him.'

'I'd leave him be,' cautioned Moira, 'for a day or two. The doctor's prescribed something.' She grimaced. 'He wanted to give me something, too, but I said I didn't need it.' Tears were in her eyes again and she dabbed at them with a white handkerchief. 'It's been twenty-six years since I've been to a funeral, and that was my father's,' she said. 'I've been so lucky. My brother's family all well, Tom's relatives seem to go on for ever. It was like we were blessed. But now this . . .' She sobbed into her handkerchief.

'What do we do? About the arrangements?' Shepherd had never had to organise a funeral, and didn't know where to start.

'I've spoken to a local firm already. They'll arrange everything. I gave them my credit-card number. They said . . .' Moira dissolved into tears.

Shepherd looked around the sitting room. Sue's presence was everywhere. The book she'd been reading. The TV Times on the coffee-table, open at the listings for two days earlier. The video she'd rented was still on the sideboard, in its box ready to be returned. A scribbled note to herself - a reminder of shopping she had to do: shampoo, rubbish bags, tea. Sue's memory wasn't a patch on his, he thought, and she was forever making lists of things she had to do. He'd always teased her about it. When they'd gone shopping together he'd taken a brief look at her list and wouldn't have to refer to it again. She had a Filofax and an electronic organiser for her phone numbers, but Shepherd had never forgotten a number in his life. Other husbands might forget birthdays and anniversaries but not Shepherd. He could recall the date of every event in his life, important or otherwise.

'This job you're doing, what is it exactly?' asked Moira.

'I can't tell you,' said Shepherd. 'I'm sorry, but it's a sensitive operation.'

'It was tearing Sue apart, you being away so much.'

'I know,' said Shepherd, 'but there wasn't anything I could do about it.'

'Well, whatever it is, it's over now.'

'Moira!' protested Shepherd.

'He's your son,' said Moira emphatically. 'He comes first.'

'Of course he does. You don't have to tell me what my priorities are.'

'Maybe somebody has to,' said Moira. 'Your family always played second fiddle to your army career and things weren't much better when you joined the police.'

'I gave up the army for Sue,' said Shepherd quietly. He didn't want an argument with his mother-in-law, especially one that he'd had a thousand times with his wife.

'Sue wanted you to have a regular job. She didn't expect you to start working as an undercover policeman doing who knows what.'

'She shouldn't have told you what I was doing,' said Shepherd. 'There's no point in my being undercover if people are shouting it from the rooftops.'

Moira looked at him scornfully. 'The thing you don't seem to realise, Daniel, is that family comes first. Sue had no secrets from me.'

Shepherd knew that Sue had kept dozens of secrets from her mother. The time they'd made love in the bathroom while Moira and her husband had been downstairs watching EastEnders. The lump he'd found in her breast, which had kept her awake for weeks with worry until the specialist had pronounced it benign. Shepherd knew that family was more important than anything, but what Moira didn't seem to understand was that he had been Sue's family. Him and Liam.

'This job's important, Moira.'

'I knew it. You're not coming back, are you?'

'It's more complex than that.'

'No, it isn't!' hissed Moira. 'You've got a simple choice to make. Your job or your son.'

Shepherd put his head in his hands. 'Moira . . .' he said.

'Sue's not even buried and all you can think about is your pathetic little job. You're an adrenaline junkie, that's what you are. We warned Sue that nothing good would come of getting involved with a trooper. You're all the same. You thrive on danger, on putting your life on the line. That's what you did in the SAS and that's what you're doing now. You're like a junkie who needs his fix of heroin and you put that fix ahead of everything else in your life.'

'That's not fair.'

'You're right it's not fair. You're putting your job ahead of your son's welfare - and for what? It's not as if it pays well, is it? The amount of hours you're away from home, you'd get more working in a factory.' She waved her hand around the room. 'Look at this! It's the same furniture you had in Hereford. Tom and I bought your bed and the wardrobes. And look at the state of the carpet - you can almost see through it. Whatever it is that you get from your job, it's not money.'

'It isn't about money,' said Shepherd.

'Exactly. It's about you getting your kicks, that's what it's about.'

'It's about making a difference,' said Shepherd. 'It's about making the world a safer place.'

Moira laughed harshly. 'Oh, the world's a safer place now than it was twenty years ago, is it? I don't think so.'

'It'd be a darn sight worse if it wasn't for the work we do,' said Shepherd, but even as the words left his mouth he wondered how true they were. Much of his undercover work involved putting away drug-dealers and traffickers, yet the volume of drugs entering the country had consistently increased year after year. For every dealer that Shepherd had helped put behind bars, another two had taken their place. But Gerald Carpenter had to be dealt with. It didn't matter who replaced him, there was no way he could be allowed to get away with what he'd done. Moira opened her mouth to speak but Shepherd held up his hand to silence her. 'There's a man in prison,' he said, 'who deserves to stay behind bars for the rest of his life, but the way things are going he's going to get away scot-free. He brings millions of pounds' worth of drugs into the country every year, and he kills anyone who gets in his way.'

'If he's in prison, that's the end of it, isn't it?'

'It's not as simple as that. He's been caught red-handed, but there's a world of difference between being caught and being sentenced. He's on remand while he waits for his trial. And he's killing witnesses, destroying evidence, doing everything he can to make sure that he never gets to trial. I'm the last line of defence, Moira. If I pull out, he walks.'

'Would that be so bad?'

'He killed an undercover policeman, a friend of mine. Shot him dead in front of his pregnant wife.'

'That's not your problem.'

'Then whose problem is it, Moira? If I don't do something about it, who will?'

'You're not the only policeman in the country. Let someone else put themselves in the firing line for a change.'

'There isn't time. Look, I can't tell you exactly what I'm doing, but it's something only I can do. There isn't time for someone else to get close to this guy. If I pull out, he gets a clear run. He gets away with murder.'

'You keep saying that. You keep saying he's done this and he's done that and he's having people killed. If you know that, why don't you just charge him with it and have done with it?'

'Because life isn't like that any more,' said Shepherd. 'This guy's got the most expensive lawyers in the country. Any wrong move, any mistake, and they'll get him off. The case against him has to be one hundred per cent watertight.'

Moira's shoulders slumped. She suddenly looked a decade older than her true age.

'I need your help, Moira,' said Shepherd. 'I need you to take care of Liam for a while.'

'He needs his father,' said Moira, but Shepherd could tell that the fight had gone out of her.

'And he'll have me,' said Shepherd. 'Just let me get this thing out of the way.'

'How long?' asked Moira.

'Weeks rather than months,' said Shepherd. 'As soon as his case goes to trial, my job's over. And if I can find out how he's getting his orders to the outside, I'll be done even sooner. Can you stay here? There's no one else I would trust to be with Liam.'

Moira studied him. 'I hope you're less obvious with the criminal fraternity,' she said. 'What do you think, Daniel? That you can soft-soap me with a few sweet words? That might have worked with Sue but I find it an insult to my intelligence.'

'It's the truth,' protested Shepherd. 'There's no one on my side of the family close enough to Liam. He barely sees my brother and I've never been close to my parents. He thinks the world of you and Tom. I know that sounds like I'm trying to sweet-talk you again, Moira, but, hand on heart, I mean it.'

'I'm not sure I can leave Tom on his own.'

'He can stay here.'

'He's got his job. Same as you have.'

'Why not take Liam back with you?'

'What would his school say about that?'

'You said they were okay with him taking some time off, and there are schools in Hereford. In a way it might be better to get him out of this environment for a while.'

'You mean it might make it easier for you to be away?' Moira sighed. 'I'm too tired to argue any more,' she said. 'You do what you want. Tom and I will take care of Liam until you're prepared to accept your responsibilities.' She pushed herself up off the sofa. 'I'm going to bed. What time are you away tomorrow?'

'I don't know. Early afternoon, I guess.'

'I'll do lunch,' she said. 'I was going to do a roast but Liam said he wanted fish fingers.'

'Fish fingers is fine.'

Moira went out, leaving Shepherd nursing his whiskey and water. He stretched out his legs and groaned. Prison felt a million miles away, and there was no doubt he wanted to walk away from the job and let someone else bring Carpenter down. It was true that there wasn't time to get someone else in place, but Moira had been close to the mark when she'd accused him of being an adrenaline junkie. A big part of him wanted to pit his wits against Carpenter's, to put his life on the line as he had a hundred times before. If he was truly honest with himself, Shepherd had to admit that he never felt more alive than when he was in combat, facing an enemy with a gun, knowing that it was his life or the life of his adversary, that there could be only one winner and one loser, and that more often than not the loser's life was forfeit. Undercover work wasn't the same as combat, but the thrill was similar. And nothing compared with the elation of winning the game, of seeing a target led away in handcuffs wondering where it had all gone wrong, while Shepherd knew it had been down to him, that his skills and maybe his luck had made him the better man on the day. There were men, and women, sitting in prison cells around the country because Shepherd had put them there, a living roll-call of victories.

Shepherd drained his glass, then went into the kitchen and refilled it. He wondered what Carpenter was doing. Probably lying on his bunk, listening to the radio. Reading, maybe. Planning his next move. Planning what he'd be doing when he got out, how he'd spend his millions. 'The best-laid plans . . .' he said, and raised his glass in tribute. If Shepherd had his way, Carpenter's plans would come to nothing and he'd spend the rest of his life behind bars, never knowing who had betrayed him.

Jason Lee was sitting at the table when he heard his door being unlocked. He frowned. It was half an hour early. Then he remembered that his cellmate was due back and twisted in his wooden chair, expecting Macdonald. He was surprised to see Eric Magowan, one of the hotplate men, standing in the doorway, holding a plastic canteen bag. A prison officer was standing just behind him but Lee couldn't see who it was.

'Not me, mate, I'm spent up,' said Lee. He leaned back in his chair but he still couldn't see the officer's face, just a black-trousered leg and a glimpse of white shirt. He couldn't even tell if the officer was male or female.

'Don't look a gift-horse in the arse,' said Magowan, tossing the bag at him.

Lee caught it. He was about to argue with Magowan when he saw what was in it. Three Pot Noodles. Two bars of chocolate. A jar of coffee. He hadn't ordered the treats. They were a pay-off - from Carpenter.

Magowan walked away and the prison officer slammed the door and locked it. Lee stared at the bag. He knew that Carpenter never gave anything for nothing. He would be expected to keep a close eye on his cellmate. God help him if Macdonald was up to something and Lee didn't come up with the goods.

Shepherd woke up and rolled over, half asleep. He could smell Sue's perfume and reached across the bed for his wife, murmuring her name, but before his hand touched the pillow he snapped back to reality. The cold emptiness returned and he curled up into a ball as the memories of everything he'd lost washed over him. Shepherd had lost people before, and he'd seen more than a handful of his friends killed, but nothing compared with the loss of the woman he loved.

He'd been splattered with the blood of an SAS captain whose head had exploded in the Afghan desert, and he'd been cradling the man in his arms when a sniper's bullet had slammed into his own shoulder. He'd seen a young trooper die of a snakebite in the Borneo jungle on a survival training course, a stupid mistake because the medic had brought the wrong anti-venom pack with him. The trooper had died in a helicopter just ten minutes away from hospital, his spine curved like a bow, bloody froth at his lips, while Shepherd held his hand and told him to hang on, that everything would be okay. He'd watched from a cliff-top on the Welsh coast as a trooper laden with gear fell to his death during a training exercise, another stupid mistake that had cost a life. But the death of friends and colleagues at least made some sort of sense: they were fighting for their country or pushing themselves to their limits, and it was the occasional price to be paid. Like any member of the armed forces, Shepherd accepted death as a possible outcome of his career choice. And as a policeman, he accepted that from time to time he'd be confronted with violence and possibly death. But Sue's death had been so unnecessary. A simple road accident, two vehicles colliding, and Shepherd was without the wife he loved, Moira and Tom had lost their daughter, and Liam his mother.

Shepherd rolled on to his front and buried his face in the pillow. Images of the last time he'd spoken to Sue filled his mind. Sitting in the visitors' room, he in his stupid fluorescent sash, she in her old sheepskin jacket and blue jeans, the small gold crucifix at her neck, arguing about what the hell he was still doing in prison. He remembered every word she'd said to him, every grimace, every flash of her eyes, the way she'd tapped the table with the nail of her wedding-ring finger, the way she'd glared at the prison officers as if they were to blame for his confinement. It was a lousy memory, one that filled him with guilt and self-loathing. If he hadn't been inside, if he'd been with Sue and Liam, maybe he'd have done the school run that day, maybe he'd have seen the truck, maybe he'd have braked sooner, but even if he hadn't and he'd hit the truck full on, then better that he'd died instead of Sue. Moira was right. Shepherd was just a policeman, one of many, and there were dozens who could take his place at a moment's notice, but Liam had only one mother and she was irreplaceable.

He cursed into the pillow, he swore and blasphemed, but even as he did so he realised the futility of his anger. There was no one to blame, no one to wreak vengeance on.

He turnedon to his back and staredupatthe ceiling. What was done was done. All he could do was make the best of the hand he'd been dealt, no matter how shitty it was.

He showered and went downstairs. Moira was in the kitchen wearing Sue's white towelling bathrobe and nursing a cup of coffee. She gestured at the robe. 'You don't mind, do you?' she asked. 'It's just . . .'

She couldn't find the words, but Shepherd knew what she meant. It smelt of Sue, her perfume, her sweat, her essence, and wearing it allowed Moira to hold on to her just a little longer.

'I know,' said Shepherd. 'It's as if she's just popped out for a while, as if she's going to be back at any moment.'

'I dreamed about her last night,' said Moira. 'I hardly slept but when I did I dreamed she was back, that it had all been a terrible mistake and that someone else had been in the car.' She smiled ruefully. 'Stupid, isn't it?'

It wasn't stupid. Shepherd had dreamed about Sue, too, and in his dream she'd told him she'd had to go away on a job for Sam Hargrove, a job so secret she couldn't tell him about it, but it was over now and she'd never be working for him again. Even asleep he'd known that what she was saying didn't make sense and he found the dream slipping away from him. He'd fought to keep her, even though he knew it wasn't real, but he'd woken up calling her name, wanting her back.

'I'll go down to the shops, get what we need for lunch,' said Moira.

'I'll take Liam to the park.'

'Aren't you going to shave?' she asked.

'I can't. It's part of the role.'

Shepherd went back upstairs and sat on the bed next to his son. Liam's face was stained with dried tears and he was hugging one of his pillows. Shepherd stroked his forehead. 'Time to wake up, kid.'

Liam rolled over sleepily. 'You're home?' he said.

'Of course I'm home,' said Shepherd. Liam's eyes widened, and Shepherd saw that on waking he'd forgotten what had happened. Now it was all flooding back. Shepherd lay on the bed and wrapped his arms round his son. 'It's all right,' he whispered into Liam's ear. 'It's going to be all right.'

'Mummy's dead.'

'I know. But she's watching over you.'

'In Heaven?'

'That's right.'

'I want to be with her in Heaven, too.'

'It's not your time to go to Heaven,' said Shepherd. 'You have to stay here with me and your gran.'

'It's not fair.'

'I know. I know it's not.'

'Is she really in Heaven, Daddy?'

Shepherd gave his son a small squeeze. 'Of course,' he said. 'She's with Jesus, and Jesus is taking care of her.' Shepherd didn't believe that. Sue was dead. A body on a slab somewhere, being prepared for burial or cremation. She wasn't sitting on a cloud playing a harp and she wasn't looking down on Liam. She was dead, and one day Shepherd would be dead, too. But what Shepherd believed and what he wanted his son to believe were two different things. He'd had an argument with Sue when Liam was three and he had wanted to tell the child that there was no Father Christmas. Father Christmas was nothing more than a marketing exercise, Shepherd had argued, and telling Liam otherwise was tantamount to lying. Sue had disagreed and insisted that children needed their fantasies. Shepherd had asked her if that included God and she'd given him a frosty look. She'd won the argument, and it had only been when schoolfriends had put him straight that Liam stopped believing in the fat man in the red suit. Shepherd rated God on a par with Father Christmas, but he had no wish to add to his son's despair by telling him there was no such place as Heaven and that he'd never see his mother again.

'I love you, Mummy,' Liam shouted. 'Don't forget me!' Then he said, 'Did she hear me, Daddy?'

'Of course she did,' said Shepherd. 'And she loves you.' Liam snuggled up to him. 'I love you, too, Daddy.'

Gerald Carpenter turned up the volume of his personal stereo. He was listening to a news programme on Radio Four, but even with his headphones on he could still hear pounding rap music from one of the cells below, the click-click of balls on the pool table, the clanging of doors closing, raised voices, forceful rather than angry, sarcastic laughter - all the sounds of association, when prisoners were let out of their cells to socialise. But even when everyone was banged up there was never a time when the wing was silent. Even in the middle of the night radios played, there were muttered conversations, snoring, the squeak of boots on the landing as an officer walked by, the rattling of keys. Even with his eyes closed there were constant reminders of where he was. His inability to control his environment was one of the worst things about being in prison. At least he had the money and contacts to ensure that his confinement would only be temporary. He could think of nothing worse than to be behind bars on a long sentence, knowing that for the next ten or twenty years everything you did was controlled by people who thought you were no better than an animal to be caged, fed and occasionally exercised.

Carpenter took several deep breaths and forced himself to relax. He filled his mind with images of his wife and son, on their motor launch at Malaga, soaking up the sun and enjoying the envious looks of the tourists on the quayside; Bonnie riding her horse, looking damn good in her jodhpurs and boots; himself walking into his local pub and buying a round, talking football with guys who had no idea what he did for a living. If everything went to plan, it wouldn't be long before Carpenter was on the outside enjoying those things for real. He'd already spent the best part of two million pounds on destroying the case against him, but if it took another twenty million it would still be a small price to pay for his freedom.

After breakfast - scrambled eggs and cheese on toast, Liam's favourite - Shepherd took his son for a walk on the local common. Liam was talking about his mother. Mostly he started with 'Remember when . . .' then relate a story from start to finish. The time she'd locked herself out of the house and had to break a window to get in. The time she'd taken him to hospital thinking he'd broken his collarbone after falling off his bike. The time they'd eaten oysters on holiday on the Scottish coast. He told the stories happily, and Shepherd listened, ruffling his hair.

They kicked the football around, then took it in turns to be in goal and had a penalty competition, which Liam won. They walked to a copse and Liam said he wanted to climb an oak tree with spreading branches. Shepherd stood underneath anxiously, but Liam was surefooted and fearless. He sat on a branch and waved to him. 'Come on, Daddy!'

Shepherd climbed up and joined him. Liam pointed off into the distance. 'Our house is there, isn't it?'

'I guess so.'

'Can you see it?'

'No, I can't.'

'Mum never let me climb trees,' said Liam.

'She was scared about you falling, that's all.'

'But I won't fall,' he said.

'I know,' said Shepherd.

'Will we live in the same house?'

'I don't know.'

'I don't want to live anywhere else,' said Liam firmly.

'You can stay with Gran for a bit, though, can't you?'

'Do I have to?'

'It'd be a help for me. There are some things I have to do.'

Liam nodded seriously. 'But when you've finished, we can live at home, right?'

'Sure.'

'Can I sleep in the big bed?'

'Of course you can.'

As Shepherd walked back along the road to the house with his son, he saw the blue Vauxhall Vectra parked at the end of the driveway. Jimmy Sharpe climbed out of the back and waited, his hands in his overcoat pockets.

'Who is that man, Daddy?' asked Liam.

'A friend,' said Shepherd, putting his hand on his son's shoulder.

'He looks like a policeman,' said Liam.

Shepherd smiled. Sharpe had spent a good ten years working undercover and would have been most put out to learn that he'd been rumbled by a seven-year-old. 'Why do you say that?' he asked.

Liam looked up at him. 'He's got cold eyes. Like you.'

His son's words cut Shepherd to the core. Was that how his son saw him? A policeman with cold eyes? 'He's a good guy,' said Shepherd. 'His name's Jimmy Sharpe.'

'Sharp like a knife?'

'Yeah, but with an extra e at the end.'

'Are you going to go with them?'

'I think so. Yes.'

'Okay.'

'But we'll have lunch first. Your gran's doing fish fingers. Your favourite, right?'

Liam shrugged but didn't say anything.

When they reached the Vectra, Sharpe nodded at Shepherd. 'Hargrove wants a word,' he said.

Shepherd patted his son's head. 'Go and tell your gran I'm on my way,' he said.

As Liam ran up the driveway to the house, Sharpe tapped out a number on his mobile phone and handed it to Shepherd. Hargrove answered within a couple of rings. 'Have you decided what you're going to do?' he asked Shepherd. He sounded tired.

Shepherd looked at Sharpe. Sharpe looked back at him. Shepherd turned to the house. Liam was standing at the front door, watching him, still holding the football. Moira was behind him. 'I'm going back,' said Shepherd.

'Thank you, Spider,' said the superintendent. 'I know you're doing the right thing.'

'Just make sure there are no screw-ups on the outside.'

Hargrove thanked him again and Shepherd handed the phone to Sharpe. 'I'm going to have lunch, then we'll head back,' said Shepherd. 'I can't ask you in. The mother-in-law's a bit anti-police at the moment.'

'That's okay,' said Sharpe. 'Tim's got more M and S sandwiches. And another bottle of Jameson's. We'll be fine.'

'Liam's going to stay with my in-laws in Hereford. Look in on him now and again, will you?'

'It'll be a pleasure.'

'You know there could be a few bad apples we don't know about?'

'Carpenter's a shit-stirrer, that's for sure. With enough money to stir a whole lot of shit.'

'Have you got a pen?'

Sharpe gave him a ballpoint and a small notebook. Shepherd wrote down a telephone number and a name. 'This guy's SAS,' he said. 'Any hint that there's a problem, call him and explain the situation.'

Sharpe slipped the notebook and pen into his overcoat pocket.

When Shepherd walked into the house Moira was placing food on the table. Fish fingers, chips and frozen peas. Shepherd had barely any appetite and Liam only played with his food. They made small-talk as they ate, but Shepherd was already back in prison, entering the end game. He forced himself to chew, swallow and nod as Moira talked about the work that needing doing in the garden in Hereford, how peas never tasted as good as they used to, and how she hoped her husband had remembered to unload the washing-machine.

When they'd finished, Shepherd hugged Liam and kissed him. 'Be good for your gran,' he said.

Liam said nothing. There were no tears, no recriminations, no pleading for him to stay. He just looked at his father blankly.

'I won't be away for long,' Shepherd promised.

'I want to play with my PlayStation,' said Liam, looking away so that he didn't have to meet his father's eyes.

'Okay,' said Shepherd.

The child walked out of the kitchen, his hands limp by his sides.

'He'll be all right,' said Moira.

Shepherd nodded slowly. All it would take was one phone call to Hargrove and he'd be out, able to spend as much time as he wanted to with his son. One phone call. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

'You've made your decision,' said Moira, softly. 'Don't make it worse by hesitating now.'

It was only with his eyes closed that Shepherd realised how alike Moira and Sue sounded. He wanted to freeze time, to hold the moment, because standing in the kitchen with the sound of Moira's voice, it was as if none of the bad things had happened, as if Sue was still with him, about to nag him to do the dishes and, afterwards, lie with him on the sofa watching a movie on television, falling asleep in each other's arms.

'Daniel . . .' said Moira.

Shepherd opened his eyes and the spell was broken. He pecked Moira on the check, then rushed out of the house. He hurried over to the Vectra and climbed into the back. 'Drive,' he said to Rosser. 'Just get me away from here before I change my mind.'

Hamilton escorted Shepherd from the reception area back to the remand block, swinging his keys like an aeroplane propeller. 'Word is that you shot a little old lady,' he said.

'A case of mistaken identity,' said Shepherd. 'Sorry to burst your bubble.'

'No skin off my nose,' said Hamilton. 'The Gatwick robbery's going to mean you doing a twelve-stretch, minimum.'

'You do understand how the British trial system works, don't you, Hamilton?' said Shepherd. 'Innocent until judged guilty by my peers.'

'That's the theory, Macdonald. But I can count the number of innocent men in here on the fingers of one hand.'

Hamilton unlockedthe gate to the remandblock and ushered Shepherd through. Lloyd-Davies was in the bubble and she smiled when she saw Shepherd. 'I was worried that the Jocks might not let you back, Macdonald,' she said.

'Mistaken identity, apparently,' said Hamilton.

'Just in time for tea,' said Lloyd-Davies.

Shepherd was about to say he wasn't hungry, but that would have been a mistake: as far as the prison staff were concerned, he'd been in the custody of cops who wouldn't have given him much in the way of food and drink. Not when he had been involved in the shooting of one of their own. 'Thanks, ma'am,' he said.

Hamilton unlocked the door to the spur and Shepherd walked through. It was association time. Down on the ones four prisoners were playing pool, and there was a card game going on. Shepherd stood at the stairs, looking for Carpenter. No sign of him. He walked back to the bubble and asked to have Jimmy Sharpe's name and telephone number on his approved list.

'Who is he?' asked Lloyd-Davies. 'Family?'

'He's the cop who took me to Glasgow,' said Shepherd. 'Said he might have something to help with my case.'

As Shepherd walked away from the bubble, Lee came over to him, his hands in his pockets. 'How did it go, Bob?' he asked.

'Blind as a bat, she was,' said Shepherd.

'Couldn't identify you?'

'I doubt she'd recognise herself in the mirror,' he said. 'Much happen while I was away?'

'You weren't away long.'

'What do you mean?'

'Traffic must have been good to get to Glasgow and back so quick.'

Shepherd frowned. 'We drove to King's Cross and got the train from there. Bastards wouldn't even let me have a hot meal on the journey.'

'Where did they take you?'

'Some hospital.'

'What about the cop shop?'

Shepherd frowned, not understanding the question.

'They must have taken you to a cop shop for questioning, right? Craigie Street, was it?'

'Not much to question me about. It was a waste of time. She said it wasn't me. Not by a mile.'

'Still, you got a day out, didn't you? Raining, was it?'

'What?'

'Raining in Glasgow, was it? Always rains in Glasgow, it does.'

Shepherd's eyes narrowed. 'Why the sudden interest in the weather, Jason?'

'Just making conversation.'

'Sounds more like the third degree. What's going on? You planning on writing my biography?'

Lee put his hands up and took a step backwards. 'Fine, I'll keep my gob shut,' he said. He pushed past Shepherd. 'It's teatime, anyway.' He joined the queue at the hotplate.

Shepherd hadn't selected his meal so he was given the vegetarian option - mushroom pizza. When he got back to the cell, Lee was sitting at the table. Shepherd apologised for snapping at him. 'It's been a shitty couple of days,' he said.

'Gave you a lot of grief, did they?'

'You know what cops are like.'

'Was your brief there?'

'Phoned him to put him in the picture, but I'm a big boy, Jason.'

Lee chuckled. 'Good to have you back, anyway. It was too quiet without you. Nobody got their legs broken.'

Carpenter waited until one o'clock in the morning before he got out of bed and took the Nokia phone and battery from their hiding places. He slotted the battery into the phone and switched it on. About a quarter of the power had already gone.

He went over to the door and listened. There'd been a check at a quarter to one so there shouldn't be another for at least forty-five minutes. He tapped out a number. Fletcher answered on the second ring.

'How's it going, Kim?'

'He's there,' said Fletcher. 'We've eyeballed Roper.'

'Much in the way of security?'

'A couple of Cussies. No guns, as far as we can see.'

'I need him taken care of, Kim.'

'I'm on it, boss.'

Carpenter massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingertips. He had a headache. 'Wait a minute. Kim.'

'What's up, boss?'

Carpenter took a deep breath. He had a bad feeling about Roper, but couldn't put his finger on what was troubling him. 'Get in a couple of freelancers,' he said.

'I can take care of it myself,' said Fletcher.

'I don't doubt that. But just in case, yeah? Get blacks. Muddy the waters.'

'Okay, boss.'

'Soon as you can. If there's a grass inside, I could get turned over at any moment. And if I lose this phone, we're back to passing messages.'

'Tomorrow night, boss. On my life.'

'We've given him plenty of chances to back out, anything that happens from now on is his own bloody fault.'

'What about the wife and kids?'

'Unless they get in the way, leave them be,' said Carpenter. He had no wish to hurt the man's family. In fact, he had no wish to hurt the man. He wasn't killing Roper out of anger or hatred, simply removing the last remaining obstacle to his freedom.

Hal Healey opened the cell door at a quarter to eight. Shepherd had put in an application to shower and he was on the way out when Healey stopped him and handed him a plastic bag. It contained a Walkman and a set of headphones. 'Your lawyer sent this in,' said Healey. He thrust a clipboard at Shepherd. 'Sign for it.'

Shepherd did so and put the bag on his bunk.

He went along to the shower room, and after he'd changed into a clean polo shirt and jeans, he waited until Lee had left for labour before checking the Walkman. It was a device he'd used before. It functioned as a cassette-player and radio, but the pause button activated a separate recording system that could store up to twelve hours of audio on a hidden chip.

He clipped it to his belt and hung the earphones round his neck. All he had to do now was to get Carpenter talking and activate the recorder.

He went downstairs to collect his cleaning equipment. Weston and Ginger were already cleaning the ones. Amelia Heartfield was standing by the supplies cupboard. 'Come on, Bob, the early bird . . .'

'Sorry, Amelia,' said Shepherd. She grinned at him and winked.

Shepherd took out a mop and a bucket, which he filled from the tap by the boiler. He looked up at the threes. Carpenter was at the head of the stairs, working with his mop. Shepherd pressed the pause button, activating the recorder, then headed up the stairs. He nodded at Carpenter and began to swab the floor. 'Never thought I'd be grateful to have a mop in my hand,' he said.

'Beats being in the workshops with the muppets,' said Carpenter.

Shepherd moved closer to Carpenter. 'What you said about getting a message out for me . . .'

'I'm a bit pushed at the moment,' said Carpenter.

'But you can do it, right?'

'I've got a few problems need sorting.'

Carpenter moved away and Shepherd followed him. 'Are you okay?'

Carpenter leaned on his mop. 'Look, Bob, I'm not your nursemaid, right?'

'Yeah, but you said you'd help me out, right, get a message out for me?'

'I said I'll think about it. And I'm thinking about it.' Carpenter looked around, but there were no prison officers within earshot. 'Let me take care of my business, then I'll help you with yours, okay?'

'Anything I can do?'

'I've someone taking care of it for me as we speak.'

'On the out?'

Carpenter nodded. 'Until that's done, I'm keeping my head down.'

'Getting rid of witnesses, yeah?' Carpenter frowned, and Shepherd realised he'd pushed him too far. 'None of my business,' he added.

'That's right,' said Carpenter.

'Best of luck with it, anyway,' said Shepherd. 'Just don't forget the shit I'm in, that's all.'

Shepherd moved away. Carpenter had said nothing that could be used to build a case against him, but the hint had been clear enough: he was getting ready to move against Roper. He got on with mopping the floor, keeping to the far side of the landing, away from Carpenter, not wanting to crowd him.

He waited until the prisoners returned from the workshops before he went down to the ones and stood in line for the phones. Lee was standing near the hotplate with half a dozen other prisoners, holding a plastic tray. He grinned and flashed him a thumbs-up.

Shepherd looked up through the suicide mesh. Carpenter had gone back to his cell. If he knew where Roper was being kept, he had to have a source high up in the Church or in Sam Hargrove's unit. And if the source could locate Roper, he might also identify Shepherd. Shepherd could feel the muscles tightening at the back of his neck. If Carpenter discovered he was a cop, he could have him killed inside the prison just as easily as out. Shepherd forced himself to relax. There was no point in worrying about what might be. There'd been nothing in the conversation to suggest that Carpenter suspected anything.

A hand gripped Shepherd's shoulder and he whirled round.

'Hey, I'm cool,' said a man, his hands up. 'I was just asking if you want to use the phone.'

Shepherd apologised. He'd been so deep in thought that he hadn't noticed one of the phones was unoccupied. He tapped out his pin number, then Uncle Richard's. It was answered on the third ring. 'What do you need?' said a male voice. Shepherd couldn't tell if it was the man he'd spoken to last time he'd called.

Two West Indians were waiting to use the phone, close enough to overhear everything he said. 'Hiya, Richard, it's Bob,' he said cheerily.

Use of the names meant the man at the other end of the phone realised that the conversation was non-secure.

'What do you need?' said the voice.

'How's Sam doing?' said Shepherd.

'Do you want me to get a message to him?'

Shepherd laughed for the benefit of the West Indians. 'Yeah, that's right. It's been ages since I talked to him.'

'Are you requesting a meeting?'

'No, visiting hours are a pain in the arse here. It takes for ever to put a visiting order through.'

'Is this a matter of urgency?'

'Absolutely. Has he seen Sandy?'

'Sandy Roper?'

'I know, they're perfect for each other, aren't they? It's about time they went on holiday, isn't it?'

'Has Roper's location been compromised?'

'Tell Sam I said they should go away. The sooner the better. The rest will do them good.'

'I'll pass that on immediately,' said the voice. 'Do you need anything else?'

'I'm fine. Bored out of my skull.'

'You're in no immediate danger?'

'Shit, no. Everything's fine. I'm just looking forward to getting out. Look, I'd better go, there are people waiting to use the phone.'

'Good luck,' said the man.

Kim Fletcher pulled on a pair of night-vision goggles and pressed the on switch. They buzzed, then flickered into life. 'They work?' asked Lewis from the back seat.

'Of course they do,' sneered Fletcher. 'They cost a grand.' He took off the goggles and handed them to Lewis. Lewis was nineteen and had already killed five men, four for money. Sitting next to him was Jewel, who had just turned sixteen. Lewis had taken on Jewel as his assistant and was teaching him the tricks of the trade. He was learning fast.

Jewel screwed a bulbous silencer into the barrel of his pistol, a Swiss-made SIG-Sauer P-220, not that he cared about the make of the weapon: to him, a gun was a gun. As long as it fired bullets, that was all that mattered. Fletcher took a second pair of goggles from the BMW's glove compartment and handed them to him.

Lewis checked the goggles, nodded, then took them off. He checked the safety on his gun. It was also a SIG-Sauer but, unlike Jewel's 9mm, it was the more modern P-232, chambered for 7.65mm Browning cartridges. Like Jewel, Lewis didn't care what the gun was. They'd bought the weapons from an underworld arms dealer in Harlesden, a Yardie who had been prepared to sell them on a return-if-not-fired basis, but Fletcher had told Lewis he was to buy them outright. Fletcher was paying him twenty thousand pounds for the job. It was up to him how much he gave Jewel.

'Okay?' Fletcher asked Lewis.

Lewis nodded. He had been paid half the money in advance and would get the rest when Roper was dead. He took a deep breath. The adrenaline always kicked in when he had a loaded gun in his hands. Not fear, not even excitement, just a gearing-up of all his senses for what lay ahead. The taking of a human life.

'Call me when it's done,' said Fletcher.

Lewis jerked his chin at Jewel and the pair climbed out of the BMW.

They had left their Suzuki jeep in a supermarket car park, behind the BMW. They climbed in and drove for half an hour to the house where Roper was being held.

They parked outside the school that bordered the housing estate and clambered over its railings. They slipped on the night-vision goggles, switched them on, checked their guns and ran across the playing-field. They vaulted the garden wall and stood staring at the rear of the house. They waited for a full ten minutes until they were satisfied that no one was watching from any of the windows, then crept towards the kitchen door, their guns at the ready.

Lewis attached a small suction cup to the glass panel in the kitchen window and used a glass cutter to scratch out a hole big enough for his hand to go through. He tapped the glass and it cracked cleanly. He pulled it out and placed it on the ground, then reached through and unlocked the door.

They moved through the kitchen. There was a stack of dirty plates in the sink, and half-drunk mugs of coffee on the worktop. They stood for a while in the doorway, listening, then moved slowly up the stairs, keeping close to the wall to keep the noise to a minimum.

The bathroom was at the back of the house, the door closed. Lewis put his hand on the handle and nodded at Jewel. Jewel held his gun with both hands and Lewis opened the door. During the day there had been a man in the bathroom keeping watch on the garden, but now he'd gone. Lewis frowned, then pointed towards the master bedroom. That was where Roper and his wife were sleeping. They moved down the hallway towards the bedroom. They passed the children's room and ignored it. Fletcher had been insistent that they were not to be hurt. The same went for the wife. Roper was the target.

They reached the master bedroom. Lewis took the handle. Jewel nodded, and he opened the door. Jewel took three quick steps into the middle of the room and aimed his gun at the bed. It was empty. Lewis moved to the wardrobe and opened it. No clothes. Nothing.

'Fuck,' he said.

'What's going on?' asked Jewel. He still had his gun aimed at the bed, his finger on the trigger.

'The birds have fucking flown,' said Lewis.

'We're getting paid, though, yeah?' said Jewel.

'Fucking right we're getting paid,' said Lewis.

'Why don't you just arrest them?' asked Roper. He was watching a CCTV monitor that showed a night-vision view of the bedroom window of the safe-house. He could see two men standing in the middle of the room, holding guns.

'It'd tip Carpenter off that we know what he's up to,' said Hargrove.

'The fact the house is empty will tell them that,' said Roper.

'Not necessarily,' said Hargrove. 'They might just think we've moved you.'

'Bit of a coincidence. They must have staked the place out, and then, just as they move in, the place is abandoned.'

'Give me a break, Sandy,' said Hargrove. 'We got you and your family out, didn't we? If we pull those two in Carpenter's going to suspect we've got someone on the inside. At least this way there's some confusion. There they go.'

On the monitor, the two men moved out of the bedroom. Hargrove flicked a remote-control button and another view flickered on to the screen. This time it was from a camera inside the house. The two men moved down the stairs. They were both wearing night-vision goggles.

'Do you know who they are?' asked Roper.

'Not yet, but we've put a tracking device in their car so we soon will. And we'll keep an eye on them from now on.'

'None of his crew are black. None of the ones I met, anyway.'

'They might be hired help.'

'Which means what? That he didn't want to risk his own people on a hit?'

'That's how I read it. We'll keep an eye on them and pull them in when we've got Carpenter.'

'Now what?' asked Roper.

'You and your family are on a flight to Florida. The DEA will put you under armed guard, with a watch at all airports for anyone who's even spoken to Gerald Carpenter.'

'Maybe they'll take us to Disneyland.'

'Maybe they will,' said Hargrove. 'But it won't be for long. We're entering the end phase now, Sandy. I promise.'

Roper nodded, but he wasn't convinced. Hargrove and Mackie had promised on a stack of Bibles that he and his family were safe in Milton Keynes, but the two men in night-vision goggles had just given the lie to that.

Carpenter waited until just before dawn before he assembled his phone. He listened at the door, and when he was satisfied that the landing was clear, he switched it on and called Fletcher's number.

'Yes, boss,' said Fletcher.

'We're gonna have to keep this short, Kim. Battery's on the way out. Get me another sent in, yeah?'

'Will do, boss.'

'How did it go?'

'Not good, boss.'

Carpenter cursed under his breath. 'Spit it out, Kim.'

'Roper's gone. The house was empty.'

'I thought you had the place under surveillance.'

'We did. He was there, no doubt about it. But we had to leave to brief Lewis and pay him. By the time he went in, Roper had gone.'

Carpenter ran a hand through his hair. It might just have been bad luck - the Church might be moving Roper around as a precaution. 'What does Yates say?'

'His mobile's off. I'll catch him tomorrow. But I've got the last set of tapes from him. I'll go through them now.'

'You think there might be more on them about Roper?'

'It's a possibility. Yates does his best but he can't remember everything.'

'Do it, Kim. I'll call you back tomorrow.'

'Boss, Lewis wants paying. The full whack.'

'That's okay.'

'But he didn't do the job. Bloody liberty, if you ask me.'

'Just pay him. It wasn't his fault. But keep your distance. If they moved Roper out, they might have had the place under surveillance.'

'There were no cops there, boss. Guaranteed.'

Carpenter swore. 'Just let me do the thinking, will you? They might be trying to link Lewis to me by letting him run. That's why we've got to pay him to keep him sweet. And get someone else to hand over the money. I've got to go. Don't forget that battery.' He cut the connection. He paced up and down with the mobile in his hand. That had been the last thing he'd wanted to hear from Fletcher. Roper was the key to his freedom. With Roper out of the picture, the case against Carpenter would collapse. He could only hope that he'd be able to find out where Roper had been moved to. But at least he still had the inside track on everything the Church did. Or, more accurately, Carpenter knew everything that Roy Mackie, Head of Drugs Operations, did. And wherever Roper went, HODO wouldn't be far behind.

Shepherd spent the morning cleaning the ones with Charlie Weston. Amelia Heartfield was supposed to be overseeing them but she spent most of her time in the bubble with Tony Stafford. From time to time he heard her laughing. Shepherd wondered what she had to be so happy about. He never saw her in anything other than good spirits, yet she had a high-stress job with four children to take care of on the out.

There was no sign of Carpenter. At dinnertime Gilchrist came down from the threes and took a plate of food up to Carpenter's cell. In the afternoon Amelia was back on the ones. Shepherd asked her if it was okay to use the phone. 'You know you're supposed to wait until association,' she said.

'It's personal,' he said. 'During association every man and his dog listens in, you know that.'

Amelia looked concerned. 'Wife trouble?'

Shepherd shrugged. Lying was a way of life when working undercover and it came naturally to him, but he still felt bad about being dishonest with Amelia.

'Go on, then,' she said.

Shepherd went over to the phones and tapped in his pin code followed by the number for Uncle Richard. A man answered.

'Richard, it's Bob,' said Shepherd. 'I'm calling to see how everything went.'

'He had visitors but he wasn't in.'

'Anyone we know?'

'We're on the case.'

'But no one known?'

'No one obvious.'

'And our man's well?'

'Fine and dandy. And you?'

'As well as can be expected,' said Shepherd. 'Tell Sam that the Walkman's working fine, but I've nothing worth listening to yet.'

'I'll tell him,' said the man. 'Do you need anything else?'

Shepherd tapped the receiver against his head. What he needed was to be on the out with his son. But first he needed Carpenter on tape, incriminating himself. And that was all down to Shepherd. 'No,' he said. 'I've got everything I need.' He replaced the receiver and went back to cleaning the floor.

Carpenter waited until an hour after lock-up before he took the Nokia from its hiding place in his stereo and phoned Fletcher. His man had obviously been waiting for the call because he answered it on the first ring. 'You've got a major fucking problem, boss. There's a grass in there.'

'What the hell are you talking about, Kim?'

'Mackie talked about a guy in prison. He only refers to him in passing, but he says he's got balls of steel. "Twentyfour hours a day among some of the hardest bastards in the realm" is what Mackie said. His name's Shepherd.'

'Why didn't Yates tell you about this?'

'It was a throwaway line, boss. Easy to miss unless you know the context.'

'That's all you've got?'

'I ran it by Ryan. And he came up trumps.'

Malcolm Ryan cost Carpenter upwards of a hundred grand a year but he was one of his most useful police sources. He worked in the Metropolitan Police payroll and pensions office and had access to the Met's personnel records. Carpenter was grateful that Fletcher had used his initiative rather than waiting for the go-ahead to contact Ryan. 'What did he say?'

'Said there's a Daniel Shepherd who worked for the Met for a year but who was seconded to some Home Office undercover unit.'

'Have you a picture?' asked Carpenter.

'Got better than that, boss. Ryan sent me a copy of his file.'

'Get it to me, Kim. You paid off Lewis?'

'Got the money to him,' said Fletcher. 'Did it through a courier. No link back to us, guaranteed.'

'Good man. Don't go near him again, not even a phone call. Persona bloody non grata.'

Carpenter cut the connection and put the phone away. He smiled savagely. As soon as he found out who the grass was, he'd take care of him. Permanently.

The next day the newspapers and mail weren't delivered until after dinner. Carpenter was lying on his back listening to Mozart on his headphones when Healey appeared at his cell door with his papers and two letters, one from Bonnie, the other from his lawyers. Both had been slit open. All his mail, incoming and outgoing, went through the prison censors. 'Short-staffed again,' said Healey. 'Lot of lead-swinging at the moment.'

'Gym's still on?'

'Yeah. The problem's over at admin,' said Healey. He left and Carpenter pushed the door shut.

The manila envelope was inside the Guardian. Unlike the posted mail, it was sealed. Carpenter opened it. There were three sheets of A4 paper, a printout of a computer file. There was a name at the top of the first sheet. Daniel Shepherd. There was a photograph in the top left-hand corner. As he recognised the man Carpenter swore. Bob Macdonald. Bob fucking Macdonald. Carpenter felt a surge of anger. He'd talked to the man, shared confidences with him. And everything Macdonald had said had been a lie. It had been a set-up, right from the start. Bob Macdonald was Daniel Shepherd, and Daniel Shepherd was a lying, cheating undercover cop.

Carpenter read through the file. School in Manchester. Studied economics at Manchester University. Left before taking his finals and joined the army, the Paras. After two years passed selection for the SAS. Left to join the police. Currently attached to a Home Office undercover unit but his salary was still paid by the Met. A list of a dozen commendations.

Carpenter flicked through the sheets. Married. One son. Carpenter smiled. He'd take care of Daniel bloody Shepherd. Inside and on the out. He'd show him what it meant to cross Gerald Carpenter.

Moira ruffled Liam's head. 'Gran, I'm concentrating!' moaned Liam, his thumbs flicking across the controls, his eyes glued to the television set.

'Those video games are bad for your eyes,' said Moira.

'So's reading,' said Liam. On the television, a racing car was hurtling along a crowded city street.

'Oh? Who told you that?' said Moira.

'Everyone knows that if you read too much you need glasses. All my teachers have glasses.' Liam groaned as the car crashed into the side of a bus and burst into flames.

'Doesn't that have a parental-guidance warning?' asked Moira.

'It's a video game, Gran.'

'Why don't you go and help your granddad in the front garden?' she said. 'He's pruning the roses.' She looked through the sitting-room window. Tom was standing at the garden gate, talking to two men in dark coats. Moira frowned. They weren't expecting visitors. The men looked like policemen. The man talking to Tom was smiling a lot. He had very white teeth, Moira noticed, too white to be real.

As she watched, Tom and the two men walked towards the house. Moira's stomach lurched at the thought that something might have happened to Daniel. She clasped her hands together and took a deep breath. It had been two police officers who'd broken the news of Susan's death. She'd opened her front door and known from the look on their faces that something bad had happened, and as soon as they'd asked her to confirm her name she'd known it was Susan they had come to see her about. They'd wanted to step inside the house, but she made them tell her on the doorstep and collapsed in the hallway. Her heart raced, but then she saw that the man with the white teeth was smiling and Tom was chatting to him. It couldn't have been bad news.

'What's wrong, Gran?' asked Liam.

'Nothing,' said Moira. She went to the front door and opened it, just as Tom and the two men arrived on the doorstep.

'These are two policemen, love,' said Tom. 'They want to check our security.'

'Why do we need security?' asked Moira defensively. 'Has something happened?'

'Nothing's happened, Mrs Wintour,' said the man with white teeth. He had a slight lisp, Moira thought, giving credence to her impression that his teeth were false. 'Just better safe than sorry.'

'But why would we need security?' asked Moira.

'It's okay, love,' said Tom. 'They just want to look round. Check the locks, the windows, that sort of thing.'

Moira sighed. 'I suppose you'd better come in,' she said. Tom waved the men inside. They wiped their feet on the doormat before stepping into the hallway. 'Would you like a cup of tea?' asked Moira.

'Tea would be lovely,' said the man with white teeth. 'Where's Liam, then?'

'In the sitting room, playing video games.'

Tom shut the front door.

'Kids!' said the man with white teeth. He pulled a large revolver from his coat and pointed it at Moira's face. 'Now, do as you're told, you stuck-up bitch, or I'll put a bullet in your face!'

Carpenter was sitting in his cell, reading a copy of Investor's Chronicle. Most of his investments were offshore, well away from the grasping hands of HM Customs and police asset-seizure teams, but he liked to keep an eye on the UK stock markets.

He looked up as Rathbone appeared at his doorway. The officer glanced back down the landing, then ducked into the cell. 'Special delivery,' he said, slipping a brown envelope from under his black pullover. 'Rush job, yeah?' He handed it to Carpenter, then bent down and slipped a mobile-phone battery out of his shoe.

Carpenter took the battery, and studied the envelope. 'Have you opened this, Craig?'

Rathbone smiled easily. 'Might have done,' he said.

'Have you forgotten what we agreed?'

Rathbone pointed at the envelope. 'That's Macdonald's boy in there, isn't it? Saw him visiting.'

'Why's that any concern of yours?'

'Because you're up to something. If Macdonald gets hurt, I could too.'

'Have you opened my correspondence before?'

Rathbone shook his head. 'That one felt different,' he said. 'Lucky I did.'

'Luck doesn't come into it,' said Carpenter. He sighed. 'Look, there's nothing for you to worry about. You've brought in other stuff for me, and you've been well paid for it. I gave you ten big ones for the phone. You get a grand for every letter you take in and out.'

'Yeah, but that's not a letter, is it?' said Rathbone.

'So, you want more?'

'I want five big ones for that. And I want five for any other envelope that's got more than a sheet of paper in it. Agreed?'

'Agreed.'

Rathbone turned to go.

'One more thing, Craig. I don't want you opening any more of my mail. Five grand pays for confidentiality, right?'

'Don't worry, Gerry.'

Rathbone left. Carpenter glared after him. He wasn't worried in the least.

Shepherd was doing press-ups in the corner of the exercise yard when a pair of white Nike trainers appeared in front of him. He looked up, holding his weight on his fingertips. It was Gilly Gilchrist, the prisoner who fetched and carried for Carpenter.

'What's up, Gilly?' asked Shepherd.

'The boss wants a word.'

'Okay. Tell him I'll be up when exercise is over.'

'He says now.'

'Yeah, well, I only get an hour a day in the fresh air, Gilly, and I want to take advantage of it.' He continued his press-ups.

'He says now,' repeated Gilchrist.

Shepherd stopped again. 'You're starting to piss me off, Gilly.'

'He said it was important,' said Gilchrist. 'If I go back without you, he's going to be pissed off at me. So I'm not going back without you.' He stood where he was, his hands on his hips.

Shepherd got to his feet and wiped his hands on his jeans. He walked back into the spur, with Gilchrist following. Something was wrong. If it was just a friendly chat, Carpenter himself could have come out into the exercise yard. Or talked to him in the gym. Or on cleaning duty. There was no need to summon Shepherd to his cell. Unless there was a problem. He walked up the stairs with Gilchrist behind him. That was a worry, too. If it was just a chat, Gilchrist would have been friendlier. Shepherd fingered his Walkman. If Carpenter had become suspicious, it might be a good idea to leave it at his cell. But if it was a chat, it might be the sort that Shepherd should record. He ran through everything that had happened over the previous twenty-four hours but couldn't think of anything that might have raised a red flag. He forced himself to relax, then pressed the pause button. Whatever happened, it would be recorded.

He reached the threes and walked down the landing to Carpenter's cell. The door was ajar but Shepherd knocked. There was no answer so Shepherd pushed it open and stepped inside.

It wasthe first time Shepherd had seen inside Carpenter's cell. There were photographs of his wife and children on the wall - not snaps stuck on with tape, like in most of the other cells, but large prints in wooden frames. There was a carpet on the floor and a brand new Sony tape-deck and speakers on top of the wall cabinet. The room smelt of lemon, and Shepherd saw a small air-freshener under the sink.

Carpenter was sitting on the only chair and when he stood up Shepherd saw that there was a blue silk cushion on it. He had been reading a book and he put it down on his bunk. It was about opening moves in chess. Carpenter smiled, like a kindly uncle. 'Well, you've been a busy bee, haven't you?' he said.

'What's up?' said Shepherd.

'What's up? You've got the fucking audacity to ask me what's up?' Carpenter pointed finger at him. 'I'll tell you what's fucking up, Mr Plod. Your fucking number!'

Carpenter clenched his teeth and breathed heavily. Shepherd heard a noise behind him and looked round, but it was only Gilchrist with his back to the cell door. Shepherd ran through his options: he could stand his ground and try to bluff his way out; he could rush out on to the landing, hit the alarm button and hope that the officers got to the threes before Carpenter or his men did him any real damage; he could attack Carpenter, disable him, and Gilchrist if necessary, do whatever it took to save his skin.

'What the hell are you talking about, Gerry?' he said, hands swinging loosely by his side in case Carpenter should get physical. He looked for weapons but Carpenter's hands were empty and there was nothing obvious within reach.

'It's a bit late to play the innocent, Shepherd. It's a bit bloody late for that.'

As soon as he heard his name, Shepherd knew there was no point in trying to bluff his way out. If Carpenter knew his name, he knew everything. But the fact that he hadn't simply had him knifed in the showers meant that he had other plans. And that could only be bad news.

'I thought you were my fucking friend,' said Carpenter. 'I trusted you.'

'What can I tell you?' said Shepherd. 'A man's got to do what a man's got to do, right?'

'A man doesn't sneak around lying and cheating. Crawling around on his belly in the shit. That's not what a man does.'

'What do you want, Gerry?'

Carpenter continued to glare at him, then he smiled slowly. 'I suppose you think you've been pretty clever, don't you?'

Shepherd said nothing. He was still wondering why Carpenter had summoned him to the cell. If the man knew he was an undercover cop then he knew, too, that his plan to kill Roper would come to nothing and that he was going to prison for life. The drugs charges plus conspiracy to murder a Customs officer meant he'd be behind bars for ever.

'Did you think I wouldn't spot you? Do you think I can't smell an undercover cop a mile off ?'

It was over, Shepherd realised. First, Carpenter wouldn't say anything incriminating. Second, by tomorrow everyone on the block would know he was an undercover cop. Within two days everyone in the prison. He was blown. But he doubted he'd done anything to show out. Someone must have grassed him up, and Shepherd wanted to know who. That was the only reason he was still in the cell.

Carpenter handed Shepherd an envelope. It had already been opened. 'What's this? My P45?' he asked.

'Open it and find out,' said Carpenter. 'It should knock that self-satisfied grin off your face.'

Shepherd slid back the flap. His stomach lurched. There was a Polaroid photograph inside. Even before he took it out he knew what had happened and that his life was about to change for ever.

He stared at the picture in horror. Liam was sitting on a wooden chair, staring at the camera, tight-lipped, his hands on his knees. Moira and Tom were behind him, their faces fearful.

'They weren't hard to find, not once I knew who you were,' said Carpenter. 'You marry a girl from Hereford, she kicks the bucket, it makes sense that your lad would go and stay with her parents.'

'You hurt him - you hurt any of them - and you're dead,' said Shepherd.

'Nothing's going to happen to them, not if you're a good little piggy.'

'What do you want?' asked Shepherd.

'I want you to get me out of here,' said Carpenter.

'What?'

'You heard me. You've fucked up my plans well and good, so now you're going to get me out of here. That, or your kid dies.'

'You're not making any sense,' Shepherd said, confused.

'I'm making perfect sense,' said Carpenter. 'You've just got to listen to what I'm telling you. I have your son. You've stitched me up on the outside, you've had the Church spirit Roper away, you've been trying to put together a case against me in here. The way I see it, it's up to you to get me out.'

'Do I look like I've got a set of keys?'

Carpenter rushed at Shepherd and grabbed the front of his shirt. The Polaroid slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. 'Don't get smart, Shepherd. Smart is what got you into the shit you're in.'

'How am I supposed to get you out, Gerry?' asked Shepherd calmly. He made no move to defend himself. There was no point: Carpenter held all the cards.

'That's up to you,' said Carpenter. 'But I'm telling you, here and now, if you don't get me the hell out of here, your boy dies.'

Shepherd held his hands out to his side while Hamilton patted him down. Then he went into the exercise yard. He took deep breaths of fresh air, then swung his arms and jogged on the spot. He wanted to run until he was exhausted, until he couldn't run any more. He wanted to get a gun and put it to Carpenter's head and pull the trigger. He wanted to grab the man by the throat and squeeze the life out of him.

Shepherd bent down and touched his toes, then arched his back, feeling his spine click into place. He wanted to kill Carpenter, but that wasn't an option. He couldn't kill him and he couldn't tell anyone. The fact that Carpenter knew who Shepherd was meant he still had a mole on the outside, someone who was passing information to him. If Shepherd told Hargrove or anyone else in the police, Carpenter might find out. And if that happened, Liam would be dead.

The strength went from his legs at the thought that his son might die because of what he'd done. He went down on one knee and put his hands on the Tarmac. His heart pounded and he fought to stop himself passing out.

A hand touched his shoulder. 'Are you all right, mate?' It was Ed Harris. 'You look like shit.'

'Stomach ache.'

'You want me to tell Hamilton that you've got to go to the medical centre?'

'I'll be okay.'

'Sure?'

'Sure.'

Shepherd stood up and took more deep breaths. He needed to plan, to find a way out. What he didn't need was to panic. Harris flashed him a worried look, but walked away. Shepherd gazed up through the anti-helicopter cables. What Carpenter was asking was unreasonable. How could he be expected to get him out of a Cat A prison?

He saw Justin Davenport on the opposite side of the exercise yard. It was hard to miss him in his escape-risk uniform with the patchwork of blue and yellow squares. He was walking on his own, looking through the wire mesh to the perimeter wall in the distance. Shepherd went over to him. 'How's it going?' he asked.

Davenport was in his early twenties, stick-thin and with a rash of acne across his forehead.

'I'm Bob Macdonald,' said Shepherd.

'The guy that shot the cops. Yeah, heard about you.'

'One cop, and I didn't pull the trigger. You're the guy they caught on the Eurostar.'

Davenport chuckled. 'Nah, I went round to see my girlfriend and the cops were there waiting for me. You can't believe anything you hear inside.'

'Everyone's innocent for a start,' said Shepherd. 'There's not a guilty man in here.'

Davenport giggled like a schoolboy.

'They say you escaped from Brixton,' Shepherd went on.

'Maybe.'

'Did you?'

'That's what they say.'

'Think you could get out of here?'

Davenport giggled again. 'It's escape-proof, this place. Didn't they tell you that?'

'If it's escape-proof, why do they make you wear that gear?'

Davenport looked down at his colourful clothing. 'To punish me - make me look like a twat.'

'It'd make them look like twats, if you did get out.'

Davenport snorted, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. His fingernails were bitten to the quick. 'Yeah, that'd show them, wouldn't it?'

'So?'

Davenport shrugged. 'Can't be done.'

'Because?'

Davenport looked at him as if he was stupid. 'Because it's escape-proof.'

'Yeah, well, they said the Titanic was unsinkable.'

'Great movie, wasn't it? That Kate whatsername, I'd give her one.' Davenport started to walk round the yard, his trouser hems scuffing the Tarmac.

Shepherd hurried after him. 'You got over the wall at Brixton, right?'

'They say.'

'Made a ladder in the workshops.'

Davenport giggled again. 'Made it in bits, I did. We made crutches and walkers. You know, those things old folks shuffle about on. I made two walkers that could be taken apart and reassembled with four crutches as a ladder. Went up on to the roof of the workshop, legged it to the wall, up, over and away.'

'What about CCTV?'

'They had it but nobody watched the screens during the day, not when we were working. No point, right? That was the weakness in the system. They thought that because they had cameras covering all the walls nobody would climb over in broad daylight. But the screws in the coms room spent most of their time reading the papers and nattering on about the footie. They had fifty-odd cameras but only six monitors so most of the time the section of the wall I was going over wasn't even on screen.'

'What about when you were on the other side?'

'I legged it.'

'That was it?'

They'd worked their way round the exercise yard and were back at the entrance. Davenport didn't speak until they were out of earshot of Hamilton. 'I wasn't wearing gear like this. I had regular denims on. Just walked to a phone box and called my brother. He drove to south London and picked me up.'

'Could you do it here? Get over the wall?'

'You can't get to the wall. End of story.'

'But if you did?'

'That's an anti-climbing device on the top,' said Davenport, pointing to the top of the wall. 'You can't get a grip on it.'

'Tunnelling out?'

Davenport laughed. 'You've been watching too many prisoner-of-war movies, you have. That wall's thirty feet high. But it goes down thirty feet below ground, too. You can't go over or under. But like I said, you can't even get to the wall, that's the beauty of the design.'

He pointed at a wire fence some six metres away from the wall, topped with razor wire. 'Before you get to the wall, you have to get through or over the wire fence. That's got motion sensors so sensitive that a strong wind can set them off. Between the wire fence and the wall is what they call the sterile area. Inside there are microwave detectors and motion-sensitive cameras.' He grinned. 'You know it's the same design they used in Belmarsh, where they keep all the terrorists?'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. Four blocks, all linked by a secure corridor. The only way in and out of each block is through the corridor. Every time a prisoner's in the secure corridor, there's an officer with him. And the corridor's covered by CCTV. The officers can open all the doors in the blocks, and all the doors in the secure corridor, but the door out of the corridor is monitored by the control room at the main entrance. If they don't press the button, the door won't open. And they won't press the button until they've checked the CCTV.'

That meant that there was no way of breaking out of the secure corridor, Shepherd thought. Which meant there was no way of getting to the wall. Even if a prison officer was being held hostage and his keys taken, the ones at the gate would simply refuse to open the door.