Soft Target

He stood at the window until the CRV was out of view, then changed into his running gear and the black army boots. He ran on auto-pilot, barely aware of his five-kilometre route through the streets of Ealing and on to Scotch Common, skirting three golf courses, a circuit he’d run almost a thousand times during the four years since he’d bought the house. Sue had suggested he joined the local gym or even put a treadmill in the garage, but Shepherd wanted the ground beneath his boots and the wind in his face – the smell of grass and trees, or even car exhaust, was preferable to the perfumed deodorants that pervaded the gym. He wanted to run outdoors and he wanted to run hard; he wanted peace and quiet so that he could think. He had to become Stuart Marsden.

By the time he got back to the house he was in character. He shaved, showered and changed into his off-duty policeman clothes: blue denim shirt, black jeans and leather jacket. He put the boots into the black nylon bag with the rest of the SO19 equipment, set the burglar alarm, locked the front door and headed for the Toyota.

He called Miss Malcolm as he drove along the A40 towards the SO19 base at Leman Street and told her he wanted to hire Katra. She said she’d put the paperwork in the post to him.

He reached Leman Street at midday. He’d been told to report two hours before his shift was due to start so that he’d have time for a briefing with Rose. There was a confusing one-way system and he passed Aldgate tube station twice before he got on to the northern end of Leman Street. He found a space and bought a pay-and-display sticker that gave him an hour’s parking.

The nondescript building halfway down the street looked as if it had once been a police station but the only indication that it was a Metropolitan Police building was a sheet of paper stuck to the glass door that had the force’s blue and white logo in one corner. It was a six-storey concrete and glass block, bland and featureless except for a forest of radio antennae on the roof. Three Vauxhall ARVs were parked in front.

Shepherd pulled open the glass door and went over to the reception desk to find out where he could park for the duration of his shift. A bored uniformed constable checked his warrant card and gave him directions to an underground car park.

After he’d moved the Toyota, he walked back to Leman Street with his kit-bag and went in search of Keith Rose. A civilian secretary told him he was in the indoor range in the basement. Shepherd had to ask for directions and felt like the new boy at school.

As he went down the stairs he heard the sharp cracks of an MP5. He let himself in. Six men in black overalls were standing twenty-five metres from bullseye targets. They were all wearing bright orange ear-protectors. Shepherd took out a small plastic case containing yellow foam earplugs and fitted them as he headed towards the group. He recognised Keith Rose from the photographs in the file Hargrove had given him. He was just under six feet tall and broad-shouldered. His head was shaved and he had a sweeping Mexican moustache. He was talking to one of the men who had been shooting at the targets.

They looked over at Shepherd. ‘Stuart Marsden,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m looking for Sergeant Rose.’ He had to pretend he didn’t know what Rose looked like.

‘Guilty as charged.’ Rose stepped forward and held out his hand. Shepherd shook it and dropped his kit-bag. Like the rest of the men, the sergeant had an MP5 hanging off his shoulder on its nylon sling. ‘Stuart’s here to show us how the Jocks do it.’

‘I’m not Scottish, sir,’ said Shepherd.

Rose frowned. ‘Strathclyde, they told me.’

‘That’s right, but I was born in London.’

Rose handed his MP5 to Shepherd and gestured at the targets. ‘Show us what you can do, then.’ He grinned.

Shepherd checked the weapon, then slid the safety selector to fire. He swung the gun smoothly up to his shoulder and fired six single shots into one of the targets. His grouping was good, all within the two inner circles.

‘Nice,’ said Rose. Shepherd gave him back the carbine. ‘Let’s go into the canteen for a chat. Then we’ll get you fixed up with a Glock.’

Shepherd picked up his kit-bag. Rose held open the door and took him along a corridor. ‘Word is you were in the army,’ he said.

‘For a few years. The Paras.’

‘Why did you leave?’

Shepherd smiled easily. ‘Didn’t realise I was being interviewed for the job. Thought I was being transferred here.’

Rose didn’t smile. ‘In the Trojans it’s all about knowing your team,’ he said. ‘If we go into a building and there’s bad guys with guns, we all have to be on the same wavelength and that’s down to knowing everything about each other. No secrets.’

‘Same in the army,’ said Shepherd.

‘So why did you quit?’

‘Difficult to answer. Boredom, for one. The training got to me, running up and down mountains, waiting for the shit to hit the fan. And when the shit hits, it’s pretty shitty. Afghanistan wasn’t much fun.’

‘What about Ireland?’ They reached the canteen.

‘A couple of tours, but the IRA had pretty much called it quits when I was there.’

Rose pointed at an empty table. ‘Drop your gear and we’ll grab some food. You hungry? No haggis but the chef can probably stuff a sheep’s stomach for you if you ask him nicely.’

‘I guess I’m stuck with the Scottish jokes.’

‘For the foreseeable future, yeah. Until we find something else to pick on. Newbie syndrome.’

‘No sweat,’ said Shepherd. He dropped his bag and joined Rose in the queue for food.

‘So, you reckoned the cops was a cushier number?’ asked Rose.

‘I wouldn’t have to sleep in a barracks, and I’d be dealing with real people. The army’s a closed community – you’re either in it or you’re an outsider. I was fed up with the same old faces, day in, day out.’

‘It’s not that different in the Trojans,’ said Rose. ‘We’re tight. Have to be.’

‘But they don’t make you run up and down mountains with a Bergen on your back.’

‘SO19 isn’t a soft touch.’

‘Didn’t mean to suggest it was,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve been a cop for seven years, and carrying a gun for most of that time.’

‘I don’t see why you’d want to move south,’ said Rose. ‘The London weighting might be attractive, but property’s still twice the price you’d be paying north of the border.’

‘My dad’s in hospital down here, I wanted to be closer to him.’ They reached the front of the queue. Rose took steak and kidney pie and chips and Shepherd the same. They collected mugs of coffee and headed back to their table.

‘What do we call you?’ asked Rose, as he poured brown sauce over his pie.

‘Up to you. The guys in Glasgow called me Irish.’

Rose frowned. ‘You’re not a Paddy, are you?’

‘Irish Stew. They thought it was funny.’ It was one of the details in his legend that served no other function than to add colour to his cover story.

‘Stu it is, then. I’ll leave it up to the lads to give you a nickname. They call me Rosie in the pub, Sarge or Skipper when we’re on duty.’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Cards on the table, Stu. I was hoping to get someone local in our vehicle. Mike Sutherland’s one of the best drivers in the Met and I ride shotgun, so it’s a map man we’re short of.’

‘I’m up to speed,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was born in London, remember.’

‘You’ve been in Scotland for almost a decade and things change,’ said Rose. ‘Last thing I need is for you to take me the wrong way down a one-way system.’

‘My dad was a black-cab driver,’ said Shepherd. More colour. ‘Used to test me on the Knowledge when I was still in short trousers. But we’ve got GPS, right?’

‘Computers don’t always know the quickest way,’ said Rose, ‘and sometimes they crash. If that happens I need someone in the back who knows where they’re going.’

‘Try me,’ said Shepherd.

Rose grinned. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We get a call to Grosvenor Road, which is the quickest way to get there?’

‘I’d guess you mean Grosvenor Road in Pimlico in which case I’d head over Vauxhall Bridge. But there are Grosvenor Roads in Upton Park, Forest Gate, Leyton and Wanstead, so I’d ask first.’

Rose raised an eyebrow. ‘Grantully Road,’ he said.

‘Maida Vale. One way, entrance from Morshead Road. Runs parallel to Paddington recreation ground.’

Rose nodded. ‘Had a suicide there three months ago. Guy blew off his head with a shotgun. Okay, you’re my map man.’ He stabbed at a chunk of steak. ‘Why did you join the Strathclyde cops and not the Met?’

It was a good question, and was also covered in the Stuart Marsden legend. ‘Had a mate in the Paras who was from Glasgow and his dad was a chief inspector. He put in a good word for me.’

‘But you didn’t fancy London?’

Shepherd looked uncomfortable. ‘Long story, Sarge. My mum died when I was a kid and my dad remarried. Turned out to be the stepmother from hell. That’s why I joined the army. When I got out, I wanted to be as far away from her as possible.’

A police officer in black overalls and bulletproof vest walked over to their table carrying a tray. Rose grinned up at him. ‘Hiya, Mike, say hello to our new map man, Stu Marsden. Stu, this is Mike Sutherland. Our driver.’

Sutherland nodded at Shepherd and sat down opposite him. He had a plateful of bacon and sausage and four slices of bread and butter. ‘The Jock, yeah?’ said Sutherland.

‘Nah, he’s not Scottish,’ said Rose. ‘He was just explaining.’

‘Family stuff,’ said Shepherd, ‘but my dad’s on his own now and he’s not doing so well, so I want to be around when he needs me.’

‘And it was easy to transfer to the Met?’ asked Sutherland.

‘I’d been asking for a move and the SO19 vacancy came up.’

‘You must have friends in high places. There’s a long waiting list for ARV slots.’ Sutherland stabbed a sausage and bit off the end.

‘I was lucky.’

‘Just don’t get me lost.’

‘He’s fine,’ said Rose.‘His dad was a black-cab driver.’

‘Funny, he doesn’t look black,’ said Sutherland.

Rose flashed Sutherland a tight smile. ‘PC Sutherland is one of the least PC of our officers. We try to keep him in the car as much as possible.’

Kerr got the early-morning flight to Heathrow and took a taxi to the Kings Road. He had made a phone call the previous evening and Alex Knight was expecting him. He told the taxi driver to wait.

‘The meter’s at sixty quid already,’ said the man.

Kerr pointed at the black door between an antiques shop and a hairdresser’s. ‘I’ll be in there ten minutes at most. Then we’re straight back to the airport.’

The driver beamed at the thought of a double fare.

Kerr got out and walked along the pavement to the black door. A small brass plaque read ‘Alex Knight Security’ beside a bell button and a small grille. He pressed the button and was buzzed in. He took the stairs two at a time and when he reached the top Knight’s secretary had the door open for him. ‘Charlie, we can FedEx orders, you know,’ she said.

Kerr kissed the striking brunette’s cheek. ‘Just wanted to see you, love.’

‘He’s expecting you,’ she said, and opened Knight’s office door.

He looked up from his computer terminal and grinned boyishly, stood up and shook hands with Kerr. He was several inches taller than Kerr, but stick-thin with square-framed spectacles perched high on his nose. ‘We do deliver,’ he said.

‘Yeah, Sarah said, but I wanted you to talk me through the gear.’

Knight waved him to a seat. He pulled a cardboard box from one of his desk drawers and pushed it across the desk. ‘This is the kit you wanted. The transmitter’s linked to a GPS so you get position information accurate to six metres.’

Kerr opened the box. Inside he found a small metal cylinder with a three-inch wire protruding from one end and a hand-held GPS unit.

‘There’s an on–off switch on the transmitter. Best bet is to connect it to the car’s electrical circuit. Then it’ll run and run. If you can connect its aerial to the car aerial, you’re laughing.’

‘Won’t have time for that,’ Kerr said. ‘Best we’ll be able to do is get it under a seat.’

‘You’ll have about twelve hours, then. Maybe a few more. But once the battery starts to go, the strength of the signal drops.’

‘That’ll be enough,’ said Kerr. ‘What’s the range?’

‘Unlimited for the locator. The transmitter connects to the nearest satellite and the GPS unit logs on to the signal. You’ll only lose the signal if either unit is underground or in a shielded area. But the voice transmitter is good for about two hundred metres, line of sight. Less in a built-up area.’

Knight showed Kerr how to switch on the GPS unit. A map of Central London flickered on the screen. He flicked the switch and a couple of seconds later a red dot appeared on the Kings Road. ‘The switch there gives you the voice. It’s a neat bit of kit.’

‘Two gizmos in one. Just what I need,’ said Charlie.

‘It’s from my mate in Kiev. Based on a KGB model.’

Kerr repacked the equipment and gave Knight an envelope filled with fifty-pound notes. ‘Fancy lunch?’ asked Knight.

Kerr stood up. ‘I’ve got to dash, mate. Mountains to climb, rivers to cross. Next time.’ He hurried outside and got back into the cab. Now he had everything he needed to get his claws into the mysterious Mr Nelson.

After lunch, Rose took Shepherd to the armoury where a lanky sergeant with receding hair issued him with a Glock, four magazines and a box of ammunition. The gun would be Shepherd’s while he was based at Tango 99, the call sign for the Leman Street headquarters, but when he wasn’t on duty it would stay in the armoury. The MP5s were a different matter: they were assigned to the ARV rather than to individual officers.

Rose and Shepherd went down to the range where they donned ear-protectors. Rose watched as Shepherd fired several dozen shots at targets ten metres away. Shepherd checked the grouping, altered the sights and fired another two dozen shots. All were in the centre ring of the bullseye.

He noted the number of shots fired in the range log, then Rose took him up to the locker room where they changed into their working gear. Shepherd loaded his three clips with 9mm ammunition and slotted them into the nylon holders on his belt. He slid his Swiss Army knife into his trouser pocket.

Rose cast a professional eye over Shepherd’s equipment. ‘Not too far behind the times north of the border, then?’

‘Aye, it was a great relief to us all when they stopped us using flintlocks, the noo,’ said Shepherd, in an over-the-top Scottish accent.

Rose grinned. ‘Come on, let’s get you fixed up with a radio.’ He took Shepherd along a corridor to an office with ‘COMMS’ on the door. There was a rack of radios in chargers. Rose took one for himself and signed the log with his name and the number of the unit. Shepherd followed his example, then fitted the radio into the holder on his belt. He threaded the wiring spaghetti under his vest, clipped on the microphone and put on the black plastic earpiece.

Rose talked him through the local frequencies, then they went back to the armoury. Sutherland was waiting for them. Shepherd returned his unused Glock ammunition to the sergeant and signed for the bullets he’d fired. The sergeant issued them with two MP5s, both with retractable stocks, and ammunition. More ARV crews arrived to collect their weaponry, and Rose, Shepherd and Sutherland went out to the car park.

As they left the building, Shepherd’s radio crackled. ‘MP to all Trojan units, intruders at the Houses of Parliament. Possible Operation Rolvenden.’ MP was the call sign of New Scotland Yard’s control centre: Operation Rolvenden was the call sign for a terrorist incident.

Rose confirmed over the radio that they were en route from Leman Street. ‘There’s luck for you, Stu,’ he said. ‘First day on the job and we get a bloody terrorist incident. We’ll be calling you Jonah next.’

They got to their car, a Vauxhall Omega, white with a red fluorescent strip down the sides and a three-letter identifier on the roof. Shepherd got into the back and put his carbine into the metal carrier in the centre of the rear seat. Sutherland climbed into the front and fastened his seatbelt. ‘You know where the Houses of Parliament are, I suppose,’ said Sutherland. ‘I wouldn’t want to get lost, your first day and all.’

‘If you need directions, just ask,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’d have thought a top driver like you would have known where the mother of all parliaments was.’ Rose gave Shepherd his carbine, climbed into the front seat and slammed the door.

Over the main radio more call signs came in from cars heading towards the incident. Two Trojan units were on the way, but Shepherd wasn’t sure how effective armed police would be against suicide bombers. The black metal gate rattled back and Sutherland edged the car out into East Tenter Street, which ran behind the Leman Street building.

‘You’re up to speed on the six Cs?’ asked Rose. The ARV accelerated as Sutherland turned on to Mansell Street and headed south, towards the Thames.

Shepherd couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. The six Cs were on a card given to all police officers, explaining how to deal with a suicide bomber. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Confirm, cover, contact, civilians, colleagues, check.’

It was something of a joke among serving officers, a case of stating the obvious if ever there was one. Confirm – the location and description of a suspect. Cover – withdraw fifty yards from the suspect to a point where it is possible to maintain visual contact. Contact – your supervisor and request more police assistance. Civilians – direct to a place of safety but not if this is likely to compromise or further endanger the public or other officers. Colleagues – prevent other officers coming into the danger area. Check – for further suspects or devices.

‘We’ll probably be going with the six Ss,’ said Rose. ‘See the bugger’s got a bomb, shit yourself, say a prayer, shoot him dead, stand by your mates and say nothing.’

‘Definitely,’ said Sutherland, hitting the blues and twos and accelerating past a double-decker bus. He tapped co-ordinates into the onboard computer.

‘We were on a course a few weeks back,’ said Rose. ‘How to spot a suicide bomber in a crowd. Signs of sweating, mumbling and possibly praying.’

‘And ten kilos of Semtex strapped to their chest is always a bad sign,’ said Sutherland. ‘Who writes that shit? Some graduate entrant who’s spent his whole career sitting behind a desk?’

Rose ignored the interruption.‘Well,the good news is that any blast from a suicide bomber is only lethal within about thirty feet. Severe injuries up to fifty yards. And beyond a hundred and fifty yards you’re safe as houses.’

‘And this is good news because . . . ?’ asked Shepherd.

Rose jerked his thumb at the gun-holder. ‘Because those little beauties are dead accurate up to a hundred yards, which is as close as we’re gonna get to any ragheads on a mission.’

‘Er, Sarge, ragheads is on the list of terms likely to cause offence,’ said Sutherland. ‘IC Six, please. Or camel jockeys.’

They roared alongside the Thames, the London Eye in the distance. As they headed for Westminster Bridge they spotted the honey-coloured Big Ben tower next to the Houses of Parliament. ‘See anything?’ asked Rose.

Shepherd had binoculars to his eyes but the west side of the tower seemed clear. ‘Nothing yet, Sarge.’

Rose clicked his radio mike. ‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, any update on Operation Rolvenden at the Houses of Parliament?’

‘Negative, Trojan Five Six Nine.’

‘Be handy to know if they were IC Six or not.’

‘Trojan Five Six Nine, soon as we know, you’ll know. If the info is not suitable for RT transmission we’ll call direct on the car phone.’

‘Who’s in charge at the scene?’ asked Rose.

‘Chief Inspector Owen. But Assistant Commissioner Hannant is en route.’

‘Well, if Owen’s on the case we can all relax and go home,’ said Sutherland, sarcastically.

Rose flashed him a withering look. Banter was all well and good between colleagues, but not when there was an open mike in the vehicle. It was a well known fact that assistant commissioners had had their sense of humour surgically removed and the AC would be monitoring all radio traffic. ‘Trojan Five Six Nine is three minutes away,’ said Rose.

‘You’ll be the first ARV on the scene,’ said the MP controller. ‘Report to Chief Inspector Owen on arrival.’

Rose replaced the mike.

‘You know Owen?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Couldn’t make a decision to save his life,’ said Sutherland. ‘Ask him if he takes sugar in his tea and he reaches for a manual.’

‘He’s graduate entry, accelerated promotion,’ said Rose. ‘Not thirty, but tipped as a potential chief constable. That means everything he does has a political dimension to it. He’s more concerned with not making mistakes than he is with catching villains. The crack in his arse is from sitting on too many fences. Hannant’s a good copper, though. Let’s hope he gets there soon.’

They were driving along Victoria Embankment when Shepherd saw the first of the three figures on the tower. ‘I’ve got one,’ he said. ‘Just below the clock face.’ He could make out a figure in a blue anorak with the hood up and a bulky pack on his back. Not necessarily a he, Shepherd corrected himself. There were as many women as men prepared to blow themselves to kingdom come.

Shepherd scanned down the tower. Two more figures were some way below the first. ‘I see all three,’ he said. ‘They’re carrying backpacks.’

‘Shit,’ said Rose. ‘Backpacks mean a bigger bang. You can put thirty kilos of high explosive in a backpack with ball-bearings or nails and that’s the equivalent of a car bomb.’

Traffic was heavy but the siren and flashing lights carved a way through for the ARV. They reached Westminster Bridge and Sutherland swung right. A traffic patrol car, its blue light flashing, had parked across the bridge and two uniformed constables were turning back southbound traffic.

Rose clicked on his radio. ‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, I see crowds all around College Green. Isn’t someone moving them out of the area?’

‘Trojan Five Six Nine, we have units evacuating the Houses of Parliament.’

‘That’s fine, but the threat’s outside.’

Sutherland brought the car to a halt.

‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine is at the scene,’ said Rose, into his mike. ‘Break out the guns, Stu.’

‘Yes, Sarge.’ Shepherd unlocked the metal case between the two rear seats, handed one of the MP5s to Rose, then slotted a magazine into the second weapon. He climbed out of the car. All around people were staring up at the clock tower. A group of Japanese tourists was snapping away with digital cameras. Mothers with babies in pushchairs were watching the climbers, shading their eyes with their hands. Workmen in overalls were shouting catcalls up at the three, daring them to jump.

‘This is bloody madness,’ said Rose. ‘Why aren’t these people being moved out of the way? Where the hell’s Owen?’

Shepherd let the gun hang on its nylon swing as he scanned the clock tower through his binoculars. He focused on the climber second from the top. He had turned and was watching the crowds. Shepherd got a glimpse of his face. ‘Looks like an Arab,’ he said.

‘You sure?’ asked Rose.

‘Fairly.’

Rose clicked on his transceiver mike. ‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, confirm that we have visual on three intruders. One is definitely IC Six.’

Chief Inspector Owen was standing with half a dozen uniformed constables in yellow fluorescent jackets. One of the officers had a megaphone and raised it to his mouth to ask the three men to return to the ground.

‘I don’t believe this,’ said Rose. ‘Come on.’

Shepherd followed him to the group. The constable lowered the megaphone and looked at Owen for further instructions. The workmen jeered at the officers.

Rose nodded at Owen. ‘Trojan unit, sir. We need authorisation from you to fire.’

Owen seemed stunned by his request. ‘Hold on, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘All we have at the moment is three guys climbing Big Ben.’

‘It’s down as a possible terrorist incident, sir,’ said Rose, ‘and I don’t want to start telling anyone their job but we should be getting civilians out of the immediate area.’

‘But we don’t know that there’s a threat,’ said Owen.

‘Three men with backpacks climbing one of the nation’s monuments, I think it’s safe to assume the worst, sir,’ said Rose, with emphasis on the ‘sir’.

‘Could be base jumpers,’ said the chief inspector.

‘Base jumpers?’

‘The guys who parachute off tall buildings,’ said Owen.

‘I know what base jumpers are, sir, but at least one of them’s an Arab and those aren’t parachutes on their backs. MI5 has said there are specific al-Qaeda threats against the House of Commons. If we don’t react decisively it’ll be down to us.’

‘It’s not a question of being decisive, Sergeant. It’s about making the right decision.’

Owen beckoned to the constable with the megaphone. ‘Start moving people back. Establish a perimeter a hundred and fifty yards from the base of the tower. And be tactful, man, we don’t want a bloody stampede.’

Shepherd was looking at the three climbers through the binoculars. One was only feet from the top of the tower.

‘Sir, we have to take action now,’ said Rose.

‘I’m not sure, Sergeant.’

Two police cars arrived, lights flashing but sirens off.

‘If they’re carrying high-explosive charges they could demolish the tower. If there’s shrapnel, people could be killed, even with a cordon.’

Owen wiped his forehead on his sleeve. ‘Where’s the god-damned AC?’ he asked.

‘It’s your call, sir.’

‘You’re sure you can reach them?’

‘No question,’ said Rose.

Indecision was etched into Owen’s face. A sergeant and three constables jogged over from the newly arrived vehicles. Over the megaphone, the constable was asking for people to move away, but no one paid him any attention. All eyes were on the men on the clock tower.

‘If they destroy Big Ben, we’ll look bloody stupid standing here letting them do it,’ said Rose. ‘Sir,’ he added, as an afterthought.

‘And if they’re thrill-seekers, we’ll have shot three innocent men,’ said Owen.

Shepherd focused on the second figure on the tower. The man was looking over his shoulder and smiling. He was to the bottom right of the clock face, close to the V numeral.

‘Sir,’ said Rose, ‘we need a green light from you.’

Owen glanced up and down the Embankment. Two ambulances had arrived and parked close to the police cars. Owen took a deep breath. He clicked his radio mike. ‘MP, this is Chief Inspector Owen, can you patch me through to AC Hannant.’

His radio buzzed. ‘I’ll try, sir.’

Rose sighed with exasperation.

‘Hang on,’ said Shepherd. ‘I think I know him.’

Owen turned towards him. ‘What?’

‘I think I know him,’ repeated Shepherd. He pointed up at the figure by the V. ‘I don’t remember his name but he’s a British citizen, Pakistani descent. His wife did a runner with his two sons and he’s been fighting for custody. He was in the papers last year,did the protest on Blackpool Tower with a couple of other guys.’ In fact, Shepherd had recalled his name – Kashif Jakhrani – but he didn’t want it generally known that he had an almost perfect memory. It was best kept secret so that he could use it to his advantage.

‘What protest?’ asked Rose impatiently.

‘Fathers for Children,’ said Shepherd. ‘Divorced dads who’ve been refused access to their kids. They draped the banner over the tower.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Owen.

‘That’s him. I read about it in the papers.’

‘So on the basis of a newspaper photograph that you may or may not have seen last year, you’re saying that man’s an angry father and not a terrorist?’ said Rose.

Shepherd put the binoculars to his eyes and focused on the man’s face again. He flicked through his mental filing system and found the newspaper article he’d scanned the previous year. In the photograph, Jakhrani was wearing a Superman costume. ‘It’s him,’ said Shepherd. ‘No question. He married an English girl and she refused him access to their two kids after they divorced. He’s no terrorist.’

Owen’s radio crackled. ‘AC Hannant here. Everything okay, Paul?’

Owen clicked his mike. ‘Fine, sir. Just wanted to see what your ETA is. Seems to be a protest. We’re keeping a watching brief and we’ll pick them up when they climb down.’ He looked at Shepherd. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure,’ said Shepherd.

‘God help us if you’re wrong.’

Again Hannant’s voice crackled over Owen’s transceiver: ‘Are the TV people there yet?’

‘No, but they’ll probably be here soon, sir,’ said Owen.

‘You handle the press, Paul. You’ll know what to say. Public protests are a right, but public safety is paramount, we don’t want to be heavy-handed, blah-blah-blah. The usual waffle.’

‘Will do, sir.’

Owen waved at Rose’s MP5. ‘The guns can go back in the car, Sergeant.’

‘I’d be happier if we remain armed,’ said Rose.

‘Sarge,’ said Shepherd. Rose followed his gaze. Two of the three men had reached the top of the tower and had taken off their backpacks. As the third joined them they unfurled a huge banner. It billowed in the wind. ‘FATHERS HAVE RIGHTS, TOO!’

‘Stupid bastards,’ Rose muttered.

Shepherd headed back to the car. Rose went after him and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Nice call.’

‘Just lucky.’

‘It was more than that. To remember something you saw in the paper a year ago! I’d have slotted them without a second thought.’

‘And you would have been right,’ said Shepherd. ‘They could just as easily have been al-Qaeda. If I hadn’t recognised the guy and we’d been ordered to shoot, I’d have done it.’

‘And the media would have crucified us,’ said Rose.

‘Yeah, well, they want it both ways, don’t they? They want the UK safe from terrorists yet they accuse us of being heavy-handed when we do what’s necessary. Can’t bloody win. Journalists and politicians– don’t know which are worse.’

‘Throw in senior police officers and I’ll agree with you.’

They got into the car and stowed the MP5s. Rose picked up the radio and called in that they were back on watch.

Sutherland was peering up at the tower. A second banner had been dropped so that it covered the north face of the clock. ‘KIDS NEED THEIR DADS.’ ‘Do you think they know how close they came to getting shot?’ he mused.

‘They just want to make their point,’ said Shepherd.

‘They were lucky,’ said Rose. ‘And you must have one hell of a memory.’

‘Nah, story just interested me.’

‘You’ve got kids?’

‘Not that I know about,’ Shepherd joked. He hated denying Liam’s existence but Stuart Marsden didn’t have a family. ‘These guys get a raw deal. Most of them pay child support and want to be good fathers, but their wives get vindictive. What about you? Have you got kids?’

Sutherland flashed Shepherd a warning look, but Rose didn’t seem perturbed. ‘A daughter. But if my missus ever tried to take her away from me, you wouldn’t find me climbing Big Ben with a banner.’ He stretched and sighed. ‘I hate false alarms,’ he said. ‘All foreplay and no orgasm.’

‘Can’t help you there I’m afraid, Sarge,’ said Sutherland. He looked over his shoulder at Shepherd. ‘Besides, that’s up to the new guy.’

‘Didn’t see that in the job description,’ said Shepherd.

‘Don’t worry, Stu,’ said Rose. ‘You’re not my type.’

The car radio crackled. ‘Trojan Five Six Nine, armed robbery in progress at Speedy Pizzas in Battersea high street.’

Sutherland put the car into gear and switched on the siren and flashing lights.

Rose picked up the mike. ‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine en route,’ he said.

Cars were pulling to the side of the road to let the Vauxhall through. ‘Hopefully we’ll get you an orgasm this time, Sarge.’ Sutherland laughed as he stamped on the accelerator and tore past an open-topped tour bus. There was still a roadblock leading to Westminster Bridge but the uniformed police waved them through. They sped across the empty bridge and through the road block on the south side.

The controller filled Rose in on what was happening. Two IC3s, black males, had gone into the pizza shop and produced sawn-off shotguns. A customer had decided to have a go and grabbed for one of the guns. It had gone off and the noise had alerted passers-by. Three had phoned 999 on their mobiles, and within two minutes a local ARV had been on the scene with two area cars. They had contained the situation but the two robbers were now holding the customers and staff hostage.

‘Why the hell would anyone stick up a pizza place?’ asked Sutherland. ‘How much cash would they have at this time of day?’

‘Could be druggies,’ said Rose.

‘Druggies with shotguns? They’re more at home with blood-filled hypodermics or knives,’ said Sutherland.

Shepherd felt the blood pounding through his veins and the elation that came from the body’s release of adrenaline. This was no false alarm: there were men with guns and they were prepared to use them. And it was up to him and his colleagues to stop them. He focused on his immediate task, of finding the most efficient route to the crime scene, but his mind was already whirling through the ramifications of a hostage situation. There would be no gunfight while the men were inside the building with hostages. The officer in charge would play it by the book and negotiate for as long as he could. The SO19 officers would be there to contain and control, but to shoot only as a last resort. The hostage-takers would be hoping for safe passage, but Shepherd knew that wouldn’t happen. The police would keep a dialogue going until the robbers realised that the siege would end only one way – with them in custody.

Sutherland cut through the south London streets. A second local ARV called up that it was on its way to the scene, and the officer in charge called in to request a hostage negotiator, then an ambulance. A customer had been hit by the shotgun blast and was bleeding heavily. That changed the situation, Shepherd knew: if the life of a hostage was in immediate danger, there was a chance that the armed police would be ordered in.

Trojan Five Eight One called in that it was en route with an ETA of six minutes. It was one of SO19’s black vans with trained snipers among its eight-man crew. It added to the likelihood that the building would be stormed. Shepherd’s pulse raced. He remembered Major Gannon’s briefing in Hereford. The way armed police took a building was a complete contrast to the SAS method. The SAS went in hard, thunderflash grenades to stun, multiple shots to make sure that the targets went down and stayed down. They stopped only when the object was secured. When the SAS did their business there were usually no cameras around, no witnesses to scream about overkill and human-rights violations. But the police had to follow procedures, many of which had been drawn up by men who had never seen a gun fired in anger, never had cordite sting their eyes, never felt the paralysing punch of a bullet hitting home.

The officer in charge was a chief inspector from Battersea. Sutherland and Rose said they didn’t know him but his voice was calm. He confirmed that the street had been cordoned off and that offices and apartments were being cleared. He suggested that vehicles enter the high street from the east. Shepherd’s eyes flicked over the map and he called out an alternative route to Sutherland.

They powered past an ambulance that was also Battersea-bound, siren wailing. Shepherd wondered how badly hurt the customer was. Sawn-off shotguns were lethal at close range but the shot dispersed so much once it left the barrel that the damage could be superficial beyond fifty feet or so. Shepherd had taken a bullet once and almost died, but he had been a soldier fighting a war. The customer had expected no more than a boring wait in a queue and now he was a victim in an armed robbery. There was an unfairness about crime, the way it struck without warning. If you were in the wrong place at the wrong time you became a victim. At least in a war you knew what to expect.

‘Here we go,’ said Sutherland. Two area cars were ahead of them, their bumpers together across the road. A single uniformed constable in a yellow fluorescent jacket pointed to the left and Sutherland parked. Shepherd was already unlocking the gun-holder.

Rose took one of the MP5s and Shepherd followed him to the uniformed constable. At the far end of the road there were two more police cars, blue lights flashing. One had saucer-sized yellow stickers in the corner of the windows, which showed it was an ARV. Half a dozen uniformed policemen were kneeling behind the cars, watching the front of the building. Two had MP5s aimed at it.

‘Where’s the OIC?’ asked Rose.

The uniformed constable indicated an estate agent’s office. ‘Chief Inspector Cockburn,’ he said.

Shepherd looked up at the rooftops as he followed Rose across the road. The street had shops on both sides, with two floors of brick-built apartments above them. On the roof of the apartments opposite two policemen were scrutinising the pizza place, one through high-powered binoculars. Rose and Shepherd went into the estate agent’s. A uniformed sergeant and two constables were standing by the window. Chief Inspector Cockburn was sitting at a desk, a transceiver in front of him next to his cap. His right hand was drumming on the desk and sweat glistened across his bald scalp.

‘Keith Rose, sir. SO19. This is Stuart Marsden.’

‘Any sign of the Specialist Firearms team?’

‘On its way from Leman Street, sir. What’s the story?’

‘We’ve a customer bleeding to death on the floor and two nervous young men with shooters. They were on their way out when they saw the local ARV. They took a couple of shots at it, then ran back in. I’ve two men on the roof opposite who can see inside. Someone’s trying to stem the bleeding but it doesn’t look good.’

‘Where do you want us, sir?’

‘We’re going to have to move quickly, Sergeant. I know I’m supposed to wait for a negotiator, but if we do, that customer could die. Do you have any suggestions?’

‘Is there a back entrance?’

‘There’s a fire exit that leads into the kitchen and we have two armed officers outside. I doubt you could get in without the robbers hearing you, though.’

‘Have you spoken to them?’

‘The negotiator’s on his way. We’re just keeping a lid on it until then.’

It was the right thing to do, Shepherd thought. Hostage situations could easily go wrong and had to be handled by experts.

‘I could get two of my men above the shop,’ Rose said.‘They could drop down outside, on ropes. They wouldn’t see them coming. Your men on the roof opposite can tell us when we’ve a clear run.’

‘Okay, Sergeant. Get them in position, but wait for my say-so.’

A constable had pinned a large sheet of paper to one wall and a young man in a grey suit was helping him draw a ground plan of the pizza place. There was a large kitchen at the back, with a counter in front of it. There was a toilet and washroom to the side, but it was for staff only and was reached from behind the counter. There were a few stools and a shelf where customers could eat but it was more of a home-delivery operation than a restaurant.

Rose turned to Shepherd. ‘How are you at abseiling, Stu?’

‘It’s been a while but I can handle it.’

‘You and Mike see if you can gain access to the roof across the way.’

Shepherd hurried over to the car, opened the boot and took out two nylon ropes, karabiners and nylon harnesses. ‘Sarge wants us up top,’ he said. He slung the carbine over his shoulder and jogged to a door between a chemist and a travel agency. Sutherland followed him.

‘They should try Kylie,’ said Shepherd.

‘Kylie?’ said Sutherland, frowning.

‘There were these drugs guys holed up with hostages in South America, I forget where, and the local cops got them out by playing Kylie Minogue singing “I Should Be So Lucky” non-stop for three days.’

Sutherland chuckled. ‘Urban myth, right?’

‘True as I’m standing here, Mike.’

‘I’ll let you pitch it to the sarge.’

To the right of the door there was a rusting intercom with two buttons and Shepherd pressed both. There was no reply. ‘I’ll get the Enforcer.’ He went back to the Vauxhall and opened the boot. It was packed with equipment, including a first-aid kit, Kevlar ballistic blanket, ballistic shield, a firearms make-safe kit, to preserve weapons for forensic analysis, a ballistic bag for safely unloading weapons, and the red hammer-like ram nicknamed the Enforcer. Shepherd grabbed it and returned to the door.

‘I’ll do the honours,’ said Sutherland. ‘The paperwork’s a bitch but I’ve got the forms in my desk.’ He took the ram from Shepherd and slammed it into the door by the lock. The wooden frame splintered and Shepherd finished the job with a hard kick.

Beyond the doorway was a narrow staircase. On the first floor a door led to a flat and the stairs twisted to the left up to the second floor. Sutherland was about to use the ram on the second-floor flat when Shepherd pointed to a hatch in the ceiling.

Sutherland propped the Enforcer against the wall and nodded at Shepherd to give him a leg up. Shepherd grinned. ‘Mike, I’m ten kilos lighter than you and about six inches narrower around the waist. If you get stuck in that hatch we’ll be all day getting you out. I’ll go first.’ He put the ropes and his carbine on the floor. Sutherland made a step with his hands and pushed Shepherd up to the ceiling. The hatch was just a piece of plywood painted the same colour as the ceiling and lifted easily. Shepherd wriggled through. The walls were bare brick covered with cobwebs, there were dusty wooden beams supporting tiles, and thick layers of yellow fibreglass insulation padding between the floor beams.

Shepherd lay down on a beam and took the equipment from Sutherland, then leaned down and pulled up his colleague. It was indeed a tight fit but Sutherland got through. He wiped the dust off his overalls and grinned. ‘See? I didn’t even need to take the vest off.’

Shepherd handed him his MP5 and picked up a rope. There were two windows in the roof, encrusted with pigeon droppings. Shepherd tried to open one but it had been painted so many times it was jammed tight. The second was looser and he slid it open. He clicked his transceiver to transmit. ‘We’re in, Sarge,’ he said. ‘We have a window to get on to the roof.’

‘Get above the pizza joint and sit tight,’ said Rose. ‘The Specialist Firearms team’s arrived and we’ve got two snipers moving into position across the road from you.’

‘Will do,’ said Shepherd. He stood to the side so that Sutherland could go through the window first. ‘What did I say wrong earlier?’ he asked.

‘About what?’

‘About the sarge having kids.’

‘Rosie’s daughter’s sick,’ said Sutherland. ‘It’s not something he talks about, and you being the new guy and all . . .’

‘Shit,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s okay – we should have warned you. We ask him how she’s getting on but it’s not good.’

‘Poor guy.’

‘Yeah, tell me about it.’

‘What is it? Leukaemia?’

‘Some sort of tumour on her spine. Inoperable.’

‘Christ.’

‘Yeah. She’s a sweet kid, too, Kelly. Cute as a button. Seven years old.’

‘And she’s dying?’

‘Don’t let Rosie hear you say that – he’ll tear you a new one.’

‘Sorry. Thanks for setting me straight.’

Sutherland pulled himself through the window and Shepherd pushed him up, then handed him the ropes and followed. A lead-lined rain gully ran the length of the roof, below a waist-high brick parapet. Sutherland knelt down and looked over at the buildings opposite. Shepherd joined him. Down below, close to the road block on their left, was the black high-sided van of the Specialist Firearms team. A tall thin man with close-cropped bullet grey hair was standing with an MP5 slung over his shoulder, talking to a uniformed constable. ‘That’s Ken Swift, the inspector in charge of Amber team. Bloody good guy.’

Swift turned away from the constable and spoke into the microphone clipped to his bulletproof vest. Shepherd looked at the rooftops opposite and saw the two uniformed officers who had the pizza place under surveillance. Two armed policemen appeared, bent low behind the parapet. He glimpsed the barrel of a sniping rifle. He dropped down and called Rose on his radio. ‘I see the shots opposite, Sarge,’ he said. ‘They know we’re here, right?’

‘Affirmative,’ crackled Rose’s voice.

Shepherd peered over the parapet again. The two snipers had taken up position at either side of the surveillance officers. Shepherd waved, then indicated that he and Sutherland were going to move along the roof. One of the snipers nodded. Shepherd flashed Sutherland an ‘OK’ signal and they headed down the gully, bent double, carbines clutched to their chests. They stopped when they were directly opposite the snipers. Shepherd hooked a rope round a chimney and attached a karabiner. Sutherland did the same. Shepherd radioed to Rose that they were in position, then the two men settled behind the parapet.

‘Have you been in hostage situations before?’ asked Shepherd.

‘A few times,’ said Sutherland. ‘Usually domestics, though. Criminals tend not to take hostages. They know it always ends badly and the judge will throw away the key.’

‘Sounds like they were forced into it this time,’ said Shepherd. ‘With any luck they’ll be talked out of it.’

‘Don’t bank on it,’ said Sutherland, laconically. ‘There’s a punter bleeding on the floor, remember. That could be attempted murder. Life if the guy dies.’

Shepherd’s earpiece crackled.‘Negotiator’s arrived, but it’s not looking good,’ he said. ‘They’re refusing to send the injured man out until they get a coach or a minibus. They want to take the hostages with them.’

Down below, more area cars were arriving. Sutherland popped a stick of gum into his mouth and offered the pack to Shepherd. Shepherd took a piece.

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ said Sutherland.

Shepherd chewed thoughtfully. Rose’s plan was for the two of them to drop down the front of the shop. But there were two sawn-off shotguns below and at close range they could do a lot of damage. The robbers would see them and the first shots from the MP5 would only smash the windows. It was impossible to fire through glass with any accuracy. They could use the snipers to smash the windows and, hopefully, the robbers would have their heads down but even so Shepherd and Sutherland would be facing two men with shotguns who knew they were under attack.

‘Negotiators know what they’re doing,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’re professionals.’

‘So are we, mate, but things sometimes turn to shit no matter how well trained you are.’

‘Two shots from Amber team are going to be joining you,’ said Rose in Shepherd’s earpiece. ‘How did you get access?’

Shepherd told the sergeant about the hatchway.

To their right an ambulance arrived. Two paramedics opened the rear doors, took out a trolley and pushed it to the road block.

‘What about going down?’ said Shepherd.

‘Not until Rosie gives the say-so,’ said Sutherland.

‘I mean downstairs. See if we can get into the flat below. Not so far to jump. We might even be able to get through the ceiling. You saw what it was like in the attic.’

‘Bounce it off the sarge, if you like. He can put it to Cockburn.’

Shepherd called up Rose, who told him to stay put.

A minute or so later Cockburn was on the radio. ‘Chief Inspector Cockburn here, Marsden. What’s your plan?’

‘It’s not really a plan, sir, it’s just that we’ve less of a drop if we go from the first floor instead of the roof, and there’s an outside chance that there might be a way in through the ceiling.’

‘You can get access to the first-floor flat?’

‘We’ve an enforcer with us, but the lock didn’t look too strong so we could probably shoulder it.’

There was a long silence. ‘Okay, give it a go,’ Cockburn said, ‘but keep the noise to a minimum. The negotiator isn’t making much progress so it’s likely we’ll have to go in.’

‘Will do, sir.’ Shepherd nodded at Sutherland. ‘Let’s get to it.’

They untied their ropes, coiled them and shuffled back along the gully. As they reached the window, they met the two armed police from the Specialist Firearms team. Sutherland knew them and introduced them to Shepherd as Brian Ramshaw and Kevin Tapping. Both were in their late thirties, calm and unruffled. Shepherd briefed them on what they were going to do.

The four men went back down through the hatch into the hallway, picked up the ram and hurried down to the first floor. Shepherd examined the lock. It was a simple Yale with a metal plate to protect it from being jemmied. Sutherland prepared to use the ram but Shepherd called up Rose and asked him to get one of the area cars to rev its engine, so that the men in the pizza place would be distracted.

A couple of minutes later, when the engine was revving, Shepherd kicked the door hard. It crashed inwards, and a few seconds later the engine went quiet.

Shepherd tiptoed into the flat. It was cheaply furnished with worn carpets and woodchip wallpaper painted a pale yellow. In the hallway there was a teak-effect low table with a phone on it and a framed print of a bowl of fruit above it. The furniture in the sitting room was shabby, and an ashtray overflowed with the butts of hand-rolled cigarettes. The faint smell of marijuana hung in the air.

Sutherland grinned. ‘Whoever lives here is going to piss themselves when they find out that the Old Bill’s been in,’ he said.

Shepherd was already pushing the sofa towards the television. ‘Roll back the carpet – let’s see what we’ve got,’ he said to Ramshaw and Tapping.

The two men ripped away the carpet from the wall. Instead of underlay newspapers lay on the floorboards, dated ten years earlier. Sutherland went to the sash window and opened it. He flashed an ‘OK’ sign to the snipers opposite, then called up Rose and told him they were inside the flat.

Shepherd studied the floorboards, which were in as bad a condition as the carpets. He knelt down and used his Swiss Army knife to lever one up. Ramshaw and Tapping helped him take up several more. Thick beams ran the length of the room from the window to the doorway, about shoulder width apart. If the men went through side on, there should be room to spare, even wearing their bulletproof vests. Shepherd used his knife to make a small hole in the plasterwork and bent down to peer through it. He couldn’t see anything so he widened the hole and took his torch from his belt and shone it through. There was a space almost a foot deep, then sheets of plasterboard. He widened the hole so that he could stick his head through. Close to the walls he could make out air-conditioning ducts and electrical wiring.

He sat up and switched off the torch, then signalled for the three men to keep quiet.

He went back into the hallway outside the flat to radio Rose. ‘It’s definitely a goer, Sarge,’ he said. ‘They’ve put a suspended ceiling below the plaster. It’ll be a tight fit but I reckon we can crash through, two of us with guns, two playing out the rope. If we get the positioning right we’ll drop down behind them.’

‘Sit tight while I bounce it off the OIC,’ said Rose. ‘Good work.’

‘I need to know where the targets are. We’ll be going in blind.’

‘Got that,’ said Rose.

A couple of minutes passed before he came back on the radio. ‘Do the prep,’ he said. ‘Negotiator’s going around in circles.’

‘Affirmative,’ said Shepherd.

‘The surveillance guys say they’re both behind the counter, which is eighteen feet back from the wall and four feet wide. The customer who was shot is being attended to by a female hostage. One of the robbers is covering her with a gun. Everyone else has been taken behind the counter and the second guy’s guarding them. The kitchen’s empty.’

Shepherd closed his eyes and recalled the ground plan in the estate agent’s. ‘Give us five minutes and then have the cars hit the sirens. We’ll be lifting the floorboards.’

‘Affirmative.’

Shepherd waved for the three officers to join him in the hallway, whispered instructions to them, then went back to the window and paced eighteen feet. It took him into the bedroom at the rear of the property. Ramshaw and Tapping moved the bed and rolled back the carpet. As soon as they heard the sirens, all four men eased up the floorboards. Shepherd poked another hole in the plaster and checked with his flashlight. The layout was the same as it was below the sitting room. Outside the sirens died.

Shepherd carefully hacked away chunks of plaster with his knife and placed them on a sheet he’d taken from the bed. When he’d finished they were staring at the back of a plasterboard ceiling.

‘It’ll be a tight fit,’ said Sutherland.

‘Best if you let me and Kevin go down,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re the thinnest.’

‘Are you saying I’m fat?’

‘You’re not fat, but we’re thinner.’

Sutherland patted his bulletproof vest.‘It’s the vest. Makes me look fatter than I am.’

‘You’re not fat,’ repeated Shepherd. ‘Kevin, you up for it?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Tapping.

‘Lose the equipment belt.’

‘Including the Glock?’

‘If the MP5s don’t do it, the Glocks won’t be any use.’

‘Everything okay?’ asked Rose, in Shepherd’s earpiece.

‘We’re in position,’ Shepherd whispered into his mike. ‘I’m going down with Tapping.’

‘Hang fire until I give you the green light,’ said Rose. ‘The negotiator’s still talking.’

Shepherd and Tapping removed their equipment belts and stood by the gaping hole in the floor, their MP5s close to their chests. They were about eight feet apart.

‘The counter should be there,’ whispered Shepherd, pointing down between two of the joists. He pointed four feet to the left. ‘That’s where the kitchen starts. Dropping in won’t be pleasant.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Tapping.

‘No offence, but I’m a bit smaller. Less chance of me hitting something.’

Tapping nodded. ‘Go for it.’

Ramshaw was holding the rope attached to Shepherd’s waist and Sutherland had Tapping’s.

‘Brian, let me go five feet down, then take the strain, just in case there’s an oven or something below. Give me a count of two to get my bearings, then let the rope go.’ Ramshaw flashed him a thumbs-up. Shepherd winked at Tapping. ‘Okay, Kev?’

‘Just want to get it over with,’ whispered Tapping.

‘We’ll be fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s the last thing they’ll be expecting. Just so long as Mike and Brian don’t let go of the ropes.’

They heard sirens in the distance, and overhead the thudding beat of a helicopter rotor. Then silence.

‘They’re still demanding a coach in return for letting the injured hostage go.’ Rose’s voice crackled in Shepherd’s earpiece. ‘We’ve got a vehicle ready to go, but there’s no way we’re letting them drive away. We reckon one target will come out with hostages to check the coach, with the other remaining inside until he’s sure everything’s okay. As soon as Target One is at the door and the snipers have a clear shot, I’ll green-light you two. You take out Target Two, and we take out Target One.’

‘Affirmative,’ said Shepherd.

‘Affirmative,’ echoed Tapping.

‘Good luck, guys,’ said Rose. ‘Once things start moving, I’ll talk you through it.’

The radio went quiet.

‘There’s got to be more to this than pizzas,’ whispered Shepherd.

‘What do you mean?’ said Tapping.

‘If it was druggies they wouldn’t have shotguns and they wouldn’t be giving the negotiator a hard time. They’d be freaking out by now.’

‘So.’

‘So why knock over a pizza place? There are three building societies and a jeweller in the street.’

Tapping frowned. ‘You think they’re selling drugs, is that it?’

‘I don’t think they went in with guns to steal a few pepperoni pizzas. Drugs or money-laundering would be my bet.’

Shepherd’s earpiece crackled. ‘We have more details of what’s going on inside,’ said Rose. ‘Targets are IC Three males. Not masked. Both have sawn-off shotguns, one appears to be double-barrelled but let’s not make any assumptions. The wounded customer is about six feet from the door being attended to by an IC One female wearing a dark blue coat. One of the targets is between the counter and the door, but keeps the woman as a barrier. The second target is in the doorway that leads from the kitchen to the area behind the counter. He has three employees with him, all in uniform. There are two customers also behind the counter, both IC One males in their early twenties, casually dressed.’

There was no need to spell it out. Shepherd would take the man behind the counter, Tapping the other.

‘The coach is driving towards the shop,’ said Rose. ‘We have two men on board plus the driver. They’re moving through the road block now.’

Shepherd’s heart beat faster and a surge of adrenaline entered his system. Time seemed to slow, as it always did when he faced combat. All his senses became more alert, more focused.

‘The coach is going to park in the middle of the road to give the snipers a clear shot,’ said Rose, ‘but we want to do this inside if we can.’

‘Affirmative,’ said Shepherd. He nodded at Tapping and pressed his MP5 close to his chest, finger outside the trigger guard.

They heard the hiss of air brakes. Then silence.

‘The negotiator’s talking to them,’ said Rose.

There was a long silence. Shepherd spat out his chewing-gum and took a deep breath.

‘Okay, they’re going to move to the coach,’ said Rose. ‘Target One is going to go outside with one hostage to check the coach. Target Two will remain inside. As soon as Target One opens the door, you move. Target One is still in the kitchen doorway. All the hostages are lying down.’

Shepherd nodded at Tapping again. Tapping grinned and spat out his gum.

Shepherd played it out in his head. He would drop down behind the man in the doorway. He would shout for the man to drop his weapon. If he complied, it was game over. If it looked like he was going to fire, Shepherd would fire first. Tapping would drop behind the man at the front of the shop. The biggest risk, so far as Shepherd could see, was of the man in the doorway shooting Tapping in the back.

‘The coach door has opened,’ said Rose, in Shepherd’s earpiece. ‘Target One is moving towards the door. The hostage is an IC One male wearing a black-leather motorcycle jacket. Go, go, go!’

Shepherd stepped forward, keeping his elbows tight against his sides. He dropped and his feet broke through the plasterboard with the sound of tearing paper. There was a jolt around his waist as the rope held but he continued to fall. His instinct was to close his eyes but he forced himself to keep them open. He saw stainless-steel ovens, a hotplate, a large refrigerator, work surfaces thick with flour, plastic containers full of tomato sauce, green peppers, sliced pepperoni and the man standing in the doorway, starting to turn. There was a second ripping noise as Tapping broke through the ceiling.

The rope bit into his waist and Shepherd jerked to a halt. He was hanging a few feet from a metal preparation table with half a dozen pizzas ready to go into the oven. ‘Armed police!’ he yelled. ‘Drop your weapon.’

The man kept turning. The barrel of the shotgun was pointing at the ceiling.

‘Drop your weapon!’ Shepherd yelled.

‘Armed police!’ shouted Tapping, from the front of the shop. There was the deafening sound of a shotgun blast followed by the crack of a 9mm round. A woman screamed and a man yelled.

Almost immediately Ramshaw let the rope slide and Shepherd dropped to the floor. He bent his knees to absorb the impact but his eyes never left the man in front of him. He caught a glimpse of a hostage just behind the target, a man in his twenties wearing a blue baseball jacket, but he kept focused on the man with the shotgun.

The shotgun barrel swung down. The man’s mouth was open in surprise, eyes wide and staring. Shepherd slid his finger inside the trigger guard. One pull and he’d hit him dead centre. His finger tightened on the trigger, but he could see how frightened the man was. Shepherd rushed forward, the rope trailing in his wake, and slammed the stock of the carbine against the man’s chin. His eyes turned up in their sockets and he fell to the ground. Shepherd kicked the shotgun to the side and rushed through the door. He shouldered the man in the baseball jacket to the side, his MP5 at the ready, but it was all over.

The air was thick with dust from the ceiling. The second target was on the floor, the shotgun several feet away, blood oozing from his left thigh. He was clutching his leg and wheezing. Through the shop window Shepherd saw two armed police running from the coach, handguns held high.

Tapping was standing by the counter, breathing heavily.

‘You okay, Kev?’

Tapping nodded.

Shepherd spoke into his radio mike. ‘All clear, Sarge. Two targets, one unconscious, one bleeding from a leg wound. We need paramedics.’

‘They’re on their way, Stu. You okay?’

‘We’re fine.’

The two armed officers burst into the shop. One picked up the shotgun and made it safe.

‘There’s another in the kitchen,’ said Shepherd.

Two paramedics arrived with a trolley. Tapping and Shepherd ushered the hostages outside. One of the members of staff, a middle-aged West Indian, was insisting that he be allowed to stay but Tapping told him it was a crime scene and pushed him outside. The woman who had been looking after the injured hostage was sobbing and a WPC took her to an ambulance.

The paramedics dealt with the injured hostage who was bleeding from the stomach and barely conscious. Shepherd knelt beside the robber Tapping had shot and used his Swiss Army knife to cut away the man’s bloody trouser leg. There was an entry wound six inches above the knee and a larger exit wound at the back. It was bleeding but Shepherd could see it wasn’t life-threatening.

Two more paramedics rushed in. Tapping and Shepherd moved away to give them room to work on the man’s injured leg. Sutherland and Ramshaw appeared at the shop doorway. ‘Everything okay?’ asked Sutherland.

‘We’re fine,’ said Shepherd.

The armed officer who’d gone into the kitchen reappeared with two uniformed officers who’d come in through the fire exit. They had handcuffed the robber Shepherd had knocked out. The man was still dazed but he could walk.

‘How did you manage that?’ asked Sutherland.

‘He was slow,’ said Shepherd, ‘and I almost landed on top of him.’

‘Mine fired by mistake,’ said Tapping. ‘Shat himself when I dropped through and the shot went into the ceiling but I couldn’t take the chance of him firing again.’

‘I’d forget the “by mistake” bit if I were you,’ said Shepherd, keeping his voice low. ‘He fired, end of story. There were too many civilians around to take chances.’

Rose appeared at the door. ‘You guys okay?’

‘Not a scratch,’ said Tapping. ‘The one on the ground shot at me so I fired. Stu here didn’t bother with his gun, took his guy out with a flying drop kick.’

‘I hit him with the stock,’ said Shepherd.

Rose clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Not bad for a first day on the job,’ he said.

Swift jogged down the street. He stood aside for the paramedics to wheel out the injured hostage. ‘Is he going to be okay?’

‘Stomach and intestine perforated and he’s lost a lot of blood,’ said a paramedic. ‘It doesn’t look good.’

‘No one else hurt?’ asked Swift.

‘Just a leg wound,’ said Rose, indicating the robber on the floor.

‘Brilliant, lads,’ said Swift. ‘Might have a photo-call for you later, turn you into heroes.’

Shepherd grimaced. ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather keep a low profile. A guy did stop a bullet. He might have relatives who’ll take offence if they see us grinning on the front page of the Evening Standard.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Swift, ‘but the OIC’s going to be putting you up for a commendation.’

Shepherd forced a smile. He knew he wouldn’t be getting a commendation for ending the siege. Stuart Marsden didn’t exist. If Shepherd got a commendation it would be for exposing the bad apples in SO19. And he doubted that Ken Swift or any other cop would be lining up to shake his hand when that happened.

‘You know the drill, Kev,’ said Swift, putting his hand on Tapping’s shoulder. ‘SOCO will take the weapon and you’ll have to talk to the Internal Investigation Command. You’re removed from firearms duty, pending the result of the investigation, but it looks righteous to me. I don’t see you having any problems.’

‘I do my job and I get to ride a desk for six months,’ said Tapping, bitterly.

‘You saved lives today,’ said Swift, ‘but there’s a procedure, you know that. You did well, and you’ll be back on duty before you know it.’

‘Might be worth giving this place a going-over, sir,’ said Shepherd. ‘The owner seemed pretty keen to stay and it seems a funny place to stick up with shotguns.’

A uniformed constable picked up a red nylon bag with a Nike swoosh that had been lying behind the counter. He unzipped it and whistled softly. It contained rolls of banknotes and a Ziploc plastic bag filled with polythene packages of white crystals.

Swift walked over and picked up the Ziploc bag. ‘Crack cocaine,’ he said. He looked at Shepherd. ‘You were right.’

‘Explains the artillery,’ said Shepherd.

‘There must be thirty grand there,’ said Sutherland.

Swift put the drugs back into the nylon bag and zipped it up. ‘It just gets better and better for you two,’ he said. ‘You rescue the hostages and bust a major drugs operation.’

‘All in a day’s work.’ Shepherd grinned and winked at Tapping. Then he looked at Rose. The sergeant was gazing at the nylon bag with a thoughtful look on his face.

Shepherd glanced over his shoulder to check that no one was paying any attention to him, then slipped the three mobile phones out of his locker and into the pockets of his jacket. He didn’t want anyone asking why he was carrying so many. When he worked undercover among villains it was common practice to have numerous mobiles, usually with pay-as-you-go Sim cards that were thrown away regularly. But cops weren’t villains. Most of them, anyway.

Shepherd left the building and headed for the underground car park. He took one of the phones out of his pocket and switched it on.

Rose and Sutherland caught up with him and slapped his shoulder. ‘Drinks,’ said Rose.

‘Right, Sarge,’ said Shepherd.

‘First round’s on the new guy,’ said Sutherland. ‘Tradition.’

‘Where?’

‘Bull’s Head, down there on the left,’ said Rose, pointing along Leman Street. ‘Landlord used to be in the job so we can have a lock-in whenever we want. Tonight’s gonna be a heavy night.’

‘I’m driving, Sarge.’

‘That’s what minicabs are for.’ He pointed down the road. ‘Second left.’

‘I’ll catch you up,’ said Shepherd. ‘I just want to check my messages.’

Rose and Sutherland headed down the road, deep in conversation. Shepherd looked at the mobile. A voicemail message was waiting on the Tony Nelson phone. Shepherd put it to his ear and listened. It was Angie Kerr, asking him to call her back. Her husband was away for the night so he could call any time.

Shepherd dialled her number.

‘It’s me,’ he said, when she answered. ‘Is it okay to talk?’

‘He’s away all night,’ she said. ‘When are you going to do it?’

‘This isn’t the sort of conversation I want to have on the phone,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’ve got some details of where he’ll be over the next few days,’ said Angie. ‘I thought it might help to meet up.’

Shepherd raised his eyebrows. He’d thought he was going to have a problem persuading her to meet him, but now she was the one pressing for a face-to-face.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘That works for me.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Morning should be okay.’ Shepherd did a quick calculation in his head. He could get to Manchester in four hours, but getting back to Leman Street for two o’clock would be a taller order. A helicopter would be the fastest way, but even Major Gannon would draw the line at Shepherd using the SAS as his personal taxi service. If he drove he’d have to leave Manchester at ten to stand a chance of getting to Leman Street in time for his shift. He’d have to talk to Hargrove and see if they could come up with a suitable reason for him being late on his second day with the unit. ‘How about early?’

‘Nine? Same place as before? The supermarket?’

‘Okay,’ said Shepherd.

‘And you won’t do anything before then, will you?’

‘As soon as I’m ready to move I’ll let you know. That way you can get your alibi sorted. Anyway, like I said, this isn’t a conversation for the phone.’ Shepherd cut the connection and phoned Hargrove.

‘I hear you’ve had a busy day,’ said the superintendent.

‘It’s helped me bond, that’s for sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘Angie Kerr’s been in touch. She wants a meet and I’ve fixed up for tomorrow at nine. The supermarket car park again.’

‘She wanted the meet?’

‘Said she wanted to give me some info about his movements.’

‘That’s perfect. We’ll have the Volvo wired again, get her on video handing you the info then bust you both. She gets taken to the nick and you go back to SO19.’

‘I’m going to need a reason for getting to Leman Street late. Medical, maybe. Can you fix it up?’

‘I’ll take care of it. What’s your plan now?’

‘I’m off for some more bonding with the guys, then I’ll drive up to Manchester. The flat’s still free, isn’t it?’

‘Sure.’

‘I’ll catch a few hours’ kip there. Just hope tomorrow’s a quiet shift.’

Shepherd put away the phone and walked to the pub. He heard booming laughter and clinking glasses as he went into the main bar. He wasn’t proud of what he was doing: he was lying to fellow cops, and that made him feel sick. There was a good chance that Keith Rose was bad, but he had no way of knowing who was helping him, which meant he had to lie to everyone. He forced himself to smile. He was Stuart Marsden and he was among friends.

Ken Swift was standing at the bar surrounded by half a dozen men from Amber team. Rose was in a booth with Sutherland, the two men deep in conversation. The sergeant looked up as Shepherd walked in and raised his glass in salute. Shepherd nodded and headed for the bar.

Ken Swift had bought a round and ordered lager for Shepherd. ‘Nice work, Stu,’ he said. ‘You done that falling-through-the-ceiling trick before?’

‘I’ve abseiled, but never gone through a ceiling.’

The inspector introduced Shepherd to Amber team. Shepherd shook hands with them all, committing to memory the names and faces he hadn’t already memorised from Hargrove’s files. They were all easy in each other’s company, men who had worked and drunk together for months, if not years, but they made sure he felt at home, including him in their conversation and jokes. They were a good mix: a couple were older than Shepherd, the old hands of the team, but the rest were about his age or younger. They all worshipped Swift, deferring to him whenever he spoke, watching him even while they were joking and knocking back their pints. Ramshaw and Tapping came in together. Everyone cheered Tapping and Shepherd took the opportunity to buy a round, dumping his first pint in the process. With the drive to Manchester ahead, he didn’t want to drink more than a few mouthfuls.

He stood with Amber team for half an hour, but kept a watchful eye on Rose and Sutherland. The two men were still deep in conversation, Rose doing most of the talking and Sutherland nodding.

Swift came to stand next to Shepherd. ‘How are you getting on with Rosie?’ he asked.

‘So far, so good,’ said Shepherd.

‘What about the map work? Must be a lot harder than Glasgow.’

‘No problems,’ said Shepherd.

‘You ever use the rifle?’

‘Not really,’ said Shepherd. ‘I never liked the long-distance stuff. Always seems too impersonal.’

‘A good sniper can take out a problem without putting lives at risk,’ said Swift.

‘No argument there,’ said Shepherd. ‘I just prefer to be up close and personal, that’s all. Why do you ask?’

‘One of our snipers has just made sergeant and he’ll be moving from SO19. I’m looking for someone to fill the slot.’

Shepherd took a sip of his pint. The last thing he needed was to be moved from the ARV. ‘I prefer to be on the ground,’ he said.

‘Yeah, but you get all the false alarms as well. The Specialist Firearms teams only get called out for the big stuff.’

‘Horses for courses,’ said Shepherd.

Rose came over to the group by the bar and put his arm round Swift. ‘Don’t let this guy talk you into joining Amber,’ he said to Shepherd. ‘You’d hate it, driving around in a furniture van, turning up late.’

‘Don’t listen to him. It’s his lack of ambition that’s kept him a sergeant all these years,’ said Swift.

‘I didn’t kiss the right arses, is what he means,’ said Rose. He ordered a round. Shepherd took the opportunity to slip his three-quarters full glass on to the bar.

‘There’s a lot to be said for military training,’ said Swift. ‘Maybe we should be recruiting more ex-army guys.’

‘Were you army?’ asked Shepherd, although he knew that Swift had never been in the armed forces. His file had been on Hargrove’s CD.

‘Nah, I was a fireman, way back when. Got fed up with climbing ladders. I was at Hendon the same time as Rosie here. A few years older and a lot better-looking.’

‘That’s why you’ve been divorced three times, I suppose,’ said Rose.

‘The grass is always greener,’ said Swift. ‘That’s been my problem.’

‘You married now?’ asked Shepherd. The file had said Swift was being sued for divorce by his third wife.

‘Just about to get loose from wife number three,’ said Swift. ‘Good riddance. What about you? Bitten the bullet?’

Shepherd grinned. ‘I’ll give it a few years before I settle down.’

‘Wish I’d done that,’ said Swift. ‘My first wife got her claws into me when I was eighteen. Dragged me kicking and screaming down the aisle a year later. Still, we had three good years.’

‘You got divorced after just three years?’

‘Nah,’ said Swift. ‘The three good years were followed by five hellish ones. Then she divorced me.’

Rose groaned. Clearly it was a joke he’d heard many times before.

Sutherland was sitting on his own now, legs stretched out, staring up at the ceiling with his beer glass balanced on his stomach. Shepherd walked over and sat down next to him. ‘All right, Mike?’ he said, clinking his glass against Sutherland’s.

‘Ace,’ said Sutherland, sitting up. ‘One hell of a day. Like Rosie said, you might be a Jonah. You can go a week without a big one breaking and you get two in one day.’

‘You’d rather spend all day dealing with false alarms? Kids with airguns and robbers with cucumbers in brown-paper bags?’

‘Oh, Christ, an adrenaline junkie.’ Sutherland groaned. ‘Just what we need.’

‘We’re trained to deal with armed criminals,’ said Shepherd. ‘Anything else is a waste of our time.’ He stretched out his legs. ‘I’ll sleep well tonight,’ he said. ‘Damn near broke my hip dropping through that ceiling.’

Tapping was being toasted noisily by Swift and half a dozen members of Amber team. ‘It’s Kev I feel sorry for,’ said Sutherland. ‘That’s him off firearms duties until the shooting’s investigated.’

‘It was by the book.’ Shepherd grinned. ‘At least it was once we bust through the ceiling.’

‘Doesn’t matter if it was by the book or not. He’s on desk duties until it’s investigated. We’ve one guy who’s still on hold four years after a shooting.’

‘Shit,’ said Shepherd.

‘Shit’s right. Shot an armed robber during a raid on a supermarket. Robber’s gun turned out to be a replica and now he’s trying to sue the Met for everything from lost wages to infringement of his human rights. He was terrorising a pregnant woman, for God’s sake, yet he’s the one suing us. Until it’s resolved, our guy isn’t allowed to pick up a gun.’

‘Lucky I didn’t get off a shot,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m serious, Stu. The world’s gone bloody mental. You have to work your balls off to get into SO19, then you train and train to do the job right, but the minute you fire your weapon you’re treated like a criminal. In fact, the criminals get more leeway than we do.’ He drank some lager. ‘You know Swift’s serious about getting you and Kev a commendation?’ he said.

‘Screw that. I’d rather have a pay rise,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can’t spend a commendation.’

‘You short?’ asked Sutherland.

‘Who isn’t, these days?’

‘I can bung you a few quid until you’re sorted.’

‘Cheers, Mike, but I need more than that.’ He leaned closer to Sutherland and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘That thirty grand would have come in handy.’

‘What thirty grand?’

‘In the pizza place. The drugs money. There was thirty grand in that bag.’

Sutherland looked stunned. ‘Fuck me, Stu, don’t even say that as a joke.’

‘Come on, it’s drugs money. What’s going to happen to it? Unless the Drugs Squad can make a case against the guys running the pizza place, they get the money back. How sick is that?’

‘So crime pays. What’s new?’

‘I’m just saying, I could do a lot with thirty grand.’

‘I think we should drop it, mate. Walls have ears, right?’

Shepherd shrugged carelessly. ‘Okay, forget I said anything. What happened to the guy I took over from? What was his name? Hornby?’

‘Ormsby. Andy Ormsby. Good guy.’

‘Did he move on to better things?’

Sutherland shifted in his seat and took several gulps of his lager. Shepherd tried to appear relaxed. It was a reasonable question and he waited to see what Sutherland would say.

‘Bit of a mystery,’ said Sutherland, eventually. ‘He just went.’

‘Walked off the job?’

‘Just went. No one knows what happened. Some say it was girl trouble, some say he had a nervous breakdown. You know the stress that comes with the job. He was quite young.’

‘Couldn’t take the pressure?’

‘I guess.’

‘But he was in your vehicle, right? Didn’t you see the signs?’

‘You a psychiatrist now?’

‘You can tell when someone’s not handling the pressure – you don’t need a degree in psychology to spot the signs. Short temper, loss of appetite, nail-biting, all the usual clichés.’

‘He was a good guy,’ said Sutherland.

‘Yeah, you said. You don’t think there’ll be a problem, me stepping into his shoes?’

‘It’s not like you pushed him out of his job, is it?’

‘Yeah, I know, but some guys are a tough act to follow.’

‘You carry on like today and no one’ll have any problems with you,’ said Sutherland. ‘You’re a bloody hero, you are.’

Shepherd didn’t feel like a hero. He felt like a man who was being friendly to a fellow police officer so that he could betray him. He felt like a rat.

Rose dropped his kit-bag by the kitchen door, went over to the sink and drank from the cold tap.

‘That’s disgusting,’ said his wife, coming up behind him.

Rose straightened and wiped the back of his mouth with his hand.

‘Sorry, love.’

‘You’ve been drinking.’

‘Celebrating.’

‘You drove like that?’

‘Three pints, love. It’s not a crime.’

Tracey folded her arms. She was wearing her pink dressing-gown but it had fallen open at the front and he could see she was naked underneath. ‘Actually, it is a crime. And you know that.’

Rose held out his arms. ‘It was a one-off. Two big jobs today and we came out covered in glory.’

‘I saw the Houses of Parliament thing on the news. Those men were lucky they weren’t shot.’

‘Give me a hug,’ said Rose.

‘I can smell you from here.’

‘Ditto,’ said Rose. He stepped forward and took her in his arms. She slipped her arms round his neck and he kissed her.

‘You were a hero, were you?’ she said, as she broke away.

‘My guys were,’ said Rose. ‘How’s Kelly?’

Tracey’s lips tightened. ‘She didn’t eat much. And she says her back hurts. I just wish I could take the pain away.’

‘I’m working on it,’ said Rose.

‘It’s so bloody unfair. She’s only seven – she hasn’t even started her life. It should be me lying up there. I’d die happy knowing she was okay.’

Rose pressed his face into her long, dark hair. He knew exactly how his wife felt. When Kelly had first been ill he’d knelt at the side of her bed and promised God anything if He’d just spare his daughter. But his prayers had been ignored, and as his daughter’s health had deteriorated he’d lost faith in God. ‘I’ll get it sorted. I promise.’

Tracey hugged him and Rose kissed her neck. ‘I’ll just check my emails, and then I’ll see you in bed,’ he whispered.

Tracey pinched him. ‘You’ll shower first and clean your teeth,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring you up some cocoa.’

Rose went upstairs and crept into Kelly’s room. His daughter was lying on her back, her mouth open. For a few seconds she was totally still and Rose’s heart pounded as he waited for her to breathe. When she did, the quilt barely moved. Rose checked the drip, then sat on the edge of the bed. The local hospital had said it was okay for Kelly to be at home – a tacit admission that there was nothing else they could do for her. She’d get gradually weaker until one day they’d take her back into hospital, the intensive-care unit with its paintings of teddy bears and balloons, the smell of bleach and death, and they’d wait for the end.

Rose took his daughter’s hand and pressed it to his cheek. ‘It’s not going to come to that, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Daddy’s going to make it better.’

He kissed her forehead, then went along the hallway to the boxroom he used as a study. He sat down at his computer and switched it on, twiddling a Biro as he waited for the machine to boot up. He scanned the emails in his inbox and saw one from the surgeon in Chicago. He had a slot in three weeks’ time and wanted to know if Rose could get Kelly to America by then. He specialised in tumours of the spine and had pioneered a new treatment that used chemotherapy to shrink the tumour, then laser surgery. The chemotherapy was experimental but had been successful in more than eighty per cent of cases, and the computer-controlled laser would destroy the tumour without damaging the spinal cord. Rose had discovered the doctor on the Internet and had already sent him the NHS X-rays and reports. Unlike the doctors in the UK, the Chicago surgeon was optimistic that he could save Kelly. He couldn’t make any promises, but he stood by his eighty per cent success rate. However, his expertise didn’t come cheap and the NHS had refused to pay.

Rose checked his bank account online. He had a little over fifteen thousand pounds in his savings account, a few hundred in his current account. His drugs money was wrapped in polythene bags and tucked away behind the water tank in the attic. A hundred thousand euros.

He looked at the figures he’d jotted on the notepad. Getting Kelly to Chicago, paying for the treatment and the surgery, then the month’s recuperation and monitoring, was going to cost a minimum of two hundred thousand dollars. And that was if there were no complications. He tapped on his calculator, converting the currencies. He was about sixty thousand pounds short. He was close, so damn close. They’d bought the house just six months before Kelly had fallen ill so he only owned about twenty thousand pounds’ worth of it. If he sold he’d lose a big chunk of that in estate agent and legal fees. He’d already asked the bank to increase his mortgage but they’d turned him down, even when he’d explained why he needed the money.

Rose sat back in his chair. There was no way round it. He needed a big score. Forty grand was the minimum, but to make sure Kelly got the shot she deserved he’d want a hundred grand. He chewed the ballpoint pen. A hundred wasn’t impossible. He just needed a plan.

He sent an email to the surgeon, telling him to expect Kelly in three weeks.

Shepherd let himself into the house and went upstairs. Liam was asleep. Shepherd kissed him and tucked the quilt under his chin. He went across to his own bathroom where he showered and changed into a clean pullover and jeans. Then he went down to the kitchen and made himself a mug of black coffee. He was okay to drive – he’d drunk less than a pint. In one of the kitchen cupboards he had a stack of pay-as-you-go Sim cards. He took one out and slotted it into one of his spare mobiles, a fairly new Nokia, then stored the number in one of his own mobiles.

He went back upstairs and knocked on Katra’s door. She didn’t answer and he knocked again, louder this time. He heard her get out of bed and the door opened. She looked at him bleary-eyed. ‘Is Liam okay?’

Shepherd was touched by her concern and realised once more that he’d made the right choice in hiring her.

‘He’s fine,’ he said, ‘but I have to go to Manchester tonight. I won’t be here when he wakes up.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ she said. She brushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘Drive carefully.’

‘I will,’ said Shepherd. He winked. ‘Thanks.’ He gave her the mobile and told her there was a charger in the kitchen. ‘So I can call you while I’m out,’ he explained.

He went downstairs, finished his coffee, then went out to the Toyota.

Angie Kerr lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her husband was beside her, snoring softly. She felt like crying but she knew that if she did he would wake and hurt her. He’d raped her again before he fell asleep. He’d put his hands round her throat as he came and she had seen the hatred in his eyes.

He was going to kill her, she was sure of it. It was just a question of when. He’d dragged her down to the wine cellar and shown her what he’d done to Larry – he’d pushed her down so that her face was only inches from the plastic-wrapped corpse. ‘See what happens to anyone who crosses me,’ he’d hissed. ‘See what you made me do? This is down to you.’

He’d kept her in the house all day. Anderson had driven him away first thing in the morning, then returned an hour and a half later. He and Wates had followed her around the house, standing guard outside the bedroom door when she went to lie down, sitting at the kitchen table while she made them coffee. She’d tried to go down to the shops but Anderson had said no, Charlie didn’t want her to go out. She knew there was no point in trying to press the point. Charlie’s word was law.

Anderson had gone out at four o’clock and returned with Charlie, who had brought a box with him. He didn’t tell her where he’d been. He’d ordered pizza and made her eat two slices, even though she wasn’t hungry. They’d sat in the main dining room, underneath the chandeliers he’d imported from Italy, and he’d opened a bottle of Dom Pérignon, made her match him drink for drink. Afterwards they’d watched TV while Wates and Anderson stayed in the kitchen. At just after ten, he’d ordered her to phone Nelson. He’d told her what to say and had stood by her while she made the call. Then he’d taken her upstairs and raped her.

Angie rolled over and pulled her knees to her stomach. He’d killed Larry, he was going to kill Nelson and then he’d kill her. There was nothing she could do, no one she could turn to for help. Even if she could get to the police, what could she tell them? That her husband had gone on the rampage because she’d hired a hitman to kill him? Besides, he always boasted that he had the police in his pocket. He’d once taken her out for dinner with a chief inspector and his wife, followed by a night’s drinking in the VIP section of Aces. Twenty grand a year he paid the man, Charlie had said. Brown envelopes every few months. Charlie said he paid off half a dozen cops regularly and that, as far as the law was concerned, he was untouchable. Angie didn’t know who she could trust. Any cop she spoke to might be on Charlie’s payroll. The tears ran down her cheeks and she bit her lip hard so that she made no sound.

Shepherd had four hours’ sleep before the alarm woke him at eight thirty. He made a call to Hargrove to check that everything was geared up for the surveillance. Hargrove told him he’d arranged for New Scotland Yard’s personnel department to call SO19 and tell them Stuart Marsden had to report for a medical that morning; he wasn’t expected at Leman Street until late afternoon.

Shepherd changed into Tony Nelson’s clothes, drank two cups of black coffee, then went into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. He was a hired killer. A man who took lives for money. A man with no conscience. He ran through his legend, checking and cross-checking all the information he’d given Angie. One mistake could ruin everything.

The Volvo was where he’d left it in the underground car park. He did a quick check of the cameras and transmitters, then drove to Altrincham and parked in the corner of the supermarket furthest from the entrance. The blue Transit van was already in place. Shepherd switched off his engine. ‘Sound check,’ he said.

The Transit’s lights flashed once. Shepherd settled back in his seat. The clock in the dashboard said 8:55. He put on his black leather gloves.

A couple of dozen other vehicles were in the car park. Shepherd couldn’t see where the armed police were but he knew they’d be close by. They’d make it look as real as possible, moving in with guns and shouts, and he’d be dragged out of the car and thrown face down on the ground. They probably wouldn’t have been told that Shepherd was a cop. The fewer people who knew he was undercover, the better. He’d be taken into custody, then Hargrove would make sure he was released quietly while the CPS put together a deal with Angie.

He saw Angie’s Jaguar enter the car park and drive slowly towards him. Shepherd took a deep breath. It was the end phase of the operation. He only had to be in Tony Nelson’s skin for a few more minutes. He’d be glad to leave the character behind.

Angie saw the grey Volvo at the far end of the car park. Tony Nelson was sitting with his hands on the steering-wheel. She drove slowly towards him, parked and got out of her Jaguar. Charlie had told her to get into Nelson’s car and plant the transmitter under the seat. She knew what he would do to her if she let him down.

She grabbed the door handle and slid into the passenger seat. Nelson looked as calm as ever, jaw set tight, eyes like flint. He was the opposite of Charlie, who wore his emotions on his face: when he was angry his cheeks flushed and his lips vanished into slits. When he was happy he grinned from ear to ear. Nelson’s face was a blank mask. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘For what?’

‘For coming.’

‘You said you had his movements for me.’

‘Yes. That’s right.’ She opened her handbag, took out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Nelson.

Nelson looked at it.

Charlie had told her what to write. It showed that he was in London and would be returning the next day. That he would be at a football match on Wednesday night, and having dinner with her on Thursday. Friday he was going to be at Aces.

‘Can I smoke?’

‘Sure,’ said Nelson.

Angie took out her cigarettes and lighter. She fumbled with her bag and the contents spilled into Nelson’s lap. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Nelson grabbed for the bag but a perfume spray, breath mints and a comb tumbled on to the floor. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. He bent down and picked up the items. Angie slipped her left hand into her jacket pocket and pulled out the transmitter her husband had given her. She lowered her hand between the door and the seat and flicked the metal cylinder sideways.

Nelson straightened and handed her her things. She thanked him, lit a cigarette and offered him one. He shook his head. ‘You’ve never smoked?’ she asked.

‘It’s a drug, the nicotine,’ he said. ‘I don’t have an addictive personality.’

‘Do you have any personality at all?’ she asked quickly.

Nelson raised an eyebrow. ‘Is something on your mind, Angie?’

She looked out of the side window. Charlie had said he would be close by, listening to everything she said. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was there. ‘When will you do it?’ she asked, still looking out of the window.

‘Wednesday maybe. Or Friday, if you’re not going to the club. I’ll call you in advance to give you a chance to get your alibi fixed. The casino’s still the best bet. So make sure your mobile’s on.’

Sweat was beading on Angie’s forehead. She took out a tissue and dabbed herself with it.

‘You’re going to have to relax,’ said Nelson. ‘At some point the police are going to talk to you.’

‘I’ll be okay.’

‘You’d better be because they’ll be looking for signs that there’s anything fishy.’

‘Even with my alibi?’

‘The cops aren’t stupid,’ said Nelson, ‘but if you keep calm, they’ll have to believe you.’

Angie took a deep breath. She couldn’t go to the police because she didn’t know if she could trust them. But Nelson was a hired gun, whose sole motivation was money. Provided she paid him enough, she could trust him.

‘Do you have a gun, Tony?’

‘Of course I’ve got a gun.’

‘I mean now? In the car?’

‘Why?’

Angie took a long pull on her cigarette. Charlie was listening so she had only one chance, and she needed an immediate answer from Nelson. They’d have to drive – and drive fast. She’d throw the transmitter out of the car and they’d have to leave Manchester. But how much money would a man like Nelson need to become her protector? Five hundred pounds a day? A thousand? The only money she had was in joint accounts and it wouldn’t take Charlie long to close them. And he would cancel her credit cards. She had her watch and her jewellery, but once those were gone she’d have nothing. What could she offer him? He hadn’t shown the slightest interest in her as a woman. She was a client, nothing more. The only thing he’d ever expressed an interest in was her money.

A white van drove into the car park and headed towards them. Angie opened the passenger side window and blew smoke out of the car. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘It doesn’t bother me,’ said Nelson. He was looking at the white van. He put his gloved hands back on the steering-wheel.

‘I keep trying to give up, but sometimes I just need a smoke, you know?’

‘I guess so.’

The van was slowing. Angie looked at Nelson. If she was going to ask him, she’d have to do it now. If he said no, she was finished. She took another pull on the cigarette. She was finished anyway. Charlie had killed Larry. He was going to kill Nelson. And she knew everything, which meant he’d kill her. Eventually. He’d kill her in the wine cellar, wrap her in a sheet of polythene and bury her somewhere, then shack up with one of the teenage waitresses from the club. Charlie was using her now to get Nelson, but once he had Nelson he’d have no further use for her. Not after what she’d tried to do. And what she knew. She had no choice. She had to run.

‘Tony?’ she said, her heart pounding.

‘Yes?’ He turned to her, his hands still on the steering-wheel.

She opened her mouth to speak but before she could say anything the white van screeched to a halt and the back doors were flung open. Four men dressed in black, waving handguns, jumped out and surrounded the car. ‘Armed police!’ shouted one. ‘Keep your hands where they are.’

‘It’s the police!’ shouted Angie.

‘Just do as they say,’ said Nelson, calmly.

‘Oh, Christ, I’m dead,’ said Angie.

‘Armed police!’ shouted another officer.

Slowly Angie raised her hands.‘Don’t shoot,please don’t shoot,’ she whispered.

An officer yanked open the door on the driver’s side and pointed his weapon at Nelson’s head. ‘Keep your hands on the steering-wheel where I can see them,’ he said.

‘I’m not moving,’ said Nelson.

Another officer opened the door on Angie’s side with his left hand while keeping the gun in his right aimed at her head. ‘Hands in the air, don’t make any sudden moves!’ he shouted.

Two officers were standing at the front of the Volvo, both hands on their weapons, one aiming at Nelson, the other at her.

Two police cars roared into the car park and pulled up on either side of the white van. Uniformed officers piled out of the cars and stood waiting for the armed police to finish their job. They were followed by two dark saloons each containing three big men in plain clothes, cheap suits and dark raincoats.

Angie’s hands were shaking. She looked at Nelson. The armed officer grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him out of the Volvo. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Angie. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘What the hell is this?’ said Kerr. In the distance an armed policeman was pointing a gun at Nelson who was on his knees by the side of the Volvo. Another cop was pulling Angie out of the car.

‘Cops,’ said Anderson. He was sitting in the front of the Range Rover, with Wates in the passenger seat.

‘I can see it’s the fucking cops, shit-for-brains. What the hell are they doing here?’

One of the cops used a plastic tie to bind Nelson’s wrists behind his back, then he was hauled to his feet and over to one of the police cars.

‘Shall we do a runner?’ asked Anderson.

‘Sit tight,’ said Kerr. ‘We’re far enough away. If it was anything to do with us there’d be armed cops here too.’

The cops made Angie stand against the Volvo with her hands on the roof as they patted her down. A uniformed inspector walked up to her and said something to her. Kerr had the receiver in his lap but the cop was too far away from the transmitter for him to hear what was said. He was probably giving her the caution in case she said something stupid on the drive back to the station.

Another officer used a plastic tie to bind her wrists, then took her to one of the patrol cars. He helped her get into the back and slammed the door. The armed police were returning to the white van, laughing and joking.

A plain-clothes officer in a dark blue raincoat took the ignition keys out of the Volvo and locked the car.

‘What’s on your mind, boss?’ asked Anderson.

‘I’m just wondering who the cops were there for.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Anderson.

‘Were they there for Angie or Nelson?’

‘Does it matter?’

Kerr sighed. Of course it mattered, but there was no point in explaining it to Anderson or Wates. If they were there to arrest a hired killer and his wife had been caught up as an innocent bystander, that was one thing. But if they had arrested Angie and Nelson for conspiring to kill him, it was another. Something wasn’t right, but Kerr couldn’t work out what it was. He was getting a headache.

‘Let’s just sit here for a while, boys,’ he said. ‘We’ll see what develops.’

The two patrol cars drove out of the car park, followed by the dark saloons. The armed cops climbed into the back of the white van, then it, too, drove away, heading in the opposite direction to the patrol cars.

Kerr lit a cigarette and stared at the Volvo. It was almost as if it had never happened, as if it had been a figment of his imagination. A huddle of customers stood at the entrance to the supermarket, staring after the patrol cars and gossiping, but after a few minutes they went inside. A blue Transit van drove out of the car park. Kerr blew smoke, and frowned. Something was lurking on the edge of his consciousness but every time he tried to focus on it, it evaporated. It was like grabbing mist.

Shepherd sat in the back of the patrol car. There were two uniformed cops in the front and a plainclothes detective on his right. He said nothing. He didn’t know if the cops knew he was an undercover officer, but reckoned they probably didn’t. As far as they were concerned he was Tony Nelson, hitman for hire, and he preferred it that way. The fewer people who knew who he was, the better.

He looked over his shoulder, just once, and saw the car containing Angie Kerr following some distance behind. They were being taken to the same police station, but that was to be expected. Hargrove would want her to see Nelson taken into custody. He’d want her to know that he was in an interview room being grilled by detectives, and that her only chance of avoiding prison would be to co-operate. Hargrove would probably go in heavy first, play her the recordings from the Volvo, tell her she was going to prison for a long time and then, finally, he would offer her the way out. He’d probably start talking about her husband, asking her why she wanted him dead. Then he’d suggest there were other ways of dealing with Charlie Kerr that didn’t involve her spending a dozen or more years in a prison cell.

Shepherd took a deep breath. It would soon be over and he could turn his back on Tony Nelson.

The plastic tie was cutting into his wrists but he knew there was no point in saying anything to the detective sitting next to him. Once fitted, the ties couldn’t be loosened, only cut off.

He sat in silence until they reached the police station. A metal gate rattled back and the two patrol cars rolled into the car park. The detective manhandled Shepherd out of the car and up a concrete ramp to the entrance. He looked at Angie. Tears were streaming down her face, but he glared at her, playing the part. Tony Nelson, killer for hire, would probably blame her for the police raid. And if she thought Nelson was angry with her, she’d be more likely to take any offer the police made.

A uniformed officer opened a metal door and stood to the side to allow Shepherd through. The detective took him along a corridor and put him into an interview room with a single barred window. There was a tape-recorder with two slots for tapes and an alarm strip running along two of the walls. A metal table stood against one wall, two chairs on either side of it. The detective pointed at a chair and Shepherd sat down. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ he asked.

‘About as much chance as I have of giving Britney Spears one,’ said the detective.

‘She’s a looker all right, but a bit young for you,’ said Shepherd. He sat down. All he could do now was to wait.

The detective grinned at him. ‘Okay, how do you want it?’

‘Thanks. Black. No sugar.’

The detective’s grin widened. ‘Got you,’ he said, laughed harshly and left the room.

Kerr stabbed out his cigarette. ‘They didn’t check the fucking car,’ he said.

‘Sorry, boss?’ said Anderson.

‘They didn’t look in the Volvo. Good news for us because they didn’t find the transmitter, but Nelson’s a hired killer so why didn’t they toss the car looking for a weapon?’

There were deep furrows in Anderson’s brow and he scratched his chin.

‘Because they were told to take the two of them in, full stop,’ said Kerr. ‘They were just following orders. Take the two of them in, forget the motor. Why? Because he’s going to come back for the motor.’

It had all clicked into place. It had been there, right from the start, staring him in the face, Kerr thought. Nelson was a cop. He hadn’t killed Larry Hendrickson’s partner. The Polaroids had been faked. The partner wasn’t dead, but he’d screwed up and gone roaming the Internet. The cops must have put him on ice because Hendrickson had introduced Nelson to his wife. They were letting the job run and today they’d moved in. Nelson was a cop and Angie had hired him, thinking he was a hitman. They had all they needed to put her away on conspiracy to murder. Kerr lit another cigarette. Except that Angie Kerr wasn’t just a wife with a chip on her shoulder. She was his wife. She knew how he earned his living and where a good chunk of his money was hidden. If the cops could turn Angie, she’d do him a lot of damage.

He lit another cigarette. It was all clear now. From A to B to C. Hendrickson had been set up by an undercover cop pretending to be a hired killer. At some point Hendrickson had passed the cop on to Angie. The cop had decided to run with Angie so Hendrickson hadn’t been arrested. The problem was, where did the cops go from there? Did they charge Angie and pat themselves on the back for performing a public service? Would they send a couple of Manchester’s finest to his house to tell him they’d saved his life and ask for a donation to the widows and orphans fund? Or would they try to turn Angie because what they really wanted was to put Charlie Kerr behind bars? The cops had been after his scalp for years. He had a detective sergeant in the Drugs Squad on his payroll so he always knew when they were gunning for him, but whoever was running Nelson must be doing it without telling the local boys. This had come out of the blue.

Kerr stared at the Volvo. What to do? He could run away with his tail between his legs. A few minutes on the phone would be all it took to clear out his bank accounts and he could be on a plane to Spain or South America that afternoon. He had more than enough to buy himself a new identity and all the protection he needed, and even with Angie’s cooperation it would take them months to put a case against him. If he left the country, they’d probably decide not to go after him. That would pretty much screw up any deal Angie made. If he ran, they’d probably make do with putting her away.

‘Are we going to sit here all day?’ asked Wates.

‘Yes, Ray, that’s exactly what we’re going to do,’ said Kerr. ‘If that’s okay with you.’

Wates said nothing but looked anxiously at Anderson. They were clearly uneasy, but he couldn’t be bothered to explain the situation to them. They were just the hired help.

He wasn’t going to run. If he did, everything he’d built up in Manchester would count for nothing. He had respect in the city, he was a face, and he was damned if he was going to throw that away just because Angie had turned against him. At the moment the police had nothing: they’d have to get her to agree to co-operate. Angie’s father had died of a heart-attack three years ago but her mother was living in Lytham St Anne’s in a nice little flat with a sea view. Angie had a sister, too, a sour-faced cow who’d married an estate agent. They lived in a pokey terraced house in Stretford with their two young sons. Angie would have a few home truths explained to her: if she helped the police, Kerr would stamp on her relatives – hard. And if she still sided with the filth, she’d only be useful if she stood in the witness box and gave evidence against him: she’d have to take a bullet in police custody. Difficult, but not impossible. It was just a question of paying the right man the right amount of money.

Kerr relaxed and took a long drag on his cigarette. Things weren’t as bad as he’d first thought. The cops must have reckoned he was stupid, and Kerr resented that. How dare they assume they could get his bitch of a wife to roll over on him? He wanted to teach them a lesson they’d never forget.

Shepherd looked up as the door opened and grinned when he saw a familiar face. It was Jimmy ‘Razor’ Sharpe, a twenty-year police veteran who had worked with him on several undercover cases. He was a small, heavy-set Scotsman with a mischievous grin. ‘You’ve been a naughty boy again, have you, Nelson?’ said Sharpe.

Shepherd caught sight of two uniformed constables in the corridor behind him. ‘I’ve nothing to say,’ he said.

‘I don’t give a monkey’s either way,’ said Sharpe. ‘Come on, it’s back to Glasgow for you.’ He pulled Shepherd to his feet and held his arm as he took him along the corridor. They were joined by a second detective and went out into the car park. A blue Vauxhall was waiting, engine running. Sharpe climbed into the back with Shepherd.

Shepherd waited until the Vauxhall was away from the police station before he spoke. ‘How’s it going, Razor?’ he asked.

‘Bloody fed up with babysitting you,’ said Sharpe.

‘Where’s Hargrove?’

‘Talking to your woman in there. He wanted me to tell you the tapes are fine.’

‘Are you going to keep me like this all day?’ said Shepherd.

‘I was waiting for you to ask nicely,’ said Sharpe, taking a small penknife from his pocket.

Shepherd twisted to the side and pushed his bound wrists towards Sharpe. ‘Pretty please,’ he said.

Sharpe cut the plastic tie, and Shepherd massaged his wrists. ‘Those things hurt,’ he said.

‘Cost effective,’ said Sharpe. ‘Have you got time for a drink?’

‘I wish,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I’ve got to get back to London.’

‘No rest for the wicked,’ said Sharpe.

Eddie Anderson looked at his watch. ‘Eddie, if you do that one more time I’ll chop your bloody hand off,’ said Kerr. He opened the Range Rover’s window and flicked out the cigarette butt. The Volvo was where the police had left it, in the far corner of the supermarket car park. Kerr had phoned one of his police contacts and asked him to check out the registration number. The officer had promised to get back to him but said it might take a while. All checks on the Police National Computer were recorded so he’d wait until he could get on using another officer’s log-on.

They’d been sitting in the Range Rover for the best part of two hours when a blue Vauxhall parked next to the Volvo. After thirty seconds or so Tony Nelson climbed out, waved to its occupants and got into the Volvo.

‘What the fuck . . .!’ exclaimed Anderson.

‘Boss, did you see that?’ said Wates.

Kerr looked at the GPS unit in his hand. ‘Follow him, Eddie, but keep your distance.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘We’ll see where the rat runs to,’ said Kerr.

‘Why did they let him go?’ asked Anderson.

‘Just drive, will you?’ said Kerr, tersely. ‘Leave the thinking to me.’

Shepherd drove into the underground car park and reversed the Volvo into the space next to the white Toyota. He took the lift up to his apartment and changed into his Stuart Marsden clothes. He left the Volvo keys in the kitchen, went back to the car park and got into the Toyota. He was dog-tired but he had to get back to Leman Street and report for duty. He’d left his kit-bag in the boot so he could go straight to work. It would be at least eleven o’clock before he got home.

He slotted his mobile into the hands-free kit, then drove out of the car park and headed for the M6. He called Katra first. She said Liam was fine, that she was cleaning the bathroom and planned to do the kitchen. Later she was going food shopping.

His second call was to Hargrove. ‘Nice work, Spider,’ said the superintendent.

‘Has she rolled?’

‘She’s thinking about it,’ said Hargrove. ‘She’s asked for a lawyer so until he turns up we can’t question her.’

‘You can’t let her see a lawyer – he’ll just report back to Kerr.’

‘We can’t stop her,’ said Hargrove. ‘We’ve explained that we’ll need her to gather evidence against her husband, and that he can’t know what’s going on, but she says she wants a lawyer to advise her on the legality of any deal we make.’

‘I don’t like this at all.’

‘We’ve no choice. And you can see her point of view – she’s got no reason to trust us. We could be planning to use her, then throw her to the wolves. She called her own lawyer, a guy who doesn’t work for her husband. We’re waiting for him to come in now. We’ve told her you’re spilling your guts and that we’ve got the whole thing on tape anyway.’

‘She doesn’t know I’m a cop?’

‘Absolutely not. I can’t see her lawyer advising her to do anything other than co-operate with us, so as soon as she agrees the Drugs Squad and the CPS move in. Your name won’t come up.’

‘And Hendrickson?’

‘We’ll pick him up this evening. It’s open and shut so I can’t see him doing anything other than copping a plea. Job well done, Spider.’

Shepherd thanked the superintendent and ended the call. Technically it had been a job well done. Hendrickson was a scumbag who had deserved what was coming to him, but Shepherd was less convinced about Angie Kerr. Her husband had beaten her and threatened to have her killed. What sort of man would stub out a lighted cigarette on his wife’s breast? Charlie Kerr was the villain, but his wife was going to be punished.

Keith Rose sat down opposite Mike Sutherland, who was working his way through a fry-up and a stack of bread and butter. ‘Do you ever measure your cholesterol?’ said Rose.

‘There’s good and bad cholesterol, so there’s no point. Six of one, that’s what I figure.’

‘Shot in the dark, I think sausages are probably heavy on the bad sort.’

Sutherland jabbed his fork at Rose’s plate.‘Cornish pastie and chips is healthier, is it?’ He looked around the canteen. ‘Where’s Stu?’

‘Some sort of medical. He never had a chest X-ray up in Strathclyde but the Met insists on it.’

‘He’s not a smoker, shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘Rules is rules,’ said Rose. ‘Dave Bamber will be map man today. Stu’ll report to Ken and Amber team when he gets in.’ Rose leaned across the table. ‘The guy in Chicago’s given me a date for Kelly’s operation.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Sutherland.

‘Three weeks,’ said Rose. ‘I’ll put in for the leave and we’ll all fly out together.’

‘That’s great,’ said Sutherland.

‘Yeah, but I’m still short, money-wise.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Yeah.’

Sutherland leaned across the table, a chunk of sausage on the end of his fork. ‘If there’s anything you need, Rosie, all you have to do is ask.’

Rose nodded. ‘Thanks, Mike.’

They almost lost the Toyota just outside Birmingham. The M5 split off the M6 and they were too far away to see which fork the Toyota took.‘Head for London,’ said Kerr. It was a gamble, but they caught up with Nelson just before the junction with the M42.

There were two other cars on the Toyota’s tail: a BMW driven by two brothers from Chorlton-cum-Hardy who worked for Kerr when he needed extra muscle, and Sammy McEvoy, who ran security at Aces, in his Audi T4. The Audi was a conspicuous car so the Range Rover and the BMW did the close work with the Audi either hanging back or overtaking and staying half a mile ahead of the Toyota. They kept in touch by mobile, switching position every few minutes. The man pretending to be Tony Nelson was either an undercover cop or worked for one of the intelligence services. Either way he’d be trained to spot a tail so they gave the Toyota a lot of space.

He was a conscientious driver, never exceeding the speed limit and only using the outside lane to overtake, so they could keep well back until they were near an intersection. Twice the Audi took a wrong turn while it was ahead of the Toyota but McEvoy was able to get back on the motorway and make up lost ground.

‘Looks like London all the way,’ said Bill Wallace, in the BMW. He was a couple of hundred yards behind the Toyota in the inside lane.

‘Looks like it, but stay on your toes,’ said Kerr. ‘If we lose him he’s gone for good.’

Kerr had phoned his police contact and told him not to bother checking the registration number of the Volvo. No undercover cop would be stupid enough to use his own vehicle on a job, and if his man discovered that the Volvo was a plain-clothes police car alarm bells would ring.

Kerr had called in McEvoy and the Wallace brothers when he’d seen the Volvo drive into the underground car park of the city-centre warehouse conversion. His first thought was that Nelson lived in the block but when he drove out in a second vehicle he realised it was merely a staging-post. As soon as the Toyota had driven on to the motorway, Kerr knew Nelson wasn’t local. He was going home.

Shepherd swiped his ID and pushed through the revolving door into the main building. The inspectors who headed the Specialist Firearms teams shared an office at the rear of the building, and Ken Swift was sprawled in his chair with his feet on his desk when Shepherd opened the door. ‘I’m to report to you, sir,’ said Shepherd.

‘How was the medical?’ asked Swift, looking up from the tactics manual in his lap. He was wearing his black overalls and rubber-soled boots.

‘Just an X-ray,’ said Shepherd. ‘The docs in Scotland were supposed to give me one two years ago but it slipped by. Personnel department at the Met spotted it and said I couldn’t be active until it was sorted. All done now, anyway.’

‘The guys are at the range,’ said Swift. ‘Get changed and join them.’

‘Anything happening?’ asked Shepherd.

‘We’ve got a briefing from British Transport Police about an operation in Central London. Other than that, it’s all quiet on the Western Front.’

‘This is getting bloody weird, boss,’ said Anderson, scratching his head. They had pulled in at the side of the road when they saw Nelson drive into the underground car park, and when he’d walked out he’d been carrying a large black kit-bag. From where they’d parked they’d seen the building Nelson had walked into. ‘That’s a cop shop, right?’

Kerr nodded. The six-storey concrete and glass building looked like a seventies police station, but there was no sign on the front. There was no wheelchair access either, which was virtually compulsory in the politically correct twenty-first century. It wasn’t a regular police station, that was for sure. Two police cars, white with orange strips down the middle, were parked in the road. Jam butties, they called them in Manchester. In the corners of the windscreens there were yellow dots the size of a saucer. Kerr knew what they meant: the cars were armed-response vehicles, so the cops inside the building carried guns, which meant they were SO19, the SWAT-type units that went up against armed criminals. Why would they use an armed policeman to work undercover? It didn’t make sense. ‘Okay, let’s go home. We know where to find him now.’ He called McEvoy and the Wallace brothers and told them to go back to Manchester. He’d deal with Tony Nelson in due course, but first he was going to sort out his wife.

Shepherd and the men on Amber team filed into the briefing room. Yellow team were already there. One of the Yellows was a woman, her face devoid of makeup and her hair cropped short. She was chewing gum, her Glock in a holster high on her hip. Shepherd was surprised to see an armed woman, not because they were less capable than men, but because most of the women he knew would have hated the idea of carrying a weapon.

A man in plain clothes was standing next to Ken Swift at the front of the room. On a table behind them were a television and a video-recorder.

Swift waited until the last man was in before he raised his hand. ‘Okay, guys,’ he said, then nodded at the female officer. ‘And girl.’

She flashed Swift a humourless smile.

‘This is DS Nick Wright of the British Transport Police. He’s running Operation Wingman,’said Swift. ‘He’s going to fill you in on the details, but basically we’ve got a gang of armed thugs running riot on the tube. BTP want us to provide armed back-up so it’ll be a joint operation. The big problem is that Met radios don’t work down the tube. When we go in, each group will have to be shadowed by a BTP officer.’ There were several groans. ‘I thought you’d like the sound of that.’

Wright was in his late thirties with dark hair, greying at the temples. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, dark brown trousers, a grey flannel shirt and a featureless brown tie. To Shepherd he looked like a uniformed cop trying to dress like an accountant on his day off.

‘It’s something we’re stuck with, I’m afraid,’ said Wright.

‘You’re saying that our guy up top has to talk to one of your guys, who relays the message to your guy underground, who tells our guys?’The question had come from a sergeant standing by the door.

Wright shrugged apologetically. ‘We think it’s as crazy as you do,’ he said.

‘Bloody madness, is what it is,’ said the sergeant.

‘It’s a budget issue, I’m told. The Met thinks London Underground should pay for the upgrade to the system. My bosses want the Met to pay. It’s going to cost millions so God knows when it’ll be resolved. Until then, one of our guys has to shadow you wherever you go.’

‘And what happens if shots are fired?’ said Swift. ‘I can’t have my people looking over their shoulders worrying if there’s a BTP officer about to get his balls shot off.’

‘We can issue them with protective vests,’ said Wright, ‘and they’ll be told to keep out of the way.’

‘It’s a recipe for disaster,’ said Swift.

Wright didn’t respond. Shepherd felt sorry for the guy. He’d turned up to give a briefing and ended up taking the flak for departmental budgeting constraints.

Wright took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got some CCTV footage of the suspects.’ He pressed play and the screen flickered into life. A group of youngsters was huddled on a tube station platform, casually dressed in cargo pants, football shirts and flashy trainers. The oldest was barely out of his teens.

‘This is the leader of the group,’ said Wright, tapping a girl in a combat jacket whose hair was tied in a ponytail and fed through the back of a baseball cap. ‘IC One female, five six or seven, blue eyes. She usually wears her mobile phone on a camouflage strap around her neck.’ He grinned at the assembled armed officers. ‘The less politically correct of our officers refer to her as Snow White, and her gang as the Seven Dwarfs. Sometimes there are seven, but there have been as many as two dozen in some of the attacks. To date, she’s the only female involved. She’s been at each incident we’ve looked at.’

There was another ten seconds of footage from the cameras on the platform, then the viewpoint changed. This time it was footage from a camera in a busy shopping centre. It was obviously taken on a different day because the blonde girl was wearing a pink top now. ‘They gather at the Trocadero in Piccadilly Circus, then head for one of the tube stations. They’ve been seen going into Piccadilly Circus, Leicester Square and Tottenham Court Road. That gives them direct access to the Piccadilly, Bakerloo and the Northern Lines. We don’t have video of them in action because they only strike on trains.’

On the screen the teenagers were working purposefully towards the exit. The picture jumped to a viewpoint from a camera in Piccadilly Circus, the statue of Eros in the background. Dozens of tourists, mostly backpackers, were sitting on the steps at the base of the statue, munching fast food from Burger King and KFC. The picture jumped again, and now the group were hurrying down the steps into the tube station, elbowing an elderly couple out of the way.

There was a view of a platform. The group was gathered together at the far end, close to the tunnel entrance. Wright froze the picture. ‘This is them at Leicester Square.’ He tapped the screen with his pencil. ‘Here’s Snow White. This is a Bangladeshi guy. These three are IC Threes who are always with her. This is a twelve or thirteen-year-old of mixed race. The IC One male has been involved in at least half a dozen robberies and is always wearing an Arsenal shirt. These two are also of mixed race and have been identified at several robberies. The two IC Threes here have been involved in at least two steamings. Ten minutes after this was taken they boarded a southbound train. Between Leicester Square and Charing Cross they attacked two girls, stole their mobiles and bags. One girl was slashed across the face with a Stanley knife, the other was punched repeatedly in the face and almost lost an eye. That’s what makes this so bloody nasty. It’s not about theft– they get a few quid out of the bags but next to nothing for the phones – they get their kicks from terrorising people. And they’ve been getting progressively more violent. We think they’ve been responsible for fifteen separate attacks over the past month.’

He ran the video for a few seconds. The view changed to a different platform and a different group of youngsters, although the blonde girl was still at the centre. Wright tapped the face of a tubby young man in a light blue hooded jacket. ‘He’s been involved in several incidents and we believe he has a gun.’ He froze the picture. ‘We haven’t seen anything on video, but three of the victims say he had one. A woman who was robbed ended up with a broken jaw and says she was pistol-whipped. We’ve no idea if it’s a real gun or a replica.’

He pressed play again and the video showed the group getting on to a train. Another station. Another group of youngsters. ‘There’s Snow White again,’ said Wright. He paused the video and tapped the girl’s face. ‘Their attacks start in different ways. If there’s a large group they steam along a train, terrorising everyone, shouting, screaming and grabbing what they can. Sometimes they target individuals. One ploy is for this young lad to start a conversation with the victim.’ He tapped the face of a young mixed-race boy. ‘While he’s distracting them, the rest pile in. They put an American tourist in hospital last week – beat him to a pulp and didn’t even steal anything. A lot of the time it’s not about theft, it’s about humiliation. They slash clothing, slap and punch.’

Wright faced the SO19 team. ‘We don’t know where they’ll strike – that’s our main problem. They don’t seem to have a game plan. Snow White is their focus, but she doesn’t give orders. They act like a pack of hyenas. We’ll have an undercover team in the Trocadero so we’ll be able to follow them down into the system,then we can track them with CCTV. We’ll know which train they board, but it’s a question of getting our guys on to the same train and calling it in once they attack. That’s when we’ll be needing SO19 assistance. We’ll stop the train between stations and crack on there’s a mechanical problem, just long enough to get you guys in position at the next station. Then we let the train roll and arrest them.’

Wright opened a briefcase and handed out a stack of sheets of photocopied stills taken from the CCTV footage. ‘These are the fifteen guys we’ve seen with Snow White. Two already have criminal records for assault and theft, Foday Gbonda and Leeroy Tavenier. They are the only two we can identify by name.’

The SO19 officers passed round the sheets.

‘We plan to start this afternoon in the Trocadero. We have six male officers and three females on standby. They’ll follow the group if and when they leave and notify our control room which station they go to. We’d like two of your guys with us in plain clothes in case the gun is produced.’

‘What about our teams? Where should they lie up?’ said Swift.

‘I’d suggest they stay mobile,’ said Wright. ‘One should be near Piccadilly Circus because that’s closest to the Trocadero, and of the fifteen attacks we know the group has carried out, they boarded at Piccadilly Circus in nine cases.’

‘Do they attack as soon as the train moves off?’ asked Swift.

‘Unfortunately not,’ Wright said. ‘On one occasion, they went as far as Hammersmith and on another to Caledonian Road.’

‘So the idea is that the Specialist Firearms teams shadow the train above ground?’

‘That would be our game plan,’ said Wright. ‘By holding up the train in a tunnel we should be able to give you time to get in position.’

‘You’re going to lock down a train after a robbery has been committed when there’s a chance that a firearm might be involved?’ asked Swift.

‘We’ll have our officers on board, plus your plainclothes armed officers.’

‘And if they start shooting? You want a firefight in a train in a tunnel?’

‘I’m assuming there won’t be a firefight,’ said Wright, ‘and that our officers will be able to contain the situation. If there is a firearm, the presence of armed officers should prevent it being used.’

‘Should,would,could,’said Swift.‘If it goes wrong, civilians may get caught in the crossfire.’

‘Like I said, if the boy has a gun, he hasn’t fired it yet.’

Brian Ramshaw passed the photographs to Shepherd, who took a set and passed the rest to the officer on his left. The pictures were grainy but clear enough to aid in identification. Shepherd memorised the faces.

‘That’s the state of play,’ said Wright. ‘We’ll kick off at about six this evening. BTP will have six plainclothes officers, including myself. There’ll be a chief inspector running the operation at our Management Information and Communications Centre in Broadway just opposite New Scotland Yard. He’ll have access to all the CCTV cameras and can liaise with us in the tunnels and with your guys above ground. Two uniformed officers with radios will be here later today and they can ride with the Specialist Firearms teams. Any questions?’

Heads shook.

‘I’m going to suggest Stu Marsden and Brian Ramshaw as the undercover officers from SO19,’ said Swift. ‘Have you guys got suitable casual clothes?’

Shepherd was already wearing a leather jacket and jeans with a blue denim shirt. He glanced at Ramshaw, who was nodding.

‘That’s it, then,’ said Swift.

‘Don’t suppose I can take my Heckler, can I?’ asked Ramshaw.

‘Only if you can hide it down the front of your trousers,’ said Swift, dead-pan.

A uniformed WPC opened the cell door and smiled at Angie. ‘Your lawyer’s here.’

‘Thanks,’ said Angie. The WPC took her along a corridor to an interview room. When the woman opened the door and Angie saw who was sitting at the metal table her face fell. It wasn’t the lawyer she’d phoned. It was Gary Payne, who worked for Charlie. She hesitated but Payne got to his feet and held out his hands, a broad smile on his suntanned face. He spent a lot of time in his villa in Marbella, a stone’s throw from Charlie’s. ‘Angie, love, what a nightmare,’ he said. She took his hand, and he squeezed it hard enough to make her wince. His lips were smiling, but his eyes were flint hard. ‘Sit down and let’s see what we can do to get you out of here.’

‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’ asked the WPC.

‘Tea with milk and two sugars,’ said Payne. ‘Bit of a sweet tooth. Angie’ll have the same.’ He swung his slim Gucci briefcase on to the table.

‘I don’t want anything,’ said Angie.

‘Nonsense,’ said Payne, jovially. ‘Hot sweet tea will do you the world of good.’

The WPC left the room, closing the door behind her.

The smile vanished from Payne’s face.‘You stupid, stupid, cow,’ he said.

Angie put her head in her hands.

Payne leaned over her, so close she could smell the garlic on his breath. ‘Did you think you’d get away with it? That Charlie wouldn’t find out?’

‘Can you tell him I’m sorry?’ Tears poured down her face.

‘You’re sorry?’ Payne sneered. ‘Sorry doesn’t cut it, Angie. Don’t you understand what you’ve done?’ He sat down opposite her, interlinked his fingers on top of his briefcase and waited for her to stop crying.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, and Payne handed her a crisp white handkerchief with his initials in one corner. ‘Use this. What have they said to you so far?’

‘Gary, please, I’ve got my own lawyer coming—’

Payne’s grey eyes burned into hers. ‘Listen, you stupid bitch, your life is over, the trick you’ve tried to pull. All we’re trying to do now is minimise the damage you’ve done. If you don’t help Charlie you’re going to bring more grief on your family than you can believe.’

Angie felt as if she’d been slapped across the face.

‘What did they offer you?’ he snapped.

‘They said they’ll forget what I did if I help them put Charlie away.’

‘Specifically?’

‘Deals he’s done. People he’s met. Where his money is.’

‘You know the guy you paid was a cop?’

Angie’s jaw dropped.

‘You paid off an undercover cop.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘He killed someone else. There were photographs.’

‘It was a set-up, Angie.’

She slumped in her chair.

‘The cops set you up because they needed you to help them put Charlie away. You were never going to get what you wanted. The game was rigged from the start.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘He can’t help you now. No one can. Do I have to spell it out for you, Angie? There’s your mother, your sister, your nephews. Do you want them hurt because of your stupidity? It’s over for you. Charlie won’t let you take him down. You know that. The cops will end up putting you on trial for trying to have him killed. If you get sent down, Charlie will have you done in jail. And if you don’t go down, you know what he’ll do to you. Heads or tails, Angie, it’s over for you. You paid a guy to kill Charlie. He can’t let that lie.’

Angie nodded.

‘You know what you’ve got to do, don’t you?’

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she blew her nose.

‘Look at me, Angie.’ Her eyes locked with Payne’s. ‘You do know what you have to do, don’t you?’ he repeated. ‘You have no choice.’

She nodded again.

‘Better to get this sorted now, rather than dragging it out. Because if you do drag it out, others are going to get hurt.’

‘Okay,’ she whispered.

Payne reached into his pocket and took out a small polythene bag, containing two dozen capsules. He slid the bag across the table. ‘These are barbiturates, Angie. Sleeping tablets. When you get back to your cell, take them with that cup of tea. Flush the bag down the toilet. Then lie down, go to sleep and everything will be okay.’

Angie reached for the bag. She picked it up and slipped it into her pocket.

‘You know it’s for the best, don’t you, Angie?’

‘Yes,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.

‘Good girl,’ said Payne. He stood up, picked up his briefcase and patted her shoulder. ‘Your will’s all sorted. Your mum will want for nothing, there’s money for your nephews, your sister gets your jewellery. Everything will be neat and tidy. Don’t worry about a thing.’

Payne opened the door. The WPC was waiting there, her back to the wall. ‘Everything okay?’ she said.

‘Everything’s fine,’ said Payne, cheerfully. ‘Mrs Kerr might need a few seconds to get herself together. She’s had an emotional time.’

‘Superintendent Hargrove would like a word with you on your way out, sir,’ said the WPC. ‘Third door on the left.’

Payne walked down the corridor, knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a response. There were three men in the room. Payne knew one, Christopher Thornton, a portly lawyer who worked for the Crown Prosecution Service. ‘Christopher, hi, I’m looking for Superintendent Hargrove.’

‘That would be me,’ said the tallest of the three. He was in his mid-forties, his hair greying at the temples, a professional smile on his lips. He was wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit with a pale blue shirt and gold cufflinks in the shape of cricket bats. His grip was firm when he shook Payne’s hand. ‘Christopher Thornton you know, and this is Chief Inspector Wainer of the Drugs Squad.’

‘I’ve heard of the chief inspector, of course,’ said Payne.

Wainer nodded curtly, but didn’t offer his hand.

‘May I assume that your client will be co-operating fully?’ said Hargrove.

‘She wants to sleep on it.’

‘I was hoping for something a bit more concrete,’ said the superintendent. ‘We’d like to put things in motion as quickly as possible.’

‘I have a question, actually,’ said Thornton. ‘You are acting for Mrs Kerr and solely for Mrs Kerr?’

‘What are you suggesting?’ said Payne.

‘Because any deal we make with Mrs Kerr depends on us proceeding in secrecy,’ said Thornton. ‘We’ll need her to help collate evidence.’

‘You want her to wear a wire?’

‘Possibly,’ said Wainer. ‘It’s one of our options.’

‘You know what her husband will do if he finds her with one?’

‘It might not come to that,’ said Hargrove. ‘She could give us the numbers of any mobiles he uses and we could access them through GCHQ.’

‘But back to the point I was making,’ said Thornton. ‘Anything you’ve heard today has to stay within these four walls. Angie Kerr’s life is on the line.’

Payne gave Thornton a withering look. ‘I’m well aware of the danger my client is in,’ he said, ‘and I don’t need to remind you that it was the police who put her in the firing line. What you’ve done was perilously close to entrapment.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Hargrove.

‘Please don’t insult my intelligence, Superintendent,’ said Payne. ‘You have my client and the hitman on tape, which means you knew about the meeting in advance. That suggests either very long-term surveillance of the man in question, or that he was co-operating with you. Either way, you were clearly giving my client enough rope to hang herself.’

‘She paid fifteen grand up front to have her husband killed,’ said Wainer.

‘Which begs the question, why didn’t you arrest her then?’ said Payne.

‘This isn’t getting us anywhere,’ said Hargrove, impatiently. ‘Your client is on tape commissioning a murder. If she co-operates with us, she can walk away from that. But she has to help us nail her husband. The ball’s in your court and,frankly, I’m losing my patience.’

‘And, as I’ve already told you, my client will sleep on it. We’ll talk again in the morning.’ Payne smiled. ‘Maybe things will be a little clearer then. Now, I’ve got another meeting so I’ll bid you farewell.’ He left the room. Things would definitely be clearer in the morning.

The two teenage girls blasted away at the Zombies, cheering as skulls exploded and green slime splattered across the screen. ‘Die, you bastard!’ yelled one. She was a blonde in khaki cargo pants and a tight black top, clearly braless. Her friend was a brunette, hair cropped. Shepherd watched. The girls were skilled at the game, chatting to each other as they fired. Flying monsters swooped down and the girls blew them away, giggling as they exploded into bloody segments.

‘You want something, Granddad?’ said the blonde, looking over her shoulder at Shepherd. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen but even so he thought it was an unfair thing to say.

‘Enjoy yourselves, girls,’ he said.

‘Wanker,’ said the brunette.

Shepherd walked away, his hands in his pockets. At the far end of the amusement arcade there was a line of football video games. Shepherd walked slowly along them, scanning the faces of the teenagers playing them. None matched those on the CCTV pictures. One scowled at him, and he headed for the exit. He knew that a man in his thirties prowling around an amusement arcade could easily have people drawing the wrong conclusions.

He popped in his radio earpiece, then walked out to a mezzanine area where he could look down at the ground floor. A mother and father were buying ice creams for their three children, the whole family wearing backpacks decorated with the Stars and Stripes.

His earpiece crackled. ‘I have a visual on Snow White,’ said a voice. It was Nick Wright. ‘She’s with two IC Three males on the second floor.’

There was another huge amusement arcade up there. Shepherd headed for the escalator, slipping out the earpiece. He found Wright at the entrance to the arcade. He looked as out of place as Shepherd felt. The Trocadero was a known haunt of paedophiles and rent-boys, and several teenage boys had smiled invitingly at Shepherd as he’d been wandering around.

Shepherd took a ten-pound note out of his wallet and went to a change machine. As he fed in the note he looked around casually. Snow White was watching two black teenagers dancing to a rap tune on a dance machine, matching their movements to instructions on two video screens. She was wearing the same camouflage top she’d had on in one of the CCTV pictures and her phone was on a strap round her neck.

Shepherd scooped up his pound coins and walked round the arcade, looking at the games machines. He strolled out and saw Brian Ramshaw at the far side of the mall, eating an ice cream.

Shepherd took the escalator to the first floor. According to Wright, the gang waited until they were at critical mass before they headed into the tube station. He found a spot where he could watch the escalators and propped himself against a guardrail. His Glock was in a nylon shoulder holster, pressed against his left side. A BTP radio that would operate throughout the Underground system was clipped to his belt; it was connected to his earpiece and a microphone in his cuff.

Another BTP plain-clothes officer was on the ground floor. Tommy Reid was a detective sergeant, the same rank as Wright, but a good ten years older. He’d dressed down for the operation and was wearing a shabby coat tied at the waist with a piece of string, scuffed workboots and a shapeless Burberry-pattern hat with a red fishing fly stuck into the side. He was carrying a brown-paper bag that looked as if it held a bottle. A uniformed security guard had twice asked him to move away from shop fronts and now he was standing just inside the main entrance.

He made brief eye-contact with Shepherd and raised his bag in salute, then sat down with his back against the wall. Reid’s disguise was faultless, and the broken red veins on his nose suggested he was no stranger to strong drink.

Then Shepherd stiffened. He had recognised two boys on the escalator. One was an IC Three male in an Arsenal T-shirt. The other was the mixed-race thirteen-year-old. The youngster was wearing a light blue top with the hood up but Shepherd had glimpsed his face. He raised his cuff to his mouth. ‘First floor, two suspects on the escalator heading for the second floor,’ he whispered.

‘I have them,’ said Wright.

At the bottom of the escalator, also going up, was a young woman in tight jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket. She was one of the BTP’s undercover officers.

Shepherd stayed where he was for five minutes, then wandered around checking reflections in shop windows. He saw another female undercover officer walking out of an amusement arcade.

‘They’re on the way down,’ said Wright’s voice in Shepherd’s ear.

A few seconds later Shepherd saw Snow White and half a dozen young men standing in a group on the down escalator, blocking it so that no one could walk past them. They were laughing and Snow White was smoking a cigarette.

Down below, Reid got to his feet and walked out of the mall.

As the group reached the ground floor they were joined by two white teenagers in casual sports gear, Nike sweatshirts, tracksuit bottoms and gleaming white trainers. They both had thick gold chains round their necks and wrists. They gave Snow White high fives, then the group moved towards the exit.

Shepherd walked towards the escalator. Wright was already on his way down and Shepherd saw another plain-clothes BTP officer walk out of a mobile-phone shop, pretending to read a brochure.

The group left the Trocadero and walked through Piccadilly Circus, threading their way through crowds of tourists having their photographs taken in front of Eros.

‘They’re heading for Piccadilly Circus station,’ said Reid, over the radio.

‘This is Control. We’re ready for them,’ said a Scottish voice in Shepherd’s ear. The BTP chief inspector in the Management Information and Communications Centre was a Glaswegian. He was sitting at a work station that allowed him immediate access to any of the six thousand CCTV cameras on the London Underground system.

Shepherd walked out of the Trocadero. Nick Wright followed him into the street without acknowledging him. The two female BTP officers fanned out to either side and worked their way purposefully towards the station.

‘They’re at the entrance now,’ said Reid.

Shepherd started to jog. He put the microphone close to his mouth. ‘Brian, where are you?’

‘Twenty metres behind you,’ said Ramshaw, in his earpiece.

Shepherd upped the pace. It was vital that at least one armed officer was close to the group in case a firearm was produced on the tube.

‘They’re inside the booking hall now,’ said the chief inspector over the radio, ‘passing through the barriers.’

Shepherd reached the tunnel entrance at the same time as Wright, who already had his tube pass in his hand. Shepherd cursed under his breath. He didn’t have a ticket. He stuck his hand in his pocket and grabbed a handful of change, but Wright pointed at a blue-uniformed member of staff to let him through.

‘Down escalator heading for the Piccadilly Line,’ said the chief inspector.

‘I’m on the Piccadilly platform, southbound,’ said Reid, over the radio.

Shepherd was impressed. Either the DS was lucky and had played a hunch, or he’d assumed that the Piccadilly Line was the most likely place for the gang to go. Either way, he was ahead of the game.

Shepherd walked down the escalator behind Wright. Below he could see Snow White talking to the kid in the light blue top. Shepherd took out the earpiece. Now that he had them in sight he didn’t need the chief inspector’s commentary.

Shepherd and Wright reached the foot of the escalator. Snow White and her gang were standing in the hallway as if they weren’t sure whether to go north or south. Shepherd headed north. So did Wright.

Shepherd glanced over his shoulder. Ramshaw was on the escalator, trapped behind a slow-moving student with a massive rucksack. He nodded almost imperceptibly. He could see that Shepherd was going north, so he’d go south.

Shepherd waited halfway down the platform, close to the tunnel that led to where Snow White and the gang were waiting, laughing and pushing each other around. He looked up at the electronic sign that announced the train arrivals. There was one minute to go before the next train arrived. Wright was pacing up and down, arms folded, head down, as if he was deep in thought. Surreptitiously Shepherd slid the earpiece back in. ‘Suspects are in the hallway,’ said the chief inspector. ‘No way of knowing which way they’ll move.’

‘Ramshaw, I’m on the south platform,’ said Ramshaw.

Shepherd raised his cuff to his mouth. ‘Marsden, I’m on the northbound platform.’

He felt the breeze of an approaching train. One of the female undercover officers walked on to the platform. She was in a long coat, holding a Marks & Spencer carrier-bag.

The rails rattled and the train burst out of the tunnel into the station. Shepherd caught a glimpse of the driver, then the carriages flashed by. The brakes shrieked and the train juddered to a halt. The doors slid open and several dozen passengers got off. Shepherd caught Wright’s eye.

‘North, north, they’re heading north,’ said the chief inspector.

Shepherd walked to the train, and as he stepped on board Snow White and her gang ran on to the platform and jumped on. Wright got into the adjoining carriage and took a seat close to the connecting door. The female officer got in and sat down, her carrier-bag on her lap. The doors clunked shut and the train lurched along the platform.

Shepherd was at the far end of the carriage. Snow White and her gang were standing at the mid-point, swinging from the handles set into the roof. They were looking around and laughing, and even from where he was sitting Shepherd could detect the predatory look in their eyes. He sat with his arms folded. He could feel the gun pressing against his side. Could he draw it against children? He took a deep breath and said a silent prayer that it wouldn’t come to that. The plan was to stop the train as soon as the gang struck and to get Ken Swift and his team into position at the next station.

The train rushed into the tunnel. Shepherd counted the passengers in the carriage. Most were sitting, but three businessmen in dark suits were standing to his left, discussing a sales conference. A West Indian woman sat opposite, with a wicker shopping basket on her lap. Next to her a teenage girl was listening to a Walkman as she ate a Sainsbury’s salad with a plastic fork. On the other side of the West Indian woman a workman in paint-stained overalls and a floppy hat was reading the Sun.

Shepherd glanced at the gang. The youngster in the light blue top was bending over a middle-aged woman, his face only inches away from hers. ‘Give me a kiss, darling,’ he said. She was sitting next to a little girl of seven or eight. Same age as Liam.

The woman looked embarrassed.

‘Come on, darling, slip me the tongue,’ said the teenager. He opened his mouth and waggled his at her.

The little girl laughed, but the teenager glared at her. The woman put her arm round her daughter and drew her close.

Two black teenagers moved to stand behind the young thug. ‘Go on, give him a kiss,’ said one. ‘He don’t have Aids or nuffink.’

‘Please, leave me alone,’ said the woman. The little girl looked scared now.

The teenager reached out to stroke her cheek. The woman flinched, and glanced round the carriage, but no one met her gaze. No one wanted to get involved. Shepherd knew that was why the gang had been so successful in their attacks. They picked on one victim and focused all their attention on them; the rest of the passengers were relieved that they weren’t under attack and did nothing.

Snow White and one of the white teenagers moved to join the group who were intimidating the woman.

Shepherd saw Wright stand up and move towards the connecting door.

‘Give us yer bag, darling,’ said Snow White.

‘Please, I don’t want any trouble,’ said the woman, close to tears.

The teenager pulled out a Stanley knife. So did Snow White. ‘Give me your fucking bag, you bitch!’ screamed the teenager.

Snow White lashed out with her knife and cut the woman’s coat. ‘Come on, come on!’ she shouted.

Shepherd saw Wright talking into his radio microphone, notifying the control centre that the attack had started.

The little girl screamed and pressed herself to her mother. The teenager grabbed her blonde hair and twisted it savagely.

‘Leave her alone!’ shouted the mother.

Snow White slapped her face. ‘Let go of the bag, bitch!’

Shepherd stood up. One of the black teenagers stared at him menacingly. The woman BTP officer also got to her feet, waiting to see what Shepherd would do.

The mother released her bag and Snow White tossed it to one of the gang.

The rest of the passengers were frozen now with horror.

Shepherd took a step towards the group. Three of them moved to block his way.

Shepherd took out his warrant card and held it up. ‘Police!’ he shouted. ‘Put down those knives!’

The teenager with the Stanley knife pulled the little girl to her feet and held it to her throat. ‘I’ll cut her!’ he yelled.

The mother screamed and Snow White punched her in the mouth.

‘No, you won’t,’ said Shepherd. The little girl struggled but the teenager held her tight.

Wright was trying to open the connecting door but two of the gang members were pushing against it.

The train roared out of the tunnel and into Leicester Square station. Faces flashed by but Shepherd concentrated on the teenager. The blade of the Stanley knife had pierced the little girl’s neck and a dribble of blood ran down her shirt.

The doors opened and the passengers scattered. Shepherd moved to allow an overweight businessman to waddle by, clutching his briefcase to his chest, but kept his eyes on the boy with the knife. ‘Just drop the knife on the floor and this will all work out just fine,’ he said.

The boy pulled back the little girl’s hair. ‘I’ll cut her!’ he yelled again.

‘No, you won’t,’ said Shepherd. Passengers started to get on to the train but stopped when they saw what was happening. The teenager stabbed the knife into the child’s throat and blood spurted.

The mother screamed, her hands over her face.

Snow White ran out on to the platform, cursing at passengers to get out of her way. The two black teenagers ran after her. The boy with the knife spat at Shepherd, then pushed the child down the carriage and bolted on to the platform. The little girl staggered against Shepherd. Her shirt was soaked with blood but she was still conscious, eyes wide with fear. She tried to speak but all that came out was a gurgle. Her mother ran towards Shepherd, arms outstretched. She fell to the floor and grabbed her daughter.

Shepherd looked at the teenagers running full pelt down the platform, then at the child. It was no contest. ‘Put her down gently,’ he said to the mother. He examined the cut. It was about two inches long and deep, but blood wasn’t pumping out, which meant that a major artery hadn’t been severed. The mother was sobbing.

Wright burst through the connecting door. ‘I’ll radio for a paramedic.’

‘Go!’ said Shepherd. Wright hurried on to the platform.

The female officer was preventing passengers getting on to the train.

The child coughed and blood splattered out of her mouth. Shepherd needed something to stem the bleeding. She coughed again and more blood spurted over her chest. Shepherd’s medical training was basic, and mostly concerned with broken limbs and bullet wounds. The way her mouth kept filling with blood suggested he should get her head up. He propped her against a seat, then took off his leather jacket and the holstered Glock.

Wright appeared at the carriage door. ‘Paramedics on their way,’ he said.

‘Okay.’ Shepherd tore off his shirt and pressed it to the little girl’s throat. He smiled at her. ‘The paramedics will be here in a minute. It’s going to be okay.’ Blood seeped into the shirt and he increased the pressure on the wound.

The child stared wide-eyed at him. Her mother stroked her hair. ‘Hang on, honey, you’re going to be all right,’ she said. She turned to Shepherd, eyes brimming with tears. ‘What can we do? We’ve got to stop her bleeding.’

‘What’s your daughter’s name?’ he asked.

‘Emily. Emily McKenna.’

Emily coughed and more blood gushed from her lips. Her chest heaved and Shepherd could see she was having trouble breathing. Blood was flowing down her windpipe and Shepherd knew he had to do something quickly.

‘Where are the paramedics?’ he asked Wright.

Wright shrugged helplessly. ‘They know the situation,’ he said. ‘They said they’ll be right here.’

‘We need them now.’

‘The chief inspector said they’re on the way.’

Emily’s chest was heaving as she fought for breath. She was choking to death. ‘Have you got a Biro?’ Shepherd asked.

Wright fumbled in his pocket and pulled one out. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘The blood’s running into her lungs,’ said Shepherd.

‘What are you talking about?’ said Mrs McKenna.

‘We have to help your daughter breathe,’ said Shepherd. He put his hands on Emily’s shoulders. He could see the panic in her eyes.‘Listen,Emily. You have to lie down again, okay?’ She nodded. ‘Then I want you to close your eyes and imagine you’re somewhere else.’

Emily made a gurgling sound as her mouth tried to form words. ‘Don’t talk,’ said Shepherd, and lowered her to the floor.

‘What are you doing?’ said Mrs McKenna.

‘Close your eyes, Emily,’ said Shepherd. He reached into his pocket and took out his Swiss Army knife, flicked out a blade and wiped it on his shirt. There was no time to worry about infection – they could pump antibiotics into her later. If he didn’t fix her breathing Emily would be dead within minutes.

‘Oh, God, no,’ whispered Mrs McKenna.

‘It has to be done,’ said Shepherd. ‘It won’t hurt, I promise, and it will save her life.’

Emily coughed and more blood gushed from her lips.

‘Hold her hands, Mrs McKenna. Keep talking to her – keep her calm.’ He pulled the ink cartridge out of the Biro and tossed it on to the seat behind him.

Mrs McKenna looked wildly at Wright as if he might have an alternative suggestion.

‘Do it now!’ said Shepherd.

Mrs McKenna knelt down beside her daughter and took her hands. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart, I’m here.’

Shepherd took the child’s throat in his left hand and gently squeezed the windpipe.

‘I’ll check where they are,’ said Wright. He ran on to the platform, talking into his radio.

‘You can’t stick that in her throat!’ said Mrs McKenna.

‘She won’t feel it,’ said Shepherd, ‘and if we don’t let her get air into her lungs . . .’ He pressed the tip of the blade between the cartilage ridges of her windpipe until it popped through, pulled it out, then pressed with his fingers. The hole opened wide. He put the knife on to the seat and pushed the plastic tube into the hole. Air sucked in through the tube and Emily’s chest stopped juddering.

‘It’s okay, darling,’ said Mrs McKenna.

Emily’s mouth moved soundlessly. Her chest was moving up and down, and air was whistling through the tube.

Shepherd sat back on his heels and wiped his forehead on the back of his arm.

Wright appeared at the carriage door. ‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘One minute.’

‘Do you have a clean handkerchief, Mrs McKenna?’ asked Shepherd.

Mrs McKenna didn’t take her eyes off her daughter but fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief.

Shepherd took it and wrapped it round the base of the Biro tube.

‘Hang on, precious,’ said Mrs McKenna.

Emily’s breathing had settled down. Blood was still trickling out of her mouth but she wasn’t choking now.

Shepherd heard rapid footsteps. Two men in green and yellow fluorescent jackets dashed into the carriage. He stood up to give them room to work.‘Throat wound, no major arterial damage. Her mouth was filling with blood so I did a tracheotomy,’ he said.

One of the paramedics checked the tube. ‘Good work.’

The second paramedic felt for a pulse while the first went to work on Emily’s neck.

Shepherd helped Mrs McKenna to her feet. There was blood on her hands and smeared across the front of her coat. ‘She’ll be okay,’ he said.

Tears were running down the woman’s face. ‘How could they do that to my little girl?’ she asked.

Shepherd said nothing. It was a question he couldn’t answer.

The hatch in the cell door clanged open and a face appeared in the gap. It was the WPC who’d taken her to see Gary Payne. ‘Are you okay, Mrs Kerr?’ she asked. She had a sweet face, thought Angie. Her eyes were a blue so pale that they were almost grey and she had used mascara on her lashes.

‘I’m fine,’ said Angie, in a monotone.

‘I’m off my shift in a few minutes. Do you want me to get you some food before I go?’

‘I’m fine,’ repeated Angie.

‘It’ll be your last chance before morning. And the night custody officer is a bit of a grouch.’

Angie forced a smile. ‘Really, I’m fine.’

‘What about some tea?’

Angie nodded at the polystyrene cup on the floor. ‘I’ve still got the one you gave me before.’

‘That was hours ago,’ said the WPC. ‘It’ll be stone cold.’

Angie shrugged. ‘It’ll do.’

The WPC smiled and closed the hatch. Angie opened her right hand and counted the barbiturate capsules. Twenty-four. She put them on the grey blanket, then picked up the polystyrene cup. A brown scum had formed on the tea. She took a sip and grimaced. She didn’t take sugar.

She sat down on the bed, popped one of the tablets on to her tongue, took another sip of tea, flicked her head back and swallowed. One down, twenty-three to go. She sipped the cold tea. It wasn’t so bad.

Ken Swift tossed the T-shirt to Shepherd. It was grey with NYPD on the front. ‘Got this on an exchange visit with the New York SWAT guys,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t mind having it back.’

‘Thanks, sir,’ said Shepherd.

‘Shift’s over,’ said Swift. ‘It’s Ken.’

Shepherd pulled on the T-shirt. The paramedics had taken his shirt when they wheeled away the little girl. They’d stabilised her and put her on a saline drip.

‘Where did you learn to do that throat thing?’ asked Swift.

Shepherd shrugged. ‘Army, first-aid training. I’m just glad I was paying attention that day.’

‘Saved her life,’ said Swift.

‘The way the world is, the mother will probably sue me,’ said Shepherd. ‘I still don’t know if I did the right thing by not pulling my gun.’

‘They only had knives – you couldn’t have shot them. Not without a shit-load of trouble from the civil-liberty groups, and the press would have had a field day.’

‘They were kids, but the way they behaved . . .’

‘Animals,’ said Swift.

‘The one who stabbed the little girl wasn’t more than thirteen. What was he doing with a knife? Why aren’t his parents asking where he is?’

‘They probably don’t care,’ said Swift. ‘Father’s probably run off. Mother’s got no money. Schools are too busy maintaining order to get involved.’

‘Have you got kids?’

‘Three – and no matter what happened to the marriages I was always a father to them. Saw them whenever I could, went to school events, took them on holiday. When there were problems, I nipped them in the bud. I was a good dad, Stu. A shit husband, I’ll put my hands up to that, but I was always there for my kids.’

‘I can’t believe they got away,’ said Shepherd. ‘We were there on the bloody train. I was six feet away. If they hadn’t stabbed the little girl . . .’

‘That’s why they stabbed her. They knew you’d have to stop and help.’

The chief inspector was right: they’d made a calculated decision to knife a child because anyone with humanity would help her rather than give chase. It was the sort of behaviour Shepherd would expect from a professional criminal or a soldier, not from teenagers.

‘By the time we got to Leicester Square they were well gone,’ said Swift. ‘CCTV footage shows them getting the Northern Line to Charing Cross. They left the station, probably walked back to their stamping ground.’

‘So what next?’

‘BTP want to try again in a couple of days. Thursday evening, maybe, or Friday. All we have to do now is find them. With you and the BTP detectives as witnesses, we have a case.’

‘I’m up for it,’ said Shepherd. ‘I want another crack at them.’

Swift slapped him on the back. ‘Job’s yours,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s go get a pint. We’ve earned it.’

Shepherd set his alarm for seven thirty so that he could have breakfast with Liam before he went to school, but he was awake before the alarm went off. He heard Katra get up and go down to the kitchen, and later he heard her getting Liam ready. He grabbed his dressing-gown and went downstairs. Liam was sitting at the kitchen table, eating toast and drinking orange juice.

Katra had a mug of coffee ready for him.

‘What time did you get home, Dad?’ asked Liam.

‘About eleven,’ said Shepherd. ‘I came in to say goodnight but you were asleep. Did you do your homework?’

‘Katra helped me,’ said Liam.

‘It was maths,’ said Katra. ‘I was always good at that.’

‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m working late all this week, but I’ll be able to do my bit at the weekend.’

‘What was work like yesterday?’ asked Liam.

Shepherd shrugged. ‘Boring office stuff,’ he lied.

‘Why do you have to work at night, then?’

‘There’s office stuff to do all day,’ said Shepherd. He didn’t like lying to his son, but he certainly didn’t want to tell him he’d stuck a knife into a little girl’s windpipe. ‘Did you manage the drive all right?’ he asked Katra.

‘She’s great, Dad,’ said Liam. ‘Better than you.’

‘Thanks, kid.’

‘Come on, Liam, it’s time to go,’ said Katra. She helped Liam on with his blazer and handed him his bag. ‘I’ll cook breakfast for you when I get back,’ she said to Shepherd.

‘That’s okay, I’m fine with coffee,’ said Shepherd, raising his mug.

‘It’s the most important meal of the day,’ said Liam, and grinned.

Katra giggled and they left.

Shepherd went through to the sitting room and waved as they drove off. Then he went upstairs, shaved, climbed into the shower and turned it on cold, gasping as the icy water washed over him.

The doorbell rang as he was rinsing shampoo from his hair. Shepherd swore, grabbed a towel and wrapped it round his waist as he rushed downstairs. It was Kathy Gift. He’d forgotten she’d said she’d be round on Wednesday morning. He wanted to ask her to reschedule but he knew that if he avoided her she’d tell Hargrove. All he had to do was sit down and talk to her. He could do that. And he could show her he was on an even keel, that all was well with the world. He spent half of his undercover life pretending to be something he wasn’t.

‘I seem to be making a habit of getting you out of the shower,’ she said.

‘It isn’t even eight yet,’ he said.

‘The early bird,’ she said. ‘Is someone with you? Is this a bad time?’

Shepherd smiled ruefully. ‘No. I’m alone.’

‘Liam’s still with his grandparents?’

‘He moved back in at the weekend but he’s just gone to school.’

‘So you solved your au pair problem?’

‘Looks that way,’ he said. He held the door open for her. ‘I’ve just had coffee, but if you want one, you know where everything is.’

He hurried upstairs, dried himself and put on a grey pullover and black jeans. When he got back downstairs she was studying the framed photographs in the bookcase. There were two mugs of coffee on the table by the sofa.

‘He’s a good-looking boy,’ she said, peering at a snap of Liam in his school uniform.

‘Takes after his mum,’ said Shepherd.

Gift smiled at a silver-framed photograph of Shepherd and Sue standing in the garden, their backs to the house. Liam had taken it the previous year on Sue’s birthday and he’d kept them smiling at the camera for almost two minutes before he eventually pressed the shutter. Sue had burst out laughing just as Liam took the picture and her eyes were full of life, full of joy. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Gift sat down in an armchair and opened her briefcase. She took out a clipboard with a ballpoint pen.

‘No tape-recorder?’ he asked.

‘It’s my impressions I want to record, rather than what you say.’

‘The opposite of a police interrogation,’ said Shepherd.

‘That’s one way of looking at it.’ She crossed her legs and rested the clipboard on her knee. ‘But I’m not trying to trap you or get you to admit anything that you don’t want to.’

‘Just a chat between friends?’

The psychologist chuckled.‘I’m here to help,Dan,’ she said. ‘I just want to get a feeling for how you’re handling the job. I talk to everyone on the unit at least once a year.’

But Shepherd knew her visit wasn’t just an annual service. Hargrove had asked her to talk to him, which meant the superintendent was concerned.

‘I couldn’t help noticing the scar on your shoulder when you answered the door.’

‘I stopped a bullet a while back. It was nothing.’

‘Before you joined the police?’

‘In my previous life.’

‘Do you mind talking about it?’

‘Being shot, or being in the SAS?’

Gift looked at him with a slight smile on her face. ‘Which do you feel most comfortable talking about?’

Shepherd folded his arms, then realised she might think his body language defensive. He put his hands on his knees but that felt too posed so he moved them to his lap. ‘That’s such a psychologist’s question,’ he said.

‘I didn’t mean it to be. I’m just interested.’

‘In what specifically?’

‘What it was like to be shot, I guess.’

Shepherd rubbed his chin. ‘It doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you mean. Not at first, anyway. It’s like been punched really hard. The endorphins kick in and you’re aware that you’re losing blood and you just go weak.’

‘Who shot you?’

‘He didn’t leave a card,’ said Shepherd.

‘You didn’t see him?’

‘He was over a rise. We weren’t in combat, he just took a shot.’

‘A sniper?’

‘Or a coward. One shot and he was off. It was in Afghanistan. Never found out if he was a soldier or just a villager with a gun.’

‘You were lucky.’

‘Everyone says that, but if I’d really been lucky I wouldn’t have been shot in the first place,’ said Shepherd.

‘I meant lucky you weren’t killed.’

‘It hit bone and went downwards, missed an artery by half an inch. I was in a four-man team and the medic did his stuff. I was helicoptered to hospital and a week later I was back in the UK.’ There were other details he didn’t want to tell her. Like the fact that he had been cradling a dying SAS captain who had lost a good-sized chunk of skull and brain when the sniper’s bullet had slammed into Shepherd’s shoulder.

‘You didn’t leave the SAS on medical grounds, though, did you?’ she asked.

‘That’s in my file, is it?’

She smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m not trying to trick you, Dan,’ she said. ‘Your file only says you spent six years in the regiment before leaving to join the police. It wasn’t a bad enough injury to have you RTUd?’

RTU. Returned to Unit. It was every SAS trooper’s worst nightmare: being told that the Regiment didn’t want or need them any more and they were to return to their original unit. Shepherd hadn’t been RTUd. He’d walked out for Sue.‘I heal quickly,’said Shepherd.

‘What’s it like, being in a firefight?’

‘It wasn’t a firefight, it was an ambush.’

‘But when you’re under fire, what’s that like?’

‘If you have to ask, you’ll never know,’ he said.

‘That’s an easy answer,’ she said.

‘It’s a difficult question. Unless you’ve had bad guys blasting away at you you’re never going to understand what it feels like.’

‘But you’re scared?’

Shepherd frowned as he tried to find words to explain. It wasn’t fear: he had fought alongside regular soldiers and he’d seen fear in their eyes when the bullets were flying but he’d never seen it in the eyes of SAS troopers. The men of the SAS relished combat: it was what they trained for, what they lived for. They had the same look when they prepared to jump from a Hercules two miles up. Excitement. Elation. Adrenaline pumping, heart pounding. ‘It’s like they say, you’re never so alive as when you’re close to death.’

‘They say, too, that time seems to slow down?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘It’s not that things go slowly, more that everything is clearer. Sounds are sharper, colours more vibrant.’

‘It sounds like a drug.’

‘I’ve never taken drugs so I wouldn’t know.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Not so much as a whiff of a cannabis. And even if I had I’d be pretty damn stupid to tell a police psychologist, wouldn’t I?’

She nodded slowly. ‘But combat is addictive, I suppose?’

Shepherd wondered where she was heading.

‘It enhances sensation,’she said.‘That’s what many drugs do. Even runners feel the same effect, don’t they? The chemicals released during a marathon run induce a feeling of euphoria.’

‘Have you ever run a marathon?’

‘Three times. Twice here in London and once in New York. I don’t run as much as I used to, but in my twenties you’d have been hard pushed to keep up with me.’

Shepherd took a quick look at her legs. She crossed them and when he looked back at her face she was smiling. ‘So, am I right?’ she asked. ‘Does combat give you a similar high?’

It was, Shepherd realised, another good question. But Kathy Gift was paid to ask searching questions and evaluate the answers she was given. ‘For some people, I suppose it is.’

‘It’s an interesting thought, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Most people would be scared witless if they were shot at. But for some maybe the excitement outweighs the fear. Wouldn’t they be the ones selected to join the SAS?’

Shepherd shook his head emphatically. ‘The selection process weeds out the thrill-seekers and the wannabe James Bonds. The ones who make it aren’t adrenaline junkies.’

‘So what sort of people do make it?’

‘You’ve got to be physically fit, but it’s mental toughness that gets you through.’

‘There’s a type, is there?’

‘I guess so. Most are working class, from pretty tough backgrounds, and they’re all driven.’

‘Driven?’

‘To show that they’re the best. That’s what keeps you going through selection. You reach a point where you’re physically exhausted. From then on it’s a matter of willpower.’

‘And having gone through all that, having shown that you’re among the best of the best, you walked away?’

‘I was a father.’

‘There are married men in the Regiment, aren’t there?’

‘Some. But it puts the marriage under strain. We’re off having adventures around the world and the wives sit at home changing nappies.’

‘Is that how you see life in the SAS, having adventures?’

Shepherd sat back and folded his arms, no longer caring about his body language. He could see where she was going. She wanted to show that he was hooked on the excitement of dangerous situations. ‘I think that’s how the wives see it,’ he said. ‘They think it’s all fun and games, and that’s partly our fault – we tend to downplay the dangerous aspects.’

‘Because you don’t want them to worry?’

Shepherd nodded.

‘But your wife was still worried. Was that why she wanted you to leave the SAS?’

‘It wasn’t so much the danger, more that I was away for long periods. She had a point.’

‘So you agreed to leave?’

‘We talked about it and decided it was for the best.’

‘And you went straight into undercover work?’

‘That’s right.’ It would all be in Shepherd’s file. He’d applied to join the Met, but his potential had been spotted almost immediately. Instead of being sent to the Police Training College at Hendon he’d been interviewed by Superintendent Hargrove and offered a place on his unit.

‘Out of the frying pan into the fire?’

It was a phrase Sue had used. An armed criminal could be every bit as dangerous as an Afghan tribesman or an Iraqi soldier. ‘I got to spend more time at home,’ he said.

‘And what about you? Was the job as challenging?’

Another good question. Kathy Gift had the knack of getting to the heart of the matter. ‘It’s different,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘In the Regiment you’re part of a team. There’s the Regiment,then your troop, then your four-man brick. You always have mates to rely on who’ll pull your balls out of the fire if necessary. Working undercover, most of the time you’re on your own. You might be under surveillance, but they’re always on the outside, looking in.’

‘It must be stressful.’

Of course it was stressful. She was a psychologist who worked with a specialist undercover unit: she knew exactly how much stress there was in the job. What did she expect him to say? Ask for some Valium? ‘You deal with it,’ he said eventually.

‘How?’

‘I run.’

‘Running clears the mind, doesn’t it?’

‘It can.’

‘It must be difficult, being undercover for long periods.’

‘Sure. But that’s the job.’

‘Not everyone can deal with the stress for ever.’

‘I know.’ It wasn’t unusual for undercover agents to turn to alcohol, or even drugs, to relieve the pressure. Shepherd wasn’t averse to a drink, but he never drank to excess.

‘Do you find it getting easier or harder?’

‘The more time I spend undercover, the better I get at it.’

Gift brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I meant the stress,’ she said. ‘Is it easier to deal with it?’

Shepherd exhaled slowly. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s not something I think about.’

‘But do you sleep okay, for instance?’

‘Like a baby.’

‘Panic attacks, shortness of breath, dizziness?’

‘Never,’ said Shepherd, emphatically.

‘Do you lose your temper easily?’

‘No.’

‘Loss of appetite?’

‘I eat like a horse.’

‘So, you’re fine?’

‘That’s what I’ve been telling you.’

‘No problems?’

‘None.’

‘And the new job?’

‘I’m not supposed to divulge operational details, you know that.’

‘Of course I do. I was just asking how it was going. Is it straightforward? Is it stressful? How are you coping with it? That was all I meant.’

‘It’s as straightforward as undercover assignments ever can be, no more stressful than previous jobs and I’m coping just fine.’

‘Okay,’ she said. She stood up and bent down to pick up the briefcase. Shepherd found himself looking at her legs again. He could believe she was a runner.

‘That’s it, then?’ he asked.

‘For the moment.’ She slipped the clipboard and pen into the briefcase, then snapped the twin locks shut. ‘I’d like to see you again in a few days. I’ll phone.’

‘I’m really busy on this case,’ he said, as she left the room. He hurried after her. ‘I have to work shifts, two till ten this week, and I’m on nights next week.’

‘I’m flexible time-wise,’ she said. ‘I’ll try not to catch you in the shower next time.’

Shepherd got to the front door before her and opened it. She flashed him a smile and walked towards her black Mazda, high heels clicking on the paving-stones. Shepherd closed the door and leaned his forehead against it. He took a deep breath. He’d been on his guard throughout the interview, wanting to appear co-operative but without giving away too much of himself. The psychologist was there to help, but she also had the power to remove him from operational work if she felt he was a danger to himself or others. The interview had gone well, he thought. He had answered most of her questions truthfully. But the one thing he’d been expecting her to talk about she hadn’t mentioned: Sue’s death and how he was dealing with it. Shepherd knew she was too smart to have forgotten to bring it up. That meant she’d deliberately avoided it – for the time being at least. But Shepherd had no doubt that Kathy Gift would be back and that she’d want him to open up about it. It wasn’t something to which he was looking forward.

Rashid Malik was British. He had been born in Britain and he had a British passport. He spoke English with a Birmingham accent and supported Birmingham City Football Club. He even had a season ticket to the St Andrews stadium. The British state had educated him, looked after his health, even paid him when he didn’t feel like working. But now Malik was prepared to die to strike at the heart of the British establishment. And to kill as many people as he could.

He lay down in the bathtub and allowed the warm water to rise over his face. He held his breath and pretended he was already dead. It felt good. He was at peace, relaxed.

Malik had only been in London for two days and he hadn’t left the studio flat. There was food in the cupboard, fruit juice and bottled water in the fridge, a prayer mat and a copy of the Qur’a¯n in the corner of the room. That was all he needed while he prepared himself.

Malik had been starting primary school in a lower middle-class suburb of Birmingham when the Palestinians announced their first intifada and began sending suicide bombers against the Israelis who had stolen their land. When he was ten he watched the news as the American and British forces invaded Kuwait in Operation Desert Storm and listened to his father curse the Saudis for allowing the infidels to use their soil as a base from which to attack a Muslim nation. Malik moved to his secondary school during the civil war in Bosnia, and watched television in horror as the Serbs butchered Muslims in their thousands while the world did nothing. He left school when he was seventeen. His teachers said he was clever enough to go to university, but there was nothing he wanted to study. He loathed the thought of working in an office or programming computers. It all seemed so pointless when fellow Muslims were being murdered around the world. He tried raising it with the imam at his local mosque but he had said only that Malik should be grateful to live in a country where everyone had a place and a voice.

Malik had spent three years either filling supermarket shelves or on the dole. He had been at home watching television when two planes slammed into the World Trade Center in New York and a third hit the Pentagon. When it was revealed that Muslims had carried out the attacks, he had cheered, then rushed to his mosque where other young men were equally excited that someone had stood up to the Americans. The older members of the mosque had tried to calm them, tried to tell them that Islam was a peaceful religion, that any form of killing was wrong and that terrorism against innocent men, women and children was a sin, no matter what the provocation. Malik would not listen.

He joined street protests calling on the government not to join in the invasion of Afghanistan, and helped make petrol bombs when it became clear that Britain was going to back President Bush. It was when he saw images of a children’s hospital in Kabul destroyed by an American missile that he decided protests were not enough. He told his parents he wanted to spend time in Pakistan, discovering his roots. They welcomed his decision as an opportunity for him to find a suitable wife and even paid for his ticket. They gave him a list of the phone numbers and addresses of family and friends and cried as he walked through the departure gates at Heathrow’s Terminal Three. It was the last time they had seen him.

Malik spent a week in Pakistan and didn’t call any of the numbers his parents had given him. He headed north to the frontier town of Peshawar and met a group of young Muslims who were as keen to fight American imperialism as he was. He was taken to a camp where Muslims who wanted to fight the infidel were recruited and trained. There, they were desperate for recruits to send to Afghanistan to fight with the Taliban, but the men who ran the camp were suspicious of the clean-shaven young man who spoke only English. But the fact that he had a British passport intrigued them and they kept him under observation for three weeks, during which time he did nothing but study the Qur’a¯n, grow a beard and perform basic exercise drills. Once they were convinced of his good intentions he was trained in the use of explosives, light weapons and communications. Malik was a quick learner, and enthusiastic. He had finally found something he considered worth studying.

His instructors monitored his progress and were about to send him to join the Taliban when word came from an al-Qaeda aide that Malik was to be moved to a training camp in the Yemen. There, he was given further intensive training in terrorism techniques but he spent the bulk of his time studying the Qur’a¯n and the Hadiths, texts based on the life of the Prophet Muhammad. Without realising it, Malik was being nudged towards the passages that glorified martyrdom, that promised everlasting joy in the shadow of Allah for those who fought and died in the name of Islam. He was shown videos of other young volunteers who had sacrificed themselves. He was told how the shahids – the martyrs – would never be forgotten on earth and would live for ever in heaven. Malik watched the videos of bright-eyed men and women, some not even in their teens, eager to give their lives for the fight against the infidel.

Afghanistan fell to the Americans, and then it was Iraq’s turn. Malik watched on CNN as the infidels slaughtered Muslims, then pillaged the country’s resources. He saw photographs of American and British soldiers torturing Iraqi prisoners-of-war and begged his instructors to send him on a mission. He was told to wait, that his time would come, that he was too valuable a resource to be wasted. He was special, and Allah had a special place for him in heaven.

Bombs exploded in Spain and the Spanish government pulled its troops out of Iraq; once again, Malik begged his instructors to use him. Finally his time came. He was told to shave off his beard and return to the United Kingdom, not to Birmingham and his parents but to a bedsit in Derby, where he was to speak to no one other than a man who would bring him food and clean clothes. He stayed in the bedsit for two weeks and left the room only once, at night. He walked to a local graveyard and climbed over the wall. He found a space between two graves and lay there, his arms crossed over his chest, trying to imagine what it would be like to be dead. He closed his eyes under the star-sprinkled skies and realised he was at peace. Death was nothing to be scared of. Malik knew that it wouldn’t lead to eternal sleep. The death of a shahid was rewarded with eternal paradise for himself and his relatives. Death was to be embraced.

Eventually a second man collected him and drove him to London in a van that smelt of curry. In London he was shown into another bedsit and told not to go out. He spent the days studying the Qur’a¯n and the nights sleeping.

One day the Saudi came to the bedsit, wearing a suit that looked made to measure and carrying a slim leather briefcase. Malik didn’t know the Saudi’s name, nor did he want to. The Saudi explained that Malik would be given the chance to strike at the British, to punish them for their actions, to make a statement that would be heard across the world. Malik listened to him, then hugged him and thanked him for the opportunity he was being given. ‘Allahu akbar,’ he said.

‘Allahu akbar,’ the Saudi echoed. God is great.