True Colours

LONDON, PRESENT DAY

There were four of them sitting around the table in the corner of the pub, half-full pints of lager in front of them. A football match was playing on a television mounted above the door but they paid it no attention. Dennis Weaver was holding court. He was a big man gone to fat, with a gut as large as a full-term pregnancy that bumped the table each time he moved. He was wearing an England football shirt and gleaming white Nike trainers but it had been years since he had taken part in any exercise that hadn’t involved lager or cigarettes. Weaver was in full flow, jabbing a nicotine-stained finger in the air to punctuate his angry words. ‘Yasir Chaudhry. The guy’s taking the piss. Did you see him on TV last week? The council knocked two houses together so that he had a place big enough for him and his wife and eight kids.’

‘Bastard,’ muttered Stuart Harris, a heavy-set man with a shaved head and a tattoo of a cobweb across the left-hand side of his neck. He had the words LOVE and HATE tattooed across his knuckles. Like Weaver, he was wearing a football shirt, but his was the claret and blue of West Ham.

‘Then one of the papers finds out that he’s got another wife living nearby in another council house and she’s got four kids. And who’s paying for all his little bastards?’ Weaver jabbed a finger at his own chest. ‘We are,’ he said. ‘Do you think he pays tax? Does he hell. Benefits, that’s what he gets. Benefits and free houses and free health and free schools for his bastard kids.’ Flecks of spittle erupted from between his lips and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before draining his pint. ‘Then do you know what the raghead goes and does? Stands in front of his house and tells a group of his raghead mates that they should all go on benefits. Jihad Seekers Allowance, that’s what he called it. And you know what he called us? Us Brits? Kuffars, that’s what. He hates us, but he’s happy enough to take our money.’ He banged his hand down on the table. Several heads turned to look at him, but just as quickly turned away. Weaver had a reputation as being a man who didn’t like being looked at, in pubs or out of them.

The men at his table all nodded in agreement. ‘Bastards,’ muttered Harris again. ‘Fucking bastards,’ he said, louder this time, as if gaining confidence.

‘Whose round is it?’ said Weaver, pointing at his empty glass.

‘Barry’s up,’ said Harris, gesturing at Barry Connolly, a diminutive Irishman with a straggly moustache and a greying ponytail. He was wearing a battered black leather vest over an Irish rugby shirt and had a pack of cigarette papers and pouch of tobacco on the table in front of him.

‘I got the first round,’ whined Connolly.

‘Bollocks, I got the first one,’ said Harris. ‘You went straight to the shithouse and I got them in. And you were in the shithouse again when Stuart got the second round.’

Connolly rubbed his stomach. ‘I had a bad curry last night, I’ve had the runs all day.’

‘More information than we need,’ said the fourth man at the table. His name was Andy Taylor. Like Harris he had the words LOVE and HATE on his knuckles. The ink had faded over the years and both Es had all but gone. ‘I’ll get them.’ He headed over to the bar, pulling a nylon wallet from the back pocket of his baggy jeans, which were hanging so low his underwear was visible.

‘What’s your problem, Barry?’ Weaver asked Connolly. ‘You’re always ducking your round.’

‘Dennis, mate, I’ll get the next one,’ whined Connolly. ‘Cross my heart.’ He made the sign of the cross on his chest.

‘Make sure you do,’ said Weaver. ‘It’s bad enough with these ragheads sponging off us without you not paying your way.’

‘Short arms and long pockets,’ said Harris. ‘I thought it was the Scots that were tight fisted, not the Paddies.’

‘I’ll get the next one, swear to God,’ said Connolly. He stared sullenly at the floor. A cheer went up from a group of football supporters standing at the bar and they began jumping up and down and punching the air. The men at the table looked up at the television in time to see the goalkeeper retrieving the ball from the back of the net.

‘Who scored?’ asked Harris.

‘Who cares?’ said Weaver. ‘It’s only the bloody Eyeties. Who gives a toss about the Eyeties?’

Taylor returned with four pints of lager and placed them carefully on the table before sitting down.

‘Anyway, tonight’s the night,’ said Weaver. ‘We’re going to burn the bastard out.’

‘Are you serious?’ asked Harris, his hand suspended in the air as he reached for his pint.

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ said Weaver.

Taylor leaned forward, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity. ‘Tonight?’

‘Tonight,’ repeated Weaver. ‘I’ve got the address and I’ve got the petrol. We’re going to burn the bastard’s house down with him and his bastard family in it.’

Taylor formed his right hand into a fist and punched the air. ‘Yes,’ he hissed.

Connolly grinned. ‘Woof!’ he said. ‘Woof, woof, woof!’

Taylor frowned. ‘Woof? What do you mean?’

‘Woof!’ repeated Connolly. ‘It’s the sound that petrol makes when you set fire to it.’ He held up his hands and splayed his fingers as he said ‘woof!’ again. ‘Get it?’

Taylor sneered in contempt. ‘Yeah, I get it.’ He looked at Weaver. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘First, I need you all to hand over your phones,’ said Weaver.

‘Why?’ said Connolly.

‘Because they track phones these days,’ said Weaver. ‘If we go there with our phones the cops will know.’ He grinned. ‘But if we leave them here, it’ll look like we never left the pub.’

‘What, we’re just going to leave them on the table?’ asked Harris. ‘They’ll be gone in a minute.’

‘Give me some credit, mate,’ said Weaver. He reached under the table and pulled out a black Adidas kitbag. ‘We’ll put them in here. The landlord’s a pal, he’ll keep them behind the bar. And there’s half a dozen guys here who’ll swear we never left the place.’ He unzipped the bag and held it open. One by one the men put their mobiles inside. Connolly switched his off and Weaver glared at him in disgust. ‘Didn’t you get what I just said? What’s the point of switching it off? It has to be on so that it shows up.’

Connolly grimaced, switched the phone back on and dropped it into the bag. Taylor tossed in an iPhone and reached for his pint. ‘Don’t forget the other one, Andy,’ said Weaver.

Taylor frowned as if he didn’t understand.

‘You’ve got a Nokia as well.’

‘That’s a throwaway,’ said Taylor. ‘I use it for stuff I don’t want traced. It’s not in my name and I change the SIM card every couple of weeks.’

‘Didn’t realise that selling used cars meant you had to behave like James bloody Bond,’ said Harris. His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you need a throwaway phone for?’

Taylor took out a battered Nokia and dropped it into Weaver’s bag. ‘Let’s just say that sometimes I might sell a motor that’s less than kosher and I wouldn’t want an angry buyer turning up on my doorstep,’ he said.

Weaver zipped up the bag and looked at his watch. It was just after eleven. ‘Right, the pub’s closing at one this morning and it’ll take half an hour to get to the raghead’s house. Let’s move.’ Weaver drained his glass and the rest of his men did the same. He stood up and took the kitbag over to the bar.

The landlord, a balding man in his fifties, nodded and took it from him without a word and put it down behind the bar. He winked at Weaver. ‘Be lucky,’ he said.

Weaver caught up with the men at the door, buttoning their coats and pulling on leather gloves. ‘We need to pick up Colin,’ he said.

‘Colin’s got the flu,’ said Connolly.

‘Man flu,’ said Weaver. ‘I spoke to him on the phone this afternoon, he’s sniffing a bit but nothing major. We’re the five musketeers, all for one and one for all and he’s coming along.’

They walked out of the pub and over to Weaver’s car, a ten-year-old Jaguar. They climbed in, Taylor sitting in the front passenger seat next to Weaver, with Connolly and Harris in the back.

Weaver drove the short distance to where Colin McDermid lived in a small flat in a terraced street. Both sides of the road were lined with cars so Weaver had to double park while Taylor ran over to the house. He rang the middle of three bells and shortly afterwards disappeared inside. Weaver drummed his gloved hands on the steering wheel as the seconds ticked by. He looked at his watch and then at the clock set into the dashboard and swore under his breath.

‘Do you want me to go and get them?’ asked Harris.

‘Give them a minute,’ said Weaver. ‘McDermid’s probably getting his trousers on.’

‘You sure you want him along?’ said Harris. ‘We hardly know the guy.’

‘Colin’s sound,’ said Weaver. ‘And he needs to get bloodied.’ He looked at his watch again. He was about to open his mouth to speak when the door opened and Taylor emerged, followed by a gangly man with a greasy comb-over wearing a blue anorak and black tracksuit bottoms. McDermid pulled the door closed and he and Taylor jogged over to the car.

McDermid climbed into the back, forcing Connolly to move closer to Harris. ‘What’s going on?’ asked McDermid, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Taylor got into the front seat and Weaver drove off.

‘Yasir Chaudhry, that raghead who keeps giving speeches about our dead soldiers burning in hell, we’re going to give him a taste of his own medicine,’ said Weaver.

McDermid sniffed noisily. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Serious as a can of petrol and a lighter,’ said Weaver. ‘We’re going to burn the bastard’s house down.’

‘About bloody time,’ said McDermid. He banged the roof of the Jag with the flat of his hand. ‘He’s been due for a while, that one.’

‘That’s the truth,’ agreed Harris.

‘Why do I always have to sit in the bitch seat?’ whined Connolly.

‘Because you’ve got the smallest arse,’ said Weaver. ‘And because you’re so short I can still see out of the mirror with you sat there.’

Connolly folded his arms and scowled. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘Life’s not fair,’ said Harris. ‘Get over it. And if you don’t stop bitching we’ll send you back to live with Snow White.’

Taylor laughed out loud and Connolly folded his arms and cursed under his breath.

Weaver twisted around in his seat and looked at McDermid. ‘You left your phone in your flat, yeah?’ he asked.

McDermid jerked a thumb at Taylor. ‘Andy took it off me,’ he said. ‘Said I had to leave it in the flat and switched on.’

‘He’s right,’ said Weaver. ‘If the cops check on you they’ll find your phone was in your flat and you can say you were in all night watching TV or internet porn or whatever you do when you’re in there on your own.’

‘We’re sitting in the Bleeding Heart right now,’ laughed Harris.

Weaver drove at just below the speed limit and all the men in the car kept a look out for police vehicles. They all tensed when they saw a car with fluorescent stripes turn into the road ahead of them but they quickly realised it was a paramedic and relaxed.

‘So what’s the plan?’ asked McDermid. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and slipped one between his lips.

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said Weaver. ‘And don’t even think of lighting that, not with the amount of petrol I’ve got in the boot.’

McDermid put the cigarette back in the packet and the packet back in his jacket pocket and stared sullenly out of the window.

Taylor looked at his watch, a cheap Casio. ‘You sure he’s home?’ he asked.

‘Sure I’m sure,’ said Weaver. ‘Had a guy around there this evening. He sent me a text while I was in the pub.’

‘Texts can be traced,’ said Taylor.

‘I’m not stupid,’ said Weaver. ‘It’s the same as your Nokia, a pay-as-you-go, untraceable.’ He reached into his pocket and held it up. ‘It’s switched off now and I’ll dump it later tonight.’

‘Looks like you’ve thought of everything,’ said Taylor.

‘Andy, when you’ve known me a bit longer you’ll know that planning is what I do best. Planning and burning out ragheads and Pakis.’

‘You’ve done this before?’

Connolly laughed and jiggled up and down. ‘This is my third,’ he said.

‘Sit the fuck down, Barry,’ said Weaver, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

‘Seriously? This is your third?’ Taylor asked Weaver.

Weaver grinned. ‘Barry’s third. I’ve done half a dozen.’

‘Good for you, mate,’ said Taylor. He beat a quick tattoo on the dashboard with his gloved hands. ‘They need showing who’s boss.’

‘Damn right,’ said Weaver.

Taylor sat back, nodding. ‘That Paki family in Southall, was that you?’

‘Bloody right it was,’ said Harris, punching the back of Taylor’s seat. We showed them what for, didn’t we, Dennis?’

‘That we did,’ said Weaver. ‘The trick is waiting until they’re asleep and then doing the front and back door. That way there’s no way out.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Taylor, looking at his watch again.

‘Don’t worry, mate,’ said Weaver. ‘We’ve plenty of time, and Chaudhry and his bastard brood are already tucked up in bed.’

Fifteen minutes later, Weaver pulled up in front of a patch of waste ground. Half the street lamps were off but there was enough light to illuminate a burnt-out car and an old boiler and what looked like the insides of a washing machine next to it. The ground was littered with beer cans, discarded needles and fast food wrappers.

Weaver switched off the engine. ‘Right, lads, let’s get this done,’ he said. He popped the boot, climbed out and walked around to the back of the car. The four men joined him. Connolly was bobbing from side to side as if bursting to go to the toilet. There were four red plastic fuel cans with black spouts lined up in the boot. ‘Take one each,’ said Weaver, standing aside so that the men could get to them.

‘Where did you get the petrol from?’ asked Taylor.

‘Why?’ said Weaver.

‘CCTV,’ said Taylor. ‘The cops will ask around to see if anyone bought petrol local. They always do.’

‘They can ask all they want,’ said Weaver. ‘I got this a month ago, took a drive up the M1 and bought it at a couple of service stations. The CCTV will be long gone.’

‘Smart,’ said Taylor.

Weaver grinned. ‘Like I said, this isn’t my first time.’ He slammed the boot shut. ‘Right, here’s the SP. It used to be that they were two semi-detached houses but the council has made it into one house. They knocked down a few walls inside but they left in the front and back doors. Get that? The house has two front doors and two back doors. So to make sure, we need to do all four doors. Right, Colin, you and Barry head around the back of the house. Pour it all around the doors and get as much inside as you can. Do the windows as well. If there’s an open window, use that.’

Connolly nodded eagerly. He was still switching his weight from leg to leg like an overexcited toddler. ‘Can I light it?’

Weaver ignored the Irishman. ‘Once you’re set, listen for me,’ he said to McDermid. ‘As soon as you hear mine go up, drop a couple of matches and leg it back to the car.’ He patted McDermid on the shoulder and he and Connolly hurried towards the house. It was in the middle of a row of semi-detached houses that had been built of brick but over the years all had been either painted or clad in stone. A few of the houses had been well maintained and had new roofs and wood and glass porches built around the front doors, but most had fallen into disrepair and had gardens full of children’s toys and household rubbish.

‘Right, lads,’ said Weaver. ‘Let’s get this done and then we can get back to the pub.’ He headed down the street with Taylor and Harris close behind him. Connolly and McDermid had already opened the wrought-iron gate that led to the garden and were walking around the side of the house. A dog barked down the road but then went quiet.

Weaver held the gate open and Taylor and Harris walked by him, the only sound the sloshing of the petrol in the cans. A siren burst into life somewhere in the distance and the men tensed, but within seconds it was clear that whatever it was it was moving away from them.

The two gardens had been merged into one and then paved over. There were spindly conifers in earthenware tubs either side of the front doors. Weaver gestured at the letterbox. ‘You can be mother,’ he said to Harris. ‘I’ll get the other one.’

All the lights were off in the house and the downstairs curtains were open. As Weaver tiptoed across to the second front door, Taylor looked through the window. There was a large dining table with eight chairs around it and the remains of a meal. There was another table piled high with schoolbooks next to half a dozen backpacks.

Harris grinned and crouched down. He put the can on the ground and unscrewed the cap. The smell of petrol immediately assailed their nostrils.

‘Smells like victory,’ said Taylor.

Harris frowned and looked up. ‘What?’

‘That movie. Apocalypse Now. But he was talking about napalm.’

‘What is napalm exactly?’ asked Harris, screwing the black spout into place. ‘I’ve never understood that.’

‘It’s petrol mixed with a gel,’ said Taylor. ‘It makes it sticky so that it burns longer.’

‘We should try that one time,’ said Harris.

‘Nah, it’s a bugger to pour and there’s less vapour so you don’t get that “whoof” that gets Connolly so excited,’ said Taylor.

Harris straightened up. ‘You know a lot about it,’ he said.

‘I had an interesting childhood,’ said Taylor. ‘Had a mate who got a kick out of blowing things up.’ He gestured at the house. ‘For something like this, petrol is best.’

‘Get yours ready, Andy,’ said Harris, looking around. ‘We need to get it poured quickly, we don’t want anyone waking up and smelling the fumes.’

Weaver was already at the second front door, unscrewing the cap of his petrol can. He looked over at Harris and gave him a thumbs-up.

‘Right,’ said Harris. ‘Here we go. Open yours and pour it over the window.’

Taylor nodded, bent down and began unscrewing the cap.

Harris shivered in the cold night air and then froze as he saw Connolly appear at the side of the house. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Harris hissed.

Connolly said nothing. He wasn’t carrying his petrol can and his hands trembled at his sides.

‘What’s the problem?’ hissed Harris.

McDermid appeared behind Connolly, his face as pale as the moon overhead. Something prodded Weaver in the back and he lurched forward and stumbled into Connolly and then Harris saw the armed cop, dressed in black with a carbine up against his shoulder. ‘Cops!’ he shouted, and turned towards the gate.

Weaver had already begun pouring petrol through the letterbox but he stopped when he heard Harris shout. He pulled the can away from the door. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Cops!’ shouted Harris, sprinting for the garden gate, the petrol can in his hands.

Weaver swore, dropped his can and started running towards the wall. He stopped short when he saw the armed cop standing in the road. The cop was aiming his gun at Weaver’s chest, over the waist-high brick wall. Weaver slowly raised his hands.

Harris reached the gate but as he pulled it open he saw a third armed cop, with silver sergeant’s stripes on the shoulders of his black overalls. Taylor came up behind Harris. ‘Cops?’ he said. ‘Where the hell did the cops come from?’

‘Put down the can!’ shouted the sergeant.

Harris threw petrol at him and it splattered across the pavement and on to the policeman’s boots.

‘Put down the can!’ shouted the sergeant again. He was aiming his gun at Harris but he could see that he was unarmed.

Harris grinned and threw more petrol at the policeman. The sergeant took a step back. ‘This is your last warning, put down the can!’

‘You can’t shoot me, I’m not armed!’ shouted Harris.

‘Stuart, mate, he will shoot you,’ said Taylor, raising his hands.

Harris took a cigarette lighter from his pocket and held it up. ‘Come near me and this place goes up!’ he shouted. It was a stainless-steel Zippo and he flicked up the cap.

‘The house is empty,’ said the sergeant. ‘We got the family out before you got here.’

‘It’ll still burn!’ said Harris. ‘And you’ll go up with it.’

‘Don’t be a twat, Stuart,’ said Taylor. ‘Burning to death isn’t a pleasant way to go.’

Harris ignored him and brandished the lighter in the air. ‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘Get away from me or we’ll both go up in flames, the house too.’ He splashed more petrol across the pavement and it splattered over the sergeant’s boots again.

The sergeant looked over at his colleague. ‘Arm your taser, Den!’ he shouted.

The cop let his carbine hang on its sling as he pulled his yellow taser from its holster on his belt.

Taylor looked over his shoulder. The third cop had pushed Connolly and McDermid forward and they were now standing close to the front door. Connolly darted to the side and grabbed the can that Taylor had been carrying and with a loud whoop threw petrol over the cop next to McDermid. Petrol splashed over his bulletproof vest and overalls and the man staggered back, cursing.

‘Go on, Stuart, do it!’ shouted Connolly. ‘Woof, woof!’

‘Put the lighter down, Stuart,’ said Taylor. He still had his arms in the air.

The cop with the taser was moving closer to the sergeant.

‘I’m warning you. We’ll all go up together if you don’t put the guns down!’ shouted Harris.

Connolly turned around and threw petrol towards the two officers, but most of it splashed over Taylor, who jumped to the side, swearing. ‘Bloody hell, Barry, watch what you’re doing.’

There was a crazed look in Connolly’s eyes and he threw more petrol at the sergeant.

‘Put down the cans!’ shouted the cop with the taser, his finger tightening on the trigger.

‘What do you want me to do, Sarge?’ asked the cop closest to McDermid.

‘We want you to fuck off, that’s what we want!’ shouted Connolly, whirling around and throwing petrol at him.

‘This is your last warning!’ shouted the cop with the taser. ‘Put down the can and the lighter.’

‘I’d be very wary of firing a taser at a man soaked in petrol,’ said Taylor quietly. He lowered his hands.

‘Put down the cigarette lighter,’ said the sergeant, but his voice was shaking and lacked conviction. ‘No one needs to get hurt.’

‘You put the guns down,’ said Harris. ‘Put the guns down, and move back.’

‘That’s not going to happen,’ said the sergeant.

‘Then we’ll all burn together,’ said Harris. He flicked the lighter once and it sparked but not enough to set it aflame. ‘I’m serious, get the hell away.’

‘Shall I put him down, Sarge?’ asked the officer with the taser.

‘You really don’t want to be pulling that trigger,’ said Taylor.

The officer scowled and aimed the taser at Taylor’s chest. ‘You keep quiet,’ he shouted.

‘I’m covered in petrol, too,’ said Taylor quietly. He slowly raised his hands again. ‘I’m just saying, there’s no need for anyone to get hurt here. Least of all, me.’

‘Get the hell away from us now or we’re all going up in flames!’ shouted Harris.

‘Put down the lighter,’ said the sergeant.

‘You put down the gun!’ shouted Harris. He flicked the lighter again and it sparked.

‘Stuart, mate, this isn’t helping anyone,’ said Taylor.

‘I’m not going back to prison!’ shouted Harris.

‘They’re not going to let you walk away,’ said Taylor. ‘They’ve got guns. You’ve got a lighter.’

‘I’ve got fire, that’s what I’ve got,’ said Harris. He waved the lighter around. ‘I’m serious, you move back now or we’re all going up in flames.’

Weaver made a dash for the gate, reached the pavement and began running full pelt away from the house. The cops turned their heads to watch him go but quickly turned their attention back to Harris.

Connolly swung the can and a plume of petrol splattered over the pavement near the sergeant. ‘Come on, then, take a shot and we’ll all burn!’ he said. Weaver’s rapid footfalls faded into the distance.

‘Drop the can!’ shouted the sergeant.

Connolly laughed and tossed the can in the air. Petrol sprayed out of the spout as the can spun towards the policemen. The officers scattered.

‘Let them have it, Stuart!’ shouted Connolly.

Harris roared and flicked the Zippo. A flame flickered and Harris tossed the lighter at the can, which had landed at the sergeant’s feet. The petrol vapour ignited in a loud whoosh and the policeman disappeared in a fiery orange ball.

The sergeant dropped to the ground, screaming, and began rolling over to extinguish the flames.

McDermid started to run but the cop behind him was too quick and he kicked McDermid’s feet out from underneath him, then planted his foot in the middle of McDermid’s back.

Connolly looked around, his mouth open in shock. The cop with his foot on McDermid’s back pointed his gun at Connolly. ‘I will fucking shoot you!’ he screamed, and Connolly raised his arms.

A sheet of flame rippled back from the pavement towards Harris and then his trousers caught fire. He flailed around, screaming as the flames spread up to his coat.

‘Get down on the ground!’ shouted Taylor, but Harris either couldn’t hear him or was too panicked to react. Taylor cursed and dashed through the flames, barrelling into the burning man and pushing him away from the flaming petrol. Harris was screaming and flapping his arms around, which only made his clothes burn more fiercely. Taylor kicked the man’s legs from underneath him and Harris hit the ground hard. Taylor immediately rolled him over, beating the flaming jeans with his bare hands.

Harris carried on rolling until he hit the wall and lay still. Most of the flames had gone out but the coat was still smouldering.

Taylor stood up, his chest heaving from the exertion. As he turned to face the road, a small red dot danced on his chest. He opened his mouth to shout but before he had even drawn air into his lungs the barbs of a taser impaled themselves in his shirt. He just had time to see the two wires trailing through the air to the yellow taser in the hands of the armed policeman, but then he was hit by fifty thousand volts and his whole body went into spasm.

‘Spider? Spider, can you hear me?’ Dan ‘Spider’ Shepherd groaned. He wanted to open his eyes but somehow his brain had forgotten how to do pretty much anything. He couldn’t feel his arms or his legs; in fact the only sensation he had was a burning pain in his chest. ‘Spider, come on, take deep breaths, you’ll be just fine.’

Shepherd took a deep breath but there was a stabbing pain in his chest and he went back to tidal breathing. He tried wriggling his toes but there was no feeling at all below his waist.

Something soft patted him on the cheek and he caught a half-remembered fragrance. ‘Charlie?’

He heard a laugh, and then felt a pat on his shoulder. ‘Thank God for that,’ said Charlotte Button. ‘I thought they’d killed you.’

Shepherd’s eyelids flickered open. ‘I can’t believe they shot me,’ he said, his voice a strained croak. He was lying on a stretcher in an ambulance. The doors were shut. The engine was running, he could feel the vibration through his shoulders.

‘You were tasered,’ said Button. ‘That’s not quite the same as being shot.’

Shepherd forced a smile. ‘Suddenly you’re an expert on being shot?’ he said. ‘Trust me, I’ve been shot and I’ve been tasered and they both hurt like hell.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The house is OK, right? It didn’t go up?’

‘We had the fire brigade on stand-by by and they were in with extinguishers as soon as the police had finished. But the family were never in any danger. As soon as I got your text I phoned Mr Chaudhry and got him to get his family out.’

‘And the cop who caught fire, he’s OK?’

‘Their overalls are fire retardant,’ said Button. ‘He’s fine. Just a bit shaken.’

‘Would have been nice if there had been enough cops to have put the lid on the situation right away,’ said Shepherd. ‘It got completely out of control because there weren’t enough of them to maintain control, even with guns.’

‘I got straight on to the Met as soon as I got your text but there have been gang shootings in Brixton and Harlesden tonight so armed response vehicles are in short supply.’

‘I saw one,’ said Shepherd. ‘Three guys. Who the hell thought three guys would be enough? There were five of us.’

‘That was all we could get,’ said Button. She looked at her watch. ‘You sent the text less than half an hour ago,’ she said.

‘Best I could do,’ said Shepherd. ‘Weaver took our phones. When I went around to pick up McDermid I managed to use his mobile. I had just enough time to send you a text.’

‘I’m glad you did,’ said Button. ‘Without your warning, Mr Chaudhry and his family would probably have died.’

Shepherd groaned. He could feel his feet again and he wriggled his toes inside his boots.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’ve just been hit with fifty thousand volts after putting out a fire with my bare hands, so no, I’m not OK.’

‘Your hands are fine,’ she said. ‘A bit singed, but no major burning. Which is more than can be said for Harris. He’s going to be hurting for a few weeks and he’s got months of skin grafts ahead of him. But you saved his life.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m sure he’ll be grateful. What about Weaver?’

‘An ARV ran into him at the end of the road,’ said Button. ‘Literally. He ended up on the bonnet.’

‘Better late than never,’ said Shepherd. He tried to sit up and Button helped him. ‘He bought the petrol a week ago, some service station on the M1. They should have CCTV footage.’ He touched his chest and winced. ‘That bloody hurts.’

‘Well, don’t touch it,’ admonished Button. ‘And they say it won’t hurt for long and there’ll be no lasting effects.’

‘I presume by “they” you mean the bastards who shot me,’ said Shepherd. He winced again. ‘Oh, and Weaver and Harris were behind that arson attack on the Pakistani family in Southall. Connolly knows what’s going on and he’ll roll over, guaranteed. He’s as weak as dishwater.’

‘That’s something,’ said Button. ‘Though frankly this is all a bit of a disappointment. The whole point of penetrating Weaver’s nasty little gang was to get close to his fascist German contacts in Frankfurt. They’re the ones planning the real atrocities. Weaver is just small time.’

‘He was planning on killing a whole family tonight,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m not saying we didn’t do the right thing in stopping him,’ said Button. ‘But there were bigger fish to fry and now we’re going to have to find another way of catching them.’ She looked at her watch, a sleek Cartier on a blue leather strap. ‘We’ll stay in here until the cops have finished,’ she said. ‘Might as well maintain your cover. The fact you were tasered means Weaver and his pals won’t ever think that you were an inside man. You might even be able to use the Andy Taylor legend again down the line.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘If we play it right, we might be able to use it to our advantage. Use it as a badge of honour with the Germans.’

Shepherd took a slow, deep breath. His chest wasn’t burning as much and the feeling had almost returned to his fingers and toes. ‘I still can’t believe they tasered me with all that petrol around,’ he said.

‘It was either that or a bullet,’ said Button. ‘Be grateful for small mercies. They saw you helping Harris and then you moved towards them.’

‘I was unarmed, Charlie. And I was just about to put my hands up.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Still, you’re right. It could have been worse.’ He winced as a sudden pain lanced through his chest, just below his heart. He took slow shallow breaths, panting like a dog.

‘Are you OK, Spider?’ asked Button, putting a hand on his shoulder.

‘I just need a shower,’ he said. ‘I feel dirty.’

‘Yeah, they were a nasty bunch,’ said Button. ‘But they’re off the streets now and they’ll be going away for a long, long time. Job well done, seriously. Bit scrappy at the end, I can’t argue with that, but you saved lives and put the bad guys away. There aren’t many men who could have done what you did tonight.’

Shepherd forced a smile, acknowledging the compliment. ‘I don’t understand how they can set fire to a house with kids and babies inside,’ said Shepherd. ‘Men hating men, OK, I get that, but how can you hate a baby?’

‘There’s no logic to what they do,’ said Button. ‘All we can do is try to stop it from happening.’

‘Yeah, well, we stopped it tonight but they’ve burnt other families in the past,’ said Shepherd. ‘And what’s crazy is that most of them are fathers themselves. Weaver’s got three kids, McDermid’s wife gave birth a month ago and Connolly’s got two daughters with one on the way.’ He shook his head. ‘I just don’t get it.’

‘There’s no point in looking for an explanation,’ said Button. ‘They’re just racist haters, with no rhyme or reason.’

‘People aren’t born hating,’ said Shepherd. ‘Kids of all races and colours play happily together when they’re toddlers. They have to be taught how to hate.’ He looked at his tattooed knuckles and grimaced. ‘I can’t wait to get these off,’ he said.

‘One laser treatment will do it,’ said Button. ‘Two at the most.’

‘I’ve never liked tattoos,’ said Shepherd. He turned his hands over and examined the reddened palms. They were greasy and he realised that the paramedics must have rubbed some ointment over the burns. Button was right, the damage was only superficial.

‘They were camouflage, and they worked,’ said Button.

‘I want them off tomorrow, first thing,’ said Shepherd.

‘No problem. Go home. Have that shower. I’ll call you first thing and I’ll have a laser clinic fixed up. And take a few days off, you’ve earned it.’

Yuri Buryakov stifled a cavernous yawn and glanced down at his watch, a Patek Philippe Tourbillon that had cost him over a million dollars. The conference had been going on for over eight hours now, with only a one-hour recess for lunch providing any relief. He had sat through a succession of speakers, listening to the simultaneous translation in his earpiece, but all he had heard was one piece of bluster or special pleading after another, one more reason why Russia should let the West have its gas, coal and oil for nothing.

He allowed his gaze to wander for what seemed like the thousandth time that day. He knew, because his German hosts had told him so over and over again until he could almost have recited it in his sleep, that the Sanssouci Palace in Potsdam was a rococo masterpiece built by Frederick the Great and rivalling Versailles for its opulence and extravagance, if not its size, but all that ornate plasterwork, marble, silver and gold was like too much rich food to him and left him feeling just as queasy. There was a certain irony that this pleasure palace, created by Frederick as a place to escape the burdens of state – its very name, Sanssouci, meant ‘without care’ – should now be playing host to a collection of politicians, officials, functionaries and flunkies, who could not have been less carefree, nor more dull and dour, if they’d tried.

The German Chancellor was the host of this international conference, called to discuss the future security of power supplies for the West. The US Secretary of State, the female head of the CIA, the British Foreign Secretary and the head of MI6, and the leaders or foreign secretaries and spy chiefs of all the EC and NATO countries, had been wrangling all day with the delegation from the major oil, gas, coal and electricity producers of Russia and half a dozen other states of the old Soviet bloc. Buryakov had no interest in spending any more time listening to the turgid speeches and debates, nor in gazing at the lavishly gilded interiors and the immaculate terraced gardens, ornamental fountains and sweeping vistas outside. Culture of all kinds – even the Bolshoi – left him cold. It had been a long day and he just wanted to get back to his hotel on Kurfurstendamm – the Knightsbridge of Berlin – and find some more congenial company than politicians, diplomats and bureaucrats. He would eat some oysters and caviar, drink some ice-cold schnapps or vodka, and then, if the mood was on him, have his bodyguards bring a whore to his suite.

He left the selection to his bodyguards; they knew his taste in women – stick thin, very young and almost androgynous blondes – and he took his pleasures with them the way he took his business opportunities, with a single-minded, ruthless self-interest, indifferent to who he might hurt in the process. If the whores were sometimes a little bruised or bloody after their encounters with him, then a tip of a couple of hundred dollars more would usually stifle their complaints, and if not, well, they were only whores after all, and he was a billionaire, an oligarch, one of the richest men on the planet. His money, his influence and, if necessary, his lawyers could make almost any problem go away.

The sound of a fresh voice, as irritating to him as the whine of a mosquito, intruded on his thoughts. The ‘Hausfrau’, as he called her – the German Chancellor – had risen to her feet and was now bringing the proceedings to a close for the day but, to her visible frustration, the meeting was breaking up without having reached any significant agreement on a way forward.

Buryakov listened with mounting irritation as the Hausfrau repeated her earlier demands for guaranteed power supplies to the West. Buryakov knew that by the West she mean Germany, as Germany had just pulled the plug on their nuclear power programme and needed to replace that power from somewhere. She ended her address with a call for further talks between the officials – ‘This evening, and all night if necessary,’ she said, rapping the edge of the podium with her knuckles for added emphasis – in order to conclude some form of compromise agreement that could then be announced to the waiting media before the conference broke up at noon the following day.

Despite his irritation with her, Buryakov smiled to himself. The Hausfrau was desperate for something she could sell to her electorate as a success, but making the German voters happy with their Chancellor was neither in his own commercial interest, nor that of the Russian government. If she wanted an agreement, there would be a heavy price to pay for it.

All through the Cold War, the West had lectured the Soviet Union on the merits of the capitalist system and they had treated the fall of the Berlin Wall as its ultimate triumph. They could hardly complain now, he thought, if their former adversary had learned the lesson so well that it was now using the capitalist system to its own considerable advantage. His smile broadened. He would let the Hausfrau and her allies fret and sweat into the small hours as they tried to find some common ground, while he enjoyed an untroubled night, and in the morning he would see what price he could make her pay for the piece of paper she would wave before the television cameras at the end of the conference.

As the meeting broke up, he pushed back his chair and began making his slow way out of the conference room. As he emerged, his bodyguard team leader, who had been waiting outside the room with the other heads of security while their principals argued inside, took his place alongside him. They made their way through the crowds filling the cavernous foyer of the palace. The rest of his security team had been required to wait outside the building, stamping their feet in the cold for hours.

There was semi-organised chaos inside and outside the palace, with everyone milling about in the foyer, waiting for word that their own limousines had reached the entrance before venturing outside, while the security personnel outside tried to bring some order to the logjam of vehicles. Inevitably the politicians whose vehicles were first in the queue would have paused on their way out for a final discussion with an ally or foe, and the other cars would be blocked, unable to move.

The Cold War was long over, but the tensions between East and West were still there, and Buryakov’s lip curled as he stared out of the great windows at the queue of luxury cars and limousines. All of them – Mercedes, BMWs and even the Rolls-Royces – made by German companies. The thought of that flagship British brand being bought from under their arrogant noses only briefly lightened Buryakov’s mood and his frown deepened as he saw the Hausfrau standing in the doorway of the conference room, still arguing her case with another Russian oligarch. He was a close friend and ally of Buryakov’s and he knew that he shared Buryakov’s contempt for the German politician.

The Germans were not to be trusted, Buryakov knew. Not after two world wars. His own father had taught him that. He could remember many years ago sitting on a threadbare sofa with father in front of a black and white television set watching what passed for the news in Soviet Russia. ‘When a Russian stranglehold is on their throat, the Germans will roll over and beg, but they will never stop looking for a chance to put their own foot on the throat of the Russian bear instead,’ his father had growled, grabbing young Yuri by the scruff of the neck and shaking him to make his point. ‘If we allow them to, they will make use of our natural resources to make their own economy even more powerful, and then one day, when they are ready, the German armies will once more roll eastwards to attack Mother Russia yet again.’

‘I don’t like this, we should be allowed our men inside,’ muttered Buryakov’s head of security, a burly Latvian. Andris Gordin had served Buryakov for more than ten years, first as a driver then as a bodyguard and for the past three years as his head of security, and at times seemed to regard Buryakov less as a boss and more as a younger brother to be taken care of. Buryakov was sure that given the chance, the Latvian would happily have wiped Buryakov’s arse and flushed the toilet for him.

‘You worry too much, Andris,’ admonished Buryakov. ‘It’s protocol.’

‘Fuck protocol,’ said Gordin. ‘They shouldn’t keep us standing around like this.’

Buryakov chuckled quietly. ‘My friend, if they were going to kill anyone here it would be the politicians,’ he said. ‘Not the businessmen.’

Gordin stared stone-faced at the queue of cars outside. One of the bodyguard teams waved and Gordin waved back. He hadn’t been allowed to bring his transceiver into the building so hand signals were the only way of communicating with his team. The bodyguard outside shrugged and Gordin raised his hands in an exaggerated show of frustration.

They moved slowly towards the exit, Gordin clearly uncomfortable at being surrounded by so many people. ‘This is madness,’ he muttered.

Buryakov nodded but said nothing. He looked to his left. Standing close by was a powerfully built man in an immaculate pinstriped suit. He had the ice-cold eyes of an international banker and he looked right through Burykov. He was carrying a furled umbrella, a good call as the sky was threatening rain. Buryakov smiled and nodded, acknowledging their mutual frustration, but the man ignored him and looked away. Typical banker, thought Buryakov. Thought he was better than everyone else.

They were making slow progress towards the exit when everybody stopped dead as the American Secretary of State emerged from an anteroom. As usual she was surrounded by her phalanx of crew-cut, huge and hostile bodyguards. Only the Americans were allowed to bring in their own people, a ruling that Gordin had taken as a personal insult. ‘Fucking Americans,’ Gordin muttered. ‘They act like they own the world.’ And to add to the insult, the American bodyguards were allowed to carry weapons.

As usual the American contingent made straight for the doors at high speed, barging straight past those in front of them and knocking them out of the way. As they passed through the metal detectors, all hell broke loose. The entrance to the building had been set up with security screens, scanners and metal, gas and explosive detectors, but they were designed to stop people getting in, not getting out. As the heavily armed American bodyguards barged their way through, the alarm on every metal detector in the place began shrieking. Within seconds the entrance hall had dissolved into complete chaos, with people trying to shout above the noise of the detector alarms, and bodyguard team leaders and delegates jostling and shoving, trying to regroup after being elbowed aside by the Americans.

Gordin bellowed in frustration and Buryakov was just about to tell him to calm down when he felt a sharp pain in his right calf. Buryakov yelped and Gordin immediately looked around. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

The pain had gone and Buryakov wondered whether it had just been a cramp. The big man with the umbrella was moving away, his face impassive.

‘I don’t know. Nothing. I’m not sure.’ Buryakov was finding it hard to breathe. The alarms all went off together. The American contingent ducked into a fleet of black limousines and sped off flanked by German motorcycle outriders with sirens blaring.

‘Thank you so much for fucking off,’ Gordin muttered at the departing vehicles.

Buryakov’s chest felt suddenly tight, as if something was pressing on him. He tried to take a deep breath but stopped when a searing pain shot down his left arm. ‘Andris,’ he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Gordin turned towards him. ‘Boss, are you OK?’

Buryakov opened his mouth to say that no, he wasn’t OK, when his legs buckled beneath him and he hit the marble floor with a dull thud.

Gordin knelt down next to him and began screaming for a medic, first in Russian and then in English. The designated doctor on duty rushed over with her medical bag. She was a middle-aged German woman with badly dyed hair that had probably been advertised as red but had turned out purple. She carried out an immediate visual and touch check, running her hands down Buryakov’s front, sides and back, searching for major injuries, but found no blood and no sign of trauma. She cleared Buryakov’s airways, but noted his shallow, irregular breathing, and at once inserted a cannula and set up a saline drip. Buryakov’s pulse continued to be very rapid and increasingly erratic, and when the doctor checked him again a minute later, she noted that it had now become even more feeble and irregular.

‘What is it, what’s wrong?’ asked Gordin in English.

‘Heart attack,’ said the doctor brusquely. ‘Please keep back, give him air.’ She pulled a transceiver from her pocket and began to talk into it in rapid German. Ambulanz was one of the few words that Gordin recognised.

Two hours later, Yuri Buryakov was lying in a hospital bed, connected to a drip and several monitoring machines. He was in a private room and Gordin was sitting outside, glaring at anyone who came near the door.

A doctor in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck and holding a clipboard walked up. He looked over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles and said something to Gordin in German. The German shook his head. ‘Russkij,’ he growled. ‘Russian.’

‘I don’t speak Russian,’ said the doctor in accented English. ‘You can speak English?’

‘Some,’ said Gordin. He stared at the ID badge clipped to the pocket of the white coat. Dr Bernd Jaeger. Kardiologe.

‘How long will you be sitting here?’ asked the doctor.

‘So long as Mr Buryakov is here, I will be here,’ said Gordin. ‘I am in charge of his security.’

‘Mr Buryakov is a very sick man,’ said the doctor. ‘He may be here for several days.’

Gordin shrugged. ‘Then I will be here for several days.’

The doctor nodded. ‘If it would help, I could ask for a small bed to be put in the room so that you can spend the night. Would that be agreeable?’

‘You can do that?’

The doctor nodded and wrote something on his clipboard. ‘Of course. Mr Buryakov has had problems with his heart before?’

‘No. Never. He had a medical last month and his heart was fine. A heart like a lion, the doctor said.’

‘A very sick lion, perhaps,’ said the doctor, putting his pen in his pocket. ‘I shall be with him for a few minutes, if you need to go to the bathroom or get a coffee.’

‘I’m OK,’ said Gordin, folding his arms.

‘Mr Buryakov is lucky to have a man as loyal as you,’ said the doctor, and he smiled as he opened the door and went inside.

The doctor took off his spectacles and put his clipboard at the bottom of the bed. Buryakov was lying on his back, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The doctor took a syringe from his pocket, pulled off the cap, and looked for a vein in the patient’s right arm. Buryakov grunted as the doctor injected the contents of the syringe, then put the cap back on and pocketed it.

He walked around the bed and switched off the machines. The drug he had injected into Buryakov was a powerful tranquilliser that would render him immobile without inducing unconsciousness. The doctor slapped Buryakov, left and right, and Buryakov groaned. ‘Wake up, Yuri,’ said the man in Russian. ‘You’re not dead yet.’

Buryakov opened his eyes and blinked.

‘That’s good,’ said the man. ‘Now look at me closely.’

Buryakov tried to focus on the man’s face. ‘Do you remember me?’ the man asked.

Buryakov shook his head. He tried to speak but his mouth was too dry. His arms lay like dead weights at his side.

‘I don’t have many friends, but the friends that I do have call me Monotok. The Hammer.’ He held up one of his massive hands. ‘My party trick is to hammer six-inch nails into planks of wood with my bare hands.’ He grinned, showing white slab-like teeth. ‘To be honest, it’s more about technique than it is about strength.’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘What about my name? Does my name mean anything to you? Kirill Luchenko?’ He looked for any sign of recognition but there was nothing in Buryakov’s eyes. Monotok shook his head sadly. ‘That’s a pity. You fucked up my life, I mean totally fucked it up, and you have no idea who I am.’ He smiled and patted him roughly on the cheek. ‘But that’s why I’m here, Yuri. That’s why I put you in hospital and didn’t kill you in the street. I could have done. So easily. I know of a dozen poisons that could have killed you within five minutes, but only one that would put you in hospital with the symptoms of a heart attack.’ He patted him on the cheek, harder this time. ‘Your security is good, though. The best. Your head of security is to be commended. The street was the only place I could get near you. And I’ve been trying for a long, long time.’ He smiled again. ‘Still, you’re here now.’ He reached into the pocket of his white coat and pulled out another syringe.

‘First we’re going to talk. Well, actually I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen. I’m going to explain to you what you did to me and how what you did made me the man I am.’ He held up the syringe and waved it back and forth in front of Buryakov’s eyes. ‘Then I’m going to inject this and you’re going to have a fatal heart attack.’ He grinned, the smile of a shark about to bite. ‘So if you’re lying comfortably, let’s get started, shall we? Once upon a time …’

Button had been right about the tattoos – after just fifteen minutes in a Harley Street clinic a young Asian doctor with a German-made laser made short work of LOVE and HATE. The skin was red and sore around the knuckles but Shepherd could see that the ink had all gone. The doctor’s pretty blond assistant gave him a tube of ointment to rub into the skin and a business card with a phone number to call in the unlikely event of him developing a reaction to the laser.

It was just after two o’clock in the afternoon when he walked out of the surgery, so he decided to pop into a pub for lunch before catching the train back to Hereford. He was just tucking into steak and kidney pie and chips when his phone rang. The caller was withholding his number so Shepherd just said ‘hello’.

‘Spider?’

Shepherd frowned. He didn’t recognise the voice. ‘Who is this?’ he asked.

‘Is that Spider Shepherd?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘I’m calling. Look, don’t fuck around, either that’s Spider or it’s not and if it’s not tell me so I don’t waste any more of my time.’

Shepherd smiled. ‘OK, yes, that’s me, but if you try and sell me a Sky subscription I’ll track you down and shove this phone up your arse.’ He popped a chip into his mouth.

The man laughed. ‘Well, I can tell civilian life hasn’t sweetened your personality,’ he said. ‘But then as the last time I saw you there was a bullet in your shoulder, I suppose that’s to be expected.’

Shepherd’s jaw dropped. There were only four men who had been in the belly of the Chinook the day that he’d taken a bullet and one of them had died in Iraq. ‘Lex?’ said Shepherd. ‘Lex Harper?’

‘Cheers, mate,’ said Harper. ‘I just hope your phone isn’t bugged.’

‘It’s not,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, well, as a spook you should know,’ said Harper.

‘Where the hell are you?’

‘Not far away,’ said Harper. ‘I need to see you.’

‘I’m in London,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Harper. ‘Can you get to Hyde Park?’

‘Bloody hell, Lex, let’s just meet in a pub. In fact I’m in a pub near Harley Street right now. You’re in London, right? Come by now, I’ll buy you a pint.’

‘I’ll explain when I see you, but I’d prefer it to be out in the open. Sorry to make it all cloak and dagger, but that’s the way it has to be. Make sure you’re not being followed, then enter the park at the north side and head for the Serpentine.’

‘Where will you be?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I’ll be watching you to make sure you don’t have a tail.’

‘Why would I have a tail? I’m not a bloody golden retriever.’

‘I know what you are, mate. Just better safe than sorry. It’s half past two now, can you make it by five?’

‘Sure.’

‘See you then,’ said Harper. The line went dead and Shepherd stared at his phone, wondering how the hell Harper had managed to get his unlisted number. And how a man he hadn’t seen for more than ten years knew that Shepherd was working for MI5.

Shepherd took a black cab to the north end of Hyde Park. He paid the driver and as the cab went on its way he turned up the collar of his coat. It was a cold day and the grey sky overhead threatened rain. He headed for the Serpentine, the forty-acre recreational lake that curved its way through the middle of the park. Despite the chill in the air there were plenty of joggers and rollerbladers on the path, along with dog-walkers and pram-pushing mothers.

Shepherd walked slowly. He couldn’t see Harper but the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up and he was sure that he was being watched. He was wearing a heavy overcoat but he kept his hands at his sides. Harper had sounded anxious on the phone and Shepherd didn’t want him worrying about what was in his hands.

There was a rapid footfall behind him and Shepherd half turned, his hands instinctively coming up to protect his face, but it was only a jogger, a tall blond man in his twenties wearing oversized Sony headphones. He missed Shepherd by inches and it took all Shepherd’s self-control not to kick the man’s legs from underneath him as he went by. Joggers could be as aggressive as cyclists, and the man passed so close to a woman pushing a stroller that he brushed her coat and she shouted after him to mind where he was going.

A figure ambled across the grass from the direction of a clump of trees, and even though the man’s face was obscured by the fur-lined hood of a green parka, Shepherd instinctively knew that it was Lex Harper. He had put on a few pounds since they had served together in Afghanistan, but he had the same lanky stride and the way of bending slightly at the knees with each step so that his head was constantly bopping up and down as he walked.

Shepherd stopped and waited. Harper was wearing brown cargo pants and Timberland boots and had his hands thrust deep in his pockets. He didn’t look up until he reached Shepherd. ‘Long time no see, mate,’ he said, in a voice that sounded less Scottish than Shepherd remembered. He tilted his chin up and looked at Shepherd with an amused smile on his face.

‘You’ve put on weight,’ said Shepherd.

‘You haven’t,’ said Harper. ‘Are you still running with that rucksack of bricks?’

‘Not as much as I used to.’

Harper laughed and stepped forward to hug Shepherd. There was something awkward about the way that Harper moved and for a brief moment Shepherd tensed, but then realised that Harper wasn’t a threat, he was just nervous. He patted him on the back and then stepped away. ‘What’s going on, Lex?’ he said.

Harper nodded at a bench at the edge of the path that cut through the park towards the lake. ‘Let’s have a sit-down,’ he said. They walked together to the bench. As they sat, Harper looked at Shepherd’s reddened knuckles and frowned. ‘You been fighting, Spider?’

‘Had some tattoos lasered off.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Harper. ‘You were never one for tattoos.’

‘Yeah? Well, I was never one for fist fighting, either.’

‘Aye, that’s the truth,’ said Harper. ‘A sniping rifle was always your weapon of choice.’ He chuckled. ‘Those were the days, huh? You the sniper and me the spotter, watching your back.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘You were good, Lex. Bloody good. Remember how dubious I was when we first met?’

Harper shrugged. ‘You didn’t know me from Adam. I was just a wet-behind-the-ears Para and you were an SAS superhero.’

‘Yeah, but I needn’t have worried. You did good.’ He sighed. ‘So you never went for Selection?’

Harper chuckled. ‘Come on, mate. Are you telling me you didn’t ask around about me after I called?’

‘Why would I?’

‘You’re a spook, right? That’s what spooks do.’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘Lex, you’re a mate. I’m sorry that we lost touch and that, but when a mate calls me out of the blue I don’t run a PNC check on them.’

‘Are you serious? It’s the first thing I would have done.’

‘Lex, what the hell is going on? What would I have found if I had checked up on you?’

Harper laughed softly. ‘Hopefully not much, as it happens. But there was a small matter of an armed robbery or two a few years back that is still on record.’

‘Armed robbery?’

‘Allegedly,’ said Harper. He put up his hands in mock surrender. ‘All right, Officer, I’ll come quietly. I’ve been a bad, bad boy.’

‘What the hell happened, Lex? You were one of the best lads out there in Afghanistan.’

Harper shrugged. ‘Didn’t seem like a long-term career, the way they were cutting back.’

‘And what, armed robbery offers better career prospects?’

‘Don’t start getting all judgemental on me, Spider. And I’ve given up blagging. I’m more into import–export these days.’

‘Drugs?’

Harper grinned. ‘Allegedly.’

‘What the hell happened, Lex? Soldiering pays OK and there’s plenty of opportunity to go private.’

‘Why did I choose the dark side, is that what you’re asking?’

‘You were a bloody good soldier. You were the best of the Paras out there.’

Harper flashed him a mock salute. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’

‘You know what I mean. You were a natural. You’d have made it through Selection, no bother. I’d have put a good word in for you. The major, too.’

Lex shook his head. ‘I wasn’t even given the chance,’ he said. ‘I was part of the cutbacks.’

‘What?’

‘Cost savings, they’re cutting the army to the bone. That’s what the colonel said to me. There was nothing wrong with me, I could walk out with my head held high, a question of numbers, and all that crap.’

‘They sacked you?’

‘They sacked thousands of us, mate. Haven’t you heard? The economy’s fucked. Those bastard bankers screwed the economy and I was given my marching orders. I told the colonel that I wanted to try for the SAS and he said I should give the TA a go.’ Lex smiled. ‘I told him to go fuck himself and that was pretty much the end of my military career.’

‘I’m sorry, Lex. Seriously.’

‘Not your problem, mate.’

‘You could have spoken to Major Gannon. He might have been able to pull some strings.’

‘That boat’s sailed,’ said Harper. He shrugged. ‘Anyway, a group of us figured that if it was the banks that had fucked us over, we should give them a taste of their own medicine. Make a few unauthorised withdrawals, if you like.’

‘With shotguns?’

‘With AK-47s, as it happens,’ said Harper. ‘Some of the guys had brought guns back over as souvenirs. We had all the guns we needed. The ammo we had to get here, but ammo’s easy enough to get. Though to be honest we never had to fire a gun in anger. Point and shout and they hand over the cash without a fight. That’s what they’re trained to do.’

‘Health and safety,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’re not allowed to put up a fight.’

‘Yeah, well, we did a dozen or so banks, up and down the country. Then we used that money to get into the drugs game and that’s what we’ve been doing ever since. We keep a low profile these days, but we’re making money hand over fist. Millions, Spider. We’re making millions.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s good to hear,’ said Shepherd, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘Drugs, Lex? Bloody drugs?’

‘You’re looking at it from the point of view of a cop, or a former cop,’ said Harper. ‘Drugs is the modern prohibition. If this was in the States back in the 1920s we’d be heroes.’

‘What, like Al Capone? You’re breaking the law. Don’t expect me to approve of what you’re doing.’

‘I’m not asking for your approval, Spider. I’m just explaining the way things are. And that’s why I’ve got to keep my head down. I’m still wanted in the UK.’

‘So where are you based now?’

‘Thailand, most of the time.’

Shepherd turned to look at him. ‘Are you serious? I was over in Thailand a few years back. Bangkok and Pattaya.’

‘I know, mate. I saw you.’

‘No bloody way,’ said Shepherd.

‘Saw you and kept well away,’ said Harper. ‘You were hanging around Mickey and Mark Moore and I figured you were up to something. I asked around and you were using some fake name or other so I figured you wouldn’t want to have to explain how come you know a former Para.’

Shepherd sat back and ran his hands through his hair. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said.

‘Believe it,’ said Harper. ‘You were with a guy who was a few years older than you. You kept meeting up with him.’

‘Razor,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was my wingman.’

Harper chuckled. ‘He spent most of his time in massage places when you weren’t around.’

‘You know the Moore brothers?’

‘Sure. Been to some great parties at their place.’

‘How are they?’

‘Same old,’ said Harper. ‘They’ve given up blagging. Like me, they finance the odd import–export thing now and then. Enough to make a good living but not enough to attract attention. You were a cop then, right?’

‘SOCA,’ said Shepherd. ‘Serious Organised Crime Agency. Supposed to be the British FBI but it turned out to be the Keystone Kops.’

‘Is that why Mickey and Mark are still living the life in Pattaya?’

‘It’s complicated,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I owe you one for not blowing my cover.’ He looked around the park. A woman in a Chanel suit walked by with two chihuahuas in matching pink jackets. ‘Can’t we go to a pub? Or a coffee shop.’ He jerked a thumb to the north side of the park. ‘Bayswater’s over there.’

‘I’d rather not, mate,’ said Harper. ‘There’s CCTV everywhere these days. That and face recognition could have me behind bars faster than you could say …’ He laughed. ‘Dunno how to end that sentence.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, you were never a great talker. But you were one hell of a soldier.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘Seriously, mate, two grown men sitting on a bench talking looks a bit weird, don’t you think.’ He nodded at the Serpentine in the distance, the water as steely grey as the overcast sky. ‘We can sit outside at the Lido Bar. There’s no CCTV, you can smoke and at least we can have a drink. Keep the hood of your parka up if it makes you feel better.’

‘OK, OK.’ Harper sighed. He pushed himself up off the bench and the two men headed over the grass towards the bar. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapped one out and offered it to Shepherd. Shepherd shook his head so Harper slipped it between his lips and lit it with a yellow disposable lighter. ‘How did you know I was a smoker?’

‘I can smell it on you, and you’ve got nicotine stains on your fingers,’ said Shepherd. ‘Elementary, dear Watson. What’s the story? You never smoked in Afghanistan.’

‘Never wanted to,’ said Harper. ‘But most of the guys I hang out with now are smokers and I sort of got pulled into it.’ He held up the burning cigarette. ‘It feels good. If it didn’t, people wouldn’t smoke, would they?’

‘There’s no accounting for folk,’ said Shepherd. ‘I hear a lot of people like Marmite, but I’ve never seen the point of that.’

‘Now Marmite, there I agree with you. Never seen the point of it either.’

They found a quiet table in the outside area of the bar and ordered coffees. ‘I’ll have a brandy as well,’ said Harper. ‘Take the chill off it.’ He pushed his hood down and shook his head. His hair was starting to grey at the temples but he looked pretty much the same as he had when they had served together in Afghanistan. He had the same lean, wiry frame and his habit of jutting up his chin as if expecting an argument at any moment.

‘I’ll have a Jamesons,’ said Shepherd.

As the waitress walked away, Shepherd stretched out his legs and folded his arms. ‘Why are you here, Lex? If being seen in the UK is such a big thing, why are you putting yourself in the firing line?’

‘Because of this,’ said Harper. He reached into his parka and pulled out an envelope. He gave it to Shepherd. Inside was a newspaper cutting with a photograph of a man in a grey shell suit trying to hide his face with an umbrella.

Shepherd read the story. There were just a few paragraphs. The newspaper said the man’s name was Wayne McKillop and that he was accused of ripping the headscarves off two Muslim women in the Westfield shopping centre. According to the article, McKillop had pleaded not guilty and had told police that it had only been a joke and not a racial attack. ‘So?’ said Shepherd.

‘You’re not looking carefully enough,’ said Harper.

Shepherd stared at the cutting, rereading it slowly. Then he moved his face closer to the photograph. There wasn’t much to see of the man’s face. There were two women in the background, and a man. Shepherd’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the man. He was Arabic looking with a straggly beard and a woollen Muslim cap. The man didn’t seem to be aware of the photographer; he was striding along the pavement, staring straight ahead. In his right hand was a bulging white plastic carrier bag. In profile his hooked nose gave him the look of a bird of prey, but the most distinctive feature was his milky eye. ‘No bloody way,’ whispered Shepherd.

Harper took a long pull on his cigarette and blew smoke before speaking slowly. ‘Ahmad Khan,’ he said. ‘The bastard who killed Todd and put a bullet in your shoulder. And shot three of my mates in the back.’

The breath caught in Shepherd’s throat. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘He’s alive and well and living in London. Or at least he was when that photograph was taken. That’s him walking by West London County Court. And the paper’s dated exactly one week ago.’

Time seemed to stop for Shepherd as the words sank in. There hadn’t been a day when he hadn’t thought of Ahmad Khan. The wound in his shoulder had long healed, but the scar was still there, an ever-present reminder of the night in October 2002 when the bullet from Khan’s AK-74 had come within inches of ending his life. As he sat on the bench, his left hand absent-mindedly rubbed his shoulder. There were some mornings when he’d stand in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection and wondering whether there had been anything he could have done differently that day, anything that would have stopped Khan from killing Captain Harry Todd and almost ending his own life. He looked at the top of the cutting. The name of the paper was there. The Fulham and Hammersmith Chronicle. And Harper was right about the date. So within the last couple of weeks, Ahmad Khan had been walking the streets of West London.

‘You OK, mate?’ asked Harper.

Shepherd stopped rubbing his shoulder. ‘You definitely think it’s him?’

‘I wouldn’t have come all the way from Thailand if I didn’t,’ said Harper.

‘How the hell does a muj fighter end up in the UK?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I figured you’d be the one to answer that,’ said Harper. ‘You’ve got access that I haven’t.’

‘How did you get this?’ asked Shepherd, holding up the cutting.

‘Just one of those things,’ said Harper. ‘I was in an English bar for my morning fry-up and the guy next to me is reading the paper. Turns out he’s lived in Pattaya for fifteen years but every week he has the local paper flown out to him. When he’d finished he left the paper and I grabbed it for a read. That piece was on page seven or so. Recognised him straight away. That milky eye.’

Shepherd stared at the picture. His memory was close to photographic but ten years was a long time and people changed.

‘It’s him, Spider. I’d stake my life on it.’

Shepherd nodded. It definitely looked like Ahmad Khan. ‘What do you want to do, Lex?’

‘At the moment, just check that it’s true, that he’s in the UK. Maybe it is just someone who looks the spitting image of him. They say everyone’s got a double, right? A doppelgänger.’ He gestured at the newspaper. ‘Maybe there’s another guy with a milky eye and a straggly beard.’

‘Fair enough, I can do that,’ said Shepherd.

‘To be honest, mate, I hope it’s not him,’ said Harper. ‘I hope he died back in Afghanistan. I’d hate to think of him living the life of Riley all these years in the UK. There’d be something very wrong with that.’

‘That’s for sure,’ said Shepherd, scanning the article again, even though his photographic memory had kicked in the first moment he’d set eyes on it. ‘And what if it is him, Lex? What then?’

‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.’ Harper took a small Samsung phone from his pocket and gave it to Shepherd. ‘Soon as you know one way or another, send me a text on that. I’ve put the number in. I’ll call you back.’

Shepherd weighed the phone in the palm of his hand. ‘You really are into this cloak and dagger stuff, aren’t you?’

‘I know that phone’s clean and it’s a throwaway SIM card,’ said Harper.

‘Charger?’

Harper put his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a black charger with its lead rolled up. Shepherd laughed. ‘I was joking, I’ve got all the chargers I need.’ He put the phone away. ‘Seriously, you’re sure this secrecy is necessary? I’d never heard of you being involved in anything shady.’

‘That’s because I keep below the radar whenever I can,’ said Harper. ‘The guys who drive the Rollers and the Ferraris and who swan around the nightclubs and restaurants, they’re the ones who get on the most-wanted lists. I’m a nobody, Spider, and I plan to stay that way. For as long as possible.’ He stubbed the cigarette out on the sole of his shoe and then slipped the butt into the pocket of his parka. He realised Shepherd was watching. ‘DNA,’ Harper said.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Dead right I’m serious,’ said Harper. ‘At the moment, I’m not in the system. But once they have your DNA, they have you for ever. And then it’s game over.’

‘Who’s “they” exactly?’

‘Your mob, for a start. And the cops. And the government. I’ll make you a bet, Spider. Within our lifetimes they’ll make DNA sampling compulsory. They want everyone in the world to be in a mass database so that they can track and identify us all. And they’ll have us chipped, too.’

‘Chipped?’

‘A GPS-enabled microchip, under the skin. Then they’ll know who you are and what you are. Trust me, Spider. It’s coming. All I’m doing is delaying the inevitable.’

‘And why would they do that?’

‘Control. So that we all became good little consumers.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘You’re starting to sound paranoid.’

‘Really? Most criminals get caught in the act, or they get grassed up, right?’

‘Sure.’

‘But how else do you catch people?’ Shepherd opened his mouth to speak but Harper beat him to it. ‘I’ll tell you. DNA. And mobile phones. The cops use phones to show where you were at such and such a time. Which is why they want the chip out of the phones and under your skin. I tell you, mate, that’s where we’re heading. Everyone’s DNA on record, a chip under your skin, and then they can see everything you do. They’ll do away with money, too. All your assets will be recorded on the chip and if you don’t toe the line your chip will be wiped and you’ll be a non-person.’

‘I’m starting to wish I hadn’t asked.’

Harper leaned closer to him. ‘Listen, Spider, do you think we could get away with slotting Khan if the cops were able to pinpoint his location and then identify everyone who came near him? That information plus the time of death makes it an open and shut case. That’s what they want, and eventually that’s what they’ll get.’ He sat back again. ‘But until then, I stay off the grid and squirrel away my assets as best I can. At least in Thailand the authorities pretty much leave you alone. Do you know what Thailand means?’

‘Land of the free,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah. Land of the free. And they are free, pretty much. Much more free than people are here. I don’t understand how we let things get as bad as they are.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Anyway, enough of my bellyaching. Let’s find this Khan and give him what he deserves.’

‘Where are you staying?’ asked Shepherd.

Harper nodded over at the north side of the park. ‘I’m in a B&B in Bayswater,’ he said. ‘One of the few places left that doesn’t ask for a credit card.’ He stood up and flipped the hood of the parka up over his head. ‘It’s good to see you, Spider. The circumstances are shit but I wish I’d kept in touch.’

‘Me too,’ said Shepherd. He stood up and the two men shook hands, then Shepherd grinned, pulled the man towards him and hugged him, patting him on the back between the shoulder blades. ‘You be careful,’ he said.

‘You too, mate.’

Shepherd called Jimmy Sharpe’s number as he walked across the park. It had been almost six months since he had seen his former colleague but he needed someone he could trust and Razor Sharpe had never let him down. ‘Please tell me you’re in London,’ said Shepherd as soon as Sharpe answered.

‘I’m in New Scotland Yard as we speak,’ said Sharpe in his gruff Glaswegian accent. ‘Being briefed on a group of Romanian ATM fiddlers.’

‘Now how the hell are you going to blend in with a group of Romanian gypsies?’

‘You can’t call them gypsies,’ said Sharpe. ‘That’s racist.’

‘You’ve been on another racism and diversity course, haven’t you?’ Shepherd laughed.

‘My sixth,’ said Sharpe.

‘Is it sinking in yet?’

‘You know me, Spider, I treat everyone the same no matter what their colour or where they’re from. If you’re bad you go to jail, if you’re good I’ll do what I can to help you. But I have to say, these Romanians are a right shower of shits. They’re bringing in hundreds of child pickpockets because they know that even if we catch them red handed we can’t do a thing to them. Now they’re using the kids to work the ATM skimmers. The adults stay in the background, organising and taking the money, while ten-year-old kids do the criminal work. And they’re all EU now so we can’t even deport them. ‘

‘So what’s the strategy?’

‘Following the little fish upstream, see if we can get the godfathers. But you know as well as I do that the sentences the judges hand out are a joke these days. Anyway, enough of my trials and tribulations, what do you need?’

‘Why do you think I need anything?’

‘Because the only time I ever hear from you is when you want something,’ said Sharpe. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken, mate. Any chance of a quick chat?’

‘It’ll have to be near me,’ said Sharpe. ‘We’re out and about all this evening and into the early hours.’

‘I can get to the Feathers.’ The Feathers was the closest pub to New Scotland Yard, a regular hangout for off-duty officers, or at least the ones that still drank.

‘Text me when you get there and I’ll pop down,’ said Sharpe.

Shepherd ended the call and as soon as he left the park he flagged down a black cab. The traffic was light and in less than half an hour the cabby dropped him in front of the pub. Shepherd paid the driver and sent Sharpe a text telling him he’d arrived. As he walked into the pub, Shepherd received a text back. ‘Mine’s a pint of Foster’s.’

Shepherd was sitting at a corner table with a pint of lager and a Jamesons with ice and soda when Sharpe walked in. He was wearing a heavy black leather coat over a black pullover and black jeans and clearly hadn’t shaved in a few days. The two men shook hands. Sharpe was in his fifties, his hair was greying but the beard growth was almost pure white. He’d grown his hair long and combed it back and was only a week or so away from a ponytail.

‘You look tired,’ said Shepherd as Sharpe sat down and picked up his pint.

‘I’ve been on this case for over a week and it’s doing my head in,’ said Sharpe. ‘They’re real lowlifes and I’ve got to blend. They drink in some very dodgy dives.’

‘I’m assuming you’re not trying to pass yourself off as a Romanian?’

Sharpe laughed. ‘Nah, I’m a Scottish gangster in the market for swiped debit cards,’ he said. ‘I keep upping the ante and I’m working my way up to the top guys.’ He took a long pull on his pint and then smacked his lips. ‘First of the day.’

‘They’re OK with you drinking on duty?’

‘On this one I’m on duty twenty-four hours a day,’ said Sharpe. ‘And the guys I’m dealing with, if they don’t smell alcohol on my breath they’ll assume something’s wrong.’ He looked around the pub and shook his head sadly. ‘Back in the day this would have been full of coppers,’ he said. ‘Some of them in uniform. Now most of them are scared to show their faces here. God forbid a copper should enjoy a drink or two.’ He chuckled. ‘My old boss in my first CID job, up in Strathclyde, kept a bottle of malt in his bottom drawer and every time we had a result it would come out and it’d be drinks all round. You get caught with a can of lager over there and you’d be out on your ear. I tell you, I’m glad I’m getting near retirement.’ He took another long pull on his lager.

‘You’ll never retire, Razor. And they’ll never sack you. You’re too valuable a resource.’

‘Aye, well, maybe I’ll go freelance for your mob,’ he said.

‘They’d have you like a shot,’ said Shepherd.

‘Even the fragrant Miss Button?’

Shepherd grinned. ‘Well, her not so much, maybe, but there’d be plenty of departments would jump at you. Surveillance is always recruiting.’

‘I’m too old to be a pavement artist,’ said Sharpe. ‘And like you I get a kick out of being undercover.’

‘A kick? I don’t do undercover for kicks, Razor. Behave.’

‘You say that, but we both know that you get a buzz from it,’ said Sharpe, jabbing his finger at Shepherd. ‘The adrenalin rush, the endolphin thing.’

‘Endorphins,’ said Shepherd. ‘And I don’t get a buzz. It’s a job. And it’s a bloody scary one at times.’

‘And you like that. We both do. If you didn’t, you’d have taken a desk job at Five a long time ago.’ He leaned towards Shepherd and lowered his voice. ‘Come on, admit it. Telling lies to get close to someone and then turning them over, you get a kick out of that. Getting a complete stranger to trust you, when everything you’re telling them is a lie, there’s not many people who get the chance to do that, legally.’

‘It’s my job, and I’m good at it, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy lying to people,’ said Shepherd. ‘I do get a kick out of putting away bad guys, though. I can’t deny that.’

Sharpe took another pull on his pint. ‘So what is it you want?’

‘You know I got shot, back when I was in Afghanistan? Well, the Pakistan–Afghanistan border to be accurate.’

‘I’ve seen the scar,’ said Sharpe.

‘I nearly bought it,’ said Shepherd. ‘Closest I ever came. A young SAS captain died during the same operation. Died in my arms.’

Sharpe said nothing and sat watching Shepherd, his face impassive.

‘His name was Harry Todd,’ continued Shepherd. ‘Typical Rupert, wet behind the ears but thought he knew everything.’ Shepherd shrugged. ‘Afghanistan was a baptism of fire for him. He fucked up and three Paras were killed.’ He stopped talking and stared at the floor as the memories flooded back.

‘Fucked up how?’

‘He thought he had this SEP. A Surrendered Enemy Personnel. Basically a Taliban fighter who wanted to change sides. The story was that this muj wanted to bring in his mates and they needed an escort. Todd got a hard-on for the guy and sent him out with three Paras. We found them dead a few hours later. Two of them shot in the back of the head, one shot as he was running away. And no sign of the muj.’

‘It was a trap?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah. It was a trap. The muj – his name was Ahmad Khan – had set the whole thing up. Told Todd what he wanted to hear and Todd sent three Paras to their deaths.’

‘I hope he was out on his arse,’ said Sharpe.

‘Nah, he wasn’t RTU’d.’

‘RTU?’

‘Returned to unit,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s generally what happens when someone screws up. But they let Todd stay on.’ He shrugged. ‘As it turned out, it would have been better for him if he had been RTU’d.’

Sharpe sipped his lager and waited for Shepherd to continue.

‘Some time later Todd found out where Khan was. He’d been seen at an al-Qaeda place over the border in Afghanistan, a staging post for money they’d been collecting from opium farmers and the like. Todd put together a team and we went out on a search and destroy mission.’ He drained his glass, then took a deep breath. It wasn’t a memory that he enjoyed reliving. ‘We flew in by helicopter, six of us including the captain. Four-man perimeter while me and Todd set explosives and blew the place. The concussion killed everyone inside so we set fire to the place and exited. That was when Khan started firing. Killed the captain and caught me in the shoulder.’ He shook his head, trying to blot out the memory of the captain dying in his arms. ‘Khan did a runner and the guys got me to the chopper.’

‘That was why you left the SAS, right?’

‘It was part of it,’ said Shepherd.

‘So what’s the problem now?’ asked Sharpe.

Shepherd sighed. ‘I need another drink,’ he said, and stood up.

Sharpe finished his lager and held out his empty glass. ‘Amen to that.’

Shepherd went over to the bar and returned with fresh drinks. He sat down and stretched out his legs. ‘The thing is, it looks like Khan is in the UK. I don’t know how he managed it but he’s here.’

‘Probably got asylum,’ said Sharpe. ‘He’s not the first and he won’t be the last. Remember we let Robert Mugabe’s chief torturer claim asylum here not so long ago?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘It’s a crazy system, there’s no doubt about that,’ he said. ‘In the old days any Afghan threatened by the Taliban could claim asylum if he got to the UK. Then after the Coalition invaded Afghanistan, the Taliban could maintain that their lives were at risk so they could claim asylum. Now that the Taliban is regaining control, we’re back to stage one. It’s crazy.’

‘If it was me, I’d put them all up against a wall and shoot them,’ said Sharpe.

‘Afghans?’

Sharpe grinned. ‘The bloody politicians who got us into this state,’ he said. ‘You explain to me why we’ve got Taliban, former or otherwise, living here?’

‘Ours not to reason why, Razor. You know that. We’re just instruments of the state.’

‘And what do you want from me?’ asked Sharpe.

‘I need you to have a root around the PNC for Ahmad Khan,’ said Shepherd. ‘And run the name by the intelligence guys.’

‘I’d have thought your mob would have had more intel on him,’ said Sharpe. ‘You’ve got access to the PNC, right?’

‘Sure. But every time Five accesses it the request is flagged and I don’t want a trail.’

‘But you’re happy for my name to be flagged?’

‘No, I know you’re smart enough to get in and out without anyone knowing you were there.’

‘You know that’s a sackable offence now?’ said Sharpe. ‘The days of pulling up reg numbers for mates are long gone.’

‘Yeah, and I know how you always play by the rules, Razor,’ said Shepherd, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

‘So this isn’t official?’

‘If it was official, Razor, why would I be plying you with drink and asking for a favour?’

Sharpe nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ll sniff around. But that won’t be any help if he’s here illegally. In fact, if he’s got into the country under a false name and is living below the radar …’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

‘If it was easy, I wouldn’t be asking you, would I?’

Sharpe grinned. ‘Don’t try manipulating me, Spider. I’ve known you too long.’

‘I’m serious, this is a tough one. But I need to find him.’

‘Because?’

‘Because?’

‘He’s the guy that shot you, right? I’m assuming you don’t want to shake him by the hand and tell him that bygones are bygones.’

‘Best you don’t know.’

‘Best I do, actually,’ said Sharpe. ‘If something happens to this Khan character I don’t want my name in the frame.’

‘That’s why it needs to be done on the QT,’ said Shepherd.

Sharpe held Shepherd’s look and Shepherd could see the concern in his friend’s eyes. ‘Revenge can get nasty, Spider,’ he said quietly.

‘He shot me. He killed my captain, shot him in the head and he died in my arms. And he shot three Paras in the back.’

‘It was war, right?’

‘Even in a war situation you don’t shoot people in the back. There are rules. Some of them are in the Geneva Convention and some of them aren’t written down, but there are rules.’ He took another sip of his drink. ‘He shot them in the back, Razor. Two of them while they were sitting in a Land Rover, the other one when he was running away. And now he’s in the UK. That can’t be right.’

Sharpe nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, the days of the Queensberry Rules are long gone,’ he said. ‘OK, I won’t ask you what you’re going to do because it’s best I don’t know. Just be careful, yeah?’

‘Always,’ said Shepherd.

Sharpe reached over and clinked his pint glass against Shepherd’s whiskey and soda. Then he raised his glass in the air. ‘To crime!’ he said.

Shepherd laughed and repeated the toast and then the two men drank.

‘There’s something else,’ said Shepherd as he put down his glass.

‘There usually is,’ growled Sharpe.

‘I need you to check up on the guy who gave me the info on Khan. A former Para by the name of Alex Harper. Everyone calls him Lex. He was a Para with me in Afghanistan. He was my spotter for a while.’

‘Spotter?’

‘I did a bit of sniping and you always need a spotter, someone who watches your back, helps ID targets, checks the wind and stuff. Sniping’s a two-man game and Lex was my number two. Bloody good, he was. Pulled my nuts out of the fire a few times.’

‘I’m sensing a but, here.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, a lot’s changed in ten years, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘He’s left the army and lives out in Thailand now.’

‘Ah, the Land of Smiles,’ said Sharpe.

‘Yeah, well, turns out it’s a small world. He knows the Moore brothers and he’s in the same line of work.’

‘Armed robbery?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah, he left the army and did a few banks. I think in his mind he was a sort of Robin Hood, told me that it was a way of getting back at the banks because of what they did to the country.’

‘That’s logical for you.’

‘In a crazy way he made sense,’ said Shepherd. ‘The banks screwed the economy, the MoD has to get rid of men to save money, Lex loses his job, so Lex hits back at the banks.’ He shrugged. ‘Sort of made sense at the time.’

‘He hurt anyone?’

‘Doesn’t seem to have done,’ said Shepherd. ‘You know that the key to successful blagging is shock and awe. It’s a bit like being an armed cop – if you get to the stage where you actually have to pull the trigger, you’ve pretty much failed.’ He swirled his whiskey and soda around his glass. ‘Anyway, he’s moved on now. Drugs. The big league.’

Sharpe grimaced. ‘That’s not good,’ he said.

‘You’re telling me.’

‘You need to watch yourself, Spider. Seriously.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘I mean it. If you get caught in bed with a drugs dealer your feet won’t touch the ground.’

Shepherd put up his hand dismissively. ‘I’m not stupid, Razor.’

‘Never said you were, but you sometimes have a blind spot where friends are concerned. You can cut people too much slack, you know? I get that he was a Para, I get that he saved your bacon in Afghanistan.’ He realised what he had said and laughed. ‘Ha ha, bacon in a Muslim country. Not much chance of that.’

‘Very funny, Razor. Hilarious. I sense another racism and diversity course on the horizon.’

‘OK, dietary humour aside, people change. And if you get caught passing confidential information to a drugs dealer, you’re screwed and you’re screwed big-time.’

‘I hear you. I’ll be careful. And whatever happens, you know your name won’t be mentioned.’

‘Just be careful,’ said Sharpe. ‘So what do you need?’

‘Lex is clever, he knows how to keep off the grid. There’s nothing on him on the Five databases, I’ve already checked, but I don’t want to go on to the PNC, so can you do that for me? Then maybe reach out to Intel and to Drugs? See what, if anything, is known. He was in Spain for a while, but now he’s based in Thailand. He’s super-careful about CCTV and communications, so he might have been lucky.’

‘I’ll check,’ said Sharpe.

Shepherd took his wallet and slipped a piece of paper across the table. ‘I got some basic info from his army record,’ he said.

Sharpe picked up the piece of paper, folded it, and slid it into his pocket. ‘This Lex was a friend of the Paras who were killed?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah. In fact, if I hadn’t warned him not to go with them, he’d probably be dead now too.’

‘So he’s out for revenge, too?’

Shepherd nodded again. ‘Yeah.’

‘So why not just let him have what intel we get and leave it up to him? Keep yourself out of it.’

Shepherd sighed. ‘It’s not as easy as that.’

‘It never is,’ said Sharpe.