Chaudhry didn’t say anything for several seconds.
‘You forgot, didn’t you?’ said Shepherd eventually.
‘I’m sorry, John. I was just so caught up in what was happening.’
Shepherd laughed softly.
‘What?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Shepherd. ‘All’s well that end’s well.’
‘Did I do something wrong?’
‘You did just fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s meet tomorrow. We can talk about it then.’
Ray Fenby used his remote to flick through the channels of his TV and sighed at the stream of dross that made up daytime television: endless repeats, banal talk shows and rolling news. There was nothing at all worth watching. He pushed himself up off the sofa and padded over to his poky kitchen in his bare feet. The worst thing about working undercover was that for most of the time he was doing absolutely nothing. Pretty much all of the people he came in contact with had jobs, in which case they were tied up all day, or they were criminals, in which case they were usually asleep.
Fenby’s days were spent watching television, catnapping and waiting for the phone to ring. The fact that he was based in Birmingham just added to his misery because he had no friends or family in the city. At least when he’d been working in London he could drop round and have a beer with his mates. He opened the fridge. He’d run out of milk and there was nothing there that he wanted to eat, but there were half a dozen cans of Carlsberg Special. He sighed and wondered whether it was a good idea to start drinking at three o’clock in the afternoon, finally deciding that it probably wasn’t but that he was old enough to make bad decisions. He took out a can, popped it open and took it back to his sofa. He flopped down and drank.
His doorbell rang and he frowned. His flat was on the third floor with a door-entry system at the main entrance, and he hadn’t buzzed anyone in. He figured it was either Jehovah’s Witnesses or a cold caller wanting him to change his electricity supplier so he ignored it. His bell rang again, more insistently and for longer this time. He put the Carlsberg can on the floor and went to his front door. He looked through the peephole. It was Kettering. And Thompson. Fenby frowned. Kettering and Thompson had never been round to his flat before, though they had dropped him off outside the building. He took a deep breath and mentally switched himself into Ian Parton mode before opening the door. He forced a smile.
‘Hey, guys, what’s up?’
‘We’re on the way to the pub and thought we’d swing by and see if you wanted a pint,’ said Kettering.
‘Yeah, sure, I’ll get my coat,’ said Fenby.
He moved down the hall to get his jacket, but as he did so Kettering and Thompson followed him. As he turned round to look at them, a third man stepped into the hallway. He had close-cropped hair and a strong chin with a dimple in the centre. He was wearing a long dark-brown leather coat and as he reached up to scratch his head Fenby caught a glimpse of a heavy gold identity bracelet.
‘This is Mickey. He’s an old mate from London,’ said Kettering.
Mickey nodded at Fenby but didn’t say anything. He clasped his hands over his groin and studied Fenby with cold blue eyes.
‘Haven’t got any bubbly, have you?’ asked Kettering.
‘Afraid not,’ said Fenby. ‘Just lager.’
‘Not really thirsty anyway,’ said Kettering. He took out a leather cigar case, tapped out a cigar and lit it. He blew smoke slowly up at the ceiling and smiled. ‘Can’t beat a Cuban,’ he said.
Fenby wasn’t sure what to say. Something was wrong, he was certain of that, but he couldn’t for the life of him work out what it was.
‘How about we sit down and have a chat?’ said Kettering.
The three men bundled Fenby into his sitting room and pushed him down on the sofa. Kettering sat down in an armchair while Mickey stood by the door, glaring at Fenby. Thompson went over to a bookcase by the window and began flicking through the books there.
‘So how are things?’ asked Kettering.
‘Good. All good,’ Fenby said, nodding.
‘Spoken to James and Garry at all?’
Fenby frowned and shook his head. ‘No. Why?’
‘Just wondering.’ Kettering grinned. ‘How long have you known them?’
‘Is there a problem, Simon?’
Kettering’s smile hardened. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’
‘I’m confused, mate,’ said Fenby. ‘Has something happened?’
‘I think it has,’ said Kettering. He looked across at Thompson. ‘What do you think, Paul? Has something happened?’
Thompson nodded. ‘It looks like it,’ he said.
Fenby’s heart was racing. He was outnumbered three to one and it looked like he had a major problem on his hands. ‘Guys, come on, what is this, a wind-up?’
‘How long have you known Gracie?’ asked Kettering.
Fenby’s throat had gone dry and when he swallowed he almost gagged. ‘A few years. I don’t know. I mean, we’re not bosom buddies. I met him in a pub. We got talking, like you do. And he’s sold stuff to friends of mine.’
‘Edwards too, yeah?’
‘I know James better than Garry. But like I said, I’m not in his pocket. We’ve had a few beers, watched a few games, had a few nights on the town, but he doesn’t have me around for Christmas dinner.’
Kettering nodded slowly. ‘What team does he support?’
‘What?’
‘His team. What’s his team?’
‘Rangers. He’s Scottish and doesn’t bother much about the English teams. But he’d take Liverpool over Man U.’
‘Married?’
‘He’s never mentioned it.’
‘Where’s he live?’
‘I’m not sure. Croydon, maybe.’
‘What car does he drive?’
‘We’ve always been drinking so we’ve been in cabs. Look, Simon, what’s going on?’
‘Just answer the questions, old lad. You’re doing fine,’ said Kettering. ‘Where was the last time you saw him?’
‘Couple of months ago.’
‘I said where, not when.’
‘A pub.’
‘Where, exactly?’
‘Central London. The east end.’
‘On his own?’
‘There was a group of us.’
‘What was he drinking?’
‘Champagne. He’s big on the old bubbly, like you guys.’
‘Who else was there?’
Sweat beaded on Fenby’s forehead as he felt Kettering forcing him into a corner. He was having to lie but without being able to base his lies on anything solid; and without a foundation of truth the tower of lies he was building threatened to come crashing down around him. He had to do something to break the line of questioning. He stood up. ‘I need to take a leak, guys,’ he said.
‘Sit the fuck down,’ said Thompson.
Fenby tried to smile, hands out, showing his palms, forcing his body language to be as open as possible. ‘Guys, come on, this is me. Let me take a leak.’
Kettering looked over at Mickey and nodded. Mickey reached into his jacket and pulled out a revolver.
