Shepherd jiggled his leg, rattling the chain. ‘So, I’m out of here, right?’
‘Let me run something by you first,’ said Hargrove. ‘The parents of the girl you rescued were from Kosovo. They had a couple of suitcases with them. One contained three large cooking-oil cans filled with a hell of a lot of cash. Just under a million euros in five-hundred euro notes.’
‘They could have gone first class for that,’ said Shepherd, bought passports, new identities, the works.’
‘The money’s counterfeit, which is why we think they’re couriers. They don’t know that we’ve found it.’
‘But why run counterfeit euros from Europe into the UK? The UK’s about the only country left that doesn’t use the euro.’
‘Good question,’ said the superintendent.
‘You want me to talk to them – me being the hero and all?’
Hargrove flashed him a tight smile. ‘They’ve been asking for you. They want to thank you. It’d be an opening.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Shepherd.
‘We need to know where the notes were made, and where they were going.’
‘And I stay in character?’
‘Let’s see how it works,’ said Hargrove. ‘We’ll put you in the police station with them and give you a chance for a chat. If it doesn’t work, we’ll get Immigration to sweat them.’
‘How good are the notes?’ asked Shepherd.
‘They’re not good,’ said Hargrove. ‘They’re perfect, the real McCoy. Watermark, ink, paper, all genuine. The only way to tell they’re not real currency is by the numbers, which are sequential but haven’t been issued by the European Bank.’
‘Which means what?’
Hargrove shrugged. ‘The only people with access to that sort of printing equipment are governments. North Korea, maybe. They did the US superbills a few years back. But that’s hypothetical. Which is why I need you to talk to the girl’s parents.’
‘Okay. Where and when?’
Hargrove took a set of handcuffs from his pocket. ‘We’ll get them in here, just to start the ball rolling. Then we’ll run them down to Newcastle nick and process them. We’ll put you in a cell with the father and you can take it from there.’
Shepherd shook his left leg and the chain rattled. ‘This is a pain,’ he said.
‘It’s got to look like you’re one of the bad guys,’ said the superintendent.
‘Some way to treat a hero,’ Shepherd said ruefully. ‘I told the woodentop outside that I needed to use the loo and they offered to give me a bottle to piss in. They haven’t given me any food either.’
‘I’ll get it sorted,’ promised Hargrove.
‘I wouldn’t mind a phone, too, so that I can call Liam.’
‘Tomorrow. Soon as you’re in the van to the station.’ The superintendent stood up. ‘I’m serious about the commendation.’
‘I’m serious about the loo,’ said Shepherd.
It was late evening when a female uniformed police officer brought the little girl’s parents to Shepherd’s room. A male nurse had brought him a cheese sandwich and a lukewarm cup of tea. Shepherd hadn’t eaten anything since he’d left France and he’d wolfed it down.
The police officer opened the door and ushered the couple in. ‘Five minutes,’ she said brusquely. ‘I’ll wait outside.’
The young uniformed officer who had been guarding Shepherd all afternoon was sitting on a metal chair in the corner of the room, reading a copy of the Sun.
‘Any chance of a bit of privacy?’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m not your bloody butler,’ said the policeman.
‘And I’m not going anywhere, chained to the bed, am I?’ He jerked his head at the door. ‘Besides, it’d give you a chance to chat her up, wouldn’t it?’
The officer sighed, stood up and dropped his paper on to the chair. He glared at Shepherd as he left the room.
‘Alone at last,’ said Shepherd.
The man and woman frowned, not understanding. Shepherd hadn’t paid them much attention on the boat. They’d been wrapped in warm clothes, their heads swathed in thick scarves, the man carrying two bulky suitcases, the woman fussing over their daughter. Without their heavy clothing and under the hospital’s fluorescent lights he could see that they were in their early thirties. The man was square-jawed with a two-day growth of stubble, and the woman’s face was pinched with deep worry lines etched into the forehead.
‘How is your daughter?’ Shepherd asked.
The woman stepped forward, took his left hand in hers and pressed it to her cheek. She spoke to him in a language he didn’t understand. They were from Kosovo, Hargrove had said, which would make them economic migrants, rather than genuine refugees, Shepherd knew. The ethnic-cleansing horrors of the former Yugoslavia were a thing of the past, but few economic migrants travelled with a million euros.
‘My wife says we owe you everything,’ said her husband, in halting English.
‘Is she okay, your little girl?’
The man’s eyes glistened, as if he were close to tears. ‘Her name is Jessica. The doctors say she will be good soon,’ he said. ‘Because of you she is alive.’
The woman spoke to Shepherd again, tears running down her cheeks. She looked into his eyes as she spoke, and even though Shepherd couldn’t understand what she was saying he could feel gratitude pouring out of her.
‘My wife says we can never thank you enough,’ said her husband. ‘She is Edita. I am Rudi.’
He stuck out a hand and Shepherd shook it. ‘Tell her I’m a father,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just glad I was able to help.’
‘You could have died,’ said Rudi. ‘You do not know us but you risked your life to save our daughter.’ He translated for his wife. She nodded and kissed the back of Shepherd’s hand.
‘Where are you from?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Kosovo,’ said Rudi. ‘We want a new life in England. For us and for our daughter.’
The wife spoke to her husband and pointed at the chain attached to Shepherd’s leg.
‘Why are you chained?’ he asked.
‘The police did it,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m under arrest.’
‘But you saved our daughter.’
Shepherd forced a smile. ‘They don’t care,’ he said. ‘All they care about is that I was helping to bring you to England. I’ll probably go to prison.’
Rudi spoke to his wife, then nodded sympathetically at him. ‘I am sorry for what is happening to you,’ he said.
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Shepherd.
‘The captain, he was trying to make us jump into the sea.’
‘He’ll be going to prison too.’
‘He is an evil man.’
‘No question about that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Have they said what will happen to you?’
‘The police say they want us to go to court, to tell what happened. I am not sure that is a good idea.’ Rudi glanced around nervously as if he feared being overheard. ‘The men we paid to go on the boat, they are dangerous. If we help the police…’ He left the sentence unfinished.
‘The police can help you,’ said Shepherd. ‘They might let you stay in England.’
‘That is what they said,’ said Rudi. ‘But I cannot risk my wife and daughter. We will say nothing and they will send us back to Kosovo. We will try again, maybe next year.’ He put his arm round his wife’s shoulders. ‘We are very grateful,’ he said. ‘We will never forget you. What is your name?’
‘Tony,’ said Shepherd. ‘Tony Corke.’
‘We will never forget you, Tony Corke,’ he said. ‘And we will make sure that our daughter never forgets the name of the man who saved her life.’
‘I’m just glad she’s okay,’ said Shepherd.
