Shepherd shrugged. His son had a point: school was school. You went, they told you stuff, and then you went home.
‘See?’ said Liam. On the television screen, a high-powered car ran over two elderly pedestrians.
Shepherd raised his eyebrows. ‘Did you just run over them?’
‘You’re supposed to,’ said Liam. ‘That’s how you move up to the next level.’
‘By killing people?’
‘Dad! I’m trying to concentrate here.’ The car squealed round a corner on two wheels and knocked a cyclist into the air.
Katra popped her head round the door. ‘Hiya, Dan. I’m doing fried chicken, rosemary potatoes and broccoli.’
‘Perfect,’ said Shepherd. He expected the boy to quibble about the broccoli but Liam went on with his game. Sue had always had a problem getting any green vegetables into him, but he ate whatever Katra put in front of him.
The doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Katra, and headed down the hallway.
‘What’s this about you wanting piano lessons?’
Liam shrugged.
‘Why the piano? Why not the guitar?’
‘I don’t want to play the guitar.’
‘Pianos are expensive.’
‘We don’t have to buy one. There’s one at school and I’d have lessons there.’
‘You know what’s a great instrument?’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know what it’s called but it’s shaped like a triangle and you hit it.’
‘It’s called a triangle,’ said Liam. ‘And you’re taking the mickey.’
Katra reappeared at the door. ‘It’s one of your colleagues,’ she said.
It was Jimmy Sharpe and Shepherd gave him the holdall.
‘Nice,’ said Sharpe, nodding towards the kitchen, where Katra had disappeared.
‘She’s a kid,’ said Shepherd.
‘I only said she was nice.’
‘She’s an au pair.’
‘I don’t care what her religion is – I’d give her one.’
‘You’re a real gentleman, Razor.’ He jerked a thumb at the holdall. ‘Be careful with that. It’s been counted.’
‘Very funny,’ said Sharpe. He lowered his voice. ‘Have you heard anything about Sam Hargrove moving on?’
‘Moving on where?’
‘Bigger and better things.’
‘It’s news to me.’
‘It’ll be a bugger if he goes,’ said Sharpe.
‘Why would he? The unit’s his baby and we’ve had a string of successes.’
‘I’m just telling you what I heard,’ said Sharpe. ‘Keep your ear to the ground. Forewarned is forearmed.’
‘Any more cliches or are you done?’
Sharpe winked and headed for his car.
Shepherd went back into the sitting room. The car was driving at full speed along a crowded highway. The driver kept leaning out of the window to fire a shotgun. ‘Is he doing what I think he is?’
‘ Dad! ’
A mobile phone rang in the kitchen. ‘Dan, it’s one of yours!’ shouted Katra.
Shepherd hurried into the kitchen. It was his work phone. Shepherd picked it up. It was Hargrove.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Shepherd, by way of a greeting. He never used his boss’s name or rank, either on the phone or when they were together in case he was overheard.
‘We’ve got an address in Tower Hamlets,’ said Hargrove. ‘A three-bedroom council flat. We’re working through the databases now but, as always at weekends, we’re not getting much co-operation from the local council or the utility companies.’
‘I can’t believe they’re smuggling in that much cash and living in a council flat,’ said Shepherd.
‘They might just be clever,’ said Hargrove. ‘Staying below the radar. Look, something’s come up and we need to talk. Face to face.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Tomorrow will be soon enough. I’ve got to pop into the Yard, then see someone at Waterloo. How about I meet you by the London Eye at eleven?’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Shepherd. ‘Anything I should worry about?’ Hargrove’s tone had told him something was wrong.
‘Nothing earth-shattering. I’ll talk it through with you tomorrow.’ He ended the call.
Shepherd put his phone on the kitchen counter. He hoped the investigation hadn’t run into problems.
Shepherd took a Piccadilly Line train from South Ealing to South Kensington, where he changed platforms and waited for an eastbound Circle or District Line train. He let the first two trains go by to check that he wasn’t being shadowed. The third was on the Circle Line and he sat opposite two Italian tourists, facing the platform. There was a copy of Metro, the free newspaper, on the seat next to him and he flicked through it as the train headed east, but couldn’t concentrate and soon tossed it aside. The Italian couple were pointing at the Tube map above his head and murmuring to each other.
Shepherd folded his arms and closed his eyes. He knew why he was tense: Victoria station was down the line. It had been more than six months since he’d shot the would-be suicide-bomber on the westbound platform, then left the station unchallenged and been picked up by one of Gannon’s men in an unmarked car. The CCTV footage of the fatal shooting had been erased, and the body removed by MI5 technicians, who had also sanitised the area. An hour after Shepherd’s last shot had echoed around the tunnel it was as if nothing had happened.
The train stopped and Shepherd opened his eyes. Sloane Square. The Italian tourists got off and three black teenagers got on, baseball caps, Puffa jackets and baggy jeans. They sat opposite Shepherd and started talking about football. Shepherd closed his eyes again. The killing ran through his mind in slow motion. Running through the tunnel on to the platform. The man, his back to Shepherd, wearing a brown raincoat, black trousers and black shoes, his hair jet black and glistening under the lights. Shepherd raising his Glock, the gun kicking, the front of the man’s forehead exploding in a shower of blood, brain matter and bone fragments. Firing again. And again. The man slumping to the floor. Shepherd pumping more rounds into his head at close range.
The train moved off again. He didn’t feel guilty about what he’d done. There was no way he could have called a warning, not when the terrorist had his finger on the trigger. He had done the only thing he could, and neutralised the threat. The American at the Special Forces Club sprang to his mind and he smiled. The terrorist had been well neutralised.
One of the youths glared at him, showing a gold tooth. ‘What you laughing at?’ he sneered.
Shepherd smiled amiably. ‘Nothing, really,’ he said.
‘Someone might wipe that grin off your face,’ said the youth, leaning forward. His companions were sniggering maliciously and clenching their fists.
Shepherd shrugged. ‘You could try, I suppose,’ he said.
A man in a suit with a shiny leather briefcase turned away pointedly, not wanting to get involved.
‘That a real Rolex?’ asked the young man, jerking his head at Shepherd’s watch.
‘I hope so,’ said Shepherd.
‘I want it!’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Shepherd.
The train swayed as it rattled through the tunnel. The youth’s hand disappeared into the pocket of his Puffa jacket and reappeared with a flick-knife. ‘Give me your watch and your mobile,’ he said, and got to his feet. His thumb depressed the silver button on the handle and a gleaming blade snapped out.
