Corke’s.
The three mobiles were lined up in their chargers by the bedside table. Shepherd picked up the Tony Corke phone, then paced up and down for a few minutes, getting into character. He connected the digital recorder, then hit ‘redial’. The Uddin brothers’ number was the only one in the phone.
‘It’s me,’ said Shepherd. ‘Is that Ben?’
‘Yes,’ said Salik.
‘Everything okay with the cans?’
‘They were fine.’
‘Still not going to tell me what was inside them?’ He kept the tone light, chatty.
‘You were paid.’
‘Thanks for that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Though to be honest, it’s going straight into the pockets of my lawyer. Look, have you thought about what I said about my boat?’
‘I have thought about it, yes.’
‘So?’
‘We should talk.’
‘That’s why I called.’
‘Not over the phone,’ said Salik. ‘We must sit down and talk. You and me and my brother.’
‘The guy with the money was your brother?’
‘I don’t want to discuss anything on the phone,’ said Salik. ‘Today’s Monday. Let’s say we get together on Wednesday. We’ll have dinner. You can tell me about this boat of yours.’
‘Excellent,’ said Shepherd. ‘Where and when?’
‘I’ll phone you on Wednesday,’ said Salik. ‘Where are you?’
‘Dover,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I can come in to London, no problem. Call me when you’re ready.’ He ended the call, pleased with the way it had gone. There was plenty of time for Hargrove to decide how to play the meeting, and Salik had seemed genuinely hooked.
Shepherd put down the Tony Corke mobile and picked up his work phone. He called Hargrove and told him about the conversation with Uddin.
‘Well done,’ said the superintendent. ‘The timing’s perfect because I’ve just got the boat fixed up. Former SBS guy, now lives in Southampton, Gordon McConnell. Ever come across him?’
‘No,’ said Shepherd.
‘He’s expecting you tomorrow. I’ll text you his number. He’ll do a couple of night runs with you – that way you’ll be up to speed before your sit-down with the brothers.’
Shepherd went downstairs. ‘I’m going to be away tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘Make sure Liam does his homework.’
‘Of course,’ said Katra. ‘Don’t forget you’re going to his grandmother’s this weekend.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ he said, ‘and I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.’ He could tell from her blank look that she had made as much sense of his sarcasm as she did of his humour. He winked.
Shepherd drove down to Southampton in the ten-year-old Land Rover. The battered, mud-splattered vehicle was registered in the name of Tony Corke at the Dover address and was full of the sort of gear a sailor might need, including wet-weather clothing, boots, a tool-kit, and various sailing magazines.
He phoned McConnell on the way and they arranged to meet at a pub on the outskirts of the city. ‘Keep an eye open for the big man with the beard and a look of bored contempt on his face,’ said McConnell, in a Northumberland accent.
Shepherd spotted him as soon as he walked into the pub. The self-description was bang on, although McConnell wore an amused smile as he shook Shepherd’s hand. ‘So, I’m going to turn you into a sailor in twenty- four hours, am I?’ he said.
‘That’s the plan,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re Gordon?’
‘Gordy on dry land,’ said McConnell. ‘Skipper when I’m at the helm. Okay, lesson one. We need antifreeze in the system before we go anywhere near the water. What are you drinking?’
‘Jameson’s. Ice.’
‘On the rocks, as the Yanks say,’ said McConnell. ‘Bad bloody omen for a start.’ He pushed himself off the bench seat and ambled over to the bar. He had the rolling gait of a man used to a moving deck rather than solid ground. The beard made it difficult to place his age but Shepherd figured he was probably in his late fifties and that it had been a decade or so since he had last squeezed into an SBS wetsuit.
McConnell returned with a double whiskey and ice for Shepherd, and a pint of beer for himself. They clinked glasses and McConnell drained half of his in one gulp. ‘I needed that,’ he said. ‘So, from the Sass to the cops. Like paperwork, do you?’
‘My wife wanted me out,’ said Shepherd. ‘Too many nights away.’
‘Ah, wives,’ said McConnell. ‘I’ve had four, bless them.’
‘A girl in every port?’
‘All local, as it happens. Kids?’
‘A boy. Nine.’
McConnell grinned. ‘I’ve got five. Can’t remember how old they are.’
Shepherd could see that McConnell was the competitive sort, but that was generally the way it was with men who had served in the Special Forces. You didn’t get into the SAS or SBS by hiding your light under a bushel.
‘So, what’s your sailing experience?’ asked McConnell.
‘I did a crash course in trawlers, but as I was only a deck-hand I didn’t have to do much. But I’m okay on navigation.’
‘And you’ve used night-vision equipment?’
‘Sure.’
McConnell belched loudly. ‘Then the rest of it is like driving a car,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we have another round and then I’ll show you the boat? We can pop over to France and back to get the feel of it, then do a few night- runs.’
The sea spray blew across his face like a light shower and Shepherd narrowed his eyes. High overhead, seagulls soared on the breeze coming in from the English Channel. Whichever way he looked he saw other boats. A huge cross-Channel ferry heading for France, as big as a skyscraper turned on its side. Flotillas of small sailboats, some barely bigger than bathtubs. Freighters caked with dirt. Gleaming white executive toys with massive outboard engines. Fishing boats with rusting hulls.
‘It’ll be quieter at night,’ shouted McConnell, over the roar of the massive outboard engine behind them. He was standing up, leaning back against his seat, legs planted like trees, shoulder-width apart. His right hand was on the wheel, his left on a chromium-plated throttle lever. ‘This is us doing thirty knots.’ He banked to the left to avoid a twin-masted sailboat ahead.
Shepherd was standing next to the skipper, his left hand on a grab rail at the side of the boat. Even at thirty knots he could see the high degree of concentration necessary to keep the boat away from trouble. All the craft around them were heading at different speeds in different directions. Working out where they were all going in relation to one’s own boat was like some huge mathematical problem that required constant computations.
‘You want to divide the sea into three circles around you,’ shouted McConnell. ‘Far, near, and fuck-me- that’s-close. The far stuff, you have to be aware of where it’s heading and if it’s a potential problem. The near stuff, you need to know its speed and if you’re going to pass it to port or starboard. The other stuff shouldn’t be a problem, providing you’ve got the outer two covered. It’s all about anticipation. The big stuff is easy – you can see it from miles away. It’s the fair-weather sailors in their piss-pot fifteen-footers that you’ve got to watch out for. Or windsurfers who’ve gone out too far. Hit one of them at sixty knots and they’ll rip right through the hull. There’s flotsam and crap all around, too, everything from deckchairs to empty champagne bottles, so you can’t let your guard down for a second.’ He banked left again and increased the throttle. ‘That’s forty knots,’ he shouted, ‘and the engine isn’t even breaking sweat.’ He pulled the throttle back and the boat slowed to a little over ten knots. He grinned at Shepherd. ‘You take the helm, get the feel of it.’
Shepherd put his left hand on the wheel in front of him. McConnell kept a loose grip on it, but Shepherd could feel that he had control of the boat. It was responsive, with far less play on the wheel than he’d had when he was at the helm of Pepper’s trawler.
