‘There’s as much stress-induced illness on the winning side as there is on the losing side,’ said the psychologist.
‘You’re talking about war,’ said Shepherd. ‘War’s a different sort of stress, the stress of never knowing if you’re next to be killed. Law enforcement is different. You make a decision and go with it. Providing you make the right decision, everything falls into place. If I’d shot three innocent people I’d be feeling guilty, no question, but the three terrorists I shot were just about to blow themselves and others to kingdom come. If your question is whether or not I regret what I did, then the answer is no. Definitely not.’
‘Because you were in the right?’
‘Because I did what had to be done,’ he said.
‘Do you believe in the death penalty?’
‘In general, no. For paedophiles and serial-killers, probably. But we’re never going to have the death penalty in this country again. The way things are going, our penal system does all it can to put murderers back on the streets.’ He frowned. ‘You’re not suggesting that I executed them, are you?’
‘No, that’s not what I meant.’
‘Because I didn’t shoot them as a punishment. I shot them to stop them killing others.’
‘Do you want to hear my theory on murder victims?’ asked Stockmann.
‘Sure.’
‘It’s the victims-generally-ask-for-it theory. Not very politically correct, I’m afraid, in this day and age.’ She took another sip of her beer. ‘I’m not talking about terrorism or random killings, but they really are a tiny minority of murders.’
‘Most victims know their killers,’ said Shepherd.
‘Absolutely,’ said Stockmann. ‘Family members or neighbours account for ninety per cent of murders.’
‘And the victims ask for it – is that what you’re saying?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, that’s just my way of describing how I think it works. No one deserves to be murdered. But in the vast majority of cases, the behaviour of the victim leads to their death. It’s the wife nagging at her husband when he gets back from the pub. Should he be coming home drunk? No, of course not. Does she have the right to nag him? Of course she does. But it’s the fact that she nags him when he’s drunk that leads him to pick up a kitchen knife and stick it into her heart.’
‘Cause and effect?’
‘Exactly. Two guys in a pub, both the worse for wear. They start to argue. Punches are thrown, a bottle gets smashed and is shoved into a guy’s throat. If the victim had walked away before the bottle was smashed, he’d still be alive.’
‘But if you take that argument further, you could say that anyone who walks down a dark alley deserves to be mugged. Or a woman who goes out alone at night is asking to be raped.’
‘Would you walk alone down a dark alley if you didn’t have to?’
‘No, but we live in a country where anyone should be able to walk anywhere without fear of being attacked.’
‘Dan, I’m not on the side of the murderers, muggers and rapists. And of course I’m not saying that anyone deserves to be robbed or raped. But murder is different. It’s a lot easier to mug or rape than it is to kill. Murder is a big step – the biggest. And I believe that, more often than not, the victim is controlling the situation.’ She smiled. ‘Like I said, it’s not a politically correct view. But I’d say that the terrorists you killed brought about their own deaths by virtue of their actions. So I can see why there wouldn’t be much guilt attached to what you did.’
‘Is that really your theory?’ asked Shepherd.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, is it really your theory or is it a way of assessing how I feel about killing?’
Stockmann smiled. ‘Do you think I’m that devious, Dan?’
‘You work for MI5 and they don’t come more devious than that.’
‘And now I work for SOCA. And we’re just chatting. Do I believe that the behaviour of a murder victim results in their death? Yes, I do. Cross my heart and hope to die.’
‘OK. So, how does it look? Am I fit for duty?’
‘No question about that,’ said Stockmann. She handed him a business card. ‘That’s got my mobile number, Dan. If ever you want a chat, give me a call. I’m not just there for the biannuals or when Charlie wants reassurance. I’m a resource you can use whenever you want.’
‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd, slipping the card into his wallet. ‘Have you met Razor yet? Jimmy Sharpe?’
‘He’s next on my list. Why?’
Shepherd grinned. ‘No reason.’
‘He’s a character, I gather,’ she said.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Shepherd. ‘For sure.’
Rob Manwaring cradled the twelve-gauge automatic shotgun and wished for the thousandth time that he could fire the weapon in anger. He was one of a dozen marines in Baghdad who had been selected to try out the Auto Assault 12 but although he had been on two patrols a day for the best part of a month he’d yet to fire at anything other than a range target.
The AA12 was a street sweeper. It could empty its twenty-round drum magazine in two seconds, and came with a full range of ammunition including non-lethal rounds, shot and solid bullets, and high-explosive armour- piercing projectiles that could pierce quarter-inch-thick steel plate. Manwaring was carrying all the different types of ammunition, and was itching to fire them. Along with the AA12, he had been given all the latest combat equipment. He had an Advanced Combat Helmet, which was three and a half pounds lighter than the old Kevlar helmet, a pair of Wiley X goggles, Infantry Combat Boots Type II, which were more comfortable and durable than the old army boots, with the added benefit that they never needed polishing – at least that was the theory, but they got just as dusty and muddy as the old ones ever had. He also had on the army’s latest Interceptor Body Armour, guaranteed to stop a 9mm bullet, with the Armour Protection Enhancement System, for further protection to the groin, arms and neck. He’d been offered the Deltoid Extension pack, for the shoulders and the sides of the ribcage, but it added an extra five pounds in weight and limited the movement of his arms so he’d turned it down. It was all very well looking like Robocop, Manwaring figured, but it was no good if he couldn’t use his weapon effectively. Several of the guys in his unit had discarded the heavy body armour to save even more weight but Manwaring had heard too many stories about snipers for that.
He and three members of his unit were on foot patrol, and their armoured Humvee rolled about fifty feet ahead of them. The top brass had decided that more troops should be out and about, mixing with the locals, winning hearts and minds. Manwaring considered it a waste of time: there was no way he could laugh with the locals when he was dressed in full combat gear and carrying a weapon that could kill a couple of dozen with one burst. All the chewing-gum in the world wasn’t going to change the view of ordinary Iraqis that the Americans were an occupying power. They just wanted their country back.
A group of children in threadbare shirts and shorts ran over, their bare feet kicking up dust. ‘Hey, dudes!’ shouted one. He couldn’t have been more than seven. ‘High five!’ He held up his hand.
Manwaring grinned. He held the AA12 against his chest and raised his right hand. The boy had to jump to reach it. ‘What’s your name?’ asked Manwaring, and took a swig from his water bottle.
‘Chiko!’ shouted the little boy.
‘Chiko? That’s a Mexican name, isn’t it? Are you Mexican?’
‘Chiko!’ yelled the little boy. ‘Chiko! High five!’
Manwaring gave the boy a second high five, then called to the other guys in his unit, ‘Anyone got some gum?’
‘You getting soft in your old age, Rob?’ said the guy to Manwaring’s right. Ben Casey was a ten-year veteran: he had served in Afghanistan three times and was on his second tour in Iraq. Casey pulled an open pack from one of his vest pockets and tossed it to Manwaring, who fumbled with his gun.
‘Butterfingers!’ shouted Casey, as the gum bounced off Manwaring’s helmet. The sticks tumbled out of the pack and landed on the ground. The children yelled and scrambled for them.
One of the older boys pushed Chiko aside and the little boy fell, scraping his knees. He rolled on to his back, sobbing.
‘Hey!’ shouted Manwaring. ‘Be careful!’ He bent down and reached for the child’s arm.
