place because there are other people in the building. Strip off her clothes.’ He handed Tariq a carving knife. ‘Then you slit her throat.’
The girl bucked and writhed on the floor but she was helpless. The Valium injection Salih had given her when they had abducted her had worn off. It was important that she was conscious when she died, that she was fighting for her life. In an ideal world he’d have taken the gag off but he couldn’t risk her screams being heard.
Salih stood back and raised his phone. He pressed the button to start its video camera, the signal that Tariq and Mazur should begin.
Shepherd sipped his coffee. He was sitting on the black leather sofa in Elaine’s front room. She’d put an Oasis CD on her stereo before making them both coffee and putting out a plate of Jaffa Cakes. She sat down next to him. ‘Everything’s there,’ she said, closing her purse. ‘Even the money. There’s not a quid missing.’ A big-screen Panasonic plasma television hung on the wall in front of them, with Bang and Olufsen tower speakers at either side. A bookcase had been built into the wall and on it was a framed photograph of Elaine and Robbie Carter on their wedding day. He had worn his RUC uniform, and she was in a white dress. There was only one other photograph on show, of Elaine and Robbie on a sofa with a small boy lying across their laps, grinning. It was in a silver frame on the mantelpiece.
‘He was a good-looking man,’ said Shepherd, nodding at the wedding photograph.
Elaine smiled fondly. ‘There must have been fifty cops there, it would have been a great day to carry out a robbery in the city.’
‘He died, you said.’
‘He was shot by the IRA,’ she said quietly. She reached for her packet of Marlboro and lit one, then passed the pack to Shepherd.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Shepherd, hating his fake sincerity. ‘That’s awful.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘What happened?’ he asked, then added hurriedly, ‘I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to ask.’ He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
‘It’s all right, Jamie. It was a long time ago. There were five of them and they burst into the house one night and shot him.’
‘Elaine, no! That’s terrible.’
‘It’s what it was like back then. It was a war.’
‘And you saw it happen?’
‘It was in the kitchen.’
‘Did they catch them?’
‘They caught four of them. They were sent to prison but they were all released under the Belfast Agreement.’
‘You mean the Good Friday Agreement?’
Elaine sighed. ‘Depends which side of the divide you’re on,’ she said. ‘The Catholics call it the Good Friday Agreement.’
‘Because of the religious overtones, I suppose.’
‘Or because they want to make it seem like their own agreement,’ she said bitterly. ‘Anyway, whatever you call it, the politicians decided to set free the paramilitaries. All four walked free. The fifth had run away to America.’
‘I’m sorry, Elaine.’
‘It happened. I got over it.’
‘I don’t see how you could ever get over something like that,’ said Shepherd.
‘It’s the old cliche. Time heals all wounds.’
Shepherd sipped his coffee. He knew he had to ask about her son. It was an obvious question for Jamie Pierce to ask, but he hated intruding into her personal grief. ‘Where’s your son now?’
Elaine forced a smile. ‘He died too. A few years ago. Leukaemia.’
‘Elaine . . .’
‘Please don’t say you’re sorry, Jamie. I’ve had all the sympathy I need over the years.’
‘What a nightmare for you. What a bloody nightmare.’
‘I’ve had more than my share of bad luck.’ Elaine held up her cigarette. ‘That’s why I’ve got no fear of these things. The one thing I’ve learnt is that people die whether or not they smoke.’
‘Why didn’t you move?’ he asked. ‘How could you stay here after that?’
‘It was our home,’ she said quietly. She looked at her watch. ‘Anyway, I’ve got calls to make before everyone goes home for the day, so I’m going to have to kick you out.’
Shepherd finished his coffee and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Next time the coffee’s on me,’ he said.
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
Shepherd went back to his house, feeling guiltier than he’d ever felt in his life. He liked Elaine Carter, he liked her a lot, and despised himself for lying to her.
Frank Khan hated shopping. And he especially hated shopping with his wife. On the rare occasions that he ventured into a shopping mall or a department store, he did so knowing exactly what he wanted and how much he was prepared to pay. But his wife had a totally different approach. Shopping was a hobby, perhaps even a sport, a recreational activity to be relished and, if possible, shared. It was his day off and he had no good reason to refuse when she asked him to go with her to the local shopping mall. He had been working late for the last couple of weeks so he had decided that a shopping trip would get him into her good books, but within an hour he was bored and wanted to go home.
‘What do you think?’ said his wife, holding up a green dress that shimmered under the overhead fluorescent lights.
‘How much is it?’ She inspected the price tag and winced. ‘I think I’d better wait outside,’ said Khan. ‘I need a cigarette.’ He walked out of the shop and lit one, inhaled deeply and blew a smoke-ring.
‘Women love to shop, don’t they?’ said a voice. An Asian man in his thirties was standing next to him. He was good-looking, with skin the colour of polished teak and amused dark brown eyes. He was wearing a long black cashmere coat over a suit and tie and his hands were in his pockets. ‘They’d shop all day if they could.’
Khan smiled. ‘If it was an Olympic sport, we men wouldn’t stand a chance. Is your wife inside?’
‘I’m not married, Chief Superintendent,’ said the man.
Khan frowned. ‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’
‘We almost met at your niece’s funeral,’ said the man. ‘The Saffron Hill Cemetery.’
‘Ah,’ said Khan. ‘You were a friend of Sara’s?’
‘Not exactly,’ said the man. ‘I know you, of course. Chief Superintendent Frank Khan, one of the highest- ranking Muslim police officers in the country. A role model for all British-born Muslims. You must be very proud.’ Khan took another drag on his cigarette and squinted at the man through narrowed eyes. ‘Except, of course, Frank isn’t your given name, is it?’ continued the man. ‘That would be Farook. But I suppose you changed it to make life easier, didn’t you?’
‘They called me Frank at school.’
‘Because Farook was too alien? Too different? And you wanted to blend?’
Khan moved a little away from him. ‘Really, I have to go,’ he said. ‘It’s been nice meeting you.’
‘You were close to Sara, weren’t you?’ said the man. ‘I could see at the funeral how upset you were. It was such a terrible death.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Khan. ‘Such a waste.’ He looked pointedly at his watch.
‘A terrible death, but not necessarily a waste,’ said the man. ‘At least something can be gained from a terrible death. And if something can be gained, there is no waste.’
Khan dropped his cigarette on to the pavement and ground it out with his heel. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
The man smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘You can call me Hassan. My name isn’t important. But that doesn’t mean what I have to say to you isn’t of the utmost importance.’
‘Forgive me, but I must find my wife.’
Khan started to walk back into the shop but Hassan gripped his elbow. Khan tried to pull away but the man’s fingers dug into his arm like steel claws. Hassan was still smiling, but his eyes were ice cold. He put his mouth close
