‘You want to kill people? Then you should become a
‘I want to kill specific people,’ said Tariq. ‘Blowing up civilians is a waste of time unless you do it regularly. People forget. The Tube is as crowded now as it ever was. It’s almost as if the bombs have been forgotten.’
A housewife walked by, pushing a supermarket trolley laden with carrier-bags. Tariq stopped speaking until she was putting her shopping into the boot of her car.
‘Abu Hamza told me that all unbelievers should die. It says so in the Koran. But I want to kill the people at the top. The politicians and the generals. And I want to target them, I want the world to see them beg for forgiveness before I take their lives. I want to behead them and show their beheadings on the Internet. Can you imagine the effect of that? To see the Foreign Secretary or the Prime Minister himself killed on video?’
‘You’re setting your sights high,’ said Salih.
‘That’s what we have to do,’ said Tariq. ‘Nine Eleven was a grand statement. So were the Madrid bombings and the suicide-bombers on the Tube here. But now the brothers at the mosque are talking about putting bombs in shopping malls and nightclubs. I tell them it’s pointless. If you kill nobodies, people forget. We have to aim high. We have to make it more personal. And I think that by working with you I can learn how to do that. You have the skills I need. And I can help you.’
‘I work alone,’ said Salih.
‘With respect, that’s not true,’ said Tariq. ‘You needed my help with the girl. You might need it again.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I have killed for you, Hassan. I have proved my loyalty. You know you can trust me.’
Salih smiled. ‘If I didn’t think I could trust you, I would have killed you already.’ His eyes bored into Tariq’s. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘This is what you must do. Get yourself another phone and buy a pay-as-you-go Sim card. Once you have it, send me a text. How reliable is your memory?’
‘It’s good.’
Salih told Tariq his mobile-phone number and made him repeat it five times. ‘Do not store my number in your phone. Keep it only in your head. Do not use that phone to contact anyone else. Anyone. You use it only for me. Do you understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘At some point in the future I may call on you again.’
Tariq grinned. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You won’t regret it.’
‘I hope the same goes for you,’ said Salih, and started the car.
Khan finished cleaning his teeth and went into the bedroom. His wife was already in bed, reading one of the trashy novels she loved. Khan had often wondered why a woman who was such a romantic at heart had decided to marry a man whose career involved dealing with the scum of the earth. There was precious little romance in the life of a police officer.
‘You look tired,’ said his wife, her eyes still on her book.
‘I’m okay,’ he said. It was a lie. He was far from okay. A man had threatened him, and Khan had no idea how to deal with it. His first instinct was to inform his superiors but if he did there was no guarantee that his family would be protected. He knew that was one of the big lies – that the police could protect the public. They couldn’t. They could solve crimes, they could control public order, they could hand out speeding tickets, but they didn’t have the power to stop bad things happening. If Hassan wanted to kill Khan and his family, he would succeed.
‘Draw the curtains, honey,’ said his wife.
Khan went to the window. A man was standing in the street below, his hands in his pockets. Khan was short-sighted and he couldn’t make out the man’s features. He could see tanned skin and his glossy black hair glinted under the streetlights.
‘What’s wrong, honey?’ asked his wife, from the bed.
‘Nothing,’ said Khan. He hurried to his bedside table and put on his glasses.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ said his wife, sitting up.
When Khan got back to the window, the man had gone. He hadn’t seen his face but he was sure it had been Hassan, and that he had been sending him a clear message. Hassan could reach him, no matter where he was. Tears of frustration welled in his eyes and he took off his glasses. ‘I thought somebody was breaking into a car,’ he said.
‘Always the policeman,’ said his wife. She patted the bed. ‘Come here.’ Khan sat on the bed and put his glasses back on the bedside table. He sighed. ‘Bad day at the office?’ asked his wife, and began to massage his shoulders.
‘You could say that,’ he said.
‘A good night’s sleep cures a lot of ills,’ she said, and kissed his neck.
Khan forced a smile, but inside he was more scared than he’d ever been. He knew there was no hiding from a man like Hassan. Khan either did what Hassan wanted, or his family would die.
Shepherd looked down from the bedroom window. Elaine had driven off in her VW at just after nine o’clock that morning and it was now close to midday. He went downstairs, switched on the television, went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. Then he saw the four dirty mugs in the sink and realised he’d probably had enough caffeine that morning. The view from the kitchen window reminded him of the state of the garden. He needed something to occupy him so he might as well tidy it, he thought.
He’d found the key to the garden shed in a drawer in the kitchen shortly after he’d moved in. Now he unlocked the door. Inside he found an old petrol mower, a selection of rusty garden tools, a green plastic watering- can and stacks of chipped terracotta flower-pots. Earwigs scuttled away from the daylight and there were curtains of cobwebs in the corners of the sloping roof.
His mobile rang and he took it out of his back pocket and looked at the display. It was Button. ‘Everything okay?’ she asked.
‘Just thinking about doing a little gardening,’ he said. ‘She’s gone out, not sure when she’ll be back.’
‘You’re getting closer, aren’t you?’
‘Softly, softly,’ said Shepherd. ‘But, yes, I’m getting closer.’
‘I’ve had the results on the bullets they took out of Willie McEvoy. They came from Carter’s service revolver, same as the ones that killed Dunne and McFee. We’re going to have to up the ante, Spider. We’ve kept a lid on this so far but eventually someone’ll talk.’
‘I can’t push her too hard, Charlie.’
‘We need to find that gun.’
‘I’m working on it.’
Shepherd ended the call and pulled out the mower. He unscrewed the cap on the fuel tank. It was empty. He went back into the shed and rooted around for a petrol can. Among the spades and forks he found a pole with a metal hook at the end. It wasn’t a garden implement he had ever seen before. He pulled it out. There was a dark red centipede on the handle, which he shook off. It scurried under the shed. Shepherd held up the pole and stared at it, wondering what it was. Then he smiled.
Charlotte Button handed over her SOCA credentials to a bored uniformed sergeant. She flashed the man a smile, ‘I have a two o’clock appointment with Chief Superintendent Khan,’ she said.
The sergeant noted her details on a clipboard and handed back her ID card. ‘I’ll phone his office,’ he said. ‘Visitors have to be escorted upstairs, I’m afraid.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Button. She sat on an orange plastic chair and put her briefcase on the floor beside her. The waiting area smelled of stale sweat and there were grubby fingermarks on the walls. A poster offered an amnesty on all knives handed in before the end of the year. Another informed victims of domestic violence that they could phone the police for help. An old lady was standing at the counter, telling a young blonde policewoman that her next-door neighbour’s dog was barking all night and keeping her awake. Button wanted a cigarette so she took a stick of chewing-gum from her handbag to stifle the cravings. She looked for a bin to throw the wrapper in but there wasn’t one so she put it into her coat pocket. The old lady was crying now and dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
A door opened and a woman in her late twenties, wearing a dark skirt and blazer, smiled at Button. ‘Can you come with me, please?’ she asked, holding the door open. She handed Button a plastic tag with VISITOR on it and a bar code. Button clipped it to her coat. ‘You’re not carrying a weapon by any chance, are you?’ asked the woman.
‘Good Lord, no,’ said Button.
