Coates pulled a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Seventeen nine-millimetre rounds in the clip,’ he said.
‘That much is true,’ said Salih. ‘That’s why they call it the Glock 17.’ He checked the action of the gun. ‘Do you have the suppressor?’
Coates frowned. ‘Say what?’
‘The silencer,’ said Salih, patiently. ‘Hakeem should have told you that I wanted a silencer.’ Salih ejected the magazine. It was full. He slotted it back into the butt.
‘Yeah, man, ’course,’ said Coates. He reached into the holdall and pulled out a bulbous metal suppressor, which was almost as long as the gun itself.
Salih took it and screwed it into the barrel of the Glock.
‘It’s good, yeah?’ said Coates.
‘It’s adequate,’ said Salih. ‘How much?’
‘The gun, the silencer and the seventeen in the clip, seven hundred.’
‘Has it been fired?’
‘No way, man,’ said Coates.
‘You are sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure,’ said Coates.
Salih pointed the gun at the Yardie and pulled the trigger. It made a sound like a balloon bursting. Coates took a step back and his mouth opened in surprise. Blood trickled down his shirt. ‘It has now,’ said Salih. He pulled the trigger again and the second bullet ripped into the man’s chest. As Coates slumped, blood frothing from between his lips, Salih used his left hand to push him into the boot. Dreadlocks was fumbling for something inside his jacket, his mouth opening and closing in panic. Salih shot him twice in the head. Coates was thrashing around in the boot of the car and Salih put another two bullets into his head. He tucked the gun into his belt, lifted Dreadlocks in with Coates and slammed the boot.
Hakeem had been keen to tell Salih about Coates when Salih had asked him about local gun suppliers. Coates sold good guns at fair prices, but he talked too much. Hakeem had heard that Coates had been telling his Yardie friends he’d been selling guns to Muslims, and Hakeem did not want that fact broadcast. He wanted Coates silenced, and Salih was more than happy enough to help. The street at the end of the alley was deserted. High overhead a jetliner flew towards Heathrow. Salih headed back to his car, unscrewing the still-warm silencer from the barrel of the Glock.
Liam was in the garden, kicking a football against the back of the house. Shepherd went out and handed him a Carphone Warehouse carrier-bag. ‘I forgot to give you your present,’ he said.
‘What is it?’
‘Why don’t you look?’ said Shepherd.
Liam opened the bag. ‘A Nokia!’
‘It’s the N73 music edition with a one-gigabyte memory chip,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve no idea what that means but the girl who sold it to me said it was what all the kids wanted, these days.’
‘Thanks, Dad!’
‘I’ve put my number in it so you can call or text me whenever you want, okay?’
‘Cool!’
O’Brien appeared at the kitchen door. ‘We’d better be off, Spider.’
‘Coming,’ said Shepherd.
‘Am I in trouble, Dad?’ asked Liam.
‘No, of course not. Why do you ask?’
‘Jack and Billy are bodyguards, aren’t they?’
‘They’re here to take care of you, that’s all.’
‘But that’s what Katra does.’
Shepherd didn’t want to lie to his son, but he didn’t want to worry him either. ‘I just want to make sure you’re safe,’ he said.
‘Why wouldn’t I be safe?’
‘You
Liam looked at the ground. ‘You’re coming back, right?’
‘Of course I am.’ He bent down and hugged his son. ‘Everything’s okay, Liam, I promise.’ He kissed the boy’s cheek. He wanted to say more, but couldn’t think of the right words. He didn’t really expect whoever was after Charlotte Button or Richard Yokely to target his family, but if the killer had accessed Button’s phone records there was a possibility, no matter how remote, that he would identify Shepherd and where he lived. Billy and Jack were an insurance policy, nothing more. But that wasn’t something he could explain to a ten-year-old. ‘I’ll call you when I get to Belfast.’
O’Brien drove Shepherd back to Birmingham airport. He kept slightly above the speed limit and moved out of the way whenever a sales rep with a deadline to meet hared by in a company car.
‘Thanks for fixing up the boys,’ said Shepherd.
‘Where would you be if I wasn’t around to pull your nuts out of the fire?’ said O’Brien.
‘I’m not arguing,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I could do with another favour.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’
‘Charlotte Button’s going to need protecting.’
O’Brien frowned. ‘I thought she was a big girl – former spook, right? She must know all about personal protection.’
‘She doesn’t know she’s in the firing line.’
O’Brien’s frown deepened. ‘That makes no sense,’ he said.
‘Remember Yokely? The American we met in Baghdad?’
‘The secret spook? Guy with tassels on his shoes?’
‘Yeah. He tipped me off. Yokely doesn’t want to tell her. He reckons if she knows she’ll have to tell her bosses and they’ll have no choice other than to make her do a Salman Rushdie. That’ll be the end of her career and her family life.’
‘As opposed to what? The end of her life?’
‘It’s early days,’ said Shepherd. ‘This bastard Salih doesn’t know much about her yet. He’s still at the gathering-intel stage. And, like the twins said, he’s a Palestinian so he won’t be too difficult to spot.’
‘So why not tell her but make sure she doesn’t pass it on to her bosses?’
‘She’s not like you and me. She won’t bend the rules,’ said Shepherd. ‘And she’ll want to protect her family.’
‘That should be her choice, shouldn’t it?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘Even if SOCA put her and her family under full police protection, they’ll get her eventually. The guy who’s paying this assassin has enough money to keep sending people until the job’s done.’
‘You want me to shadow her without her knowing?’ O’Brien grimaced. ‘Spider, shadowing someone like Charlie Button round the clock would take three seven-man teams, plus a minimum of three vehicles and two bikes.’
‘It wouldn’t be surveillance,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re not looking to see what she does, only to make sure Salih doesn’t get close to her. The way I see it he’s a pro, which means he’ll be watching her before he strikes. So you’ll be looking for him looking for her. I’ll have a good idea of where she is.’
‘But if she’s shuttling between London and Belfast, she’ll spot a tail on the plane.’
‘So you’ll need a couple of good guys in Belfast, and another in London,’ said Shepherd. ‘Plus a fourth watching her house. Guys who know what they’re doing.’
‘You don’t want much, do you?’
Shepherd punched O’Brien’s shoulder. ‘I know what I’m asking, Martin,’ he said, ‘and I know who I’m asking.’
Salih flashed his headlights and Tariq waved, then headed for the car. He was wearing a shiny leather jacket, tight Versace jeans and wraparound sunglasses. ‘You look like a pimp,’ muttered Salih.
Tariq’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘This jacket cost six hundred pounds,’ he said.
