‘Elaine, you were pretty emotional last night, with the cops and everything. I was a shoulder to cry on, I didn’t expect . . .’
‘That I’d fuck your brains out?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, you did that right enough.’
‘No complaints, then?’
‘No complaints.’ He sat up and propped his pillow behind his neck. ‘Still awkward?’
‘A bit.’
‘I guess it’s been a while, has it?’ he said.
‘What’s been a while?’
‘You know . . .’
She smiled mischievously. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You know, since you . . .’
‘Had sex?’ She was amazed. ‘Do you think I’m a nun?’
Shepherd felt his cheeks flush. ‘I just thought . . .’
She arched one eyebrow. ‘Yes, Jamie, tell me what you thought.’
‘You’re making this really hard for me, Elaine.’
Her hand crept along his thigh. ‘Hmm, yes, I can see that.’
He shuffled away from her and pushed the duvet down as a barrier between them. ‘I’m serious.’
‘Are you now?’
‘You were upset because they were asking questions about your husband. You still . . . you know . . .’
‘Love him?’ Elaine sighed. ‘Robbie’s been dead for a long time, Jamie. Do I still love him? Of course, but it’s the memory I love now, not the man. Timmy, too. I love them both as much as I ever did, but they’re gone and I’m still here. Robbie’s picture is on the mantelpiece because I can’t move it. His parents come round every weekend. How could I tell them I’ve put their boy’s picture in a drawer somewhere, locked it away like a dirty secret? I’ll never put it away, no matter what happens in my life. The same goes for Timmy. Timmy’s my son and will be until the day I die. I saw Robbie die on my kitchen floor and I saw Timmy die in a hospital bed, with tubes in him and a machine beeping. But that doesn’t mean my life has stopped.’ She pushed away the duvet and reached for him. ‘You’re not the first man I’ve slept with since Robbie died, and you probably won’t be the last. So don’t worry. I’m not a mad widow desperate for a man, much as that might appeal to your adolescent fantasies.’
‘Elaine . . .’
‘Now, if you tell me I was a one-night stand, I will get upset.’
‘You weren’t,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m so glad to hear that,’ she said, rolling on top of him. ‘Now prove it.’ Her hair cascaded over his face as she kissed him.
It was just before noon when Shepherd got back to his house. He shaved and showered, then changed into a clean polo shirt and jeans. He stared at his reflection as he splashed aftershave on his face. He hadn’t planned to sleep with Elaine, and a sexual relationship would just complicate matters. He liked her, there was no question of that, and the sex had been good – better than good. It had been great. Shepherd swore. ‘You cannot get too close,’ he said to himself. ‘She is under investigation. You cannot get too close.’ He leant close to the mirror and stared himself in the eye. ‘Listen to me, you daft bastard,’ he whispered. ‘It’s going to end in tears if you carry on like this.’ His breath fogged on the glass.
He pushed himself away from the mirror, went downstairs and switched on the kettle. He wanted to go for a run, and grinned as he wondered what SOCA’s psychologist would make of that – he’d met a woman he really liked and his first instinct after getting out of her bed was to put on his running shoes.
Shepherd went through to the sitting room, sat on the sofa and put his feet on the coffee-table as he dialled Charlotte Button’s number. She answered immediately and Shepherd asked what she knew about the Historical Enquiries Team. ‘It was set up after the Good Friday Agreement,’ said Button. ‘There’s a squad of about seventy- five officers headed by a guy from the Met. They’re split into two teams, one staffed locally by PSNI officers, the other by officers from outside.’
‘To ensure impartiality?’
‘Horses for courses,’ said Button. ‘The HET has been tasked with looking at all murders that occurred between 1968 and the signing of the Good Friday Agreement in 1998. Some cases can’t be dealt with by former RUC personnel so they’ve brought in outsiders. Why the sudden interest?’
‘Two cops came round to talk to Elaine. They were asking questions about her husband.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser. Robbie Carter’s murder was cut and dried. There were no loose ends that I’m aware of.’
‘They weren’t asking about his death. They wanted his work diaries for the late eighties. She wasn’t happy.’
‘Understandable,’ said Button.
‘Thing is, she lied to them. They were asking about any diaries he might have kept and she didn’t mention the ones in the trunk.’
‘Trunk?’
‘The trunk where I found the ammunition. There were diaries in there along with photograph albums and stuff. Look, I don’t want to sound paranoid, but their visit wasn’t part of some grand plan, was it?’
‘What are you insinuating, Spider?’
‘I just thought it might have been a way of putting her under pressure, a visit from heavy cops.’
‘Good cop, bad cop, you mean? Them bad and you good? Spider, do you really think I’d play a game like that?’
‘It’s a complicated world.’
‘It is indeed, but I wouldn’t do that to you. You should know better. If I thought outside pressure was a good idea, I’d run it by you first.’
‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd. ‘Doing what I do, you get to suspect everybody’s motives. Is there any chance of you finding out what’s going on? It occurred to me they might be trying to pin something on Carter.’
‘On a dead RUC hero? Is that likely?’
‘The dead can’t defend themselves,’ said Shepherd. ‘I just thought you should know what was going on, that’s all.’
‘It’s noted, Spider, but I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to find out. I don’t want to start alarm bells ringing, but I’ll see what I can do. How’s it going with Elaine?’
Shepherd’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t want to lie to Button but he didn’t want to tell her he’d made love to Elaine either. ‘She trusts me,’ said Shepherd. ‘All I’ve got to do now is abuse that trust.’
‘Spider . . .’
‘I know, I shouldn’t get all bitter and twisted,’ said Shepherd. ‘But it’s a funny old world, isn’t it? She’s the widow of a dead hero and we’re trying to put her away because the men who killed her husband were set free for political reasons. If they’d stayed where they belonged, they’d still be alive.’
‘Interesting theory,’ said Button. ‘Setting them free is what killed them – is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying that for bastards who shoot coppers’ life should mean life, no matter what their politics.’
‘No argument there,’ said Button, ‘but it’s not our call.’
Shepherd left the phone on the coffee-table and went back to the kitchen. He made himself a cup of coffee, took it out into the garden with his pay-as-you-go mobile. He phoned Jimmy Sharpe and asked if he knew either Staniford or Ferguson. Sharpe had worked for the Strathclyde force for almost two decades before joining SOCA’s undercover unit.
‘Colin Staniford, I know,’ said Sharpe. ‘Good guy, but not averse to giving a villain a slap, if you get my drift.’
‘But a straight arrow?’
‘Sure, straight as they come,’ said Sharpe. ‘What’s the story?’
‘He’s been seconded to the Northern Ireland cops, working for a unit clearing up the murders that took place during the Troubles.’
‘That sounds right,’ said Sharpe. ‘He wouldn’t take shit from anyone, least of all a Paddy.’
‘I can see the racial-awareness courses are paying off.’
