‘Paddy’s an affectionate term, like Yank or sheepshagger,’ said Sharpe. ‘Not been giving Staniford a hard time, have you?’
‘Trying to make an impression on the girl next door, that’s all. Thought if I stood up for her she’d see me as a white knight.’
‘Just give her one,’ said Sharpe.
‘You really are in touch with your feminine side, aren’t you?’
‘I do what I can.’
‘What are you up to at the moment? I could do with some help.’
‘Worming my way into a marijuana syndicate in East Kilbride,’ said Sharpe. ‘Spreading lots of cash around, drinking champagne until it runs out of my arse and staying out until it’s way past my bedtime. Nothing I can’t slip away from for a few days.’
‘I need you to find out why he’s looking at this woman’s husband. He’s dead now, murdered by the IRA. His name was Robbie Carter.’
‘Cold case?’
‘Nah. His killers were caught and sent down. I’m trying to prove that the wife’s knocking off the guys who killed her hubby, but Staniford’s looking at Carter for something else and I need to know what.’
‘So, I just ring Staniford and pick his brains?’
‘I was hoping you might fly over and do a face to face. Less obvious.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Sharpe, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘I fly over for a chat, he won’t suspect a thing.’
‘I was assuming you’d be more circumspect,’ said Shepherd. ‘Crack on you’re working on a case with a Belfast end.’
‘Carter, you said?’
‘Robbie Carter. Murdered by the IRA on the twenty-eighth of August nineteen ninety-six.’
‘I’m on it,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’ll call you for a pint when I’m done.’
‘I owe you one, Razor.’
‘You owe me another one,’ Sharpe corrected him. ‘But who’s keeping score? Are you okay there?’
‘I’m fine. It’s just messy, that’s all.’
‘Northern Ireland’s always been messy. Back in the old days I was a uniform at the Old Firm games and you could feel the hatred there. They’re never going to get on, no matter what the politicians say. Catholics and Protestants are natural enemies. Like cats and dogs.’
‘With respect, Razor, that’s bollocks. People are people.’
‘Are you getting all Rodney King on me? Why can’t we just get along? Because there’s hundreds of years of history and hatred, that’s why. Too much bad blood.’
‘It’s changing, Razor. It’s not like it was.’
‘Tell you what, Spider, you put on a Rangers shirt and take a walk down the Falls Road. See how far you get.’
‘The barriers are down in the city centre. The troops have gone. The IRA has decommissioned its weapons. The UVF has called it a day. It’s a different Belfast now.’
‘On the surface, maybe,’ said Sharpe, ‘but if they’re sending in cops to investigate sectarian killings, you need a guy like Colin Staniford. The villains in Belfast aren’t scared of the local cops, no matter which foot they kick with. You watch your back, you hear?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I mean it, Spider. There’s a lot of very hard men in that city, and I’m not just talking about the paramilitaries.’ Sharpe cut the connection.
Tariq pulled in at the side of the road and consulted the street map for the twentieth time since he’d left London. The gun and silencer were in the glove box, with a pair of binoculars. He still wasn’t sure where and when he was going to kill Daniel Shepherd. He kept having to fight the urge to phone Salih and ask his advice, but he knew he was being tested and that Salih would see any contact as a sign of weakness. Salih hadn’t given him a photograph of the man he was supposed to kill. All he had was a name and address. Tariq knew that first he had to check out the house, find out what Shepherd looked like and what car he drove. Then he could decide on the when and where.
He ran his finger along the route to Shepherd’s street. It was trembling and he fought to keep his hand steady. If he was shaking now, how would he be when he was pointing his gun at Shepherd? Or at the man’s family? He clenched and unclenched his hand, then willed the shaking to stop. He could do what Salih wanted, and once he had proved himself, Salih would teach him everything else he needed to know.
Tariq put the map on the passenger seat. He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror. He had washed out the styling gel and given himself a parting. He was wearing a checked shirt, cargo pants and brown Hush Puppies. He had left his gold chains at home. He bared his teeth and snarled, then grinned. Anyone who saw him would think he was a nonentity, a waiter in an Indian restaurant or a shelf-filler at a corner shop. Nobody would suspect he was a killer. A stone-cold killer. ‘I’m going to kill you, Daniel Shepherd,’ he said to his reflection. ‘I’m going to put a bullet in your head. Then I’m going to kill your family.’
A horn sounded behind him and Tariq jumped. It was a delivery van. The horn sounded again as the van sped by. The driver waved at a woman pushing a pram along the pavement. Tariq’s heart was pounding and his hands were shaking again. He put them on the steering-wheel, took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled slowly.
He put the car in gear, had a final look at the map, then pulled away from the kerb. He drove slowly and indicated at every turn, even though there was little traffic. When he reached Shepherd’s road he drove slowly until he saw a house number. Shepherd’s was five away. Tariq accelerated; he didn’t want it to be obvious that he was looking for something. He glanced to his left as he passed the house, a two-storey cottage with a small garden at the front. There was a separate garage, with a dark green Honda CRV and a black BMW SUV parked outside it.
He drove to the end of the road and turned left. He needed a vantage point, somewhere he could get an overall view of the house and see who came and went. He stopped the car again and reached for the map.
Shepherd’s personal mobile rang just before midday. It was Jimmy Sharpe. They arranged to meet at Belfast airport, and an hour later Shepherd was sitting next to his colleague with a cup of cappuccino and an almond croissant in front of him. Sharpe had a wheeled black carry-on case at his feet.
‘I don’t suppose I can put this trip on expenses, can I?’ said Sharpe.
‘I’ll see you right,’ said Shepherd.
‘What about all the booze I had to buy to lubricate his tongue last night?’ said Sharpe. ‘He could drink for Scotland.’
‘I’ll see you right,’ said Shepherd. ‘Curry’s on me next time we’re in London. Now, what did Staniford tell you?’
‘It’s messy,’ said Sharpe, ‘and from what he says, it’s going to get messier. You know what the Historical Enquiries Team is doing, right?’
‘Investigating all the murders that took place during the Troubles.’
‘Right. All three thousand two hundred and sixty-eight deaths since nineteen sixty-eight. Every case is being looked at and, where necessary, re-examined. Half of the murders committed during the Troubles are still unsolved. You had Catholics killing Protestants, Protestants killing Catholics, Catholics and Protestants killing the police and security services, and vice versa. The HET team is looking for miscarriages of justice, and at cold cases that still have to be solved.’
‘And they’ve brought in outsiders like Staniford because they won’t be tainted by the old regime.’
‘Pretty much. HET is made up of two teams, one team made up of outsiders, the other made up of locals, former RUC now PSNI.’ He grinned. ‘You know they were going to call it the Northern Ireland Police Service until they realised that the newspapers would talk about the bad guys being grabbed by the NIPS?’
‘Stick to the point, Razor. You’ve got a plane to catch.’ Shepherd sipped his cappuccino.
‘So, HET starts at ’sixty-eight and is working its way to the end of hostilities. The locals are doing the non- controversial cases. Staniford and his colleagues look at the ones that might benefit from an outsider’s eye. And they’ve given Staniford one of the hottest potatoes to deal with.’ He paused to make sure he had Shepherd’s undivided attention, then leant across the table. ‘Back in the late eighties and early nineties, RUC Special Branch was passing information to Loyalist paramilitaries. Information that led directly to the assassination of IRA
