‘True.’
‘Which makes it a very different job, because normally you’d be targeting hardened criminals, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yeah, we’d know in advance that the target was guilty. I’d be put in to gather the evidence. This case is different because at the end of the day she might not be a killer.’
‘But she might be, so it’s a valid investigation.’
Shepherd smiled ruefully. ‘If she’s guilty, what I’m doing is justifiable. But if she’s just the widow of a hero cop, I’m a piece of shit for lying to her as I am.’ He raised his glass in salute to her, then drained it and waved at the barmaid for a refill. Stockmann was looking at him anxiously. ‘I’m fine, Caroline,’ he said. ‘It’s what I do, but it doesn’t get any easier. They’re targets, but that doesn’t make them less than human. Civilians probably assume that villains are villains, end of story, but they’re sons, they’re often fathers, they have friends, they go to weddings, they buy presents, they tell jokes. Some of the villains I’ve helped put inside have been great guys, guys I’ve got drunk with, guys who would have helped me without hesitation if I was in trouble. I’m not always proud of what I’ve done, but at the end of the day they’re villains, and villains belong in jail.’
‘I can’t imagine how it must feel to live a lie.’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘It’s probably what acting’s like, but there’s no director to shout,“Cut.” And no script. Everything’s off-the-cuff, spur-of-the-moment stuff, reacting to what’s going on around you.’ The barmaid put a fresh drink in front of him and looked questioningly at Stockmann. She shook her head. ‘You know what the hardest thing about it is?’ he said. ‘It’s remembering what you don’t know.’ He smiled. ‘I know that sounds crazy but it’s true. It’s easy enough to remember what you’ve been told, or what you’ve said, but as an undercover cop you know things about the target that your character wouldn’t. So when you’re in character a mental wall has to divide what you know from what you’re supposed to know.’
‘It sounds positively schizophrenic,’ said Stockmann.
‘It is,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s a constant battle between your two selves, a constant checking and rechecking. And while that’s going on, you have to appear calm and collected.’
‘The proverbial swan,’ said Stockmann. ‘Serene on the surface, paddling like crazy under the water.’ She sipped some beer. ‘Have you thought that the same would apply to the woman you’re targeting? She has to be playing a part, too.’
‘If she’s guilty.’
‘Agreed,’ said the psychologist. ‘But if she is, she’ll also be playing a role. Like you, she’ll be running anything she says through an internal filter, constantly checking her reality against how the world perceives her.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it that way,’ said Shepherd. ‘The thing is, she doesn’t seem to be playing a part.’
‘Can you tell?’ asked Stockmann.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Because if you can, isn’t it possible that someone you’re targeting can tell that you’re playing a role? Surely the only way you can function as an undercover agent is by being totally convincing.’
‘But I’m a professional. It’s my job. If she’s guilty, she’s an amateur who’s killing the men who killed her husband. There should be signs, shouldn’t there?’
Stockmann grinned. ‘Like looking up to the left when she’s lying? Or scratching her nose? It’s not as easy as that, Dan. If it was, I’d be making a fortune playing Texas Hold ’Em. And she could be a sociopath, of course.’
Shepherd laughed. ‘Now, that I would spot.’
‘Actually, I doubt it. Sociopaths are natural mimics. They lack feelings of empathy with others and are totally uncaring about their effect on people, but can behave completely to the contrary. That’s why serial killers are so effective. They can appear charming. And paedophiles can appear genuine and caring. If they looked like monsters, kids would never go near them.’
‘What are you saying? That you can’t judge a book by its cover?’
‘It’s a cliche, but it’s true,’ said Stockmann. ‘You can’t tell a murderer by looking them in the eye.’
Shepherd smiled. ‘I’m not sure that’s so,’ he said.
‘You can tell if someone’s killed by looking at them?’
‘There’s a look that people who’ve been in combat have. They call it the thousand-yard stare. There’s a coldness in their eyes as if they’re looking through you.’
‘And does everyone who’s been in combat have it?’
‘No,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know men who have killed several times and they’re the most laid-back guys you’ll ever meet. But I’ve never met someone with the thousand-yard stare who hasn’t killed. I’ve seen it in the eyes of non-soldiers, too. Gangsters. Drug-dealers. Blaggers.’
‘Blaggers?’
‘Armed robbers,’ said Shepherd. ‘What I’m saying is, if they’ve got the look, they’ve killed.’
‘Unless they’re faking it,’ said Stockmann.
‘Faking it?’
‘Say there’s a hard man who wants you to think he’s a killer. He fakes the thousand-yard stare. How would you know?’
‘I’d know.’
Stockmann grinned. ‘But if they were sociopaths, they’d be good at faking it.’
‘So a sociopath would fake a thousand-yard stare to make me think he was a killer?’ Shepherd exhaled through pursed lips. ‘You’re giving me a headache here, Caroline.’
‘I just want you to understand that it’s virtually impossible to tell if someone is guilty or not by looking at them,’ said Stockmann. She beckoned the barmaid. ‘If it was possible, the police’s job would be a lot easier, wouldn’t it?’
‘Here’s the thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘I look into Elaine’s eyes and I see an honest person who wouldn’t harm anyone. There’s no guile, no deviousness. She shows no signs of lying.’
‘Elaine is the woman in Belfast?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘She’s been hurt, and she’s carrying a lot of baggage, but that’s to be expected, considering the way her husband was killed and her son died.’
‘You sound like you’re empathising.’
‘I am. A lot. And that’s not good.’
‘You’re human,’ she said. ‘It’s natural.’
‘That means you’re giving me a clean bill of health?’
‘Buy me another pint and we’ll talk about it,’ laughed Stockmann.
Noel Kinsella looked around the hotel suite and sneered. ‘This is the best you can do?’ he asked.
‘It’s four hundred pounds a night,’ said Patsy Ellis, folding her arms, ‘and that’s before you pick up the phone to order room service.’
‘It’s tiny.’
‘It’s a suite. And it’s not for long.’
‘Have you got the tickets yet?’
‘They’ll be here tomorrow.’
‘First class, right?’
Ellis sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘Elizabeth insists on first class.’
‘Well, maybe Elizabeth should be buying her own bloody ticket. It’s not as if she’s strapped for cash.’
‘It’s not her fault that everything turned to shit in Belfast,’ said Kinsella, sitting down on the sofa. He took a bunch of grapes from the crystal bowl on the ornate coffee-table and popped one into his mouth.
‘That’s an exaggeration,’ said Ellis. ‘Frankly, I don’t see why you need to go back to the States.’
‘Because four of the guys who killed Robbie Carter are dead and I’m the only one left.’
‘They weren’t as protected as you are,’ said Ellis. ‘Lynn was riding around with two psychopathic gunmen, and McEvoy was sitting in his drug den on his own. And we still don’t know that it’s the same killer. McEvoy was a low-life with enemies all over the city, and plenty of people would happily have put a bullet in Gerry Lynn’s head.’
‘Please don’t insult my intelligence. We both know what’s going on.’
‘And we both know how well protected you are. There’ll be a man in the corridor outside and another in the
