need you with me.’
Her eyes were filling with tears. ‘Graham’s dead,’ she faltered.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘But we’ve got to get you to hospital. Do you understand?’ Button nodded slowly but there was no recognition in her eyes. Shepherd shook her. ‘Come on, Charlie, stay with me. Focus.’
She nodded. ‘Okay,’ she whispered. ‘I’m okay.’
Shepherd helped her into a sitting position, and pulled her back against the wall. ‘You’ve got to get to hospital,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said. She took a deep breath and winced.
Shepherd stood up and went to the desk. He picked up the phone and dialled nine-nine-nine. A woman who sounded as if she had better things to do asked him which emergency service he wanted. ‘Ambulance,’ he said.
‘What’s the nature of the emergency?’ asked the woman.
‘A heart-attack, I think,’ said Shepherd. Button frowned and he made a patting motion, telling her to relax. ‘She’s on the floor and in a lot of pain, her breathing’s ragged and she’s as white as a sheet.’
‘I’ll transfer you to the ambulance service,’ said the woman. She put the call through and this time it was a man. He asked Shepherd for his name and address, then the nature of the problem. Shepherd repeated what he’d told the first operator and hung up. He went to Button and knelt in front of her again.
‘What was that about?’ she asked.
‘If they know shots have been fired or knives used the paramedics will stand back until they’re sure the area’s safe. That means waiting for an armed-response vehicle, and who knows how long that’ll take? This way the paramedics will be right here and by the time they see what the damage is they’ll already be treating you.’
‘You know all the tricks,’ she said.
‘I know what the rules are, and I know how to get around them,’ he said. ‘I need towels.’
‘Down the hallway. First on the right, there’s a loo,’ she said.
Shepherd hurried out and returned with three small cotton towels. He knelt down beside her. Her shirt was sodden with blood at her right hip and he pulled it gently away from her skirt and pressed a towel to the wound. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.
‘Like I’m bleeding to death,’ she said. ‘I’ll be okay, Spider.’
‘Where does it hurt?’
‘My side. My shoulder. My hand. My legs. Pretty much all over, really.’
Shepherd eased her forward and looked at her back. The shirt was soaked with blood there too. He placed a towel over the wet patch and leant her against the wall. He took her right hand and examined it. A deep cut ran right across her palm and blood was dripping from it on to the carpet. Shepherd got her to hold her hand up while he wrapped a towel round it. ‘Keep it high, if you can,’ he said. The wounds on her legs were superficial. ‘No arteries cut but you’ll have a few nice scars.’ He took the towel from her side and examined the wound there. Blood was trickling out but there was no pulsing. He replaced the towel and kept up a light pressure on it.
‘I’m going to have to put my hand down,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’ She put her towel-wrapped hand into her lap and looked past Shepherd at the body by the desk. ‘My husband,’ she said. ‘Graham.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd.
‘It’s so bloody unfair,’ she said. ‘He never hurt anyone in his whole life.’ Her eyes closed.
Shepherd shook her. ‘Stay with me, Charlie, don’t sleep now. Wait until the paramedics get here.’
‘I’m so tired,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.
‘Open your eyes, Charlie. Come on.’
She did as he asked. ‘He’s dead. The bastard’s dead, isn’t he?’ she whispered.
‘Absolutely,’ said Shepherd.
‘I suppose I was lucky he wanted to use a knife and not a gun,’ she said. Tears ran down her face. ‘I was so scared, Spider.’
‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s over now.’
She wiped away her tears with her left hand. ‘I felt so bloody helpless,’ she said.
‘He had a knife, Charlie,’ said Shepherd.
‘If it had been you, you’d have done some flashy
‘Not if he’d cut my throat from behind,’ said Shepherd. ‘And we never did
‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘I was throwing books at him, for God’s sake. How pathetic is that?’
The towel around her right hand was soaked with blood. Shepherd lifted her hand from her lap and held it at shoulder height. ‘You did medical training in the SAS?’ she asked.
‘The basics, but I was never a medic,’ he said. ‘My speciality was hostage rescue as part of CRW,’ he said. ‘Counter-revolutionary Warfare. I was trained for putting rounds into people rather than patching them up afterwards.’ In the distance Shepherd heard an ambulance siren. ‘Here they come,’ he said.
‘I need to make a call,’ she said.
‘It can wait,’ said Shepherd.
‘No, it can’t,’ she said. ‘As soon as they see two dead bodies and the state of me they’ll call the police and we can’t have that.’ She held out her right hand. ‘Let me have my mobile.’
Shepherd went over to it. ‘It’s broken,’ he said. ‘Use mine.’
‘They’ll keep a record of the call and I don’t want your name in the frame.’ She pointed to her husband’s body. ‘Give me Graham’s.’
Her husband’s mobile was in a leather holster clipped to his belt. Shepherd pulled it out and gave it to her. She nodded at the desk. ‘Hide the gun,’ she said. She tapped out a number with her thumb, brow furrowed. Shepherd stood up and went over to get the UMP. ‘Thinking about it, Spider, it might be best if you get as far away from here as you can,’ she said.
Shepherd took the Tube to Knightsbridge and wandered around the Harrods food hall for ten minutes to check that he wasn’t being followed, then took a circuitous route through the surrounding streets to the red-brick mansion that housed the Special Forces Club. He pushed open the door, signed in at the reception desk in the hallway and headed upstairs. Yokely was already at the bar with a vodka and tonic.
‘Your usual?’ asked Yokely.
Shepherd nodded and the American ordered a Jameson’s with soda and ice, then went over to a quiet table in the window. It had been at the Special Forces Club that Shepherd had first met Yokely. Shepherd dropped into a winged leather armchair. ‘What’s so urgent that I have to be dragged out of the bowels of the American embassy?’ asked Yokely.
‘It’s done,’ said Shepherd.
‘What’s done?’ asked the American.
‘Your man. Hassan Salih.’
‘Dead?’
‘Very.’
Yokely raised his glass in salute. ‘Well done you. Details?’ Shepherd told the American everything, only pausing when a white-jacketed waiter brought his whiskey. When he’d finished, Yokely was grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘And Charlie?’
‘She’ll be okay. She’s in hospital. I’m going to see her after this.’
‘Tell her I was asking about her, will you?’
‘You should pop around yourself,’ said Shepherd.
‘I was never one for flowers,’ said Yokely. ‘And, frankly, we’re not that close.’
‘What about her husband’s funeral? Will you go to that?’
Yokely’s eyes narrowed. ‘Dan, I’m picking up a vibe here.’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘There’s no vibe,’ he said. ‘I just can’t help but think that if you’d warned Charlie of the danger she was in, her husband might still be alive and she wouldn’t be in hospital.’
‘Trust me, if we’d warned her the killer would have just bided his time and eventually killed them both.’
‘And maybe gone after you, too?’
‘I told you before, I’m very hard to get.’ He sipped his vodka and tonic. ‘What about you? Where do you go
