Any time, night or day.'
'Even when we're banged up?'
'If we think it's serious, we can get you a Listener any time one's needed. It's at our discretion.' Rathbone unlocked the cell door.
'Thanks,' said Shepherd, and he meant it.
Rathbone locked the door and Shepherd climbed up on to his bunk. He was looking forward to seeing Sue and Liam, but what he really wanted was to be on the outside with them, twenty-four hours a day. And the quickest way of achieving that was to put paid to Gerald Carpenter. The sooner the better.
Kim Fletcher looked at the photograph for the twentieth time. 'They all look the bloody same in those uniforms,' he muttered.
Pat Neary tapped his fingers on the BMW's steering-wheel. 'Is that him?' he said. A boy was walking out of the school gates, a mobile phone pressed to his ear.
Fletcher screwed up his eyes. 'I don't think so.'
'Do you need glasses?'
'Fuck off,' said Fletcher, looking at the photograph again.
'We should have waited nearer the house,' said Neary.
'Right, and get picked up by the filth.'
'I said nearer the house. Not near. Sitting outside a school we look like a couple of nonces on the prowl.'
'Speak for yourself,' snarled Fletcher. A black Range Rover driven by a middle-aged blonde pulled up in front of the gates and three boys piled into the back. Fletcher ignored them. The boy they were looking for always walked home.
The Range Rover roared off. A boy with a blue Nike backpack was standing at the school gate, talking to a taller boy with black-framed glasses.
'That's him,' said Fletcher.
Neary put the BMW into gear. Fletcher twisted in his seat as they drove away from the school. There was no mistake. The boy with the backpack waved goodbye to the taller boy and headed away from the gates, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. His tie was at half-mast, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.
They drove a couple of hundred yards down the road, then Neary stopped the car in front of a row of small shops. Fletcher got out, and slipped on a pair of impenetrable Ray-Bans. Neary pulled a tight U-turn, parked on the other side of the road and sat there with the engine running.
Fletcher looked into the window of a cake shop while he waited for the boy. What he was about to do had to be handled right. If he spooked the boy, Fletcher knew he wouldn't be able to run after him: he had just turned forty-five and it was a long time since he'd jogged, never mind sprinted.
He looked to his left. The boy was about fifty feet away, his head down and his shoulders hunched, hands still in his trouser pockets. He was twelve years old.
Fletcher walked slowly towards him, his right hand reaching into his overcoat pocket. The boy looked up and brushed his chestnut hair out of his eyes. He saw that Fletcher was in his way and moved to the side, nearer to the road. His forehead was creased into a deep frown, as if he had something on his mind, but he wasn't looking at Fletcher.
'Ben Roper?' said Fletcher, not because there was any doubt but because he knew that the boy was less likely to run if he was addressed by name.
'Yes?' said the boy, the frown deepening.
Fletcher's hand emerged from his overcoat holding a gleaming white envelope. 'Can you give this to your dad, please?' He held it out.
'What is it?' said the boy, suspiciously.
Fletcher flashed what he hoped was a disarming smile. He was proud of his teeth: they'd cost him several thousand pounds and were the finest dentures money could buy. He hated dentists and years of neglect had meant that, by his late thirties, his gums had receded and the teeth rotted. The pain had been so bad that he had had to seek treatment but his mouth was in such a state of disrepair that the man he'd been referred to had offered only two choices, both of which involved the removal of all his teeth. The surgeon said he could bolt new teeth into Fletcher's jaw or fit him with dentures. Fletcher had gone for the dentures.
'It's a personal letter,' he said. 'It's important, so I don't want to risk posting it.'
The boy took it, but he looked at it suspiciously.
'Just give it to your dad, okay?' said Fletcher.
The boy kept the letter at arm's length as if reluctant to accept ownership. 'I'm not supposed to take things from strangers,' he said.
'It's only a letter,' said Fletcher tersely. He looked left and right but no one was paying them any attention.
'Who shall I say gave it to me?'
Fletcher nodded at the letter. 'It's all in there,' he said. 'Your dad will understand everything when he's read it. Just tell him I gave it to you near the school.'
'I guess that's okay,' Ben said, and put the envelope into his blazer pocket.
'Good lad.' Fletcher patted his shoulder.
Ben headed down the road, towards his home. Fletcher waited until he was well on his way before he crossed the road and climbed into the BMW. Neary gunned the engine. 'Now what?'
'Now we see if Roper gets the message,' said Fletcher, took off the sunglasses and slipped them inside his jacket.
'And if he doesn't?'
Fletcher made a gun with his hand. 'We get ourselves another motorbike.'
Shortly after the men returned from the workshops Shepherd's door opened. It was Lloyd-Davies, holding a white carrier-bag and a clipboard. 'Your solicitor dropped these in for you,' she said, giving him the bag.
'Thanks,' said Shepherd. He tipped the contents out on to his bunk. There were two Ralph Lauren polo shirts, one red, one blue, two pairs of black Armani jeans and a pair of gleaming white Nike trainers, Calvin Klein underwear and Nike socks. Tucked into one of the trainers was a Rolex wristwatch and a gold neck chain. Shepherd studied the expensive timepiece. It wasn't the one that the forensics woman had taken off him, so maybe Hargrove had requisitioned it from a drug-dealer's confiscated property. It was gold and studded with diamonds, a real player's watch.
Lloyd-Davies handed him the clipboard and a pen. 'Sign here,' she said, tapping the bottom of a form, which listed everything she'd given him.
Shepherd scrawled his Bob Macdonald signature and gave the clipboard back to her. 'I'd be careful with that,' she said, nodding at the watch.
Shepherd slipped it on to his wrist. 'It's just a watch,' he said.
'It's five grand, maybe more,' she said. 'There's guys in here would kill for five grand.'
Shepherd dropped the chain round his neck.
'Bob, I have to tell you, wearing jewellery like that is just asking for trouble.'
Shepherd smiled. 'I can take care of myself, ma'am,' he said. He held up the shirts. 'Which do you think?'
'Red,' she said. 'It'll go with your eyes. I'm serious. If your jewellery gets taken off you, there's not much we can do.'
'You could call the cops.'
Lloyd-Davies flashed him a cold smile. 'Suit yourself. I'm only trying to help.'
Shepherd saw that he'd offended her and felt suddenly ashamed. She'd gone out of her way to be friendly and helpful, but Bob Macdonald would see that as a sign of weakness. As Dan Shepherd he wanted to apologise, but that would be out of character. He had no choice but to keep giving her a hard time. 'Anyone tries to take my stuff, I'll give them what for.' He moved towards the cell door. 'Okay if I get my tea?'
Lloyd-Davies tapped the clipboard against her black trousers, then walked out.
Shepherd took off his prison-issue sweatshirt and pulled on the red polo, then changed into the black jeans and Nikes. He went out on to the landing and along to the stairs, looking down at the ground floor where prisoners were lining up at the hotplate. Lloyd-Davies had gone into the bubble and was talking to Stafford. There were no
