back in his cell before his sheets are cold.'
Amelia looked as if she wanted to argue, but she countersigned two sheets of paper, put one into a file and closed it. She handed the other to the detective.
'Are we all done?' he asked, folding it and putting it into his coat pocket.
'He's your responsibility now,' said Amelia.
Sharpe took out a pair of handcuffs and fastened his left wrist to Shepherd's right.
'Remember what I told you, Bob,' said Amelia, as Sharpe took him towards the exit.
'Will do, ma'am, and thanks,' replied Shepherd.
There was a blue Vauxhall Vectra in the courtyard, its engine running. Sharpe opened the rear door and let Shepherd slide in, then joined him. Even in the car Sharpe stayed in character, his face impassive, his body language suggesting that there were a million things he'd rather be doing than babysitting an armed robber.
The other detective got into the front passenger seat and pointed towards the gate. The driver, a small, balding man with the collar of his leather jacket turned up, put the car into gear and pressed the accelerator.
Shepherd twisted in his seat. Amelia was standing outside the reception centre, a clipboard in her hand, watching them drive away.
The Vauxhall stopped at the gate. A prison officer in a padded jacket walked over to the driver and checked the paperwork through the open window. He stared at Shepherd. 'Date of birth?' he asked.
Shepherd gave him the date in the Macdonald legend.
'Prison number?'
Shepherd told him.
The officer asked to see the three detectives' IDs and one by one they held up their warrant cards. He checked their faces against their photographs, then stepped back from the car and waved at a colleague. The huge gate rattled back and the driver wound up the window. 'The sweet smell of freedom,' he muttered, under his breath.
Sharpe waited until the car was on the main road, driving away from the prison before he said, 'Sorry about your loss, Spider.'
Shepherd nodded, but didn't say anything. Sharpe introduced his two associates. The big man with the boxer's nose was Tim Bicknelle, a new addition to Hargrove's squad, and the driver was Nigel Rosser. 'We call him Tosser 'cos he once tossed a caber,' said Sharpe. 'That's what we tell him, anyway.'
Rosser grinned good-naturedly and flashed a V-sign at Sharpe.
'Just keep your eyes on the road and your foot on the pedal,' said Sharpe.
'Thanks for putting the word out that I shoot little old ladies,' said Shepherd. 'That'll put me one step above the nonces.'
'Don't worry. When we take you back we'll make sure the screws know you're not in the frame for the Glasgow job,' Sharpe told him.
Bicknelle opened the glove compartment and took out a stainless-steel flask with two plastic-wrapped Marks and Spencer's sandwiches. He handed them back to Shepherd. 'Coffee,' he said. 'The boss said you liked it black with no sugar.'
Shepherd put the flask between his legs. 'Thanks.' He studied the sandwiches. One was beef on brown bread, the other chicken salad on white.
'Thought you might like a change from prison food,' said Sharpe.
'Bloody right,' said Shepherd. He used his teeth to rip open the pack of beef sandwiches and bit into one.
'Plan is to run you round the M25 and up the motorway, checking for tails,' said Sharpe. 'Assuming we're clear, we'll take you home. Liam and his grandmother are there. We've got a change of clothes and a washbag in the boot. We can stop at a service station and spruce you up.'
Shepherd continued to chew. He was still wearing his burgundy prison tracksuit, which he'd been wearing when he was pulled out of the gym to see Hargrove, and he hadn't showered recently.
'Story we've spun is that we're taking you to Glasgow so we'll have to stay overnight,' continued Sharpe. 'Figure we'll get you back inside by tomorrow evening. Gives you the best part of a day with your boy.'
A day, thought Shepherd. Twenty-four hours. Sue had died and that was all Hargrove could give him with Liam.
'I know that's bugger-all, Spider, but any longer than that and it's going to raise red flags.'
Shepherd said nothing.
Sharpe leaned over and undid the handcuffs. 'What's it like inside?' he asked.
'Ninety per cent boredom, ten per cent on a knife edge,' said Shepherd. 'The inmates run it, pretty much. If anything were to kick off, there's nothing the officers can do except call for reinforcements, so they're given a fair bit of leeway.'
'And how's the target?'
'He's a hard bastard. I'm walking on eggshells.'
'Rather you than me,' said Sharpe. 'I'd go stir-crazy.'
'You get used to it.'
Bicknelle offered Shepherd a bottle of Jameson's whiskey. 'Do you want a stiffener in your coffee?' he asked.
Shepherd was tempted but he didn't want to turn up at home smelling of drink so he declined it. He unscrewed the top of the Thermos and poured himself some coffee.
'Got it from Starbucks,' said Sharpe. 'None of that instant crap.'
It smelt rich and aromatic, a far cry from the insipid brew Shepherd had got used to on the wing. Ahead of them two big motorcycles were parked at the roadside. One peeled away from the kerb and drove in front of the Vauxhall. The rider was dressed from head to toe in black leather with a gleaming black full-face helmet. The second waited until the Vauxhall had passed, then followed.
'They're with us,' said Bicknelle. He took a small transceiver from his coat pocket and spoke into it. 'Bravo One, check?'
The transceiver buzzed. 'Bravo One, loud and clear.'
'Bravo Two, check?'
The transceiver buzzed again. 'On your tail,' said the rider behind.
Bicknelle put the whiskey into the glove compartment and settled back in his seat.
'It's Elliott's funeral day after tomorrow,' said Sharpe.
'I didn't know that,' said Shepherd.
'He was a good guy, was Jonathan,' said Bicknelle. 'For a Spurs fan.'
'You worked with him, didn't you?' Sharpe asked Shepherd.
'Drugs bust, five years back. He was my introduction to a Turkish gang in north London, but we went back a long way. We were probationers together. You going to the funeral?'
'Hargrove's vetoed all attendance,' Sharpe said. 'Carpenter'll probably have the funeral staked out.'
'How did he die?' asked Shepherd.
'Two guys on a motorbike pulled up next to him at a red light. Bang, bang, thank you and good night. Bike was trashed, a totally professional job.'
'How's his wife bearing up?'
'Sedated to the eyeballs. She was in the car with him when it happened.'
'Christ,' whispered Shepherd. Hargrove hadn't gone into details, which was typical. He must have reckoned that Shepherd didn't need to know the manner of Elliott's murder. 'No kids, though, right?'
Sharpe grimaced. 'She's pregnant. Two months. He didn't even know. She was planning to surprise him.'
Shepherd shuddered. He hadn't opened the chicken-salad sandwich and he'd lost his appetite. He offered it to Sharpe, but the detective shook his head.
'If that's going spare, I'll have it,' said Rosser.
Shepherd passed it to him. 'Who's representing the squad?' he asked.
'There'll be plenty of uniforms,' said Sharpe, 'but Hargrove isn't going.'
'So the answer's no one?' said Shepherd. He hated the idea that none of Elliott's associates would be there to say goodbye but he understood the logic behind it. One of Carpenter's men with a long lens would be able to blow
