the cover of any undercover cop who turned up.
'We're sending flowers, and Hargrove has been to see her,' said Sharpe. 'But we've got to make sure that bastard Carpenter spends the rest of his life behind bars.'
'Amen to that,' said Rosser.
The sun was high in the sky when the Vauxhall Vectra pulled up in front of the three-bedroom semi-detached in Ealing. It was a warm, sunny day. As Sharpe opened the car door and climbed out, Shepherd heard birdsong. He looked out of the passenger window at the house. It had been their home for almost six years. They'd moved into it when Liam had been crawling. There were so many memories of so many good times. Shepherd got out of the car. He'd washed at a service station on the M1 and changed into a denim shirt and blue jeans. He hadn't shaved because he couldn't afford to return to Shelton clean-shaven. Scottish cops wouldn't have bothered to let Bob Macdonald shave.
'We'll leave you to it, Spider,' said Sharpe. 'We'll pick you up tomorrow. Give us a call if you need us.' He told Shepherd his mobile number.
Shepherd continued to stare at the house as Sharpe got back into the car and it drove away. He looked up at the roof. There was a slate loose near the chimneys. He had promised Sue he would fix it. The gutters needed painting, another job she had been nagging him about. He felt a sudden urge to apologise to her for all the jobs he'd failed to do, the times he hadn't been there for her.
He walked towards the front door, his feet crunching on the gravelled path. The door opened and, for a wild moment, Shepherd thought it was Sue standing there, that it had all been a terrible mistake and she was still alive. But it wasn't: it was her mother, Moira, in her late fifties, tall and striking, with Sue's high cheekbones and full mouth, her greying hair dyed a rich auburn. She wore no makeup and was wearing jeans and a floppy dark blue pullover. She forced a smile and kissed his cheek.
Shepherd didn't know what to say to her. They hugged on the doorstep.
'Where the hell have you been, Daniel?' she asked. His mother-in-law was the only person who called him by his full Christian name. At home and through his schooldays he'd been Danny. When he'd joined the army he'd decided Danny was juvenile and told his fellow recruits he was Dan. When he'd joined the SAS his troop had rechristened him Spider after a training course in the jungles of Borneo. It had all been down to a bet as to which of them could eat the most disgusting insect without throwing up; Shepherd had wolfed down a tarantula. Now everyone called him Spider, except Moira: to her he would always be Daniel, the soldier who'd stolen her daughter. Sue had always called him Dan.
'Where's Liam?' Shepherd asked, ignoring her question.
'In the sitting room, playing with his video game.'
'How is he?'
Moira wrapped her arms round herself. 'He wasn't hurt, he was strapped in. But he was there when Sue--'
She couldn't finish the sentence.
'Has he said anything?'
'Only that he doesn't want to talk about it. The doctor said he's dealing with it in his own way. He'll talk when he's ready.'
Shepherd hugged her. 'Thanks for coming, Moira. Thanks for taking care of him.'
'He's my grandson, Daniel,' she said flatly.
Shepherd released her and stepped into the hallway. The sitting room was on the right. He could hear electronic gunfire, and screams. Moira closed the front door.
Liam was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the television, his thumbs flashing over the PlayStation handset. On the screen, soldiers were exploding as machine-gun bullets ripped through their bodies. Liam didn't look up as Shepherd walked in.
'Hi,' said Shepherd.
'Hi,' said Liam, his eyes still on the screen.
Shepherd stood where he was. This wasn't what he'd been expecting. He'd assumed that his son would rush at him in tears to be hugged and picked up and told that everything was all right.
'Are you okay?'
Liam shrugged and carried on with his game. Shepherd sat down on the floor next to him. 'That looks fun,' he said.
Liam went on playing with his left hand but handed Shepherd the second control pad with the right. Shepherd looked at its coloured buttons as Liam continued to shoot make-believe soldiers with make-believe bullets.
Shepherd started to play the game with his son. Bang, bang, you're dead. Make-believe blood. Make-believe gore. No regrets, no conscience.
'Do you want coffee, Daniel?' asked Moira, from the door.
'No thanks,' said Shepherd.
'Liam? Lemonade?'
Liam shook his head.
'Say, 'No, thank you,'' said Shepherd.
'No, thank you,' repeated Liam.
'Jaffa cakes?'
'No, thanks.'
Shepherd looked over his shoulder. Moira was close to tears, her hands clutched together. He smiled reassuringly, but she turned away and went into the kitchen.
'Do you want to go to the park?' asked Shepherd. 'Kick the football around?'
'Okay,' said Liam.
Liam kicked the football and ran after it. A red setter chased it, too, but Liam got there first and kicked it high into the air. The dog ran after it, barking. Liam still hadn't talked about his mother's death. He'd barely said anything. Shepherd had tried to start a conversation several times, but all Liam did was grunt or answer monosyllabically. Shepherd knew that he was bottling up his emotions and that eventually it would all come tumbling out. But just then all he wanted to do was run with the red setter.
Shepherd saw a man on the other side of the football field, walking in his direction with his hands in his overcoat pockets. It was Sam Hargrove.
Shepherd watched his son play with the dog as Hargrove walked up to him. 'Nice day for it,' said Hargrove. The evening wind tugged at his immaculately styled hair.
'Any day out of prison is a nice day,' said Shepherd.
'How is he?' asked Hargrove, nodding in Liam's direction.
'His mother just died, how do you think he is?' said Shepherd, and realised how churlish that sounded. He tried to apologise, but the words caught in his throat.
Hargrove put a hand on his shoulder. 'I'm so sorry about what's happened,' he said. 'If there's anything I can do, you just have to ask.'
'I know.'
For a few moments they were silent.
'This isn't just social, is it?' asked Shepherd.
'If you don't want to talk about the job, that's fine by me,' said the superintendent.
'I'm okay,' said Shepherd. At least if he was thinking about the case he wasn't thinking about Sue.
'Tony Stafford is Digger's man,' said Hargrove.
'I can't say I'm surprised. Carpenter told me as much.'
Hargrove took a manila envelope from his overcoat pocket and handed it to Shepherd. Inside were half a dozen surveillance photographs of Stafford meeting a pretty black girl and taking an envelope from her, then walking away with a smile on his face.
'We've found an offshore building-society account with fifty-eight grand in it.'
'Stupid bugger.' Shepherd recalled Stafford's file. Married with three children, one at university. Wife worked as a nurse. Two incomes, so money shouldn't have been a problem. Maybe it was greed. Or resentment. The same reasons that turned criminals into informers.
'Thing is, he's Digger's man. I don't think he's Carpenter's man. We've had Digger's sister under surveillance
