hissed.
‘How much is he worth, your husband?’
‘Not planning to raise your price, are you?’ she asked.
‘Just background,’ he said.
‘Forewarned is forearmed?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Seven million, give or take,’ she said.
‘And do you know where it all is?’
‘It’s not buried under the swimming-pool, if that’s what you mean.’
‘What I mean is that, once he’s dead, you’ll have to make sure you can get your hands on his assets. Most heavy criminals hide their ill-gotten gains and if your husband’s done that you might find you’re penniless when he’s gone.’
Angie smiled thinly. ‘Most of the bank accounts are in my name,’ she said. ‘I’m the majority owner of most of his businesses. In fact, nothing’s in his name. He doesn’t even have a credit card. Says the filth can track you anywhere you go if you use plastic.’
He was right. One of the easiest ways to keep someone under surveillance was to watch their credit-card spending. Restaurants, hotels, plane tickets. It was indelible proof of where a target had been. The smart ones stuck to cash. And the really smart ones made sure that no assets were in their name.
‘So, you’re going to do it?’ she asked. She flicked the stub of her cigarette through the window.
‘I’ve taken your money,’ he said. ‘It’s as good as done.’
‘When?’
‘Give me a day or two. I’ll have to watch him for a while, get used to his habits.’
‘What if he sees you?’
‘He won’t.’
‘He’s edgy. Thinks the cops are watching him. Doesn’t discuss business on a land line, only uses pay-as-you- go mobiles.’
‘If the cops are watching him, I’ll spot them,’ said Shepherd. He knew they weren’t. Hargrove had checked with the head of the Greater Manchester Police Drugs Squad and been told that Kerr wasn’t under active surveillance.
‘And if they are?’
‘It’ll make it more difficult, that’s all. Once I’ve accepted a job, Mrs Kerr, I follow it through, come what may.’
‘Tony,’ she said. ‘You and I are about as close to each other as two people can get without having sex, right?’
Shepherd laughed again, then forced himself to straighten his face.
‘You look different when you smile,’ she said.
‘Everybody does,’ he replied.
‘No, you look like a totally different person.’
‘I don’t have too much to smile about in this line of work,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s not like I get to see people in their best light. I’ll call you once I’ve decided when and where.’
‘And I fix up an alibi?’
‘The more people the better. Ideally somewhere with CCTV. You mentioned the casino last time. That’s the perfect place.’
‘Will I see you again?’
‘Afterwards. To pay me the rest of the money.’
‘So that’s it, then?’
‘That’s it,’ said Shepherd.
She opened the door and climbed out of the Volvo, then leaned back in. ‘I’m not a hard-hearted bitch, you know.’
‘I never said you were,’ he said.
‘And it’s not about the money. I couldn’t give a shit about how much he’s got. It’s just . . .’
‘You’re scared,’ he finished for her. ‘You’re scared of what he might do to you.’
‘He’s always said he’d rather I was dead than with someone else.’ She slammed the door and walked towards the supermarket.
Shepherd leaned his head on the rest. So that was that. He had the money in his pocket and she’d handed it to him with bare hands so her fingerprints would be on the envelope. He had her on video discussing the murder of her husband. Life behind bars. Unless she co-operated.
One of his mobiles rang. He was carrying two, the one used by Tony Nelson and the other to take calls from Hargrove. It was the latter. ‘Excellent, Spider,’ said Hargrove. ‘Perfect sound and vision.’
‘Now what?’
‘I’ll run it by the CPS.’
‘Are we going to use her to get the husband?’
‘Doesn’t sound like she’s got much to offer,’ said the superintendent.
‘She knows where the money is,’ said Shepherd. ‘And we could use her in Spain.’
‘You heard what she said, Spider. She doesn’t know when he’ll be over there again.’
‘So she gets thrown to the wolves?’
‘She’s conspiring to commit murder, not shoplifting a can of catfood,’ said Hargrove. ‘Look, it’s been a stressful couple of days. Take an early bath, you’ve earned it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. He cut the connection and tapped the phone against his chin. He wasn’t proud of himself. Angie Kerr was a victim, yet the full weight of the law would be used against her. If there had been any justice in the world the authorities would have moved against her husband years ago. But it was always easier to go for the soft targets.
He drove back to the rented flat and changed into his running gear. At the bottom of the wardrobe there was an old canvas rucksack containing half a dozen housebricks wrapped in newspaper, a habit from his SAS days. A run without weight on his back wasn’t a challenge. And he didn’t wear state-of-the-art nylon trainers stitched together by Chinese juveniles earning a dollar a day: he ran in army boots. For Shepherd running wasn’t a fashion statement, it was a way of keeping his body at the level of fitness his job required.
He took the stairs down to the ground floor and pushed through the double glass doors that led out to the pavement. It didn’t matter whether he ran in the city or through woodland. After the first ten minutes he wasn’t aware of his surroundings. Now he ran on automatic pilot, his thoughts never far from Angie Kerr and the unfairness of it all.
Angie parked next to her husband’s Range Rover. She picked up the supermarket carrier-bags from the passenger seat – the ingredients for paella and three bottles of Frascati. She liked the Italian wine. Her husband was always getting her to drink expensive champagne when they were out but she preferred Frascati. It was smoother and didn’t have the acidic aftertaste she always got from champagne.
She unlocked the front door. ‘Charlie, it’s me,’ she called, but there was no reply. She went through to the kitchen and put the wine in the fridge.
‘Where were you?’ said her husband. She jumped. She hadn’t heard him come up behind her. He was leaning against the doorway, a smile on his face.
‘I told you. Shopping.’
‘You were gone almost two hours.’ He enunciated each word as if he was speaking to someone who had to lip-read.
‘Charlie, I had to park, I had to get the food. The supermarket was busy.’
‘It’s Monday. It’s never busy on a Monday. And you went to the supermarket on Saturday.’
‘For general food shopping. But I wanted more Frascati. And I said I’d make paella, right?’
Kerr nodded at the carrier-bag on the kitchen table. ‘So that’s why you were gone so long, yeah? For paella and cheap Italian plonk.’
‘And petrol.’
Kerr lit a cigarette and blew smoke at her. ‘So you filled up the Jag?’
