Angie nodded.
Kerr took another long drag on his cigarette, held the smoke in his lungs, then exhaled through clenched teeth, all the time watching his wife’s face. ‘So,’ he said, ‘if we go outside and check, the tank’ll be full, will it?’
‘Charlie, why are you doing this?’ she whispered.
‘Because I don’t like being lied to. In fact, I hate it – hate it more than anything. And you know why?’
Angie knew. He’d told her a hundred times or more.
‘Tell me why I hate being lied to.’
‘Because it means people think they’re smarter than you. When they’re not.’
Kerr smiled.‘That’s right. And do you think you’re smarter than me?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’
He pushed himself away from the door and walked across the kitchen, passing so close that she could smell his aftershave. She stiffened when he drew level with her but she forced herself not to flinch because she knew he would take that as a sign of guilt. Her heart pounded and her mouth was dry, but she tried not to swallow. He picked up the carrier-bag and looked inside. ‘Paella,’ he said.
‘I know you like paella.’
‘You like paella,’ he said. ‘I’m more of a lobster man.’
‘You know you can’t get decent lobster in Manchester,’ she said.
‘Not a patch on Spanish lobster, you’re right there,’ he said. He put the carrier-bag down on the work surface. ‘So, let’s go and have a look at the Jag, shall we?’
‘Charlie . . .’
‘What?’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Want to change your story? A last-minute amendment to the details of where the hell you’ve been for the last two hours?’
Angie felt tears spring to her eyes and blinked them away. He took a perverse pleasure in making her cry, then having sex with her as the tears ran down her face. It wasn’t making love – it wasn’t even sex. It was rape. Without love, without tenderness, just grunts, curses and threats of what he wanted to do to her. It was hardly ever in bed, either. It was in the kitchen, over the back of one of the sofas in the sitting room, or against a bathroom wall. He was always sorry afterwards. Or he said he was. He’d stroke her hair and kiss her neck and say he really loved her, that it was only because he loved her so much that he hurt her. And he made her a promise as he stroked her hair and kissed her neck: if she ever left him, if he ever thought she was going to leave him, he’d kill her. Because he loved her so much.
‘I went to the supermarket for the shopping and I got petrol,’ she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. She kept smiling at him because he’d take any other facial expression as an excuse to get physical – a push, a pinch, a slap. Then her tears and the violence.
He took a step towards her and raised his cigarette. She flinched. He grinned and put the cigarette slowly to his lips. He inhaled slowly and the tip went bright red. Then he took it out of his mouth and held it a few inches from her left cheek. Her face ached from smiling. She knew he wouldn’t stub it out on her face. He was too clever for that. When he marked her it was on a place no one else would see.
‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’ he said. He blew smoke into her face. ‘Got the keys?’
‘Sure,’ said Angie.
He walked into the hallway. Angie followed him. Kerr opened the front door and headed for the Jaguar. He stopped when he reached the driver’s side and held out his hand. Angie gave him the keys. He pressed the electronic tag and the locks clicked open. ‘You okay?’ he asked her.
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘Anything you want to say?’
Angie shook her head.
Kerr opened the door and the internal light winked on. He slid on to the driver’s seat and inserted the ignition key. He peered at the fuel gauge. The needle swung up to the full position. Kerr stared at it for several seconds, then pulled out the key and climbed out of the car. He closed the door and tossed the keys to his wife. ‘Come on, let’s have a drink,’ he said. ‘I’ll open a bottle of Dom.’
He went into the house. Angie stared after him, her hands trembling.
The phone woke Shepherd from a dreamless sleep and he fumbled for it. ‘Are you awake, Spider?’
‘I am now,’ said Shepherd, rubbing his face.
‘I’ve had a word with the CPS and NCIS. They’re all getting very hot over Angie Kerr.’
‘Yeah, well, she’s a sexy girl.’
‘The initial response is that they want her turned,’ said Hargrove. ‘They don’t feel they’ve any other way of nailing her husband.’
‘Which says a lot about the sad state of policing in this country, doesn’t it?’
‘Now, now, Spider, you’re getting all bitter and twisted.’
‘He’s a criminal, right? I’ve read the files you gave me. MI5, the Church, the Manchester cops, they all know he’s bad. Even the DEA’s been on his case in Miami. But no one does anything.’
‘It’s a question of resources, you know that. Even we have to choose whom we assist. My unit gets hundreds of requests every year, but we take on a couple of dozen at most.’
‘A guy like Kerr should be a priority, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘There are hundreds of Kerrs in the UK. Thousands, maybe. We have to choose our targets carefully.’
‘We take the cases we know we’ll win, is that what you’re saying?’
‘What’s the alternative? We spend our time chasing dead ends? There’s no point in mounting an investigation if we know we’re going to fail. You have to play the odds. A guy like Hendrickson, we know we can put him away. Kerr’s a bigger fish and you need a bigger hook to catch him.’
‘And Angie Kerr is the hook?’
‘Hopefully,’ said Hargrove. ‘The Drugs Squad and the Church can act on anything she gives them.’
‘He’ll kill her,’ said Shepherd grimly.
‘She’ll be protected,’ said Hargrove. ‘Look, this isn’t a conversation for the phone, and I need to run something else by you. You know the pub by the canal, the place where we first discussed the Hendrickson case?’
‘Sure.’
‘Can you be there at eleven?’
Shepherd squinted at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was just after nine. Plenty of time. ‘Yeah.’
‘See you, then,’ said the superintendent. ‘And remember, we’re on the same side here. I’m no happier about using Angie Kerr than you are, but sometimes the end justifies the means.’
Shepherd pulled on an old pair of shorts and a tattered T-shirt and went for a short run, a quick two kilometres without the rucksack, then shaved, showered and changed into a pullover and jeans. He retrieved his leather jacket from the sofa where he’d thrown it the previous night and headed out, picking up a coffee from his local Starbucks as he walked to the meeting-place. The pub was only fifteen minutes from his apartment, on the edge of the city’s vibrant Canal Street gay area.
Hargrove was sitting on a wooden bench outside the pub. He stood up as Shepherd approached, and the two men walked along the canal path.
‘Two guys taking an early-morning stroll, people will get the wrong idea,’ said Shepherd.
‘Since when have you cared what people think?’ said Hargrove. ‘Besides, you’re not my type.’
As ever, the superintendent was immaculately dressed: a well-cut cashmere overcoat over a blue Savile Row pinstripe suit, starched white shirt with cufflinks in the shape of cricket bats, and an MCC tie. ‘I could be your bit of rough,’ said Shepherd.
‘You’ve been up north too long,’ said Hargrove. ‘You’re developing the northern sarcasm.’
‘Aye, and I’ve started eating mushy peas, too. But you’re right, I wouldn’t mind being closer to home.’
‘That’s good, because I need you on another job in London, ASAP.’
Shepherd grimaced. ‘I was hoping for a few days off. It’s been a while since I saw Liam.’
‘This is urgent, I’m afraid.’
‘It always is,’ said Shepherd, and regretted it. No one forced him to do the work he did. He was an undercover cop by choice and could walk away any time he wanted to. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in Tony Nelson’s skin too long.’
