wondered what her choice of car said about her. He had been telling the truth when he told her he could slip into and out of his roles without difficulty. What he hadn’t told her was that he was often more comfortable when he was playing a role than when he was being himself. And even he knew that that wasn’t a good sign.
As the psychologist drove away, Shepherd saw a girl walking briskly towards his garden gate. She was in her twenties, dark hair dyed blonde, wearing a knee-length black leather coat. She walked down the path. ‘My name is Halina, from the agency,’ she said. She had high cheekbones, green, cat-like eyes, gleaming white teeth and a slight American accent.
Shepherd shook her hand. Her nails were painted red but bitten to the quick and she had silver rings on most of her fingers. ‘Where are you from, Halina?’ he asked as they went inside.
‘From Poland,’ she said. ‘Warsaw. I have my references here.’ She handed him a large manila envelope. ‘My name, it means “light” in English.’
Shepherd opened the envelope. There was a letter from a factory manager in Warsaw saying that she was a hard worker and good timekeeper, another from an American couple who said she had done a great job taking care of their six-year-old daughter during their year-long stay in the Polish capital. There was also a photocopy of the application form she had filled in to join Miss Malcolm’s agency. Everything seemed in order. Halina spoke good English, had a clean driving licence and a consistent work history. But something was not right about her. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew she wasn’t to be trusted. His policeman’s instinct had kicked in and he had been in the job long enough to know that, more often than not, he could rely on his gut feelings. He made small-talk with her for fifteen minutes, then sent her on her way with a promise that he’d call Miss Malcolm on Monday. He didn’t want her within a mile of his son, no matter how glowing her references.
He phoned Miss Malcolm and explained that the girl she’d sent wasn’t suitable. She promised to call as soon as she had any other prospects, but pointed out that it was a seller’s market. ‘Like plumbers or electricians,’ she said, ‘sometimes you just have to take what’s available.’
Shepherd thanked her and rang off. His personal opinion was that the welfare of his son was a hell of a lot more important than a leaking tap or a blown fuse, but he knew there was no point in picking a fight with her. If he was going to find someone suitable, he needed Miss Malcolm on his side.
He picked up the Tony Nelson phone and took a deep breath. He had to stop being Dan Shepherd, single parent and undercover police officer. Everything he said on the phone had to be in character. Cold, efficient, ruthless. He focused on what he was about to do. Then he rang Angie Kerr. Her voicemail kicked in and Shepherd cut the connection. He’d try later.
He changed into his running gear and picked up his weighted rucksack. He did a fast ten kilometres and by the time he got back to the house he was drenched with sweat. Two cars were parked in the road outside the house, a new red Rover and a three-year-old white Toyota. Two men were standing at the front door, one with a clipboard, the other with an A4 manila envelope. Shepherd didn’t recognise either but they both had the short hair and stout shoes that marked them out as police officers in plain clothes. ‘Dan Shepherd?’ said the man with the clipboard.
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. He slipped off the rucksack and dropped it on the path.
‘Compliments of Superintendent Hargrove,’ said the man, nodding at the Toyota. He held out the clipboard and a pen. ‘Sign at the bottom, please.’ The car would be registered, taxed and insured in the name of the legend he was using as an SO19 officer.
‘The gear’s in the back, sir,’ said the man, handing him the keys. ‘You can check it if you want.’
‘I’m sure it’s fine.’
‘Second page, sir.’
Shepherd signed for the equipment he’d need for his SO19 duty: bulletproof Kevlar vest with ceramic plate, black Nato-style ballistic helmet, Kevlar gloves with leather trigger finger, equipment belt with plastic retention holster for the Glock, Sure-Fire combat light, CS spray, plastic handcuffs, retractable baton, radio pouch and magazine pouches.
‘And page three is for documentation, sir.’ The man fished a white envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to Shepherd, who signed on the third page, then handed the clipboard back to the man.
The second man gave him the manila envelope. ‘Background files, no need to sign for them,’ said the man. He had a Northern Irish accent. ‘Normal procedures apply.’ They went back to the Rover and drove off.
‘Normal procedures’ meant memorise and destroy. Shepherd opened the boot of the Toyota, took out the black nylon equipment bag and let himself into the house. He dropped the bag and the rucksack in the kitchen, then showered and changed back into his grey pullover and black jeans. He made himself some coffee before he opened the manila envelope.
It contained a CD disk and a dozen sheets of paper in a clear plastic file. Shepherd dropped down on to his sofa and swung his feet on to the coffee-table. The file contained his SO19 legend. He scanned the sheets, committing them to memory. He was Stuart Marsden, armed cop. Three years on the beat in Glasgow followed by four years in a Strathclyde armed-response unit. Two commendations for bravery, promotion on the horizon, single with no children. No emotional baggage. It was a far cry from Shepherd’s own situation.
Marsden’s date of birth was his own. That was par for the course: the people who put together the legends stuck as close as possible to the operative’s own history. It was the small things that could trip up an agent. Getting his birth sign wrong. Forgetting the name of the station in the town where he was born.
He’d worked undercover in Glasgow on several long-term operations so he knew the geography of the city, and an hour or two with a guidebook and map would fill in any gaps.
When he’d finished he closed his eyes and ran through the details. It was all there. He had no idea why he had almost total recall while most people struggled to remember their own telephone number, but it had saved his life on at least two occasions. Once he’d been tied to a chair in a basement faced with three men with axe handles and it had only been his memory that had convinced them he was an art thief who specialised in early- nineteenthcentury religious works. The second time he’d been helping to load a yacht with several hundred kilos of Moroccan hashish when one of the crewmen recognised him from a previous operation. He had pulled a gun and threatened to shoot. Shepherd had been using a different identity on the first operation but his faultless memory had pulled up enough detail from the original legend to persuade the sailors that he’d switched identities because he was being pursued by the DEA. He’d ended up drinking brandy with them all night, their new best friend.
He tossed the plastic file on to the coffee-table, then slotted the CD into the laptop. It contained the personnel files of Sergeant Keith Rose and two dozen members of SO19. Shepherd didn’t want to read the files: it felt like eavesdropping on colleagues. It was one thing to target drugs-dealers and armed robbers, quite another to go against fellow police officers. Keith Rose might well be a bad cop, and there might well be others among the files on the CD, but the majority of the men Shepherd had to read about would be good, honest officers. Shepherd knew how he would hate another cop to read his personnel file– with information about Sue’s death, or what Kathy Gift thought of the way he was dealing with stress. He wouldn’t want a fellow officer to look for signs that he was corrupt.
He stood up and paced around. It was always up to him whether or not he accepted an assignment, but the only reason he had for saying no to this case was that he didn’t want to investigate other cops. And Shepherd knew that wasn’t a good enough reason. He sat down again and started to read.
Norman Baston ambled down the corridor towards Larry Hendrickson’s office. He grinned amiably at Hendrickson’s secretary. ‘Is your lord and master in?’
‘Good morning,Norman,’she said.‘Let me check.’
She picked up her phone and spoke to her boss, then nodded for him to go through.
Hendrickson looked up from his terminal as Baston walked into his office. ‘What’s up, Norm?’ he asked.
Baston closed the door behind him. ‘Have you and Roger got a problem?’
Hendrickson frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Baston sat down in one of the two chairs facing Hendrickson’s desk and stretched out his legs. ‘You still want to sell the company, right?’
‘You know I do. If it wasn’t for Roger, we’d have done the deal six months ago, but he’s the majority shareholder.’
‘Do you think he might be trying to force you out? And by you, I mean us.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
Baston took a typed sheet from his jacket pocket and slid it across Hendrickson’s desk.
