Soft Target

Hendrickson blanched as he read it.

‘If everything’s rosy, why is he asking John to check the company accounts and not say anything to you?’

Hendrickson fought to keep calm. ‘He’s maybe got a better offer on the table and wants to juggle the figures.’ He stared at the heading on the email, then glanced at the calendar on his desk. The email had been sent on Wednesday night. Five days after Roger Sewell had been shot and buried in the New Forest. And Sewell was dead: Nelson had shown him the photographs. Hendrickson dropped the sheet of paper on to his desk. ‘There’s no way anyone else could have sent that, is there?’

Baston’s brow creased into deep furrows. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Someone messing about with Roger’s email address.’

‘Not unless he gave someone his password. And why would he do that?’

Hendrickson’s heart was pounding and he had a headache. If Nelson was accessing the computer and sending emails under Sewell’s name, what was he hoping to achieve? And why would he email John Garden? If it was money that Nelson wanted, he could have forced Sewell to sign a few cheques before he put a bullet in his head. None of this made any sense. Unless Sewell wasn’t dead. A cold shiver ran down Hendrickson’s spine. And if he wasn’t dead, how had Nelson got the Polaroids?

He tried to keep his voice steady. ‘Has John replied to Roger’s email?’

‘Not yet. What do you think Roger’s up to?’

‘He’s the boss, Norm. He can do what the hell he wants.’

‘But I get the feeling he’s cutting you – and me – out of the loop.’

‘Now you’re being paranoid.’

Baston tapped the sheet of paper. ‘He wants John to check the company accounts, get back to him on his personal email and not tell you. That’s being devious. He’s up to something. For all we know he could be selling his stake to some multinational and we’ll get sod all.’

‘Roger wouldn’t do that.’ Hendrickson was close to throwing up. ‘Look, he’s taken a few days off and he wants to keep a check on things. He probably doesn’t want me to know he’s looking over my shoulder.’ Hendrickson got up, came round the desk and opened the door. ‘It’s nothing, Norm.’

Baston scratched his neck. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about it,’ he said.

‘It’s all that junk food you eat,’ said Hendrickson. ‘Go on, I’ll give you a call as soon as I hear from him.’

Baston didn’t seem convinced. Hendrickson patted his shoulder and eased him out of the room. He closed the door, then rushed over to the desk, picked up the sheet of paper and reread it. If Sewell wasn’t dead, what had Nelson been playing at? And why hadn’t Sewell turned up at the office?

Sewell had to be dead. What was happening now was the prelude to some blackmail attempt. He took out his mobile and called Angie. Her phone went straight to voicemail. Hendrickson didn’t like to leave a message but he couldn’t spend all day calling her. ‘Angie, hi, it’s Larry. Look, I need to talk to you. It’s urgent. Your husband – don’t do anything until you’ve talked to me, okay?’ He cut the connection, then realised he hadn’t said anything about Tony Nelson. Maybe he should have warned her about him. He put his thumb on the redial button but had second thoughts. He didn’t want to sound too worried – it might spook her. Besides, she’d know what he meant. He had to stay in control. A plan was already forming in his mind. He’d get Angie to fix up a meeting with Nelson, then he’d turn up and force the man to tell him what he was playing at.

Charlie Kerr closed one eye, sighted along his cue, and hit the white ball. It clipped the red into the corner pocket and pulled back behind the brown. ‘Nice,’ said Eddie Anderson. He was standing by the scoreboard, balancing his cue on his left foot.

Angie appeared at the door in her pale blue towelling robe, with a glass of orange juice. ‘I’ll be by the pool, babe.’

‘Don’t forget we’re out tonight,’ he said. Two members of the Carlos Rodriguez cartel were coming over to finalise a cocaine deal he’d been putting together. The plan was to take them out to dinner with a couple of high- class escort girls. Dinner at an upmarket Thai restaurant followed by a visit to one of the city-centre casinos, then straight to Aces where they’d get the full VIP treatment.

‘I’ll look good for you, babe,’ she said. She walked up and kissed his cheek. ‘Don’t worry.’

Kerr patted her backside. ‘You always look good,’ he said. He grinned at Anderson. ‘What do you think, Eddie? She looks good, yeah?’

‘A sight for sore eyes,’ said Anderson.

Angie flashed him a smile and headed for the pool. Kerr bent over the table and potted the brown. ‘Nice shot,’ said Anderson.

Kerr went for another red but it hit the edge of the pocket and spun across the table. He swore. ‘I need a coffee. Angie!’ he shouted. There was no answer. ‘I don’t know why we even have a pool,’ he said. ‘She never bloody swims in it, just lies down next to it. Angie!’

‘I’ll make it,’ said Anderson.

‘Your coffee tastes like shit,’ said Kerr.

He went through to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. Angie’s mobile was on the black marble work surface, plugged into a mains socket. Kerr picked it up. It was switched off. He pressed the power button, then spooned coffee into the cafetiere. He picked up the phone. There was a single voice message. Kerr played it. Who the hell was Larry?

Shepherd took the black nylon equipment bag up to the bedroom and laid out the contents on the bed. It had his Stuart Marsden cover name scratched into it and looked as if it had been in use for years. The equipment was all labelled, too. Police officers were as bad as SAS troopers when it came to liberating or souveniring equipment. A name-tag was sewn into the inside of the bullet-proof vest and the belt, and ‘Marsden’ had been scratched into the side of the holster. A printed name-tag had been sellotaped to the stem of the flashlight and the CS spray, while ‘SM’ was painted inside the helmet. All the equipment was in good condition but had clearly been used. It was the little things that mattered when it came to maintaining a cover. If he turned up at SO19 with brand new gear, questions would be asked.

He hauled on the vest. It was similar to the one he’d worn in the SAS. It weighed several kilograms, with the ceramic plate in the front pocket to protect the heart and vital organs. He slid the belt round his waist, then slotted the CS spray and retractable baton into their holders.

He took off all the equipment and repacked it in the nylon bag, then sat down on the bed and opened the white envelope. He had destroyed the CD files Hargrove had sent, then burned the sheets of paper. But the white envelope contained the documents he’d need as Stuart Marsden: there was a warrant card, and a driving licence, both with a recent photograph, a Bank of Scotland debit card and a Barclay card. The credit cards would function, Shepherd knew, but every pound would have to be accounted for at the end of the operation. He had a spare wallet into which he slotted the cards and the licence, with half of the banknotes from his own wallet. He put it into his bedside cabinet. He had the weekend to himself before he stepped into the shoes of Stuart Marsden, armed policeman. Not shoes, he reminded himself. Boots. SO19 officers wore regular army-issue black leather boots, and the ones Hargrove had sent were brand new. Shepherd would have preferred to wear his own, but they were brown. He’d have to go running in the new boots, wearing two pairs of thick wool socks to protect his feet until they were broken in.

He got changed and went downstairs with the boots. Before he left the house he phoned Angie Kerr again. The call went through to voicemail, but Shepherd didn’t leave a message.

Angie stretched out on the sun-lounger, then pulled her Marlboros and lighter from the pocket of her robe. She lit a cigarette and she looked at the back of the house. It didn’t feel like a home, even though she’d lived there for more than five years. Charlie had bought the place without telling her. He hadn’t even told her he was putting their old house up for sale. The first she’d known of the sale was when an estate agent had walked in while she was in the shower.

Angie took another pull on her cigarette. She’d decided to sell this house, once Charlie was out of the way, and all the furniture. She’d walk away with just her clothes. She didn’t want anything that would remind her of him. She’d have to wait until a decent interval had passed – play the grief-stricken widow for a few months – but then she’d be set for life. The house was worth at least two million, there was almost a quarter of a million in their joint account, and she had access to three safety-deposit boxes in various banks containing cash and Krugerrands worth well over half a million. She didn’t know where Charlie kept all his money but she had no doubt he had millions