‘Don’t look at him, Larry, look at me. What about this Nelson guy?’
‘He’s been using Roger’s email address to get information about the company.’
‘Who’s Roger?’
‘My partner. The guy I wanted out of the way.’
Kerr frowned. ‘You’re not making any sense. This Roger guy is dead?’
Hendrickson nodded. ‘Nelson showed me photographs. Polaroids.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of Roger. Dead.’
‘But you didn’t see the body?’ asked Kerr, thoughtfully.
‘I didn’t want to be there. I just wanted him out of the way.’
‘So Nelson did the dirty and showed you Polaroids and you gave him the cash?’
‘Yes. But a couple of days later someone logged on to our company website using Roger’s password. And sent an email about the company accounts.’
‘And you think it was Nelson?’
‘It couldn’t be anyone else. That’s why I was trying to get hold of Angie. To warn her about Nelson.’
Kerr considered what Hendrickson had said.
‘So, can I go?’ said Hendrickson. ‘Please. I’m sorry about what happened, but all I did was give your wife a number.’
Kerr ignored him. Nelson must be an amateur to start using a victim’s email. A professional would do the job he’d been paid for, then vanish. Messing around with emails was a risk, and a true professional wouldn’t take risks. Kerr was getting a bad feeling about the mysterious Tony Nelson.
‘I just want to go home,’ pleaded Hendrickson.
‘You’re starting to annoy me now, Larry,’ said Kerr.
Hendrickson began to cry and the damp patch around his groin darkened.
‘Christ, I hate it when they piss themselves,’ said Kerr.
He took off four of Hendrickson’s toes and both his thumbs before he got bored with the torture. Hendrickson had stopped screaming and was passing in and out of consciousness. Kerr dropped the bolt-cutters on the floor and stood back. He nodded at Wates, who pulled a large plastic bag over Hendrickson’s head and used electrical tape to seal it round his neck. Hendrickson struggled for a couple of minutes, then went still.
Kerr went upstairs to the bedroom. Angie was still lying on the bed, crying. Kerr untied her ankles and stroked her hair. ‘Stop crying,’ he said.
Angie took a ragged breath.
Kerr helped her sit up. ‘Come on, there’s something I want you to see,’ he said. ‘In the wine cellar.’
Shepherd phoned Hargrove just before midnight and explained that he’d had no luck in contacting Angie Kerr. Every time he called it went straight through to voicemail, which meant that her phone was switched off so his number wouldn’t show up as a missed call. He’d left one message, short and to the point, asking her to call him, but she hadn’t got back to him.
He went to bed and lay awake for most of the night. He kept thinking about Sue, replaying her accident. He missed her smell, her touch. He missed arguing with her and making up. He missed being inside her and holding her as she gasped. As dawn broke he went downstairs and poured himself a large measure of Jameson’s, then tipped it down the sink. Alcohol wasn’t going to solve anything.
He changed into a pair of faded army shorts and a tattered T-shirt, pulled on two pairs of wool socks and the black army boots, then hefted the brick-filled canvas rucksack on to his shoulders. He ran for the best part of an hour around the streets of Ealing, his boots thudding on the pavements, the rucksack straps chafing his shoulders, taking a perverse pleasure in the pain. By the time he was back home he was close to exhaustion. He took off the boots and socks and examined his feet. No blisters.
He showered, then changed into jeans and a black pullover and walked down to the local shops. He bought copies of the
He made himself a cup of coffee and took it with the croissants into the garden. There was a wooden table with two bench seats and he sat down. He and Sue had built the table and seats from a kit they’d bought at their local garden centre. The instructions had been in some Oriental language and half the bolts were missing. Shepherd broke one of the croissants into small pieces. Sue had been seven months pregnant and she’d never looked sexier as she’d brushed her hair out of her eyes and laughed at his D-I-Y attempts. He looked up at the rear of the house. He’d stripped and repainted all the bedroom windows while Sue had done the ones on the ground floor. She’d changed the layout of the garden, putting in two rockeries, a couple of flowerbeds and a dozen fruit trees. The kitchen was her design too, and so were the two bathrooms. She had put her heart and soul into the house and there was no way he could bring himself to sell it. In time, maybe, but not yet.
He finished the croissants and coffee and carried his empty mug back into the house. He looked at his watch. Almost midday. Miss Malcolm had assured him that a girl from the agency would drop in before noon. He had planned to interview the girl, then drive to Hereford to spend the weekend with Liam. While he was up in his bedroom packing an overnight case the doorbell rang.
The girl standing on the doorstep barely came up to his chest, had black hair and wore no makeup. She smiled up at him. ‘Mr Shepherd?’
‘Yes?’
‘I am Katra. The agency said I was to come and see you.’ She was holding a similar manila envelope to the one Halina had shown him. ‘I hope now is not an inconvenient time for me to call.’ She said each word slowly and precisely, as if she had memorised the sentence, and nodded when she’d finished.
‘Come on in,’ he said, and held the door open for her. She was wearing a green parka with a fur-lined hood, sand-coloured cargo pants and scuffed Timberland boots. He showed her into the kitchen. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Just water,’ she said. ‘Please.’
Shepherd gave her a glass of tap water and opened the envelope. There was a copy of her agency application, which he scanned. She was twenty-two, although she looked less. She had left school at sixteen and had only worked in a shoe factory. There was a letter on headed notepaper from a police inspector in Slovenia saying that Katra did not have a criminal record. Shepherd frowned. Miss Malcolm hadn’t mentioned she was sending a Slovenian – in fact, she had left him with the impression that she didn’t trust them.
‘You’ve not worked as an au pair before?’ he asked.
‘I have five younger brothers,’ she said.
‘Five?’
‘Five. The youngest is Rufin and he is twelve and can take care of himself now so my father says I can come to England. I want to study English. And work.’
‘You helped raise your brothers, is that it?’
‘My mother died when Rufin was born. My father worked in a steel mill so I had to take care of them all.’
Shepherd did the maths in his head. ‘You were ten when she died?’
‘She was bleeding and the hospital didn’t have enough of her type of blood.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I was very sad but it was a long time ago.’
‘And your father never remarried?’
‘He said he never wanted another wife, that no one could take her place. I cooked and cleaned and took care of them when they were sick. It wasn’t too difficult. I had aunts to help me sometimes and the teachers at school did what they could.’
‘Your father was lucky to have a daughter like you.’
Katra grinned. ‘He knows that. He tells me all the time that I’m just like my mother.’
‘Your English is good but it says here you left school at sixteen.’
‘I studied at home. One of the teachers gave me some books and sometimes she would come to the house to help me practise.’
