‘Same in the army,’ said Shepherd.
‘So why did you quit?’
‘Difficult to answer. Boredom, for one. The training got to me, running up and down mountains, waiting for the shit to hit the fan. And when the shit hits, it’s pretty shitty. Afghanistan wasn’t much fun.’
‘What about Ireland?’ They reached the canteen.
‘A couple of tours, but the IRA had pretty much called it quits when I was there.’
Rose pointed at an empty table. ‘Drop your gear and we’ll grab some food. You hungry? No haggis but the chef can probably stuff a sheep’s stomach for you if you ask him nicely.’
‘I guess I’m stuck with the Scottish jokes.’
‘For the foreseeable future, yeah. Until we find something else to pick on. Newbie syndrome.’
‘No sweat,’ said Shepherd. He dropped his bag and joined Rose in the queue for food.
‘So, you reckoned the cops was a cushier number?’ asked Rose.
‘I wouldn’t have to sleep in a barracks, and I’d be dealing with real people. The army’s a closed community – you’re either in it or you’re an outsider. I was fed up with the same old faces, day in, day out.’
‘It’s not that different in the Trojans,’ said Rose. ‘We’re tight. Have to be.’
‘But they don’t make you run up and down mountains with a Bergen on your back.’
‘SO19 isn’t a soft touch.’
‘Didn’t mean to suggest it was,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve been a cop for seven years, and carrying a gun for most of that time.’
‘I don’t see why you’d want to move south,’ said Rose. ‘The London weighting might be attractive, but property’s still twice the price you’d be paying north of the border.’
‘My dad’s in hospital down here, I wanted to be closer to him.’ They reached the front of the queue. Rose took steak and kidney pie and chips and Shepherd the same. They collected mugs of coffee and headed back to their table.
‘What do we call you?’ asked Rose, as he poured brown sauce over his pie.
‘Up to you. The guys in Glasgow called me Irish.’
Rose frowned. ‘You’re not a Paddy, are you?’
‘Irish Stew. They thought it was funny.’ It was one of the details in his legend that served no other function than to add colour to his cover story.
‘Stu it is, then. I’ll leave it up to the lads to give you a nickname. They call me Rosie in the pub, Sarge or Skipper when we’re on duty.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Cards on the table, Stu. I was hoping to get someone local in our vehicle. Mike Sutherland’s one of the best drivers in the Met and I ride shotgun, so it’s a map man we’re short of.’
‘I’m up to speed,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was born in London, remember.’
‘You’ve been in Scotland for almost a decade and things change,’ said Rose. ‘Last thing I need is for you to take me the wrong way down a one-way system.’
‘My dad was a black-cab driver,’ said Shepherd. More colour. ‘Used to test me on the Knowledge when I was still in short trousers. But we’ve got GPS, right?’
‘Computers don’t always know the quickest way,’ said Rose, ‘and sometimes they crash. If that happens I need someone in the back who knows where they’re going.’
‘Try me,’ said Shepherd.
Rose grinned. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We get a call to Grosvenor Road, which is the quickest way to get there?’
‘I’d guess you mean Grosvenor Road in Pimlico in which case I’d head over Vauxhall Bridge. But there are Grosvenor Roads in Upton Park, Forest Gate, Leyton and Wanstead, so I’d ask first.’
Rose raised an eyebrow. ‘Grantully Road,’ he said.
‘Maida Vale. One way, entrance from Morshead Road. Runs parallel to Paddington recreation ground.’
Rose nodded. ‘Had a suicide there three months ago. Guy blew off his head with a shotgun. Okay, you’re my map man.’ He stabbed at a chunk of steak. ‘Why did you join the Strathclyde cops and not the Met?’
It was a good question, and was also covered in the Stuart Marsden legend. ‘Had a mate in the Paras who was from Glasgow and his dad was a chief inspector. He put in a good word for me.’
‘But you didn’t fancy London?’
Shepherd looked uncomfortable. ‘Long story, Sarge. My mum died when I was a kid and my dad remarried. Turned out to be the stepmother from hell. That’s why I joined the army. When I got out, I wanted to be as far away from her as possible.’
A police officer in black overalls and bulletproof vest walked over to their table carrying a tray. Rose grinned up at him. ‘Hiya, Mike, say hello to our new map man, Stu Marsden. Stu, this is Mike Sutherland. Our driver.’
Sutherland nodded at Shepherd and sat down opposite him. He had a plateful of bacon and sausage and four slices of bread and butter. ‘The Jock, yeah?’ said Sutherland.
‘Nah, he’s not Scottish,’ said Rose. ‘He was just explaining.’
‘Family stuff,’ said Shepherd, ‘but my dad’s on his own now and he’s not doing so well, so I want to be around when he needs me.’
‘And it was easy to transfer to the Met?’ asked Sutherland.
‘I’d been asking for a move and the SO19 vacancy came up.’
‘You must have friends in high places. There’s a long waiting list for ARV slots.’ Sutherland stabbed a sausage and bit off the end.
‘I was lucky.’
‘Just don’t get me lost.’
‘He’s fine,’ said Rose.‘His dad was a black-cab driver.’
‘Funny, he doesn’t look black,’ said Sutherland.
Rose flashed Sutherland a tight smile. ‘PC Sutherland is one of the least PC of our officers. We try to keep him in the car as much as possible.’
Kerr got the early-morning flight to Heathrow and took a taxi to the Kings Road. He had made a phone call the previous evening and Alex Knight was expecting him. He told the taxi driver to wait.
‘The meter’s at sixty quid already,’ said the man.
Kerr pointed at the black door between an antiques shop and a hairdresser’s. ‘I’ll be in there ten minutes at most. Then we’re straight back to the airport.’
The driver beamed at the thought of a double fare.
Kerr got out and walked along the pavement to the black door. A small brass plaque read ‘Alex Knight Security’ beside a bell button and a small grille. He pressed the button and was buzzed in. He took the stairs two at a time and when he reached the top Knight’s secretary had the door open for him. ‘Charlie, we can FedEx orders, you know,’ she said.
Kerr kissed the striking brunette’s cheek. ‘Just wanted to see you, love.’
‘He’s expecting you,’ she said, and opened Knight’s office door.
He looked up from his computer terminal and grinned boyishly, stood up and shook hands with Kerr. He was several inches taller than Kerr, but stick-thin with square-framed spectacles perched high on his nose. ‘We do deliver,’ he said.
‘Yeah, Sarah said, but I wanted you to talk me through the gear.’
Knight waved him to a seat. He pulled a cardboard box from one of his desk drawers and pushed it across the desk. ‘This is the kit you wanted. The transmitter’s linked to a GPS so you get position information accurate to six metres.’
Kerr opened the box. Inside he found a small metal cylinder with a three-inch wire protruding from one end and a hand-held GPS unit.
‘There’s an on–off switch on the transmitter. Best bet is to connect it to the car’s electrical circuit. Then it’ll run and run. If you can connect its aerial to the car aerial, you’re laughing.’
‘Won’t have time for that,’ Kerr said. ‘Best we’ll be able to do is get it under a seat.’
‘You’ll have about twelve hours, then. Maybe a few more. But once the battery starts to go, the strength of the signal drops.’
‘That’ll be enough,’ said Kerr. ‘What’s the range?’
