few hundred in his current account. His drugs money was wrapped in polythene bags and tucked away behind the water tank in the attic. A hundred thousand euros.
He looked at the figures he’d jotted on the notepad. Getting Kelly to Chicago, paying for the treatment and the surgery, then the month’s recuperation and monitoring, was going to cost a minimum of two hundred thousand dollars. And that was if there were no complications. He tapped on his calculator, converting the currencies. He was about sixty thousand pounds short. He was close, so damn close. They’d bought the house just six months before Kelly had fallen ill so he only owned about twenty thousand pounds’ worth of it. If he sold he’d lose a big chunk of that in estate agent and legal fees. He’d already asked the bank to increase his mortgage but they’d turned him down, even when he’d explained why he needed the money.
Rose sat back in his chair. There was no way round it. He needed a big score. Forty grand was the minimum, but to make sure Kelly got the shot she deserved he’d want a hundred grand. He chewed the ballpoint pen. A hundred wasn’t impossible. He just needed a plan.
He sent an email to the surgeon, telling him to expect Kelly in three weeks.
Shepherd let himself into the house and went upstairs. Liam was asleep. Shepherd kissed him and tucked the quilt under his chin. He went across to his own bathroom where he showered and changed into a clean pullover and jeans. Then he went down to the kitchen and made himself a mug of black coffee. He was okay to drive – he’d drunk less than a pint. In one of the kitchen cupboards he had a stack of pay-as-you-go Sim cards. He took one out and slotted it into one of his spare mobiles, a fairly new Nokia, then stored the number in one of his own mobiles.
He went back upstairs and knocked on Katra’s door. She didn’t answer and he knocked again, louder this time. He heard her get out of bed and the door opened. She looked at him bleary-eyed. ‘Is Liam okay?’
Shepherd was touched by her concern and realised once more that he’d made the right choice in hiring her.
‘He’s fine,’ he said, ‘but I have to go to Manchester tonight. I won’t be here when he wakes up.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ she said. She brushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘Drive carefully.’
‘I will,’ said Shepherd. He winked. ‘Thanks.’ He gave her the mobile and told her there was a charger in the kitchen. ‘So I can call you while I’m out,’ he explained.
He went downstairs, finished his coffee, then went out to the Toyota.
Angie Kerr lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her husband was beside her, snoring softly. She felt like crying but she knew that if she did he would wake and hurt her. He’d raped her again before he fell asleep. He’d put his hands round her throat as he came and she had seen the hatred in his eyes.
He was going to kill her, she was sure of it. It was just a question of when. He’d dragged her down to the wine cellar and shown her what he’d done to Larry – he’d pushed her down so that her face was only inches from the plastic-wrapped corpse. ‘See what happens to anyone who crosses me,’ he’d hissed. ‘See what you made me do? This is down to you.’
He’d kept her in the house all day. Anderson had driven him away first thing in the morning, then returned an hour and a half later. He and Wates had followed her around the house, standing guard outside the bedroom door when she went to lie down, sitting at the kitchen table while she made them coffee. She’d tried to go down to the shops but Anderson had said no, Charlie didn’t want her to go out. She knew there was no point in trying to press the point. Charlie’s word was law.
Anderson had gone out at four o’clock and returned with Charlie, who had brought a box with him. He didn’t tell her where he’d been. He’d ordered pizza and made her eat two slices, even though she wasn’t hungry. They’d sat in the main dining room, underneath the chandeliers he’d imported from Italy, and he’d opened a bottle of Dom Perignon, made her match him drink for drink. Afterwards they’d watched TV while Wates and Anderson stayed in the kitchen. At just after ten, he’d ordered her to phone Nelson. He’d told her what to say and had stood by her while she made the call. Then he’d taken her upstairs and raped her.
Angie rolled over and pulled her knees to her stomach. He’d killed Larry, he was going to kill Nelson and then he’d kill her. There was nothing she could do, no one she could turn to for help. Even if she could get to the police, what could she tell them? That her husband had gone on the rampage because she’d hired a hitman to kill him? Besides, he always boasted that he had the police in his pocket. He’d once taken her out for dinner with a chief inspector and his wife, followed by a night’s drinking in the VIP section of Aces. Twenty grand a year he paid the man, Charlie had said. Brown envelopes every few months. Charlie said he paid off half a dozen cops regularly and that, as far as the law was concerned, he was untouchable. Angie didn’t know who she could trust. Any cop she spoke to might be on Charlie’s payroll. The tears ran down her cheeks and she bit her lip hard so that she made no sound.
Shepherd had four hours’ sleep before the alarm woke him at eight thirty. He made a call to Hargrove to check that everything was geared up for the surveillance. Hargrove told him he’d arranged for New Scotland Yard’s personnel department to call SO19 and tell them Stuart Marsden had to report for a medical that morning; he wasn’t expected at Leman Street until late afternoon.
Shepherd changed into Tony Nelson’s clothes, drank two cups of black coffee, then went into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. He was a hired killer. A man who took lives for money. A man with no conscience. He ran through his legend, checking and cross-checking all the information he’d given Angie. One mistake could ruin everything.
The Volvo was where he’d left it in the underground car park. He did a quick check of the cameras and transmitters, then drove to Altrincham and parked in the corner of the supermarket furthest from the entrance. The blue Transit van was already in place. Shepherd switched off his engine. ‘Sound check,’ he said.
The Transit’s lights flashed once. Shepherd settled back in his seat. The clock in the dashboard said 8:55. He put on his black leather gloves.
A couple of dozen other vehicles were in the car park. Shepherd couldn’t see where the armed police were but he knew they’d be close by. They’d make it look as real as possible, moving in with guns and shouts, and he’d be dragged out of the car and thrown face down on the ground. They probably wouldn’t have been told that Shepherd was a cop. The fewer people who knew he was undercover, the better. He’d be taken into custody, then Hargrove would make sure he was released quietly while the CPS put together a deal with Angie.
He saw Angie’s Jaguar enter the car park and drive slowly towards him. Shepherd took a deep breath. It was the end phase of the operation. He only had to be in Tony Nelson’s skin for a few more minutes. He’d be glad to leave the character behind.
Angie saw the grey Volvo at the far end of the car park. Tony Nelson was sitting with his hands on the steering-wheel. She drove slowly towards him, parked and got out of her Jaguar. Charlie had told her to get into Nelson’s car and plant the transmitter under the seat. She knew what he would do to her if she let him down.
She grabbed the door handle and slid into the passenger seat. Nelson looked as calm as ever, jaw set tight, eyes like flint. He was the opposite of Charlie, who wore his emotions on his face: when he was angry his cheeks flushed and his lips vanished into slits. When he was happy he grinned from ear to ear. Nelson’s face was a blank mask. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘For coming.’
‘You said you had his movements for me.’
‘Yes. That’s right.’ She opened her handbag, took out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Nelson.
Nelson looked at it.
Charlie had told her what to write. It showed that he was in London and would be returning the next day. That he would be at a football match on Wednesday night, and having dinner with her on Thursday. Friday he was going to be at Aces.
‘Can I smoke?’
‘Sure,’ said Nelson.
Angie took out her cigarettes and lighter. She fumbled with her bag and the contents spilled into Nelson’s lap. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Nelson grabbed for the bag but a perfume spray, breath mints and a comb tumbled on to the floor. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. He bent down and picked up the items. Angie slipped her left hand into her jacket pocket and pulled out the transmitter her husband had given her. She lowered her hand between the door and the seat and flicked the metal cylinder sideways.
Nelson straightened and handed her her things. She thanked him, lit a cigarette and offered him one. He
