way. The fewer people who knew who he was, the better.
He looked over his shoulder, just once, and saw the car containing Angie Kerr following some distance behind. They were being taken to the same police station, but that was to be expected. Hargrove would want her to see Nelson taken into custody. He’d want her to know that he was in an interview room being grilled by detectives, and that her only chance of avoiding prison would be to co-operate. Hargrove would probably go in heavy first, play her the recordings from the Volvo, tell her she was going to prison for a long time and then, finally, he would offer her the way out. He’d probably start talking about her husband, asking her why she wanted him dead. Then he’d suggest there were other ways of dealing with Charlie Kerr that didn’t involve her spending a dozen or more years in a prison cell.
Shepherd took a deep breath. It would soon be over and he could turn his back on Tony Nelson.
The plastic tie was cutting into his wrists but he knew there was no point in saying anything to the detective sitting next to him. Once fitted, the ties couldn’t be loosened, only cut off.
He sat in silence until they reached the police station. A metal gate rattled back and the two patrol cars rolled into the car park. The detective manhandled Shepherd out of the car and up a concrete ramp to the entrance. He looked at Angie. Tears were streaming down her face, but he glared at her, playing the part. Tony Nelson, killer for hire, would probably blame her for the police raid. And if she thought Nelson was angry with her, she’d be more likely to take any offer the police made.
A uniformed officer opened a metal door and stood to the side to allow Shepherd through. The detective took him along a corridor and put him into an interview room with a single barred window. There was a tape-recorder with two slots for tapes and an alarm strip running along two of the walls. A metal table stood against one wall, two chairs on either side of it. The detective pointed at a chair and Shepherd sat down. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ he asked.
‘About as much chance as I have of giving Britney Spears one,’ said the detective.
‘She’s a looker all right, but a bit young for you,’ said Shepherd. He sat down. All he could do now was to wait.
The detective grinned at him. ‘Okay, how do you want it?’
‘Thanks. Black. No sugar.’
The detective’s grin widened. ‘Got you,’ he said, laughed harshly and left the room.
Kerr stabbed out his cigarette. ‘They didn’t check the fucking car,’ he said.
‘Sorry, boss?’ said Anderson.
‘They didn’t look in the Volvo. Good news for us because they didn’t find the transmitter, but Nelson’s a hired killer so why didn’t they toss the car looking for a weapon?’
There were deep furrows in Anderson’s brow and he scratched his chin.
‘Because they were told to take the two of them in, full stop,’ said Kerr. ‘They were just following orders. Take the two of them in, forget the motor. Why? Because he’s going to come back for the motor.’
It had all clicked into place. It had been there, right from the start, staring him in the face, Kerr thought. Nelson was a cop. He hadn’t killed Larry Hendrickson’s partner. The Polaroids had been faked. The partner wasn’t dead, but he’d screwed up and gone roaming the Internet. The cops must have put him on ice because Hendrickson had introduced Nelson to his wife. They were letting the job run and today they’d moved in. Nelson was a cop and Angie had hired him, thinking he was a hitman. They had all they needed to put her away on conspiracy to murder. Kerr lit another cigarette. Except that Angie Kerr wasn’t just a wife with a chip on her shoulder. She was
He lit another cigarette. It was all clear now. From A to B to C. Hendrickson had been set up by an undercover cop pretending to be a hired killer. At some point Hendrickson had passed the cop on to Angie. The cop had decided to run with Angie so Hendrickson hadn’t been arrested. The problem was, where did the cops go from there? Did they charge Angie and pat themselves on the back for performing a public service? Would they send a couple of Manchester’s finest to his house to tell him they’d saved his life and ask for a donation to the widows and orphans fund? Or would they try to turn Angie because what they really wanted was to put Charlie Kerr behind bars? The cops had been after his scalp for years. He had a detective sergeant in the Drugs Squad on his payroll so he always knew when they were gunning for him, but whoever was running Nelson must be doing it without telling the local boys. This had come out of the blue.
Kerr stared at the Volvo. What to do? He could run away with his tail between his legs. A few minutes on the phone would be all it took to clear out his bank accounts and he could be on a plane to Spain or South America that afternoon. He had more than enough to buy himself a new identity and all the protection he needed, and even with Angie’s cooperation it would take them months to put a case against him. If he left the country, they’d probably decide not to go after him. That would pretty much screw up any deal Angie made. If he ran, they’d probably make do with putting her away.
‘Are we going to sit here all day?’ asked Wates.
‘Yes, Ray, that’s exactly what we’re going to do,’ said Kerr. ‘If that’s okay with you.’
Wates said nothing but looked anxiously at Anderson. They were clearly uneasy, but he couldn’t be bothered to explain the situation to them. They were just the hired help.
He wasn’t going to run. If he did, everything he’d built up in Manchester would count for nothing. He had respect in the city, he was a face, and he was damned if he was going to throw that away just because Angie had turned against him. At the moment the police had nothing: they’d have to get her to agree to co-operate. Angie’s father had died of a heart-attack three years ago but her mother was living in Lytham St Anne’s in a nice little flat with a sea view. Angie had a sister, too, a sour-faced cow who’d married an estate agent. They lived in a pokey terraced house in Stretford with their two young sons. Angie would have a few home truths explained to her: if she helped the police, Kerr would stamp on her relatives – hard. And if she still sided with the filth, she’d only be useful if she stood in the witness box and gave evidence against him: she’d have to take a bullet in police custody. Difficult, but not impossible. It was just a question of paying the right man the right amount of money.
Kerr relaxed and took a long drag on his cigarette. Things weren’t as bad as he’d first thought. The cops must have reckoned he was stupid, and Kerr resented that. How dare they assume they could get his bitch of a wife to roll over on him? He wanted to teach them a lesson they’d never forget.
Shepherd looked up as the door opened and grinned when he saw a familiar face. It was Jimmy ‘Razor’ Sharpe, a twenty-year police veteran who had worked with him on several undercover cases. He was a small, heavy-set Scotsman with a mischievous grin. ‘You’ve been a naughty boy again, have you, Nelson?’ said Sharpe.
Shepherd caught sight of two uniformed constables in the corridor behind him. ‘I’ve nothing to say,’ he said.
‘I don’t give a monkey’s either way,’ said Sharpe. ‘Come on, it’s back to Glasgow for you.’ He pulled Shepherd to his feet and held his arm as he took him along the corridor. They were joined by a second detective and went out into the car park. A blue Vauxhall was waiting, engine running. Sharpe climbed into the back with Shepherd.
Shepherd waited until the Vauxhall was away from the police station before he spoke. ‘How’s it going, Razor?’ he asked.
‘Bloody fed up with babysitting you,’ said Sharpe.
‘Where’s Hargrove?’
‘Talking to your woman in there. He wanted me to tell you the tapes are fine.’
‘Are you going to keep me like this all day?’ said Shepherd.
‘I was waiting for you to ask nicely,’ said Sharpe, taking a small penknife from his pocket.
Shepherd twisted to the side and pushed his bound wrists towards Sharpe. ‘Pretty please,’ he said.
Sharpe cut the plastic tie, and Shepherd massaged his wrists. ‘Those things hurt,’ he said.
‘Cost effective,’ said Sharpe. ‘Have you got time for a drink?’
‘I wish,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I’ve got to get back to London.’
‘No rest for the wicked,’ said Sharpe.
Eddie Anderson looked at his watch. ‘Eddie, if you do that one more time I’ll chop your bloody hand off,’ said Kerr. He opened the Range Rover’s window and flicked out the cigarette butt. The Volvo was where the police had left it, in the far corner of the supermarket car park. Kerr had phoned one of his police contacts and asked him to check out the registration number. The officer had promised to get back to him but said it might take a while. All
