Soft Target ss-2 Read online

  ‘If she sees you arrested, she’ll know it’s over.’

  Shepherd sighed. ‘Okay. When? I’m on duty all next week, two until ten every day. I can hardly tell them I’m taking a day off to go to Manchester.’

  ‘What about this afternoon?’

  Shepherd cursed. There was time to fix up a meet in Manchester, but it was a long drive and the weekend traffic would be a nightmare. ‘I’ll phone her and get back to you,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks, Spider. I’ve got your SO19 legend ready and a vehicle. I’ll get them to you this afternoon.’

  Shepherd cut the connection, left the mobile on the kitchen table with the two others and went through to the sitting room. The woman was sitting in one of the armchairs. She had taken a clipboard out of her briefcase and was sitting with it on her lap. Her coffee was on a side table. Shepherd headed for the sofa, then stopped himself and sat in one of the armchairs instead. ‘Don’t read anything into my choice of seat,’ he said. ‘I can let you finish your coffee but then I’ve got to drive up to Manchester. Hargrove’s orders. If you have a problem with that, take it up with him.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘By the way, I’m Kathy Gift. It’s Dr Gift, actually, but I take your point about not using honorifics.’

  ‘Gift?’

  ‘As in present,’ she said. ‘It used to be longer. My great-grandparents were German. They cut off a few syllables when they moved to England.’ She crossed her legs. She was wearing a dark blue skirt that rose above her knees, a matching jacket and a cream shirt. There was a gold necklace with a Star of David round her neck. ‘Did you meet my predecessor?’ she asked.

  The previous psychologist had been a sixty-yearold man who wore tweed jackets and smoked a briar pipe. He had a clutch of professional qualifications and was one of the most humourless men that Shepherd had ever met. ‘Only when I had to.’

  ‘And you weren’t impressed?’

  ‘He was a clever guy, but unless you’ve done what we do it’s hard to understand what’s involved.’

  ‘The pressures?’

  ‘I’m not saying you can’t empathise, because of course you can. But that’s a world away from understanding what we go through.’

  ‘Is it possible to explain what it’s like?’

  ‘You’ve spoken to other agents, haven’t you?’

  She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘They all say the same thing initially,’she said.‘Unless you’ve done it, you can’t understand what it’s like.’

  ‘There you go, then.’

  ‘But after a few sessions, they realise I’m there to help, not to be judgemental or make career decisions. I’m just someone you can unburden yourself to. Someone who can offer an objective view on how to deal with problems that arise.’

  Shepherd’s brow creased. ‘But you’re more than that, aren’t you? You’ve a direct line to Hargrove, and if you think a guy’s going over the edge you’re duty-bound to tell him.’

  ‘Is that how you’re feeling – that you’re about to go over the edge?’

  Shepherd chuckled. ‘You don’t miss a trick, do you?’

  ‘I’m not trying to trick you. I just want to know what makes you tick. Superintendent Hargrove is concerned, that’s all. You’ve been under a lot of stress lately and he wants reassurance that all’s well.’

  ‘I can do the job. Isn’t that all that matters?’

  ‘Short term, of course results are important. But think of a racing car belting along at top speed and developing a fault. Until it blows apart everything probably seems fine.’

  ‘Does he think I might fall apart?’

  ‘Don’t read too much into that analogy,’ she said. ‘And he thinks highly of you. You know that.’

  ‘But he still wants me to talk to a shrink.’

  ‘Think of it as preventive maintenance.’

  Shepherd sipped his coffee. ‘Okay, let’s talk technique. You’ve read my file?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So you know about my trick memory.’

  ‘Photographic, it says in the file.’

  ‘Whatever. I can recall pretty much everything I see or hear. It fades eventually if I don’t use the information, but short term it’s infallible. It’s because of my memory that I have few problems in maintaining my cover stories. I’m able to compartmentalise the roles I play. I put them on and take them off like I change clothes.’

  ‘As easy as that?’

  ‘It’s not easy, but it’s easier for me than it is for a guy who has to try to remember what he said to whom and where he was when he said it. I can cross-reference everything without thinking about it.’

  ‘You’re lucky.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘But you’ve been less lucky on the home front.’ She was watching for his reaction.

  ‘I’m handling it,’ he said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘My boy’s staying with his grandparents and I’m interviewing au pairs. As soon as I’ve found one Liam can move back in with me.’

  ‘That’s not handling what happened, is it? You’re dealing with practicalities, not your feelings.’

  ‘My feelings don’t come into it. My wife died, it was a damn shame, but life goes on.’

  ‘You miss her.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Of course I miss her.’

  ‘And Liam?’

  ‘He lost his mother.’

  ‘Does he talk about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you raised it with him?’

  ‘I don’t want to upset him. He’s a child.’

  ‘He has to talk about it, Dan. And so do you.’

  ‘In time.’

  She smiled sympathetically. Shepherd was an expert at reading faces, but he still couldn’t tell if her smile was genuine or not. ‘There’s nothing wrong with grief,’ she said. ‘It’s part of the process.’

  ‘I know, eight stages,’ said Shepherd. ‘Denial, anger, bargaining, guilt, depression, loneliness, acceptance and hope.’

  ‘And what stage are you at?’

  ‘I know Sue’s dead, there’s no one to be angry with, there’s no one to make a deal with to get her back, it wasn’t my fault so I don’t feel guilty, I’m too busy to be depressed, I don’t get lonely, I accept that she isn’t coming back. So where does that leave me? At hope? Hoping for what?’

  ‘It’s interesting that you say there’s no one to be angry with.’

  ‘It was an accident. She was driving Liam to school and went through a red light. A truck hit her. End of story.’

  ‘You don’t have to be angry with a person. You can simply be angry with the unfairness of it. Why your wife? Why not some other woman on the school-run?’

  ‘Shit happens.’

  ‘Yes, but when it does, don’t we wonder why it’s happened to us?’

  ‘Thinking about it won’t bring her back.’

  ‘So you block it.’

  ‘You’re putting words into my mouth.’

  ‘So tell me what words you’d use. At the moment all I’m getting is negatives. You’re not guilty, you’re not angry, you’re not depressed. What are you?’

  ‘I really am going to have to get my skates on,’ said Shepherd. He stood up. ‘I don’t want to be rude but I have to go.’

  ‘What you really mean is that you want me to go.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She stood up and handed him her mug. ‘I want to schedule a meeting with you over the next few days.’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  Gift’s eyes hardened. ‘I don’t think you understand, Dan. I’m not asking, I’m telling. I have the authority to remove you from active service if I’m not completely satisfied that you’re up to the job.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  She flashed him a tight smile. ‘Check with the superintendent if you like, but he’ll confirm what I’m saying.’

  ‘The case I’m on is more important than whether or not I cry myself t
o sleep at night.’ He held up his hand quickly. ‘Not that I do.’

  ‘Have you cried at all since your wife died?’

  The question stopped Shepherd in his tracks and he lowered his hand. He hadn’t cried when he’d learned that Sue had died. And he hadn’t cried at her funeral. Or afterwards, when he lay alone in the double bed, still able to smell her perfume on the pillow. He wasn’t the crying sort. He’d lost friends, seen two blown to bits by a landmine in Kuwait, but he’d never cried for them. If you saw action you saw death, and there wasn’t time to stand over a grave bawling your eyes out. But friends and fellow soldiers weren’t wives, and it was only when Gift asked the question that Shepherd saw something was wrong when a husband didn’t weep for his dead wife.

  Gift touched his elbow. ‘I’m not the enemy, Dan. I’m here to make your life easier.’

  ‘I can’t come into the office,’ he said quietly.

  ‘No one’s asking you to,’ she said. ‘I can come to you.’

  ‘And all we do is talk?’

  ‘Just talk. What about Monday?’

  ‘I start the new job on Monday,’ he said. ‘I don’t need any distractions.’

  ‘Tuesday, then? Or Wednesday?’

  ‘Wednesday,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll be here most of the morning.’ He had already checked with SO19 and he was on the two until ten shift for the first week.

  He accompanied her to the front door and let her out. He watched her walk to her black Mazda sports car. He wondered what her choice of car said about her. He had been telling the truth when he told her he could slip into and out of his roles without difficulty. What he hadn’t told her was that he was often more comfortable when he was playing a role than when he was being himself. And even he knew that that wasn’t a good sign.

  As the psychologist drove away, Shepherd saw a girl walking briskly towards his garden gate. She was in her twenties, dark hair dyed blonde, wearing a knee-length black leather coat. She walked down the path. ‘My name is Halina, from the agency,’ she said. She had high cheekbones, green, cat-like eyes, gleaming white teeth and a slight American accent.

  Shepherd shook her hand. Her nails were painted red but bitten to the quick and she had silver rings on most of her fingers. ‘Where are you from, Halina?’ he asked as they went inside.

  ‘From Poland,’ she said. ‘Warsaw. I have my references here.’ She handed him a large manila envelope. ‘My name, it means “light” in English.’

  Shepherd opened the envelope. There was a letter from a factory manager in Warsaw saying that she was a hard worker and good timekeeper, another from an American couple who said she had done a great job taking care of their six-year-old daughter during their year-long stay in the Polish capital. There was also a photocopy of the application form she had filled in to join Miss Malcolm’s agency. Everything seemed in order. Halina spoke good English, had a clean driving licence and a consistent work history. But something was not right about her. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew she wasn’t to be trusted. His policeman’s instinct had kicked in and he had been in the job long enough to know that, more often than not, he could rely on his gut feelings. He made small-talk with her for fifteen minutes, then sent her on her way with a promise that he’d call Miss Malcolm on Monday. He didn’t want her within a mile of his son, no matter how glowing her references.

  He phoned Miss Malcolm and explained that the girl she’d sent wasn’t suitable. She promised to call as soon as she had any other prospects, but pointed out that it was a seller’s market. ‘Like plumbers or electricians,’ she said, ‘sometimes you just have to take what’s available.’

  Shepherd thanked her and rang off. His personal opinion was that the welfare of his son was a hell of a lot more important than a leaking tap or a blown fuse, but he knew there was no point in picking a fight with her. If he was going to find someone suitable, he needed Miss Malcolm on his side.

  He picked up the Tony Nelson phone and took a deep breath. He had to stop being Dan Shepherd, single parent and undercover police officer. Everything he said on the phone had to be in character. Cold, efficient, ruthless. He focused on what he was about to do. Then he rang Angie Kerr. Her voicemail kicked in and Shepherd cut the connection. He’d try later.

  He changed into his running gear and picked up his weighted rucksack. He did a fast ten kilometres and by the time he got back to the house he was drenched with sweat. Two cars were parked in the road outside the house, a new red Rover and a three-year-old white Toyota. Two men were standing at the front door, one with a clipboard, the other with an A4 manila envelope. Shepherd didn’t recognise either but they both had the short hair and stout shoes that marked them out as police officers in plain clothes. ‘Dan Shepherd?’ said the man with the clipboard.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. He slipped off the rucksack and dropped it on the path.

  ‘Compliments of Superintendent Hargrove,’ said the man, nodding at the Toyota. He held out the clipboard and a pen. ‘Sign at the bottom, please.’ The car would be registered, taxed and insured in the name of the legend he was using as an SO19 officer.

  ‘The gear’s in the back, sir,’ said the man, handing him the keys. ‘You can check it if you want.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine.’

  ‘Second page, sir.’

  Shepherd signed for the equipment he’d need for his SO19 duty: bulletproof Kevlar vest with ceramic plate, black Nato-style ballistic helmet, Kevlar gloves with leather trigger finger, equipment belt with plastic retention holster for the Glock, Sure-Fire combat light, CS spray, plastic handcuffs, retractable baton, radio pouch and magazine pouches.

  ‘And page three is for documentation, sir.’ The man fished a white envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to Shepherd, who signed on the third page, then handed the clipboard back to the man.

  The second man gave him the manila envelope. ‘Background files, no need to sign for them,’ said the man. He had a Northern Irish accent. ‘Normal procedures apply.’ They went back to the Rover and drove off.

  ‘Normal procedures’ meant memorise and destroy. Shepherd opened the boot of the Toyota, took out the black nylon equipment bag and let himself into the house. He dropped the bag and the rucksack in the kitchen, then showered and changed back into his grey pullover and black jeans. He made himself some coffee before he opened the manila envelope.

  It contained a CD disk and a dozen sheets of paper in a clear plastic file. Shepherd dropped down on to his sofa and swung his feet on to the coffee-table. The file contained his SO19 legend. He scanned the sheets, committing them to memory. He was Stuart Marsden, armed cop. Three years on the beat in Glasgow followed by four years in a Strathclyde armed-response unit. Two commendations for bravery, promotion on the horizon, single with no children. No emotional baggage. It was a far cry from Shepherd’s own situation.

  Marsden’s date of birth was his own. That was par for the course: the people who put together the legends stuck as close as possible to the operative’s own history. It was the small things that could trip up an agent. Getting his birth sign wrong. Forgetting the name of the station in the town where he was born.

  He’d worked undercover in Glasgow on several long-term operations so he knew the geography of the city, and an hour or two with a guidebook and map would fill in any gaps.

  When he’d finished he closed his eyes and ran through the details. It was all there. He had no idea why he had almost total recall while most people struggled to remember their own telephone number, but it had saved his life on at least two occasions. Once he’d been tied to a chair in a basement faced with three men with axe handles and it had only been his memory that had convinced them he was an art thief who specialised in early-nineteenthcentury religious works. The second time he’d been helping to load a yacht with several hundred kilos of Moroccan hashish when one of the crewmen recognised him from a previous operation. He had pulled a gun and threatened to shoot. Shepherd had been using a different identity
on the first operation but his faultless memory had pulled up enough detail from the original legend to persuade the sailors that he’d switched identities because he was being pursued by the DEA. He’d ended up drinking brandy with them all night, their new best friend.

  He tossed the plastic file on to the coffee-table, then slotted the CD into the laptop. It contained the personnel files of Sergeant Keith Rose and two dozen members of SO19. Shepherd didn’t want to read the files: it felt like eavesdropping on colleagues. It was one thing to target drugs-dealers and armed robbers, quite another to go against fellow police officers. Keith Rose might well be a bad cop, and there might well be others among the files on the CD, but the majority of the men Shepherd had to read about would be good, honest officers. Shepherd knew how he would hate another cop to read his personnel file– with information about Sue’s death, or what Kathy Gift thought of the way he was dealing with stress. He wouldn’t want a fellow officer to look for signs that he was corrupt.

  He stood up and paced around. It was always up to him whether or not he accepted an assignment, but the only reason he had for saying no to this case was that he didn’t want to investigate other cops. And Shepherd knew that wasn’t a good enough reason. He sat down again and started to read.

  Norman Baston ambled down the corridor towards Larry Hendrickson’s office. He grinned amiably at Hendrickson’s secretary. ‘Is your lord and master in?’

  ‘Good morning,Norman,’she said.‘Let me check.’

  She picked up her phone and spoke to her boss, then nodded for him to go through.

  Hendrickson looked up from his terminal as Baston walked into his office. ‘What’s up, Norm?’ he asked.

  Baston closed the door behind him. ‘Have you and Roger got a problem?’

  Hendrickson frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Baston sat down in one of the two chairs facing Hendrickson’s desk and stretched out his legs. ‘You still want to sell the company, right?’

  ‘You know I do. If it wasn’t for Roger, we’d have done the deal six months ago, but he’s the majority shareholder.’

  ‘Do you think he might be trying to force you out? And by you, I mean us.’