Dead Men: The Fifth Spider Shepherd Thriller Read online

  There was a grunt to Merkulov’s right and he flinched. In a pen, half a dozen adult pigs were shoving their noses into a metal trough. There were ten pens in the barn, separated by metal bars with peeling paint. The air stank of urine and faeces.

  ‘Pigs are actually very clean animals, left to their own devices,’ said the American. ‘It’s only because we humans lock them into cells that they live in their own filth. They’re actually closer to us than monkeys. Genetically, there’s little difference.’ He walked over to the pens and looked down at the feeding animals. ‘I’ve never really understood why Muslims hate them so much. Pig kidneys have been implanted in humans, and pig hearts have been used to support failing human ones.’ He looked over his shoulder at Merkulov. ‘So, who is your client, Viktor? Who has been paying for information about me?’

  ‘His name is Hassan Salih.’ Merkulov knew there was no point in lying to him. They had taken his shoes and clothes, and two long machetes, a pair of industrial bolt-cutters and a carving knife had been placed on a wooden table near the entrance to the barn. His life was in the American’s hands and if he wasn’t completely honest with him the two men with hard eyes would kill Merkulov and feed him to the pigs.

  ‘And who is this Hassan Salih?’ asked Yokely.

  ‘An assassin.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘Palestine.’

  Yokely folded his arms. ‘And he paid you for information about me?’

  The Russian nodded.

  ‘Did he want information about anyone else?’ asked Yokely.

  ‘Just you,’ said the Russian.

  ‘That is the last lie you will ever tell me, Viktor. Do you understand? Pigs will eat anything. I’m sure you know that.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the Russian.

  ‘Would it help you if I got them to remove a finger? Or a toe? Or an ear? To show how serious I am? Would that help convince you,Viktor?’Yokely gestured at the two men and they went to the table, their boots crunching on the concrete floor.

  ‘A woman called Charlotte Button,’ said Merkulov, hurriedly. ‘She used to work for MI5 and now she works for the Serious Organised Crime Agency.’

  ‘And what were you able to tell him?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Merkulov. ‘No address, no family details. But he had a mobile phone number and I was able to check that out for him. He wanted to know where she was.’

  ‘And where is she?’

  ‘Belfast, London and Glasgow, mostly.’

  ‘He’s using her phone to track her?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘He wanted me to check a number she’s been calling while she was in Belfast. He wanted a list of calls made to and received by that phone.’

  ‘Did you find out whose it was?’

  ‘Someone called Daniel Shepherd. The bill goes to a house in Hereford.’

  Yokely’s jaw tightened and Merkulov realised he had said something significant. He began to speak faster, knowing that the information he had was the only thing keeping him alive. ‘The phone is in Belfast most of the time. There are calls to Button’s, to the landline at the address in Hereford and other mobile numbers. I haven’t given the information to Salih yet. I could hold off if you wanted me to. I could tell him I’ve got to go back to Russia.’

  ‘The number in Hereford? You’ve checked it out?’ Yokely’s brow was furrowed and he pursed his lips.

  ‘Not yet. I’m still working on it. But it’s a landline so I’ll be able to find out who lives there.’

  The American held up a hand to silence him. ‘Did you track my phone?’ he asked eventually.

  Merkulov shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Yokely. ‘Now, here’s the million-dollar question, Viktor. Who is paying this Salih?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Merkulov. ‘I really do not know. But money is no object to whoever it is. Everything I ask for, Salih pays.’

  ‘And you have worked for him before?’

  ‘I have supplied him with information, yes.’

  ‘And we can assume that he intends to assassinate me and Charlotte Button?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s not a name I’ve heard before.’

  ‘He keeps a low profile.’

  ‘Even so, I know most of the men who kill for money. The serious players, anyway.’

  ‘Hassan Salih is a serious player,’ said Merkulov, ‘but he uses many names. I’m not even sure that Salih is his real name.’

  Yokely picked up a chair and placed it in front of the Russian, then sat down facing him so that their knees were just inches apart. ‘But you don’t know who wants me dead?’

  Merkulov smiled thinly. ‘From what I’ve heard, a lot of people would like you dead.’

  Yokely chuckled and patted the Russian’s knee. ‘You’re right, of course. But most of those who would wish me harm don’t have the resources to hire a man like this Salih.’ The American folded his arms. ‘How does this end, Viktor? How do we play it?’

  The Russian glanced anxiously at the two men behind Yokely. One was holding a machete now and the other was tapping a pair of bolt-cutters against his leg.

  ‘This Salih, there’s no way he can kill me, Viktor,’ said Yokely. ‘I know that for a fact. Do you know why I know that for a fact?’

  Merkulov shook his head.

  ‘Because I’m going to die a very old man. Every fortune-teller I’ve ever been to has told me so. Everyone who has read my palm has said I have a lifeline that goes on for ever.’ Yokely splayed the fingers of his right hand and held it out to the Russian. ‘Do you read palms?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Merkulov.

  Yokely stared at it. ‘Long, long lifeline,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘No accidents, no illness, just my three score and ten plus a healthy bonus. Probably die in my sleep.’ He grinned at the Russian. ‘So, hand on heart, I can tell you I’m absolutely one hundred per cent certain that this Salih will do me no harm.’

  ‘You are a lucky man, Mr Yokely.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Yokely. ‘I am. And what about you, Viktor? Are you lucky?’

  ‘Until today I thought I was. But apparently I was overoptimistic.’

  ‘It’s good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour,’ said Yokely, clapping. He folded his arms again and stared at the Russian for a full minute. At first Merkulov held his eyes, but eventually dropped his own to the muddy concrete.

  ‘I’m in two minds as to what I should do, Viktor,’ said Yokely, eventually. ‘Part of me wants to watch these guys cut you up and feed you to the pigs. But part of me thinks that you could be useful to me.’

  ‘It is a dilemma,’ agreed the Russian.

  ‘I would like to know who’s paying Salih,’ said Yokely, ‘and wants me dead. Seems to me that you might be able to find out.’

  ‘I could do that for you, yes.’

  ‘But can I trust you? That’s the question.’

  ‘I could give you my word.’

  Yokely chuckled. ‘I’m not sure that your word would be enough,’ he said. ‘And I’m not the type to issue threats. They always seem such a waste of time. Like bluffing in poker. Do you play poker, Viktor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I used to, but I wasn’t that great a player because I refused to bluff,’ said Yokely. ‘I figured, what’s the point? You either have the best hand or you don’t. If you don’t have a good hand you might as well fold at the start. Thing is, you can’t play like that for long because once your opponents realise that you never bluff, they fold whenever you want to bet. So you can’t win. Now, life, that’s different. If people know you never bluff, they have to take you seriously. They have to believe you will do what you say you will. And a threat is a sort of bluff, isn’t it? If I threaten you and don’t follow through, then it weakens me. You can see that, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Merkulov.

  ‘You know what I can do t
o you, don’t you, Viktor? And that I can get to you anywhere in the world? Even in Russia? There’s quite a few guys in Moscow owe me favours. And I can get Mr Putin on the phone if I really want to. So there’s no hiding-place, not really.’

  ‘I will help you,’ said Merkulov. ‘I will get you the information you want.’

  Yokely reached into his trouser pocket and took out a pound coin. ‘Heads or tails, Viktor?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Heads or tails?’

  Merkulov swallowed nervously. ‘Heads.’

  Yokely tossed the coin high into the air, watched it rise and fall, caught it with his right hand and slapped it on to the back of the left. He slid away his hand to reveal that the coin was heads up. ‘You see, Viktor? It’s your lucky day, after all.’ Yokely turned to the men behind him. ‘Give Mr Merkulov his clothes. He’ll be working with us for a while.’

  Shepherd walked Button out to the waiting minicab. ‘Well, she’s all primed,’ said Button. ‘If you can’t get her to open up after that, you never will.’

  ‘Were those tears real?’

  ‘I can empathise with someone losing a child, Spider. I’m a mother, remember?’

  ‘You were good in there,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Surprised?’ She shivered.

  ‘Frankly, yes. I’ve never seen you in an undercover role before.’

  ‘I didn’t sit at a desk when I was at MI5. Do you think they’d have allowed me to head up SOCA’s undercover unit if I didn’t know what I was doing?’

  ‘I was trying to pay you a compliment.’

  ‘Well, you failed miserably,’ she said. ‘Now, give me a brotherly peck on the cheek and I’ll be out of here. She might be watching.’

  She turned her cheek and Shepherd brushed it with his lips. ‘Take care, yeah?’

  ‘Always,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget that the microphones are on.’ She climbed into the back of the minicab and he waved as the car drove off.

  Shepherd went back into the house. Elaine was pouring more wine into her glass. ‘Do you want to sit in the front room?’ said Shepherd. ‘The sofas are more comfortable than those wooden chairs.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Elaine. She got to her feet unsteadily with her glass. Shepherd picked up the bottle and they went into the sitting room. ‘It’s funny being in your house because it’s a mirror image of mine,’ she said, dropping into one of the sofas. The television was still on, the sound muted. A news programme. Three men in suits were being grilled by an overweight presenter with thinning hair.

  Elaine half watched the screen as she sipped her wine. ‘I had the BBC asking me a couple of years ago if I’d meet the men who killed Robbie. Can you believe that?’ She slipped off her shoes and drew her legs underneath her.

  ‘Journalists are parasites, most of them,’ said Shepherd. ‘They don’t care about the people they write about, or the effect their stories have on them.’

  ‘It wasn’t just journalists. That black archbishop was part of it – Desmond Tutu. They were making a series where they were bringing together people from both sides and getting them to talk while he sat there and looked all sympathetic. I told them to go screw themselves.’

  ‘Who exactly did they want you to talk to?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘We never got that far,’ said Elaine, ‘but I didn’t want to talk to any of them. There’s not one of the bastards expressed any regret for what they did. What was I supposed to do? Forgive and forget, shake the hands of the men who blew Robbie’s brains across the kitchen floor?’ She swigged her wine. ‘Fuck them – fuck them all. I hope they rot in hell for what they did to Robbie and Timmy.’

  She was close to being drunk, Shepherd could see. And the microphones Amar Singh had planted would be recording every word. Her defences were down, so all he had to do was let her talk. With the right nudges she might incriminate herself.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘You said they didn’t hurt Timmy, that he died of leukaemia.’

  Elaine had another swig. There were tears in her eyes. ‘Yes, Timmy got leukaemia. Bad leukaemia.’ She forced a smile, ‘It’s funny – isn’t it? – but that’s what they say. Good leukaemia and bad leukaemia. Good leukaemia has a high cure rate, bad leukaemia … doesn’t. They tried chemo and they wanted to try radiation but they needed a bone-marrow donor. After they’d looked at all our relatives and searched all the databases without sucess, they told me Robbie would probably have been a match. So when those bastards killed Robbie, they killed Timmy too.’

  Shepherd reached over and took her free hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to say that,’ said Elaine.

  ‘I’m sorry for the hurt you’re feeling. I can understand why you feel the way you do.’

  ‘How?’ said Elaine, pulling away her hand. ‘You never lost a wife, you never held a newborn baby in your arms, knowing he was part of you, that you were totally responsible for him, then watched him die in a hospital bed, begging you to stop the pain.’

  Shepherd did know what it was like to have a spouse snatched away, to know that the person you loved most in the world was gone for ever. But he couldn’t tell Elaine because to her he was Jamie Pierce and Jamie Pierce had never married and didn’t have children.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jamie, I didn’t mean to snap,’ she said.

  ‘I’m amazed you’re as calm as you are,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t think I’d cope half as well as you if I was married and someone shot my wife.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  Shepherd pretended to consider the question, but he already knew what he was going to say. ‘I’d hunt them down and kill them,’ he said slowly. ‘No question about it.’

  Elaine smiled. ‘And how would you do that? You’re a website designer.’

  ‘I’d do whatever I had to,’ said Shepherd. ‘Pay someone.’

  ‘A hitman? Now, where in God’s name would you find a hitman?’ She was still smiling at him.

  ‘This is Belfast, Elaine. There’s no shortage of killers here. You know that better than anyone. I’d find someone who’d do it and pay them whatever they wanted.’

  Elaine shook her head. ‘It’s not as easy as that.’

  ‘Or I’d do it myself,’ he said.

  ‘And where would you get a gun?’

  ‘Gun, knife – I’d strangle them with my bare hands. I don’t know. I’m sure I’d do something, but I guess it’s all hypothetical.’

  ‘For you,’ she said. ‘For me …’ She sighed. ‘The anger and the hatred eat away at you, so you have to deal with them as best you can. I know some women who lost their men who have forgiven and moved on with their lives, but there’s no way I can forgive the men who killed Robbie. They killed him as if they were killing a dog, Jamie. They forced their way into our house and shot him in front of me, then walked out as if it was the most natural thing in the world. How can men act like that? How can they sit down and plan to kill a husband and father? Killing in a war I can understand, or losing your temper and lashing out, but planning to murder a man in front of his wife and child? How can a human being do it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And then the British Government lets them go. They say it’s okay to let the evil bastards back on to the streets because the IRA has given up violence. But what about Robbie and Timmy? Am I going to get them back?’

  ‘It’s a nightmare, I know.’

  ‘No, you wake up from a nightmare. This is my life, Jamie. You know Noel Kinsella, the one who ran off to the United States? He came back and pleaded guilty to murdering my husband and served not one day in prison. Not one day. Even the judge said that was wrong. Tell me, Jamie, what sort of world do we live in where you can murder a man and not be punished?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You and me both,’ she said. She gulped some more wine and refilled her glass. ‘You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Now, why would I want to do that?’
r />   ‘To have your wicked way with me.’ She laughed.

  ‘Great! So I’d have to get you drunk to stand a chance with you, would I?’

  Elaine stopped laughing. ‘Are you flirting with me, Jamie?’

  Shepherd held her eyes for a few seconds, then grinned and shook his head.

  ‘I like your sister,’ said Elaine.

  ‘Yeah, she’s a sweetie,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘She doesn’t look much like you.’

  ‘She takes after our mum. I’m like Dad.’

  A face flashed up on the television screen. Shepherd recognised it immediately. Gerry Lynn. Elaine saw his reaction and looked at the screen. ‘That’s Lynn, one of the bastards who shot Robbie,’ she said.

  Shepherd reached for the remote control and turned up the sound.

  The picture of Lynn was replaced by a video shot of forensic investigators in disposable white suits on a rutted track standing round a Lexus. The back window had been shot out. The camera panned to the right where more white-suited figures were working in a muddy field.

  A female reporter with a Scottish accent was explaining that three men had been shot dead on a farm outside Dublin and that the killings followed a series of sectarian shootings, but that sources within the Police Service of Northern Ireland did not believe that the Peace Process was breaking down.

  Elaine listened intently. ‘Good riddance,’ she said quietly. She was staring at the screen with undiluted hatred.

  The video was replaced with a studio set. The female presenter was a pale-faced blonde with straight hair and penetrating eyes. She was interviewing a senior police officer. She grilled him as if she believed he personally had pulled the trigger and barely gave him the opportunity to answer her rapid-fire questions. She suggested that the police had been slow to investigate the previous killings and that some members of the Republican movement believed the police were unconcerned about the murders because the victims were convicted killers. The officer explained patiently that the killings were being investigated but that without witnesses or forensic evidence there would be no quick resolution. The presenter interrupted him to ask if he thought there was a connection with the death of Joseph McFee. The officer started to tell her that it was one avenue being investigated but before he could finish she was saying she had spoken to Republicans who feared that the police were involved in some way with the killings. At this the officer was lost for words.