Short Range (The Spider Shepherd Thrillers Book 16) Page 32

  ‘But what about Katra?’ asked Shepherd. He cut into his egg. Pritchard had cooked it perfectly. ‘They’re going to wonder what she was doing in Žagar’s house.’

  ‘She’s local, remember? There’s no reason for the cops to think that she was anything other than a local girl who got caught up in a gang war. If they do dig then yes, they might discover that she was living in the UK. Worst possible scenario they start looking at when and how she arrived in Slovenia and find that she flew in with your boy. Hopefully they won’t spot that he flew out of Zagreb the day after she died.’

  ‘And if they do?’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But what I can do is get his name removed from the EasyJet manifest so it looks like Katra flew out there alone.’ Pritchard sipped his coffee. ‘I know you’re still worried about her family, but Andrej will make sure they’re okay. And again, I’m pretty sure it will end with Žagar’s death. Another gang will move in, natural selection will out.’

  Shepherd popped a slice of sausage into his mouth and nodded. Everything the man said rang true.

  ‘This might sound a tad callous, and I apologise for that, but we need to discuss what we do about Gary Dexter,’ said Pritchard. ‘I would prefer to strike while the iron is hot, obviously.’

  Shepherd chewed and swallowed. He couldn’t taste anything. ‘I understand.’

  ‘But if you need time, I think we could probably move ahead without you.’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘No. I’m in.’

  ‘Are you sure? After what you’ve been through …’

  ‘After what I’ve been through, I need to keep working,’ said Shepherd. ‘I need to keep myself occupied.’

  ‘Okay, good,’ said Pritchard. ‘I’ll get Andrej to talk to Gary Dexter. He can put him in touch with our dealer.’

  ‘I can suggest someone for that,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Jimmy Sharpe?’

  ‘He’s played an arms dealer before. And he’s got access to the sort of weaponry we need.’

  ‘I was already thinking about him as a possibility,’ said Pritchard. ‘Do you think you could get yourself involved?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Shepherd. ‘Dexter said I should get in touch with him. I’ll do that today and arrange a meeting. Maybe we can time it so that Dexter gets the call from Andrej while I’m there.’

  ‘Where does Dexter plan to get the money from?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Why, do you think I should suggest funding?’

  Pritchard shook his head emphatically. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to be careful we don’t cross the line into entrapment. It’s bad enough that we come up with the arms dealer, if we use our cash then a good lawyer will get him off. He needs to use his own cash.’

  ‘I’ll get in touch with him as soon as I’m done with your breakfast.’

  Pritchard grinned. ‘It’s good?’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Damn good.’ He smiled enthusiastically but the truth was he was eating because his body needed fuel, no other reason.

  Shepherd drove to Croydon but parked well away from the pub and went a circuitous route to check that he wasn’t being tailed. The pub was full and it took Shepherd several minutes to find Dexter and Moorhouse. They were standing close to the toilets, drinking lager. They both shook hands with Shepherd and eagerly accepted his offer of a drink. It took him almost ten minutes to get served. The clientele was predominantly white and male and under forty, with a dozen or so skinheads gathered together at one end of the bar. The only two women Shepherd saw, other than bar staff, had dyed blonde hair and St George’s crosses tattooed on their arms.

  He bought lagers for Dexter and Moorhouse and a pint of shandy for himself, then threaded his way back to them. They were just finishing their drinks when he reached them and they put their empty glasses on a nearby table and took the fresh ones from him.

  ‘This is a good turnout,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘We’ve got a lot of support in Croydon,’ said Dexter. ‘We’re among friends.’

  ‘What’s the story?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Are you giving a speech?’

  ‘I’ll do the introductions,’ said Dexter. ‘Then we’ve got three speakers. Two of them are with Combat 18, I’ve known them for donkey’s. And we’ve got a guy from Sweden who’s going to talk about the problems they’re having with the muzzies. Then I’ll do an appeal for funds and we’ll pass a bucket around.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Shepherd.

  The meeting started at nine on the dot. Dexter had stood on a chair and shouted to get everyone’s attention. Most of the drinkers had filed upstairs to a large room. There was a small stage at one end with a couple of microphone stands. On the wall behind the stage were several anti-Islam banners and St George and Union Jack flags.

  More than eighty people crowded into the room. The skinheads all gathered at the back. Several were clearly drunk, laughing and pushing each other, though they stopped when Dexter got onto the stage and appealed for quiet. He started with a tirade of how he saw Muslim immigrants destroying the country he loved, and pretty much repeated the comments he’d made in Sid, about it being time for the English to make a stand. His remarks were greeted with cheers and applause, and having worked up the crowd he introduced the speakers from Combat 18. They turned out to be the men that Dexter had taken selfies with – Neil Burnside and Lee Barnett. The two men had a microphone each and did a racist double act that had the audience cheering and waving their fists in the air. Much of their anger was directed at Muslims, and the two men threw out all sorts of statistics about Muslims in prison, Muslims claiming benefits, and Muslim terrorist plots. Shepherd knew that most of the figures they quoted were exaggerated or just plain wrong, but the audience either didn’t know or didn’t care. At one point, Barnett praised the attack on the mosque in Acton, and he had details of the explosives used that hadn’t been released by the police. Shepherd made a mental note to talk to the cops in charge of the investigation. If Barnett hadn’t been actively involved in the attack, he was clearly in contact with someone who had been.

  The final speaker was introduced as a father whose daughter had been killed by a Muslim grooming gang in Stockholm, but Shepherd hadn’t heard of the case and the more the man ranted and shouted, the more Shepherd doubted that he was telling the truth. He certainly had a Swedish accent but Shepherd figured that a bereaved father would be showing more grief and less hatred. The man declared that white people were no longer safe in Sweden and that the English should do everything they could to make sure their country didn’t go the same way. The audience clapped and cheered but Shepherd was fairly sure they were being played. Not that they cared. They clearly weren’t there for a thoughtful discussion on the pros and cons of Islam, all they wanted was to have their bigoted prejudices confirmed. Shepherd had no choice other than to join in with the applause, though much of what the man said made him sick to the stomach.

  When the Swede finally ended his tirade, Moorhouse went around with a blue plastic bucket to collect donations. Dexter took to the stage and thanked everyone for coming, telling them that if the British Crusaders were indeed to lead the fight, they needed funds. By the time Moorhouse had finished his collection there were several hundred pounds in the bucket.

  Moorhouse went over to the stage where he bundled the notes and put them in a jiffy bag, and what coins there were went into a plastic bag. As the audience headed back downstairs, Dexter came over to Shepherd. His pupils were dilated and his face was bathed in sweat. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘Awesome,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘We could fill much bigger venues but if we do that the lefties start protesting and the cops come and shut us down.’

  Moorhouse nodded in agreement. ‘We could fill the fucking O2,’ he said.

  Shepherd wanted to ask what happened to the money, but instead he repeated some of the things that the Swede had said and threw in a few Islamophobic remarks that had Dex
ter and Moorhouse nodding in agreement.

  Moorhouse finished dealing with the cash and suggested they go downstairs for a drink. Shepherd bought a round, then said he needed to pee and headed for the toilet. The toilet was unoccupied and he took out his phone and sent a text message to Pritchard: ‘GO’. He washed his hands and went back to the bar. A couple of minutes later Dexter’s phone rang. He looked at the screen and grinned. ‘It’s Neno,’ he said. ‘I’ll take it outside.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Moorhouse.

  Shepherd stayed where he was as the two men left the pub. He would have loved to have gone with them, but he couldn’t afford to appear too keen. He sipped his drink and kept an eye on the door, constantly scanning faces to make sure that there was nobody in the pub that he’d crossed paths with before.

  They came back after about five minutes. Dexter was pumped up and his cheeks had reddened. ‘We’re on,’ he said.

  ‘On what?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Neno has found us a dealer here in the UK. Some guy called Viktor. Sounded foreign. I spoke to him just now and Viktor says he can get whatever we want and that it’s already in the country, no need for shipping. He was a bit cagey on the phone but he says we can meet him tomorrow, at The Dorchester,’ said Dexter.

  ‘Park Lane,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve done a few interviews there over the years.’

  ‘It’s posh, right?’

  ‘You won’t get in with shorts or trainers, but it’s fairly relaxed,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘He’s talking about afternoon tea.’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘Now that is posh.’

  ‘You’ll come with us, yeah? You, me and Rog.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yeah, you know your way around. You’re a good judge of character, John. I trust your judgement. And the more the merrier.’

  Shepherd raised his glass. ‘Then I’ll be there.’

  The blonde woman who greeted them at the entrance to The Promenade, the foyer at the heart of The Dorchester hotel, was model-pretty and dressed as if she expected to be featured on the cover of Vogue magazine. Dexter gave her the name that Sharpe was using and she led them through the opulent room, where ornate modern chandeliers were hanging from the ceiling and the walls were lined with silk drapes. Well-dressed customers sat on elegant sofas and plush armchairs as liveried waiters delivered plates of finger sandwiches and trays of delicate cakes. A pianist on a grand piano was effortlessly filling the room with soft music. Many of the diners were taking photographs on their phones, of themselves and their food, and nobody paid the men any attention as they were led to their destination. Sharpe was sitting on an overstuffed sofa next to his NCA colleague, a good-looking bearded guy in his thirties who Shepherd knew was called Vito Serafino. Shepherd had never met the man and Serafino didn’t know who or what Shepherd was, but Sharpe had told him that Serafino was one of NCA’s top undercover agents. He had posed as an arms dealer on several occasions, in the UK and overseas on loan to Interpol.

  Dexter looked at Sharpe and Serafino, obviously wondering who was who. Serafino took the lead, standing up and offering his hand. He was wearing an immaculate black Boss suit, a crisp shirt and a blue tie, and had a chunky gold Rolex on his wrist. ‘I am Viktor,’ he said.

  ‘Viktor, mate, good to meet you,’ said Dexter, shaking Serafino’s hand enthusiastically. ‘Neno says good things about you.’

  ‘Not too much, I hope, we like to keep our activities low profile,’ said Serafino. ‘The fewer people who talk about us the better.’

  ‘Yeah, he wasn’t mouthing off, just said that you can get us what we need.’

  ‘I’m sure we can,’ said Serafino. He gestured at Sharpe. ‘This is my colleague, Barry.’

  Sharpe took it in turns to shake hands with Dexter, Moorhouse and Shepherd, then they sat down. They had two sofas and three armchairs arranged around two square tables. The pianist began to play ‘Happy Birthday’ and a waitress carried a small chocolate cake with a single burning candle over to a table where a white-haired old lady in a Chanel dress and pearls sat with a man in a dark suit who was probably her grandson. The man clapped as the old lady blew out the candle, her eyes flashing with the excitement of a little girl. People at the neighbouring tables applauded quietly as the candle went out, and the pianist went back to playing show tunes.

  ‘Why The Dorchester?’ asked Dexter, looking around. ‘Why couldn’t we meet in a pub?’

  Sharpe waved his arm around the lavish surroundings. ‘Plenty of room between the tables, so we can’t be overheard,’ he said. ‘In the unlikely event that the cops are taking an interest in us they’ll stick out a mile, but the real reason is that I just love their egg and truffle sandwiches.’ He grinned. ‘And if you baulk at picking up the bill, we’ll know that you’re short of cash and that you’re wasting our time.’

  ‘We’ve got the cash,’ said Dexter.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Sharpe. ‘Let’s have some bubbly as well then, shall we?’ He waved over at a waiter and ordered champagne to go with their afternoon tea.

  Two large plates of finger sandwiches arrived immediately after their champagne had been poured. There were Sharpe’s favourite egg and truffle, along with cheese and cucumber, prawn salad, pastrami with mustard and coronation chicken. Sharpe tucked in immediately. Dexter was more cautious, opening up each sandwich and sniffing it before taking a bite.

  They waited until the waiter had walked away before discussing the matter in hand. Serafino did the talking. ‘Grenades are pretty standard, and we can get you a type that’s similar to what you saw in Serbia,’ he said. ‘But Neno said you wanted RPG-7s and we don’t have any of those in the UK. We can get them, and we can have them shipped over, but it’ll take time and there’ll be an extra cost.’

  ‘We definitely want them,’ said Dexter.

  ‘Not a problem, we can get them, but I’m in a position to offer you something else. Swedish-made AT4s, single-use anti-tank high-explosive missiles made by Saab, the car people. Far more effective than the RPG-7 and with red dot targeting. You just put the red dot on the target and pull the trigger.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Dexter.

  ‘One and a half thousand pounds,’ said Serafino.

  ‘Each?’ said Dexter.

  ‘Of course,’ said Serafino.

  ‘That’s a bit steep,’ said Dexter. ‘The RPGs in Serbia were only a couple of hundred euros.’

  ‘That’s because all you were buying was the rocket,’ said Serafino. ‘With the RPG, the launchers are reused. The AT4 is a single-use anti-tank weapon. You fire it and then throw away the launcher. It’s much more efficient. You’ve fired an RPG-7 and, as you know, it’s very hit and miss. Literally. The AT4 is much more reliable. It’s very accurate up to three hundred metres and you can easily hit a large target up to half a kilometre away. Plus, there’s a big difference in price between here and the Continent. I didn’t get the impression from Neno that money was going to be an issue. I hope my time isn’t being wasted here.’

  Dexter put up a hand to placate him. ‘I was only asking,’ he said. ‘Your price is your price, I get that. Now how many can you get?’ asked Dexter.

  ‘How many do you want?’

  Dexter looked across at Moorhouse. ‘What do you think, Rog? Four?’

  Moorhouse nodded. ‘We’ve got the funds.’

  Dexter looked back at Serafino. ‘Okay, we’ll take four.’

  ‘And what about grenades?’ asked Sharpe.

  ‘How much are they?’ asked Dexter.

  ‘Ninety quid each,’ said Sharpe. ‘But you can have a dozen for a grand.’

  ‘We’ll take a dozen,’ said Dexter. ‘Fuck it, two dozen. How soon can you get them?’

  Sharpe looked at Serafino. ‘Tomorrow okay?’

  ‘Tomorrow works,’ said Serafino.

  ‘Where can we pick them up?’ asked Dexter.

  ‘We like to do any transactions far away from prying eyes,’ said Sh
arpe. ‘We’ve got a farm we use, just outside London. I’ll text you the address first thing tomorrow morning. Just make sure you’ve got the cash.’

  ‘We’ll have it,’ said Dexter.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Sharpe. A waiter brought over a plate of scones with dishes of jam and clotted cream. Sharpe rubbed his hands together. ‘Lovely,’ he said.

  The meeting lasted an hour and a half, and Sharpe was still tucking into The Dorchester’s famed fancy cakes when Dexter, Shepherd and Moorhouse left. Dexter had paid the bill in cash though Shepherd noticed that Sharpe had pocketed the receipt. They gathered together outside the hotel. ‘What do you think?’ Dexter asked Shepherd. ‘You’re a journalist, you’ve got a feel for people.’

  ‘They seem to know what they’re doing,’ said Shepherd. ‘And it’s easy enough, you don’t pay until you’ve seen the merchandise.’

  Dexter nodded. ‘That’s what I thought,’ he said. He patted Moorhouse on the shoulder. ‘So you can get the money this afternoon?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Moorhouse.

  ‘I think I’ll bring Charlie tomorrow as well,’ said Dexter. ‘Get him to check the gear before we buy.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Are you up for it, John?’ asked Dexter.

  ‘Hell yeah,’ said Shepherd.

  Dexter grinned. ‘Good man. Now let’s find a pub and grab some beers. Those bloody sandwiches have given me a thirst.’

  Shepherd was up before eight the following morning. He was drinking a mug of coffee as he watched Sky News when his phone rang. It was Gary Dexter. ‘We’re off,’ he said. ‘You’re in Hampstead, right? We’ll pick you up in about an hour.’

  As soon as Dexter ended the call, Shepherd phoned Pritchard and brought him up to speed.

  ‘Good job,’ said Pritchard.

  ‘Best not to go counting chickens,’ said Shepherd.