Short Range (The Spider Shepherd Thrillers Book 16) Read online

  ‘Tomato, potato,’ said Tommy.

  Frenk squinted in confusion, not getting the reference.

  ‘What the fuck do you want, Frenk?’ asked Jerry. ‘My brother and I just wanted a quiet drink and maybe a blow job later and I don’t think I want to share either of those experiences with you.’

  Tommy laughed and gulped down his champagne.

  Frenk smiled at Jerry but his eyes were ice cold. He leaned towards Jerry and jutted out his chin. It was an old scar, Jerry realised. Very old. Probably done when Frenk was a boy. And close up he realised that the shirt, and the watch, were genuine. The bracelet was gold, too. Several thousand pounds worth. ‘This is a courtesy visit,’ said Frenk. ‘I would appreciate your courtesy in return.’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Jerry.

  ‘I am here to inform you that some of the present arrangements you have in the United Kingdom are about to change. I wanted to forewarn you, and to let you know that despite what happens, you will continue to trade as before. It’s just that instead of your current customers, you will be dealing with me.’

  Jerry laughed harshly. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  Frenk continued to smile. ‘Several of the people you deal with are about to retire, shall we say. And I will be taking their place. It will happen quite soon, and quite suddenly, and I wanted to assure you that other than the change in personnel, it will be business as usual.’

  ‘You’re going to take out the competition, is that what you’re saying?’ Jerry shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Who the fuck are you, Frenk? Russian? Are you Russian Mafia or something?’

  ‘Not that it matters, but I am Albanian,’ said Frenk.

  ‘Where the fuck is Albania?’ asked Tommy. ‘Is that one of those Arab countries, like Afghanistan?’

  ‘We are Europeans,’ said Frenk. ‘We are a small country next to Montenegro, Kosovo and Macedonia. We are north of Greece. So no, we are not a fucking Arab country. But as I said, who I am is not the issue.’

  ‘Who exactly are you thinking of replacing?’ asked Jerry.

  ‘That is for me to know and for you to find out,’ said Frenk. ‘I just didn’t want you to have a nasty surprise.’

  Jerry grinned. ‘Mate, you’ll be the one who gets a surprise if you start throwing your weight around.’

  Frenk smiled. ‘We shall see,’ he said. He waved at the dancers down below. ‘You are a regular here?’

  ‘You could say that. Yeah.’

  ‘Is anyone here a problem for you?’

  ‘A problem?’

  ‘Someone who is giving you trouble.’

  Jerry laughed and pointed at a man standing by a table on the edge of the dance floor. He was talking to two men sitting on stools. They were all drinking bottles of Sol. ‘See that arsehole there? The one in the Middlesbrough shirt.’

  ‘Middlesbrough?’ repeated Frenk.

  ‘It’s a football team,’ said Jerry. ‘A shit one. The guy wearing the shirt is Simon Close and he’s always breaking my balls. He’s a fucking scumbag. He took a girl off me a few months ago and he never lets me forget it. She came crawling back after a week but I told her to go fuck herself. And I’m pretty sure he’s a grass.’

  Frenk peered down at Close. Close had just turned thirty. He had shaved his head and had a large diamond in his right ear that glinted in the lights. He had massive forearms, the result of hours in the gym lifting weights and frequent steroid injections. ‘A grass?’ he repeated, as if hearing the word for the first time.

  ‘An informer. We’ve seen him chatting to the local cops and we had problems with a yacht a while back that we think might be down to him talking too much. If we had proof I’d have offed him myself but I’m not a hundred per cent sure.’

  ‘It was him,’ said Tommy. ‘He’s a fucking arsehole.’

  Frenk smiled tightly. ‘I will take care of that problem for you,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll what, now?’ said Jerry.

  ‘I will show you that I am a serious person,’ said Frenk. He stood up and held out his hand. ‘I will leave you now. Thank you for your time.’

  Jerry shook his hand but didn’t get up. Frenk shook hands with Tommy. He also stayed put on the sofa. Frenk didn’t seem to be insulted by their refusal to stand. He nodded and walked away.

  ‘What the fuck was that about?’ asked Tommy.

  Frenk reached the red rope and Oskar unhitched it for him. Both bouncers smiled and nodded at Frenk and he patted Oskar on the shoulder as he left.

  ‘Just another chancer,’ said Jerry. ‘The Costa is full of them.’ He drained his glass and refilled it. Two blonde girls in very short dresses and impossibly high heels walked over. ‘Hello ladies,’ said Jerry. ‘Why don’t you join us?’

  The two girls giggled and dropped down onto the sofa. Tommy ordered a second bottle of champagne from Iwana. Frenk reached the bottom of the stairs and headed for the exit, turning to look at Close as he went.

  They were halfway through their third bottle of Cristal when Tommy saw the two men walking purposefully across the dance floor towards where Simon Close was standing. ‘Jerry?’ he said.

  Jerry looked up from the girl he was kissing, and Tommy nodded over in Close’s direction. Jerry turned and his eyes narrowed as he saw the two new arrivals. They were both wearing black leather jackets and had baseball caps pulled down over their faces. The girl tried to kiss Jerry again, but he pushed her away and got to his feet, his eyes widening. Strobe lighting kicked in on the dance floor and in a series of stark images Jerry saw the two men reach inside their jackets and pull out guns. Revolvers. The music was so loud that the shots were lost in the driving beat of the techno track, and the strobe lighting meant the flashes lost their power. The men each fired twice and red flowers blossomed on Close’s chest. He was still falling backwards as the two men put their guns back inside their jackets and turned and walked away.

  Only the people nearest Close had seen what had happened. A few girls screamed but the screams were lost in the thumping beat of the sound system. One of the men Close had been drinking with knelt down and then started shouting for someone to help. His cries were also swallowed up by the pounding music.

  Jerry and Tommy turned to watch the two killers walk calmly out of the nightclub, their heads down.

  ‘What the fuck just happened?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘That Albanian fucker just showed us that he’s serious,’ said Jerry. He sat down and picked up his champagne glass. ‘I think our life just got very interesting.’

  Tommy joined him on the sofa. ‘Are we in trouble?’

  Jerry grinned. ‘Mate, if we were in trouble it would’ve been us that got shot. Frenk is just showing us who he is, that’s all. It’s just business.’ He raised his champagne glass. Tommy picked up his glass and clinked it against Jerry’s.

  As the two men drank, the girls dropped back down on the sofa. ‘Did yous fucking see that?’ said the one Jerry had been kissing. She had a harsh Belfast accent.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jerry.

  ‘They fucking shot him to bits,’ said the girl.

  The clubbers on the dance floor had moved away from the body. Two security men in black suits hurried over. Oskar had spotted the body and was heading down the stairs, talking into his headset. The sound system cut off and the lights went on. There were gasps and curses as more clubbers saw the body on the floor. Dozens of smartphones appeared as those nearest the body began recording the carnage.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jerry. ‘Shit happens.’

  Harry Dexter was so busy playing on his iPhone that he didn’t see the NCA surveillance officer who was keeping tabs on him. The follower was in his sixties, wearing a tweed jacket over a dark brown waistcoat and carrying a walking stick. The limp was genuine. The man’s name was Oliver Tomkinson and he’d been with the NCA’s surveillance unit for five years. His arthritic knee meant that he was of little use in a fast pursuit, but he was such an unlikely tail that he was almost never sp
otted.

  Another watcher parked outside Harry’s detached house had made the call that the boy was on his way and Tomkinson had been in place at the entrance to the station with his ticket and a receipt so that he could claim the fare back on his expenses. Once he had seen Harry arrive, Tomkinson walked ahead of him to the platform where the next train to London was expected. Following people by walking ahead of them was a skill that had to be taught and Tomkinson had become something of an expert. His black-framed spectacles had small mirrors at the sides that allowed him to see behind himself as he walked and he was able to monitor the boy’s progress without once turning his head.

  Tomkinson took a seat on the platform. His task was merely to observe Harry and to check that no one spoke to him or passed him anything. The trip to London was a regular one and they knew where he was going, but that didn’t mean that Tomkinson was at all blasé and he kept a close eye on the boy.

  All the surveillance officers were using their phones to stay in touch with Sharpe and Shepherd, who were monitoring the operation back at the safe house. If the operation had been critical they would have been using Airwave radios, but they knew exactly where Harry was going and what he was doing and using radios always carried a risk of discovery. The train arrived on time and Tomkinson boarded the same carriage as Harry but sat several seats away. He sent a short text to Sharpe. ‘ON TRAIN’. The boy remained engrossed in his phone all the way to London.

  Tomkinson again walked ahead of Harry once they reached Paddington Station. As they walked onto the concourse, another member of the surveillance team was waiting. Andrew Mosley was in his forties, wearing an overcoat and carrying a briefcase, just one of thousands of businessmen criss-crossing the capital on public transport. He sent a text message – ‘HAVE EYEBALL’ – as he followed Harry down into the Tube station. Tomkinson limped over to Starbucks to get himself a coffee and a croissant while he waited for the boy to return.

  The phone network disappeared as they moved underground, so Mosley kept close as Harry took the escalator down to the southbound Bakerloo Line platform.

  Mosley got into the same carriage as Harry. Harry managed to grab a seat but Mosley stayed standing by the door, pretending to check emails on his phone. Not that Harry was paying any attention to the people around him; he was too engrossed in his own phone.

  Harry got out at Waterloo and sat down on the end of a row of four metal seats. He was ten minutes early but his instructions were to stay put and wait. Mosley had taken a seat further down the platform and pulled a copy of the Financial Times from his briefcase. Two trains came and went and then a black teenager walked down the platform carrying a grey North Face backpack. The teenager was listening to music through bright red Beats headphones and he was bobbing his head backwards and forwards as he headed towards Harry.

  The teenager sat down two seats along from Harry and put the backpack down between them before staring at the far wall, still nodding in time to the music. When the train arrived, the teenager stood up and walked towards the edge of the platform. Harry took hold of the backpack, stood up, and headed for the northbound Bakerloo Line platform.

  Mosley didn’t follow him. Another NCA officer was already there, waiting for Harry. This one was a woman in her twenties wearing a bobble hat and carrying a tennis bag. Her name was Caroline Connolly and she would follow Harry back to Paddington Station where Tomkinson would board the train with him back to Reading.

  ‘Here he comes,’ said Shepherd. He had an app on his phone that enabled him to track Harry’s progress through the GPS on the iPhone the boy was carrying.

  Sharpe nodded. He had been receiving text messages from the surveillance team, updating him on Harry’s progress. ‘Jenny will follow him to the end of the road,’ he said. ‘But he was clean all the way there and back.’

  A few minutes later the doorbell rang and Bacon went to let Harry in. He was wearing a grey hoodie and Adidas tracksuit bottoms and carrying the grey backpack.

  ‘Any problems?’ asked Sharpe as he took the backpack from Harry.

  ‘Easy peasy,’ said Harry. He went over to the fridge and took out a can of Coke.

  ‘Do you want something to eat, Harry?’ asked Bacon, standing by the sink.

  Harry shook his head. ‘I’m good.’

  Sharpe unzipped the backpack and emptied the contents out onto the kitchen table. There was a brick-shaped block of cannabis wrapped in polythene, four Ziploc bags containing white tablets with Batman logos stamped on them and one Ziploc bag with several dozen clear chunky crystals with a yellowish tinge.

  ‘Crystal meth?’ asked Shepherd, pointing at the crystals.

  Sharpe nodded. He used his phone to take several photographs of the drugs haul, then he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened the bag of crystals. He used a pair of tweezers to transfer one of the crystals into a test tube which he then transferred to an evidence bag. He sealed the bag and scrawled his signature and the date on the label.

  He took a single tablet from each of the other four bags. He put them in tubes and sealed them in bags, then used a scalpel to pry away some of the tape sealing the pack of cannabis.

  ‘You do this every time?’ asked Shepherd.

  Sharpe nodded. ‘We keep a record of every run, taking samples and photographs. And we have CCTV footage from the stations. When we do go to court, it’ll be open and shut.’

  He took a small sample of the cannabis resin, then resealed the package. He returned the drugs to the backpack and handed it to Harry. ‘Good to go,’ he said.

  ‘Where do you take it to?’ Shepherd asked Harry.

  ‘To their house.’

  ‘Do you go inside?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I go around to the back door and knock. They take it off me.’

  ‘Do they ever talk to you?’

  ‘Nah. They don’t even say “thank you”. I asked them for a tip once as a joke and they told me to fuck off.’ He finished his soft drink and put the can on the table.

  ‘I’ll show you out,’ said Shepherd. He took Harry along the corridor. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked as they reached the front door.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Are you worried about anything?’

  Harry frowned. ‘Like what?’

  ‘You’re dealing with some not very nice people.’

  ‘They don’t scare me, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘No, you don’t need to be scared. Just be careful, Harry.’

  The teenager grinned. ‘They’re stupid, they haven’t a clue what’s going on,’ he said. ‘When you guys arrest them they’ll get the shock of their lives. They won’t see it coming.’ His eyes sparkled and his grin widened. ‘I’d love to see them being arrested.’

  Shepherd put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Harry, you mustn’t think that way. All you’re doing is giving us some help so that you can go back to being a regular kid and put this behind you.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but they think I’m an idiot. I can tell by the way they talk to me. They don’t respect me. I know they don’t.’

  ‘They’re drug dealers, their respect means nothing. You mustn’t make it personal.’

  ‘Yeah but they’re using me, aren’t they? You saw what’s in the bag. Ten grand of drugs, right? And you know what they pay me?’ He unzipped a side pocket in the back and showed Shepherd the envelope there. ‘Five hundred quid.’

  Shepherd took the envelope from him and opened it. It was filled with fifty pound notes. ‘They let you keep this?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Harry. He grabbed the envelope out of Shepherd’s hands as if he feared he wouldn’t give it back, then stuffed it into his trousers. ‘Why not?’

  ‘No problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘But what about your parents, don’t they wonder where your money is coming from?’

  ‘They don’t know,’ he said. ‘I keep it hidden.’

  ‘Where?’

  Harry snorted. ‘There’s no way I’m telling you where
I keep my cash,’ he said.

  ‘I’m just saying, you need to be careful. If they find you’re hoarding money they’re going to wonder where it came from.’

  ‘They won’t find it, it’s well hidden.’

  ‘What do you spend it on?’

  ‘PlayStation games mainly,’ he said. ‘And cigarettes.’

  ‘Your parents let you smoke?’

  He snorted again. ‘Course not. They don’t know I smoke.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Parents usually have a good idea what their kids are getting up to. And I can smell the smoke on you. You had a cigarette on the way, right?’

  ‘Bloody hell, you can’t stop being a cop, can you?’

  Shepherd couldn’t help but smile. ‘It’s my job, Harry.’

  ‘Yeah, but your job here is to arrest Dancer and his crew, innit? Not to give me grief for smoking.’

  ‘I’m not giving you grief, Harry. I just don’t want you to have a problem with your parents. Just keep your head down and this will all be over before you know it.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘It’s fun, what I’m doing.’

  The boy’s overconfidence was a worry, but if Shepherd said too much he might spook him. It was a narrow line that Harry was walking. If he truly realised the danger of his situation he’d become nervous and those around him would spot it. But his cockiness was also dangerous. It was a trap many undercover operatives fell into. The more they got away with lying, the more they wanted recognition, to show how clever they were. Shepherd had sometimes felt that way during long-term operations. He’d spend weeks or months getting close to a target and once he’d won their confidence there’d be an urge to drop a hint of what was to come. Shepherd had never understood where the urge came from though a psychologist had once explained that it was because he was subconsciously feeling guilty about lying and somehow wanted to be punished for it. The way to fight the urge was to accept the fact that under certain circumstances lying was acceptable and that if the aim was to put bad guys behind bars then there was no need to feel guilty.