‘Names would be nice.’
‘I’m working on it. I’d hoped that some of them might have been stupid enough to go to the boxing do, but no such luck.’
‘I was wondering if we should put a ruse in play.’
‘A ruse?’
‘Nothing major. But we could get the cops to start an investigation aimed at one of their operations. Then see who tries to access the file.’
‘I think most bent cops would see that coming a mile off.’
‘Have you got a better idea?’
‘I think we just have to take it slowly. Let me win their trust.’
‘We can’t let this go on too long, Daniel. I’ve got other tasks mounting up.’
‘It’s your call,’ said Shepherd. ‘But there’s no doubt that the family is responsible for a good wedge of the crime that goes on in South London. And they’ve been responsible for at least six murders over the past decade.’
‘There’s no doubt they’re valid targets,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘And the millions they have tucked away is a prize worth taking. But I’m starting to realise why the cops have never managed to make any headway.’
‘Yeah, well, the fact they have cops and judges on their payroll helps,’ said Shepherd.
The van picked up speed as it headed along the M4 to central London. ‘Oh, while I’ve got your undivided attention, your biannual psych evaluation is overdue,’ said Willoughby-Brown.
‘I’ve had a lot on my plate. As you know.’
‘Absolutely. But you know as well as I do that unless the psychologist signs you off every six months you can’t work undercover. Health and safety nonsense, I know, but rules is rules.’
‘No problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’ll be good to see Caroline again.’
Willoughby-Brown shook his head. ‘We stopped using Caroline Stockmann a while back,’ he said. ‘We’re taking a more scientific approach, these days.’ He handed Shepherd a business card. ‘This is the company. Call and ask for Miles Davies.’
‘Like the jazz musician?’
‘What?’
‘Miles Davis. Played the trumpet.’
Willoughby-Brown frowned. ‘Why would I ask a trumpet player to give you your psych evaluation?’
‘I meant the name. With an
e
or without one?’
‘With.’
Shepherd slipped the card into his pocket. ‘Definitely not the same guy, then,’ he said sarcastically. His phone rang and he pulled it out. It was his son. ‘Do you mind if I take this?’ he asked. ‘We’ve been playing phone tag for days.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Willoughby-Brown.
Shepherd pressed the button to talk to Liam. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine. Where are you?’
‘London. Are you at school?’
‘It’s half-term, Dad. I told you, remember?’
‘Sure, yes. Of course.’ Shepherd grimaced. Though his memory was practically infallible, birthdays and special occasions often passed him by unless something prompted him to remember. ‘So you’re at home?’
‘I just got here,’ said Liam. ‘Katra came to get me. Dad, when are you home?’
‘I’m not sure, why?’
Willoughby-Brown was tapping away on his iPhone but he could hear every word, which made Shepherd a little uncomfortable.
‘I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
Liam sighed. ‘You always think the worst.’
‘Well, put me straight. What do you need to talk to me about?’
Liam sighed again, deeper this time. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘University.’
‘Everything’s okay with your studying, right?’
‘Everything’s fine. I’m a bit behind in maths but I’ve been given some extra work to do and I’ll get back on track.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘I just want to talk it through with you, Dad, that’s all. And I don’t want to do it over the phone.’
‘When are you back to school?’
‘Next week.’
‘Okay, I’ll try to get home over the next few days.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Liam.
‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call again this evening,’ said Shepherd. He hung up and put the phone away. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Willoughby-Brown.
‘Is he okay?’
‘I think so. Something about university. Nothing major.’
‘Can you get away? What about the O’Neills?’
‘I’ll have to have a meet with Wedekind, that’s for sure. But as he gave me the Gibraltar job I don’t think I’ll have to report to Tommy and Marty. I might be able to get away tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Kids, hey?’
‘Have you got any?’ Shepherd didn’t even know if Willoughby-Brown was married. In fact, he knew next to nothing about the man who had his career in his hands.
Willoughby-Brown shook his head. ‘Never had the time or the inclination,’ he said.
Shepherd wondered what he had meant. Was he gay? Or did he mean he was married and just hadn’t got around to having children? Shepherd knew there was no way he could ask a direct question, so he looked out of the window as Willoughby-Brown concentrated on his iPhone.
Mohammed al-Hussain rose at dawn, showered and trimmed his beard, then prayed for ten minutes before going downstairs. Jay and Adam were in the living room playing a video game, which seemed to involve them shooting and killing as many people as possible. It was almost certainly American, he thought. The Americans loved to glamorise war. They turned it into movies and computer games as if it was trivial, but al-Hussain knew that war was a serious business. Life and death, literally. Turning it into a game was disrespectful to the dead and to the living.
He went into the kitchen. Ash was scrambling eggs and had slices of bread under the grill. There was a carton of orange juice on the table with a jug of milk. ‘Eggs okay?’ asked Ash.
‘Eggs will be fine, thank you,’ said al-Hussain, sitting down at the table. He was wearing a blue polo shirt, one of half a dozen he had found in the wardrobe, and a pair of jeans. ‘The clothes, they told you my size?’
Ash nodded. ‘We were told to get you anything you might need,’ he said. ‘And if we’ve forgotten anything, please ask.’
He took the toast from under the grill, slapped it onto a plate and put it on the table with a tub of butter, then spooned eggs onto another plate and handed it to al-Hussain, who poured himself a glass of orange juice.
Ash helped himself to eggs and sat opposite him. ‘When you’ve eaten, we’ll take you to see the weapon,’ he said.
‘Good.’
‘Where are my eggs?’ asked Sunny, charging into the room.
‘In the fridge,’ said Ash.
‘You didn’t cook for me?’
‘You were in bed.’
‘Well, I’m up now.’
‘I’m not your chef, brother,’ said Ash.
Sunny sat down and buttered a slice of toast. ‘Where’s the jam?’
Ash pointed at one of the cupboards. ‘In there.’
Sunny got up, grabbed a jar of strawberry jam and sat down again. ‘So, you good to go, bruv?’ he asked al-Hussain.
‘I hope so, yes.’
‘This is the first time you’ve been to England, right?’
Al-Hussain nodded.
‘What do you think?’
‘I haven’t seen much of it.’
‘It’s a great country,’ he said. ‘But it’ll be better under sharia law. How long do you think it’ll be, bruv, before we’re in charge? Our imam says fifty years but I think it’ll be sooner than that.’
Al-Hussain kept his eyes on his plate.
‘I think twenty years. Maybe twenty-five. It’s the birth rate, that’s what’ll do it. Good Muslims have lots of children. Ten or twelve with one wife. And they have more than one wife, right? So one good Muslim can have twenty children, maybe more. But the
kafir
, most of them are sterile. They can’t even produce one kid.’ He smeared jam across his toast and took a bite. ‘They have one, we have twenty,’ he said, through his mouthful. ‘It’s just a matter of time before we outnumber them, innit?’
Al-Hussain finished his eggs and put down his fork. He drank his juice, then nodded at Ash. ‘I’m ready,’ he said.
Shepherd usually varied his journey from London to Hereford between the M40 and the M4, depending on what his BMW’s sat-nav told him. He climbed into the car and discovered from the sat-nav that he’d get to his home fifteen minutes earlier if he went via the M4. Assuming the device wasn’t lying, he’d be in Hereford at just after three o’clock that afternoon. He headed west, listening to light jazz on the radio, wondering what he would say to Liam. He’d spent so much time playing at being Terry Taylor that he’d given little thought to his son, one of the many downsides of working undercover. Terry Taylor didn’t have children so he had to banish all thoughts of Liam while he worked. If someone asked him about kids he had to answer automatically, without thinking, because if he hesitated – or, worse, was caught in a lie – then his entire legend could come tumbling down.
Liam had been doing well at school and was expected to get good A-level grades, certainly good enough for most decent universities. It had been a while since he had spoken to his son about his career plans but in their last conversation Liam had said he was interested in video-game design. With the way the world was going it was probably as good a career as any. The problem in offering advice to his son was that Shepherd’s own career path had been fairly random. He had joined the army because he wanted travel and excitement, then switched to the SAS when he realised that regular army life wasn’t as exciting as it was portrayed in the recruitment advertising. He’d been happy enough in the SAS but his wife had begged him to leave when Liam was born because he was away from home so much. That was when he’d joined the police and been co-opted into an undercover unit. From there he’d moved to the Serious Organised Crime Agency, and when his then boss Charlotte Button had moved to MI5 he had moved with her. None of that had been planned so Shepherd really had no right to expect Liam to have his career mapped out.
It was when he crossed the M25 that he spotted the tail. Two men in a grey Toyota. They were good – they did nothing that made them stick out – but he made a habit of varying his speed and checking his mirror. When he accelerated, the Toyota would hang back but eventually catch up with him. When he slowed, so did the Toyota. There were always several cars between them and Shepherd’s BMW and no matter how slowly he went they matched his speed. That meant they were alone: if there had been several they’d have taken it in turns and the Toyota would have dropped back at some point. He used his phone on hands-free to call Willoughby-Brown and quickly updated him.
‘You think they’re working for the O’Neills or is there something else I should know about it?’ asked Willoughby-Brown, when Shepherd had finished.
‘I’m in Taylor’s BMW, my own car’s in Hereford,’ said Shepherd.
‘This is unfortunate.’
‘It would have been a hell of a lot more unfortunate if I hadn’t spotted them,’ said Shepherd. He gave Willoughby-Brown a description of the car, and the registration number. ‘I’ll drive to Reading Services and stop there,’ he said.
‘How do you want to handle it?’
‘In a perfect world I’d just swing back to London, but I really need to see my boy. They stick pretty much to my speed so how about this? I’ll wait at Reading, and make it look as if I’m there for a meet. Then I’ll head back to London on the M4. If you can get a patrol car fixed up, I’ll go over the speed limit, take them with me, and the cops can pull them over with blues and twos. That way we hold them up and get a definite ID. I’ll leave at the next junction and head back to Hereford on the M40.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘But what if they’ve put a tracker on the car?’
Shepherd grimaced. Willoughby-Brown was right. If they’d attached a tracker to the BMW they’d know where he went even if they lost sight of him. The fact that they had stuck close to him suggested they weren’t using a tracker, but it wasn’t definitive proof. He could dump the car and get to Hereford by train, but if he did that and they were tracking the vehicle, he might have some explaining to do down the line.
‘How about I get one of our tech guys to run out and check the car? If the car’s clean you can be on your way. If not we can plan how to proceed.’
‘That would work,’ said Shepherd.
‘So where do we do it?’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘There isn’t time to get it done at Reading and the next service area eastwards is Heston, between junctions two and three.’
‘It’s a long way but it would make sense,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was aiming for a meet here, the person didn’t turn up so I headed back to London. I stopped off to use the toilets at Heston. If there’s a tracker it would all seem logical. But if I head up the M40 they’re going to know something’s wrong, especially after the cops have stopped the car.’
‘Heston it is, then,’ said Willoughby-Brown.
‘Maybe I should switch cars, too,’ said Shepherd. ‘It might have been a mistake to use it in the first place.’
‘I’ll have a replacement ready for you at Heston,’ said Willoughby-Brown.
‘Not the bomb-proof van,’ said Shepherd.
‘You jest,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘That’s way above your paygrade. Stay put, I’ll send you a text when the cops are in place.’ He ended the call.
Shepherd looked in his rear-view mirror. The Toyota was still behind him, five cars back. He glanced at his speedometer. He was doing just under the speed limit. At that rate it would take him less than half an hour to reach the service station. He settled back and concentrated on the traffic ahead of him.
Ash parked at the side of the road and turned to Mohammed al-Hussain. ‘This is it, brother.’ He pointed at the mosque in the distance. Ten years before, the building had been a pub, but as the area had been taken over by Muslims, the brewery had been forced to put it up for sale. A group of local Muslim businessmen had found the money to buy it, applied for planning permission and within a year it was a mosque.
‘The imam knows about this?’ asked al-Hussain.
‘He lets us use the room for meetings,’ said Ash. ‘Other than that, he doesn’t want to know. But he’s one of us.’
Sunny nodded in agreement. ‘He’s all right, bruv. No need to worry. He’s the one who arranged for me and Ash to go to Pakistan for training.’
Al-Hussain looked over at the mosque. Sunrise prayers had taken place just after eight o’clock in the morning and Zohar prayers weren’t due until midday so the street was quiet. ‘Okay,’ he said.