‘PMC?’
‘That’s the manufacturer’s name,’ said Shepherd. ‘One of the firms that supplied rounds to the RUC. It was an old box. The manufacturer’s date was two years before Robbie Carter was killed, so they almost certainly belonged to him. The box originally contained fifty and there were twenty-six left. Twenty-five after I took that one. Your forensic boys should be able to tell if it’s similar to the rounds that were used to shoot his killers.’
‘That’ll be a help, but it’s no proof that she’s the killer even if the rounds are the same. If they are RUC issue we can assume that dozens if not hundreds of officers had the same ammunition.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Shepherd. ‘Remember, most RUC officers were issued with nine-millimetre Smith & Wessons. But I take your point. Without the gun we don’t have proof. So, where does that leave us?’
‘The words “shit”, “creek” and “paddle” spring to mind,’ said Button. ‘The powers-that-be are going to be looking for someone to blame for this.’
‘Me, you mean?’
‘I was thinking me, actually. It’s my operation.’
‘You’re still assuming Elaine’s the killer,’ said Shepherd, ‘and we don’t know that.’
‘Proving a negative is going to be next to impossible,’ she said. ‘We either prove she’s killed these six men, or that it’s the work of someone else. It doesn’t get us anywhere to say that we don’t think she did it.’
Shepherd sipped his wine. ‘There is a bright side,’ he said. ‘At least it was Lynn and not Kinsella who was killed. Lynn was a nasty piece of work and I doubt there’ll be many tears shed for him.’
‘I’ll be sure to tell the Home Secretary so when I’m next in his office,’ said Button. She raised her glass to him. ‘Here’s to my short and eventful career with the Serious Organised Crime Agency,’ she said. ‘I need another cigarette.’
The widow was quite beautiful, thought Viktor Merkulov, as he watched her at the graveside. She was in her late twenties and her knee-length black coat was open to reveal a low-cut dress that showed off an impressive pair of breasts. Her long blonde hair glistened in the afternoon sun and her nails were painted blood red. She was wearing a pair of Gucci sunglasses, but every now and again she would glance towards a good-looking man at the edge of the crowd of mourners. He was a few years older and elegantly dressed, the suit almost certainly Armani and the shoes Italian, handmade. Merkulov was sure he was the woman’s lover. There were no children around, and no one old enough to be the deceased’s parents. Merkulov didn’t know who the dead man was, but he was fairly sure that the widow wouldn’t miss him.
The widow had arrived at the cemetery in an expensive Mercedes sports car, the man in the Armani suit a few minutes later in a yellow Ferrari. Most of the mourners were men in their forties, probably work colleagues – bankers or stockbrokers. Merkulov knew that if he’d attended the service he would have learnt something about the man they were burying, but he had no interest in eulogies. He cared only about the burial.
The priest was saying whatever it was that priests said at funerals. The widow reached up to rub her left eye with the back of her hand but Merkulov knew she wasn’t crying. In fact, no one was shedding tears. There were sombre faces and clasped hands, but no tears.
A man in a fawn raincoat sat down next to him. ‘You’ve always had a thing for funerals, haven’t you, Viktor?’ He spoke with an American accent.
He was watching the mourners so Merkulov could see only his profile. He had short gun-metal grey hair and thin lips. He crossed his legs at the ankles. He was wearing black leather shoes with tassels and bright red socks. ‘Do I know you?’ asked Merkulov.
‘We’ve never met,’ said the man. ‘But I know you. And you seem to think you know me.’ He turned with an easy smile on his face. ‘Richard Yokely,’he said. ‘Nice to meet you at last. I’ve followed your career with interest over the years.’
Merkulov glanced over his shoulder. A man in his early thirties was standing a few paces away, his hands deep in the pockets of a black overcoat. He had a thick scar above his lips and he returned Merkulov’s stare with hard eyes.
‘Yes,’said Yokely. ‘He’s with me.’ He nodded to Merkulov’s right. ‘Him too.’
Another big man was positioned some twenty paces away, wearing a matching overcoat. Like the other, his hands were in his pockets.
‘We’re professionals, you and I, aren’t we,Viktor?’ said Yokely.
‘I suppose so,’ said Merkulov. If he had been in Russia he’d have been carrying a gun, probably two, but in Britain the penalties for being caught with a weapon were too severe to take the risk. They had outlawed most knives, and even a baseball bat was classed as a weapon unless it was accompanied by a ball.
‘Professionals in a world of amateurs,’ said Yokely. ‘We’re a dying breed.’ He smiled. ‘Some of us dying quicker than others, of course.’
‘What is going to happen?’ said Merkulov.
‘To the world?’ said Yokely.
‘To me.’
Yokely patted his back. ‘Are you carrying any sort of weapon?’ he asked.
‘Sadly, no.’
Yokely laughed. ‘Viktor, even if you had a submachine-gun under your coat, it wouldn’t do any good with my two colleagues there.’
Merkulov sighed. ‘I knew it was a mistake to look for you.’
‘But you were paid well?’
‘Of course.’
‘So you took a risk. I can understand that. You have bills to pay, and there’s no pension at the end of your career, is there?’
‘Can I make a phone call before . . .’ He left the sentence hanging.
‘Before what, Viktor?’
‘Before you kill me.’
‘Let’s talk first,’ said Yokely. He waved at the cemetery gates. ‘We’ve a van outside,Viktor,a blue Transit. You and I will walk together to it. When we get close the back doors will open and you will get in. You will lie face down on the floor.’
The Russian nodded.
‘My men are armed, and if you try to run they will shoot you. They won’t shoot to kill so, one way or another, you will get into the van. And we won’t be taking you to hospital so you’ll only be putting yourself through a lot of unnecessary pain.’
Merkulov stood up and shrugged. ‘I am too old to run,’ he said.
Yokely put his arm around Merkulov’s shoulders. ‘You and me both,’ he said.
They walked together to the cemetery gates. Yokely’s companions followed.
Charlotte Button looked at her cigarette. ‘Filthy habit,’ she said. ‘How come you’re not smoking?’
‘I smoke when she’s around, but that’s it.’
‘You don’t get a craving?’
‘I guess I don’t have an addictive personality.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean I have?’
Shepherd chuckled and poured more wine into her glass. ‘Most people could give up if they set their minds to it.’
Button took a long drag on her cigarette, then blew smoke at him. ‘At times,’ she said, ‘you’re a patronising prick.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Shepherd. The doorbell rang, startling them. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘That must be her.’
Button put down her cigarette. ‘Okay, I’m your sister, my name’s Rachel,’ she said calmly. She picked up the bullet and slipped it into her bag. ‘I live in Cambridge, I’m a pharmaceuticals sales rep and I’m in Belfast pitching a new drug to GPs. I’m married with no children. I haven’t seen you since Christmas when you came to our house for dinner. My husband’s name is Clive. Got it?’
‘Got it,’ he said. ‘Just one thing, are you my older sister or younger?’
‘Answer the door, baby brother.’ She picked up her cigarette.
Shepherd hurried down the hallway. Outside, Elaine Carter was holding a potted plant. ‘Belated housewarming gift,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But you already gave me a bottle of champagne, remember?’
‘Actually there was a buy-one-get-one-free at the Spar,’ she said, ‘but it’s the thought that counts.’
‘Come in and have a drink,’ he said. ‘And say hello to my sister.’
‘Your sister? I didn’t know you had one.’
‘My brother lacks the basic social skills, I’m afraid,’ said Button, from the kitchen door. ‘I blame our parents, but they did a good enough job with me.’ She held out her hand. ‘Rachel,’ she said. ‘I’m the brains of the family.’
Elaine laughed. ‘I’m so glad to meet you,’ she said. ‘Jamie never talks about his family.’
‘He’s ashamed of us,’ said Button.
‘Leave it out, sis,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do you want some wine?’ he asked Elaine. ‘You’ll have to be quick before Rachel finishes the bottle.’
‘You know he drinks Frascati?’ said Button. Shepherd followed Elaine into the kitchen and put the plant into the sink. Button poured wine for her and the three sat down. Button clinked her glass against Elaine’s. ‘Any friend of Jamie’s . . . has my sympathy.’
‘She’s been drinking, as you can tell,’ said Shepherd. ‘I went round earlier to see if you fancied joining us but you weren’t there.’
‘Up to my eyes in work,’ said Elaine. ‘So, where do you live, Rachel?’
‘Cambridge. I’m in Belfast for a couple of days on business.’
‘Have you been here before?’
‘I’m over every few months. I’m a pharmaceuticals rep and our company keeps increasing the size of my territory. What about you?’
‘Financial adviser,’ said Elaine.
Button laughed. ‘You should take a look at Jamie’s finances,’ she said. ‘He’s forever in the red.’
‘I’m working on it,’ she said. She sipped some wine. ‘What was he like as a kid?’
‘A bit of a nerd, I’m afraid. Always had his nose buried in a book.’
‘That’s so not true,’ said Shepherd.
‘And he played with dolls.’
Shepherd glared at her. ‘Action Man wasn’t a doll,’ he said. ‘He was an action figure.’
Button winked. ‘Still sensitive about it, as you can see. What about you, Elaine? Got any brothers?’
‘Three sisters,’ said Elaine.
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Shepherd.
‘You never asked,’ said Elaine.
‘Typical man,’ said Button. ‘If you’re not talking about them, they’re not interested. Are they all in Belfast?’
‘The two elder ones, Kathy and Joyce. Eight kids between them. Our youngest sister, Sally, lives in London. Got married last year.’
‘And why did nobody snap you up?’ Button asked.
‘Sis!’ exclaimed Shepherd. He knew exactly what she was doing and that he had to play his part.
‘What?’ said Button.
‘It’s okay, Jamie,’ said Elaine, taking his hand.
‘What’s okay?’ asked Button, feigning confusion.
‘Elaine’s husband was murdered.’
Button’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to Elaine. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Elaine. ‘Really, it’s okay.’
‘Murdered? Wow!’
‘Sis . . .’ said Shepherd.
‘Jamie, it was a long time ago,’ said Elaine. ‘You don’t have to walk on eggshells.’ She smiled at Button. ‘He was killed by the IRA.’
‘Elaine, how terrible. I’m so, so sorry. You must have been devastated.’
‘They did it in front of me and our son. So, yes, devastated would be about right.’
‘You have a son?’
‘Sis, do you have to interrogate her like this?’
‘I’m just asking, Jamie. Now what have I said?’
‘Elaine’s son died,’ said Shepherd, quietly.
He knew Button was faking her reaction, but she was entirely convincing. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘Did they kill him too?’
‘Leukaemia,’ Elaine said.
‘Oh, God, that’s awful. A friend of mine had leukaemia at university. She had chemo, her hair fell out and she was sick for months. She had a bone-marrow transplant and that’s what saved her.’
‘We looked everywhere for a donor but no one in the family was suitable,’ said Elaine, ‘so they went through all databases world-wide but still couldn’t get a match.’
‘I’m so sorry, Elaine,’ said Button. ‘Jamie was right, me and my big mouth.’ Tears were welling in her eyes.
Elaine rushed over to her. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ she said, putting her arms around Button and hugging her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ repeated Button, and looked over Elaine’s shoulder straight into Shepherd’s eyes. The tears were fake too, Shepherd realised. Charlotte Button was one cool customer.
‘You weren’t to know,’ said Elaine. She kissed Button’s cheek, then sat down next to her. Shepherd passed across her wine glass. ‘It’s great to meet your family,’ she told him, and touched Button’s glass with her own. ‘It helps to put him in context.’
‘That’s a good thing, is it?’ asked Shepherd.
‘You were a bit of a man of mystery,’ said Elaine.
Button pushed back her sleeve and gasped at the time. ‘I’d better be going,’ she said.
‘You’re not staying here?’ asked Elaine.
‘I’m at the Hyatt,’ said Button.
‘You’re letting your own sister stay at a hotel, Jamie?’ Elaine remonstrated. ‘Shame on you.’
‘It’s my choice,’ said Button.
‘I don’t have a bed in the spare room yet,’ said Shepherd.
‘You can stay with me,’ said Elaine.
‘Maybe next time,’ said Button. ‘The room’s paid for now so I might as well use it. And I’m off early in the morning.’ To Shepherd, she said, ‘Can you call me a cab?’
‘You’re a cab,’ said Shepherd, straight-faced.
Button grimaced at Elaine. ‘I had to put up with jokes like that all the time I was a kid.’
Shepherd called a local minicab company, who promised him a car within ten minutes.
‘Just time for another bottle, then,’ said Button.
Merkulov shivered. He was naked and cold. His bare feet were flat on the concrete and his hands were crossed over his groin. They hadn’t tied him to the chair but there was no need. There were three of them and it had been decades since Merkulov had been anything but mediocre at hand-to-hand combat. He was a thinker, not a fighter, whereas the two men that had accompanied Yokely were muscular and looked as if they could kill with their bare hands. They had taken off their overcoats and were standing behind Yokely, their arms folded across their chests. They wore heavy cotton shirts, dark jeans and workboots.