Soft Target (4 page)

Hargrove cupped his hands round his brandy glass. 'You'll be going in blind,' he said. 'All we have is a first name.'

'She's a battered wife,' said Shepherd. 'I doubt I'll be in any danger.'

'I don't like it, Spider. There are too many ifs, buts and maybes.'

Shepherd leaned forward. 'Boss, if she doesn't talk to me,

she might find someone else.'

Hargrove nodded thoughtfully. 'Forty-eight hours, that's all I can give you.'

Shepherd looked pained, but the time frame wasn't up to him. 'The ball's in her court,' he said. 'Hendrickson wouldn't give me her number.'

'If she's serious she'll call. If she isn't, it's a waste of time anyway. Forty-eight hours, Spider. Then we arrest Hendrickson.'

Shepherd opened his mouth to argue but the superintendent silenced him with a wave. Shepherd had worked with 25 Hargrove long enough to know when he'd reached his limit.

Forty-eight hours was all the time he had.

Roger Sewell was a big man, a good three inches taller than the superintendent, and thirty kilograms heavier. He had receding hair that he'd grown long and tied back in a ponytail,

and a goatee beard. He was wearing a grey suit but had taken off his tie and thrown it on to the hotel bed.

'No bloody way am I spending another night in this shit hole,' he said. 'I was promised a safe-house not a two-star bloody hotel.'

'It's forty-eight hours,' said Hargrove, patiently. 'Two days.'

'Two days during which that bastard Hendrickson is going to be ripping my company apart,' said Sewell. He pointed an accusing finger at the superintendent. 'Are you going to reimburse me for any money I lose on this?' He didn't give the superintendent time to reply. 'Of course you're bloody not. What if he empties the bank accounts and transfers the money off-shore. Then I'm fucked with a capital F,

aren't I?'

'Today's Friday,' said Hargrove. 'You have my word that by Monday your partner will be in custody and you'll be free to do whatever you want. Just give me the weekend, Mr Sewell.'

Sewell paced over to the window. 'They won't even let me go to the bloody pub. This is Leeds, for God's sake. No one knows me in Leeds. I wouldn't be seen dead in Leeds.'

'It's too much of a risk, Mr Sewell,' said Hargrove. 'If anyone recognises you and mentions it to Hendrickson, he'll know he's been set up and he'll run.'

'So put him under surveillance.'

'We have. Two men are watching him round the clock. But we can't account for phone calls or emails.'

Sewell slammed his hand against the window-frame. 'I'm 26 the innocent party here, yet I'm the one being held prisoner.

That bastard Hendrickson should be behind bars and he's living it up on the outside while I'm eating off a tray.' He turned to face the superintendent. 'I've done everything you've asked of me. I even lay down in that hole in the ground with fake blood on my face while you took photographs.

But I've reached my limit.'

'Forty-eight hours, Mr Sewell. It's not much to ask.'

'That's easy for you to say. You don't have to sleep on a lumpy mattress and watch a fourteen-inch TV. And have you seen the bloody room-service menu? Chips with everything.'

'Mr Sewell, let's not lose sight of what was happening.

Your partner was looking to have you killed. If we hadn't intervened there was a good chance he'd have succeeded and we wouldn't be having this conversation.'

Sewell dropped into an overstuffed armchair and swung his feet up on to the bed. He ran a hand over his thinning hair and down the ponytail. 'Bastard,' he said. 'I can't believe he'd have me killed. He's a vegetarian, for God's sake.'

'People have killed for a lot less than he stands to gain with you out of the picture,' said Hargrove.

'Yeah, but it's only bloody money.'

'We do appreciate the help you've given us,' said the superintendent.

'By Monday you can be back in the office and you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that your partner is going to prison for a long time.'

'I hope so,' said Sewell. 'I bloody well hope so.' He looked across at the superintendent. 'Can you at least tell me why?'

'It's an ongoing operation,' said Hargrove. 'That's all I can tell you.'

'Involving Hendrickson?'

Hargrove nodded. He didn't like lying to Sewell, but he knew that the man was a lot less likely to co-operate if he knew that the operation had been extended to include a 27 second party. Besides, it was a white lie. Hendrickson was involved. Up to a point. 'You'll be doing us a great service,'

said the superintendent.

'You'll owe me one,' said Sewell.

'Indeed,' said Hargrove.

'I want my laptop,' said Sewell. 'And my mobile phone.'

'I don't think that's a good idea,' said Hargrove.

'I won't call anyone. I won't send emails. I just need to know what's happening.'

'Computers leave traces. So do mobile phones. We can't afford the risk of anyone finding out you're still alive.'

Sewell threw up his hands in disgust.

'Two days, Mr Sewell,' said Hargrove. 'You have my word.'

The local police had assigned three uniformed officers to babysit Sewell, taking it in turns to sit in the hotel's reception area in plain clothes. They weren't there to guard him,

merely to ensure that he stayed in the hotel. The only threat to Sewell's life was Hendrickson, and Hendrickson was under the impression that his business partner was dead and buried in the New Forest.

The officer on duty was a fifty-something sergeant with a thickening waistline and thinning hair. He began to get to his feet as Hargrove walked out of the lift but the superintendent waved at him to stay seated and sat in the adjacent armchair. 'How's he been?' he asked.

'Grumpy, sir,' said the sergeant. 'Keeps asking if he can go out for a walk. Complains about the food, the TV, the bed.'

'He's not to go out,' said Hargrove.

'I understand, sir.'

'We're having to extend his stay over the weekend,' said Hargrove. 'I'll be clearing it with your bosses. But the longer he's here, the more likely he is to slip the leash, so I'm going 28 to have to ask you to set up shop in the corridor outside his room.'

The sergeant looked fed up but said nothing. The superintendent sympathised. Sitting in a hotel corridor wasn't the most entertaining way to pass an eight-hour shift. 'If he's still unhappy about the hotel food he can order in from restaurants but make sure he pays cash. On no account is he to use his credit card.'

'Understood, sir.'

'Pass on the instructions to the rest of the team,' said the superintendent. 'If you want to break it up into four-hour shifts, that's fine by me. So long as he's covered round the clock, you can work it any way you want.'

'It's all overtime,' said the sergeant. 'You won't be hearing any complaints.'

Shepherd sat in his car and looked at the front of the house:

a neat semi, the garden lovingly tended, the paintwork less than a year old, a TV dish over the garage. Tom and Moira Wintour had put a lot of work into their Hereford home and it showed. A year-old Lexus was parked in front of the garage, freshly waxed.

Shepherd had driven down from Manchester in his own car, a dark green Honda CRY. He'd left the Volvo in the car park below the city-centre loft where his alter egoTony Nelson lived. Once the operation was over and he had Angie on tape, the surveillance equipment would be removed and the Volvo would go back into the police pool with new licence plates and registration details.

On the back seat of the CRY a carrier-bag contained two PlayStation cartridges that he'd bought in a toy shop in Manchester. He'd spent the best part of an hour there but hadn't been able to think of anything else to buy his son. He climbed out, walked to the front door and rang the bell. He 29 saw a blurred figure through the frosted glass, then Moira opened the door, smiling brightly. As always, her makeup was immaculate. 'Daniel, you made it,' she said.

Shepherd smiled back and forced himself to ignore the implied criticism. He felt bad enough that he had had to cancel his last two visits at short notice without his motherinlaw reminding him of his shortcomings.

Moira was the only person who used his full name. She always had, ever since they'd first met. He'd asked her to call him Dan but she'd paid no attention and Daniel he had remained. Friends and colleagues alike used Dan or his army nickname, Spider.

'Liam's in the garden,' she said.

'How is he?'

'Fine.'

'He sleeping okay?'

'Daniel, he's fine. Really. Can I get you a cup of tea?'

Shepherd declined her offer and went through the kitchen into the garden. Liarn was kicking a football against a low brick wall. His face broke into a grin as he saw his father walking across the lawn. 'Dad!' he yelled, and rushed over,

grabbed him round the waist and hugged him hard. 'I wasn't sure if you'd really come.'

'I said I would, didn't I?' said Shepherd, but he felt guilty.

He never deliberately set out to let his son down, but the nature of his work meant that he rarely knew what he'd be doing or where he'd be from one week to the next. He gave his son the carrier-bag. 'I got you these,' he said.

Liam let out a whoop as he saw the PlayStation cartridges.

Then his face fell. 'Gran doesn't let me play video games,'

he said.

'Never?'

'An hour a day,' said Liam, grimly.

'That sounds reasonable,' said Shepherd.

3O 'Mum always let me play as long as I wanted.'

'No, she didn't, and you know it,' said Shepherd. 'She said it was bad for your eyes.'

'Can I play them now?'

'Let's go to the park for a kickabout.'

Liam picked up his ball and they went back into the kitchen.

Moira was standing by the kettle, waiting for it to boil. 'I've got cake,' she said.

'Liam and I are off to the park. We won't be long,' said Shepherd.

For a moment she looked as if she was going to protest,

but then she forced a smile.

The park was a five-minute walk from the house. Liam bounced the ball as they walked.

'So, are you okay?' asked Shepherd.

Liam shrugged.

'You know your gran and granddad love you, right?'

Another shrug.

'And the school here is okay, right?' Tom and Moira had arranged for Liam to attend the local school until Shepherd had things sorted in London.

'It's okay.'

'It's not for ever.'

Liam was clutching the ball to his chest. 'Are you sure?'

Shepherd stopped walking, put his hands on his son's shoulders,

then knelt down in front of him. 'What do you mean?'

'Are you dumping me?' He was close to tears.

'Dumping you?'

'With Gran and Granddad.'

'Of course not.'

'They say I can stay with them for ever.'

'They're just being nice.'

'They keep saying it's my room. But it's not my room. My room's in our house, isn't it?' His lower lip trembled.

3i 'No question about that.' Shepherd ruffled his son's hair.

'Why aren't I living with you?'

The question's blunt simplicity was like a knife in Shepherd's chest. He pulled Liam into his arms and buried his face in the boy's neck. Liam dropped the football. 'You'll come home soon, I promise.'

'I miss you, Dad.'

'I miss you, too.'

'Why aren't I living with you?'

'Because I've got to find someone to take care of us.'

'I can take care of us,' said Liam earnestly.

'There's a lot to do, Liam. Cooking, cleaning, laundry,

shopping. I've got work, you've got school. We need someone to do that sort of thing for us.'

'Like a maid?'

'Yeah. An au pair they call them. She'll take care of the house and us.'

'Like Mum used to do?'

'Yeah.'

'But she won't be my mum, right?'

'Right.'

'Because I don't want a new mum.'

'I know.'

'I keep dreaming about her.'

The too.'

Liam sniffed. 'Where's my ball?'

Shepherd released the child and looked around. The ball had rolled into the gutter. He retrieved it and gave it to his son. They walked in silence to the park. Shepherd didn't know what to say to him. Yes, he wanted him back in London,

but there was no way he could take care of Liam and carry on working without domestic help. Liam was only eight,

too young to be a latch-key kid, and public transport where they lived was so unreliable that he'd have to be driven to 32 and from school every day. There was no way Shepherd could make that sort of commitment while he worked for Hargrove.

There was a football pitch at the park and they wandered over to the closest set of goalposts, passing the ball back and forth between them. Shepherd stood in the goalmouth and Liam took penalty shots but his heart clearly wasn't in it.

There was no power in any of his kicks and he didn't seem to care whether he got the ball past his father or not.

Shepherd tossed the ball back to his son. 'Give it some stick, Liam.'

Liam placed the ball on the penalty spot, took a few steps back, then tapped it towards him. The ball rolled across the ground and stopped at Shepherd's feet. 'That's terrible.'

Shepherd laughed. 'The worst shot I've ever seen.'

'This is stupid,' said Liam.

'What's stupid?'

'This.'

'Football? You like football.' Shepherd picked up the ball and threw it back to the boy.

Liam caught it and held it to his chest. 'You don't really want to play.'

'I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to play with you,' said Shepherd.

'Remember when you were in prison?' asked Liam.

'Sure.' Shepherd had been working undercover on the remand wing of LIMP Shelton, trying to get close to a major drugs importer who was sabotaging the case against him from behind bars. Sue had brought Liam to visit him. It was against all the rules, but Shepherd had needed to see them both.

'Well, that's what this is like,' said Liam. 'It's like I'm in prison and you're visiting me. And once visiting time's over you'll go and I'll be here on my own.'