Spider Shepherd 10 - True Colours (6 page)

Harper nodded at a bench at the edge of the path that cut through the park towards the lake. ‘Let’s have a sit-down,’ he said. They walked together to the bench. As they sat, Harper looked at Shepherd’s reddened knuckles and frowned. ‘You been fighting, Spider?’

‘Had some tattoos lasered off.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Harper. ‘You were never one for tattoos.’

‘Yeah? Well, I was never one for fist fighting, either.’

‘Aye, that’s the truth,’ said Harper. ‘A sniping rifle was always your weapon of choice.’ He chuckled. ‘Those were the days, huh? You the sniper and me the spotter, watching your back.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘You were good, Lex. Bloody good. Remember how dubious I was when we first met?’

Harper shrugged. ‘You didn’t know me from Adam. I was just a wet-behind-the-ears Para and you were an SAS superhero.’

‘Yeah, but I needn’t have worried. You did good.’ He sighed. ‘So you never went for Selection?’

Harper chuckled. ‘Come on, mate. Are you telling me you didn’t ask around about me after I called?’

‘Why would I?’

‘You’re a spook, right? That’s what spooks do.’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘Lex, you’re a mate. I’m sorry that we lost touch and that, but when a mate calls me out of the blue I don’t run a PNC check on them.’

‘Are you serious? It’s the first thing I would have done.’

‘Lex, what the hell is going on? What would I have found if I had checked up on you?’

Harper laughed softly. ‘Hopefully not much, as it happens. But there was a small matter of an armed robbery or two a few years back that is still on record.’

‘Armed robbery?’

‘Allegedly,’ said Harper. He put up his hands in mock surrender. ‘All right, Officer, I’ll come quietly. I’ve been a bad, bad boy.’

‘What the hell happened, Lex? You were one of the best lads out there in Afghanistan.’

Harper shrugged. ‘Didn’t seem like a long-term career, the way they were cutting back.’

‘And what, armed robbery offers better career prospects?’

‘Don’t start getting all judgemental on me, Spider. And I’ve given up blagging. I’m more into import–export these days.’

‘Drugs?’

Harper grinned. ‘Allegedly.’

‘What the hell happened, Lex? Soldiering pays OK and there’s plenty of opportunity to go private.’

‘Why did I choose the dark side, is that what you’re asking?’

‘You were a bloody good soldier. You were the best of the Paras out there.’

Harper flashed him a mock salute. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’

‘You know what I mean. You were a natural. You’d have made it through Selection, no bother. I’d have put a good word in for you. The major, too.’

Lex shook his head. ‘I wasn’t even given the chance,’ he said. ‘I was part of the cutbacks.’

‘What?’

‘Cost savings, they’re cutting the army to the bone. That’s what the colonel said to me. There was nothing wrong with me, I could walk out with my head held high, a question of numbers, and all that crap.’

‘They sacked you?’

‘They sacked thousands of us, mate. Haven’t you heard? The economy’s fucked. Those bastard bankers screwed the economy and I was given my marching orders. I told the colonel that I wanted to try for the SAS and he said I should give the TA a go.’ Lex smiled. ‘I told him to go fuck himself and that was pretty much the end of my military career.’

‘I’m sorry, Lex. Seriously.’

‘Not your problem, mate.’

‘You could have spoken to Major Gannon. He might have been able to pull some strings.’

‘That boat’s sailed,’ said Harper. He shrugged. ‘Anyway, a group of us figured that if it was the banks that had fucked us over, we should give them a taste of their own medicine. Make a few unauthorised withdrawals, if you like.’

‘With shotguns?’

‘With AK-47s, as it happens,’ said Harper. ‘Some of the guys had brought guns back over as souvenirs. We had all the guns we needed. The ammo we had to get here, but ammo’s easy enough to get. Though to be honest we never had to fire a gun in anger. Point and shout and they hand over the cash without a fight. That’s what they’re trained to do.’

‘Health and safety,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’re not allowed to put up a fight.’

‘Yeah, well, we did a dozen or so banks, up and down the country. Then we used that money to get into the drugs game and that’s what we’ve been doing ever since. We keep a low profile these days, but we’re making money hand over fist. Millions, Spider. We’re making millions.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s good to hear,’ said Shepherd, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘Drugs, Lex? Bloody drugs?’

‘You’re looking at it from the point of view of a cop, or a former cop,’ said Harper. ‘Drugs is the modern prohibition. If this was in the States back in the 1920s we’d be heroes.’

‘What, like Al Capone? You’re breaking the law. Don’t expect me to approve of what you’re doing.’

‘I’m not asking for your approval, Spider. I’m just explaining the way things are. And that’s why I’ve got to keep my head down. I’m still wanted in the UK.’

‘So where are you based now?’

‘Thailand, most of the time.’

Shepherd turned to look at him. ‘Are you serious? I was over in Thailand a few years back. Bangkok and Pattaya.’

‘I know, mate. I saw you.’

‘No bloody way,’ said Shepherd.

‘Saw you and kept well away,’ said Harper. ‘You were hanging around Mickey and Mark Moore and I figured you were up to something. I asked around and you were using some fake name or other so I figured you wouldn’t want to have to explain how come you know a former Para.’

Shepherd sat back and ran his hands through his hair. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said.

‘Believe it,’ said Harper. ‘You were with a guy who was a few years older than you. You kept meeting up with him.’

‘Razor,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was my wingman.’

Harper chuckled. ‘He spent most of his time in massage places when you weren’t around.’

‘You know the Moore brothers?’

‘Sure. Been to some great parties at their place.’

‘How are they?’

‘Same old,’ said Harper. ‘They’ve given up blagging. Like me, they finance the odd import–export thing now and then. Enough to make a good living but not enough to attract attention. You were a cop then, right?’

‘SOCA,’ said Shepherd. ‘Serious Organised Crime Agency. Supposed to be the British FBI but it turned out to be the Keystone Kops.’

‘Is that why Mickey and Mark are still living the life in Pattaya?’

‘It’s complicated,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I owe you one for not blowing my cover.’ He looked around the park. A woman in a Chanel suit walked by with two chihuahuas in matching pink jackets. ‘Can’t we go to a pub? Or a coffee shop.’ He jerked a thumb to the north side of the park. ‘Bayswater’s over there.’

‘I’d rather not, mate,’ said Harper. ‘There’s CCTV everywhere these days. That and face recognition could have me behind bars faster than you could say …’ He laughed. ‘Dunno how to end that sentence.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, you were never a great talker. But you were one hell of a soldier.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘Seriously, mate, two grown men sitting on a bench talking looks a bit weird, don’t you think.’ He nodded at the Serpentine in the distance, the water as steely grey as the overcast sky. ‘We can sit outside at the Lido Bar. There’s no CCTV, you can smoke and at least we can have a drink. Keep the hood of your parka up if it makes you feel better.’

‘OK, OK.’ Harper sighed. He pushed himself up off the bench and the two men headed over the grass towards the bar. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapped one out and offered it to Shepherd. Shepherd shook his head so Harper slipped it between his lips and lit it with a yellow disposable lighter. ‘How did you know I was a smoker?’

‘I can smell it on you, and you’ve got nicotine stains on your fingers,’ said Shepherd. ‘Elementary, dear Watson. What’s the story? You never smoked in Afghanistan.’

‘Never wanted to,’ said Harper. ‘But most of the guys I hang out with now are smokers and I sort of got pulled into it.’ He held up the burning cigarette. ‘It feels good. If it didn’t, people wouldn’t smoke, would they?’

‘There’s no accounting for folk,’ said Shepherd. ‘I hear a lot of people like Marmite, but I’ve never seen the point of that.’

‘Now Marmite, there I agree with you. Never seen the point of it either.’

They found a quiet table in the outside area of the bar and ordered coffees. ‘I’ll have a brandy as well,’ said Harper. ‘Take the chill off it.’ He pushed his hood down and shook his head. His hair was starting to grey at the temples but he looked pretty much the same as he had when they had served together in Afghanistan. He had the same lean, wiry frame and his habit of jutting up his chin as if expecting an argument at any moment.

‘I’ll have a Jamesons,’ said Shepherd.

As the waitress walked away, Shepherd stretched out his legs and folded his arms. ‘Why are you here, Lex? If being seen in the UK is such a big thing, why are you putting yourself in the firing line?’

‘Because of this,’ said Harper. He reached into his parka and pulled out an envelope. He gave it to Shepherd. Inside was a newspaper cutting with a photograph of a man in a grey shell suit trying to hide his face with an umbrella.

Shepherd read the story. There were just a few paragraphs. The newspaper said the man’s name was Wayne McKillop and that he was accused of ripping the headscarves off two Muslim women in the Westfield shopping centre. According to the article, McKillop had pleaded not guilty and had told police that it had only been a joke and not a racial attack. ‘So?’ said Shepherd.

‘You’re not looking carefully enough,’ said Harper.

Shepherd stared at the cutting, rereading it slowly. Then he moved his face closer to the photograph. There wasn’t much to see of the man’s face. There were two women in the background, and a man. Shepherd’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the man. He was Arabic looking with a straggly beard and a woollen Muslim cap. The man didn’t seem to be aware of the photographer; he was striding along the pavement, staring straight ahead. In his right hand was a bulging white plastic carrier bag. In profile his hooked nose gave him the look of a bird of prey, but the most distinctive feature was his milky eye. ‘No bloody way,’ whispered Shepherd.

Harper took a long pull on his cigarette and blew smoke before speaking slowly. ‘Ahmad Khan,’ he said. ‘The bastard who killed Todd and put a bullet in your shoulder. And shot three of my mates in the back.’

The breath caught in Shepherd’s throat. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘He’s alive and well and living in London. Or at least he was when that photograph was taken. That’s him walking by West London County Court. And the paper’s dated exactly one week ago.’

Time seemed to stop for Shepherd as the words sank in. There hadn’t been a day when he hadn’t thought of Ahmad Khan. The wound in his shoulder had long healed, but the scar was still there, an ever-present reminder of the night in October 2002 when the bullet from Khan’s AK-74 had come within inches of ending his life. As he sat on the bench, his left hand absent-mindedly rubbed his shoulder. There were some mornings when he’d stand in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection and wondering whether there had been anything he could have done differently that day, anything that would have stopped Khan from killing Captain Harry Todd and almost ending his own life. He looked at the top of the cutting. The name of the paper was there. The
Fulham and Hammersmith Chronicle
. And Harper was right about the date. So within the last couple of weeks, Ahmad Khan had been walking the streets of West London.

‘You OK, mate?’ asked Harper.

Shepherd stopped rubbing his shoulder. ‘You definitely think it’s him?’

‘I wouldn’t have come all the way from Thailand if I didn’t,’ said Harper.

‘How the hell does a muj fighter end up in the UK?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I figured you’d be the one to answer that,’ said Harper. ‘You’ve got access that I haven’t.’

‘How did you get this?’ asked Shepherd, holding up the cutting.

‘Just one of those things,’ said Harper. ‘I was in an English bar for my morning fry-up and the guy next to me is reading the paper. Turns out he’s lived in Pattaya for fifteen years but every week he has the local paper flown out to him. When he’d finished he left the paper and I grabbed it for a read. That piece was on page seven or so. Recognised him straight away. That milky eye.’

Shepherd stared at the picture. His memory was close to photographic but ten years was a long time and people changed.

‘It’s him, Spider. I’d stake my life on it.’

Shepherd nodded. It definitely looked like Ahmad Khan. ‘What do you want to do, Lex?’

‘At the moment, just check that it’s true, that he’s in the UK. Maybe it is just someone who looks the spitting image of him. They say everyone’s got a double, right? A doppelgänger.’ He gestured at the newspaper. ‘Maybe there’s another guy with a milky eye and a straggly beard.’

‘Fair enough, I can do that,’ said Shepherd.

‘To be honest, mate, I hope it’s not him,’ said Harper. ‘I hope he died back in Afghanistan. I’d hate to think of him living the life of Riley all these years in the UK. There’d be something very wrong with that.’

‘That’s for sure,’ said Shepherd, scanning the article again, even though his photographic memory had kicked in the first moment he’d set eyes on it. ‘And what if it is him, Lex? What then?’

‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.’ Harper took a small Samsung phone from his pocket and gave it to Shepherd. ‘Soon as you know one way or another, send me a text on that. I’ve put the number in. I’ll call you back.’

Shepherd weighed the phone in the palm of his hand. ‘You really are into this cloak and dagger stuff, aren’t you?’

‘I know that phone’s clean and it’s a throwaway SIM card,’ said Harper.

‘Charger?’

Harper put his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a black charger with its lead rolled up. Shepherd laughed. ‘I was joking, I’ve got all the chargers I need.’ He put the phone away. ‘Seriously, you’re sure this secrecy is necessary? I’d never heard of you being involved in anything shady.’