Cold Kill (10 page)

He paced up and down, faster and faster, and bellowed in frustration. If he ended his life, then maybe the men who had given him the cans would leave his family alone. It was the only solution, the only way his family stood a chance of any sort of life. He lifted up his right arm and stared at the pale green arteries under the skin. Just a few pints of blood and it would be over. He patted down his pockets for the hundredth time. They had taken away his belt, his shoelaces, his change, his wallet. There was nothing he could use to release his lifeblood and end his suffering.

Tears ran down his face. He had to take his life because if he didn’t, his wife and child would die too. He raised his wrist to his lips, and kissed the flesh. He tasted the salt of his tears on his tongue as he bit, softly at first, then harder. Coppery-tasting blood spurted between his lips. He barely felt the pain. He opened his mouth and pushed his upper teeth harder into the wound, feeling them slip across the rubbery veins. He bit down hard, twisting his neck like a lion sacrificing its prey.

Shepherd’s feet pounded on the pavement. He was breathing evenly, and although his T-shirt was soaked and his shoulders ached with the weight of the rucksack, he knew he could do at least another ten miles. When he saw the black Mazda sports car parked opposite his house he slowed and groaned.

Kathy Gift climbed out and waved. She was wearing a fawn raincoat with the collar turned up and carrying a black-leather briefcase. She brushed her chestnut hair behind an ear and locked her car. Shepherd forced a smile. He liked Kathy Gift but, as the unit’s psychologist, she was a nuisance. ‘Hey,’ he said, stopping at the car.

‘I thought that, rather than play phone-tag, I’d come to the mountain,’ she said.

‘I won’t shake hands,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m all sweaty.’ He jogged past her and unlocked the front door. She followed him down the path. ‘Make us both some coffee while I shower,’ called Shepherd. ‘You know where everything is.’

He tossed his rucksack into the cupboard under the stairs and went up to the bathroom. After he’d showered, he changed into a grey pullover and black jeans. He found Gift sitting at the kitchen table, her hands round a mug of coffee. She had hung her coat on the back of a chair and pushed up the sleeves of a pale blue cashmere polo-neck. A thin gold necklace with a Star of David hung over the sweater. She indicated a second mug on the table opposite her. ‘Splash of milk and no sugar,’ she said.

Shepherd grinned. ‘You remembered. Or is it in my file?’

‘I remembered,’ she said. ‘It isn’t rocket science.’

Shepherd sat down. ‘And to what do I owe the pleasure?’

Gift opened her case and took out a notepad and pen. ‘It’s your biannual. Last time it took us ages to schedule a meeting.’

‘I was busy,’ said Shepherd.

‘Not a problem,’ said Gift. ‘Anyway, I’m here now. How’s things?’

Shepherd smiled easily. ‘Things is fine.’

Gift tapped her pen on the notebook.

‘Aren’t you going to write that down?’ he teased.

‘You’ve never liked these assessments, have you?’ she said.

‘I think they’re a waste of time,’ said Shepherd. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken.’

‘If I didn’t think I could do the job, I’d be the first to quit,’ he said. ‘It’s my life on the line, remember.’

‘I’m here to help you do your job better,’ said Gift.

Shepherd smiled thinly. ‘That’s not strictly true, is it? You’re also the one who decides whether or not I’m fit for duty.’

‘And are you?’

‘Definitely. Are you hungry?’

‘I could eat.’

‘Toast?’

‘Why not?’

Shepherd went over to the toaster and slotted in two slices of wholemeal bread. He pressed the lever, then turned and leaned against the counter top. ‘I’m fine. Really.’

‘Still running, I see.’

‘Keeps me fit.’

‘How’s Liam?’

‘Doing well at school. No nightmares. He seems fine, too.’

‘Does he talk about what happened to his mum? The accident?’

‘He talks about her. We both do. He misses her, of course – he’ll miss her for ever – but he doesn’t talk about the crash.’

‘Do you think he blames himself?’

‘No,’ said Shepherd, emphatically.

‘He was in the back of the car, your wife was turning to help him when she jumped the red light. If wouldn’t be unnatural for Liam to blame himself.’

‘He doesn’t.’

‘What happens when you’re away on a case?’

‘We have the au pair. She lives in. Is this about me or my son?’

‘It’s about putting you in context, that’s all. Are you in a relationship at the moment?’

‘I’m a father,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s a relationship, right?’ The toaster pinged and ejected the two slices. Shepherd put them on to a plate and arranged it on the table with butter, strawberry jam and marmalade.

‘You know what I mean,’ said Gift, as she picked up a slice of toast.

‘I’m too busy for a relationship at the moment,’ he said. ‘When I’m working, I’m with villains or victims and neither would make suitable girlfriend material. When I’m not working, I’m at home with my son.’

‘It can’t be easy, being a single parent and an undercover policeman.’ She was buttering her toast.

‘Katra’s a big help. She does the school run, same as his mum would have done. She cooks, cleans, helps him with his homework if I’m not around.’

‘Are you away much?’

‘The unit operates all over the UK,’ said Shepherd. ‘You know that. We go where the work is.’

‘And you were overseas recently?’

‘France. But only for a few days.’

‘And you’re okay with that?’

Shepherd sighed. ‘In a perfect world, I’d like to be able to spend more time with Liam. But in a perfect world, my wife wouldn’t have died. Look, I don’t see what Liam has to do with my ability to function under cover.’

‘It’s stress, Dan. Pressure.’

‘I can take it.’

‘Stress manifests in different ways.’

‘I don’t have nervous twitches and I sleep like a newborn babe.’

‘Newborn babes tend to cry a lot and wet themselves,’ said Gift, with a smile. ‘So I’m told.’

Shepherd laughed and helped himself to a slice of toast. ‘I know you’re only doing your job,’ he said, ‘but, really, I’m fine.’

‘What happened down the Tube last year. The suicide-bomber. Can we talk about that?’

‘He was going to kill a lot of people. I shot him. End of story.’

‘It’s a big thing, to kill a man,’ said the psychologist, then took a bite of toast.

‘With respect, how the hell would you know?’

‘I could take that as defensive,’ she said.

‘It’s just such a glib thing to say,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know it’s a big deal, but it needed doing. I’m not going to lose any sleep over a dead suicide-bomber. Anyway, he’s up in heaven with his seventy-two virgins so I’m sure he’s not complaining.’

‘You believe in heaven, do you?’

Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. He was silent for several seconds. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t believe in heaven, or hell, or God.’

‘You’ve never been religious?’

‘I was baptised as a kid,’ said Shepherd, ‘but it meant nothing to me.’

‘The Catholic religion is based on guilt, pretty much.’

‘I guess.’

‘And confession, of course. The premise that, by confessing, your sins can be absolved.’

‘Three Hail Marys and Jesus will forgive you. I don’t see what I do as sinning, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘Playing devil’s advocate here. You do break a lot of commandments, don’t you?’

‘I’m one of the good guys, remember?’

‘The end justifies the means?’

‘That’s the way I see it. Yes, I shot him dead, but he was wired up with enough explosives to blow himself to kingdom come. You can’t expect me to feel guilty about that.’

‘Just because what you did was right doesn’t necessarily make it easier to deal with.’

‘I disagree.’

‘There are as many cases of post-traumatic stress disorder among troops on the winning side of a conflict as there are on the losing side. Stress is stress.’

‘I was well trained,’ said Shepherd.

‘The best of the best?’ There was a note of sarcasm in her voice.

‘The selection procedure weeds out the guys who aren’t up to it,’ said Shepherd, ‘and the training teaches you to cope with pretty much anything.’

‘A high percentage of former SAS members end up killing themselves, don’t they?’ she said quietly.

‘That’s not stress,’ said Shepherd. ‘If it was stress, they’d do it while they were in the Regiment, not after they’d left.’

‘So, if it’s not stress, what is it?’

‘They miss the action, I guess. They can’t live without the adrenaline kick.’ Suddenly Shepherd realised where the conversation was going. ‘You always get back to this, don’t you? You make it sound as if I’m addicted to violence.’

‘We were talking about former members of the SAS.’

‘We were talking about me – it’s always about me but you take the long way round sometimes.’

‘Honestly, I wasn’t being that devious. But it’s a fair question, isn’t it? The men who do what you do: do they do it because it’s a job, or because they enjoy it?’

‘You enjoy your job, right?’

‘It’s challenging,’ she said.

‘So what’s wrong with me enjoying my job?’

‘I don’t kill people, Dan,’ said Gift, quietly.

‘The only people who enjoy killing are psychopaths,’ said Shepherd, firmly, ‘and I’m not a psychopath.’

Gift opened her mouth to reply but before she could say anything they heard a key in the front door. Instead she finished her toast.

‘Katra,’ said Shepherd.

Gift nodded. The front door opened and Katra hurried down the hall. ‘It’s me!’ she called, and burst into the kitchen. She frowned when she saw Gift at the kitchen table. ‘Hello?’ she said.

Gift smiled. ‘Hi.’

‘This is a friend of mine, Kathy,’ Shepherd said, by way of introduction. ‘Kathy, this is Katra, who looks after us.’

Katra smiled. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and she was dressed for warmth in a quilted jacket over a thick pullover with horizontal rainbow stripes, brown cord jeans and Timberland boots. ‘We have the same name, almost,’ she said. ‘Katra means Kathy. It was my grandmother’s name.’

Gift laughed. ‘I was named after a singer my father fancied,’ she said. ‘Where are you from? Your English is excellent.’

‘Slovenia.’

‘Where in Slovenia?’

‘Portoroz,’ said Katra. ‘Do you know it?’

Gift shook her head. ‘I’ve been to Croatia a few times but never Slovenia. I’m told it’s a beautiful country.’

‘It is. Very beautiful.’ She turned to Shepherd. ‘I’m going to the supermarket. Is there anything you need?’

‘Shampoo,’ said Shepherd. ‘Head and Shoulders.’ He grinned at Gift. ‘Dandruff. And it’s not stress-related.’ Katra looked puzzled. ‘I’ll see you later,’ Shepherd said to her. ‘Can you pick Liam up from school?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ve got to see someone at six, so I’ll be leaving here at five.’

‘I’ll put your dinner in the oven,’ said Katra. She waved goodbye and went out again.

Shepherd sat down opposite Gift. She was smiling at him. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘That knowing smile. It says you think something’s going on.’

‘She’s a pretty girl, that’s all.’

‘She’s twenty-three.’

‘You’re . . . what? Thirty-five?’

‘You know exactly how old I am,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s in my file.’

‘It’s been almost two years since your wife died,’ said Gift, quietly.

‘So?’

‘It’s a long time.’ They heard Katra drive away.

‘I’m not going to jump on the au pair, if that’s what you mean. I already told you, the only relationship I’m concerned with is being a father.’

‘She seems to have made herself at home,’ said Gift.

‘She lives in,’ said Shepherd, then cursed himself inwardly – he had sounded defensive. Kathy Gift had the knack of making him feel guilty even when he knew there was no reason for it.

‘Two years is a long time to grieve.’

‘I’m not grieving,’ said Shepherd, quickly. ‘Sue died. Since then I’ve been working flat out. And when I’m not working, I’m with Liam. Anyway, you’re the unit’s psychologist, not a Relate counsellor.’

‘I need to look at the whole person,’ said Gift, patiently. ‘When you’re undercover you have to adopt a complete personality, don’t you? If one thing isn’t right, your cover can be blown.’

‘And because I’m not going around bonking everything in a skirt, I’ve got a problem?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being celibate, provided it’s for the right reason.’

Shepherd leaned back and grinned. ‘Is that what I am? A monk?’

‘We’re just talking here, Dan. I’d be more worried if you were having a string of one-night stands.’

‘That’s something,’ said Shepherd. He finished his toast. ‘You never ask about the important stuff, do you?’

‘Such as?’

‘My performance on the range. My fitness. I’m as good a shot as I was in the SAS, and I’m faster over five miles than I was a year ago.’

‘You have an annual physical, don’t you?’ said Gift. ‘I’m solely concerned with your mental well-being.’

‘So, show me some ink blots or something.’

‘You always use humour as a defence mechanism, don’t you?’

‘Damn right,’ said Shepherd. ‘Guns are just plain messy.’

Gift smiled. She put her notepad and pen into her briefcase, drank the last of her coffee and stood up.

‘That’s it?’ said Shepherd.

‘You seem fine to me,’ said Gift, putting on her raincoat. ‘As bloody-minded as always, but in your line of work . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished, but extended her hand. Shepherd stood up and shook it, then walked her to the front door. ‘Joking apart, Dan, you should get out more.’