Cold Kill (22 page)

‘Range?’

‘At a steady ten knots the engine burns through eight gallons of fuel an hour. Once you’re up on the plane, you burn eleven gallons an hour but you’re doing forty knots or more. Pretty much four times more efficient. The fuel tank holds fifty-five gallons so you can do two hundred nautical miles or thereabouts. More than enough for a Channel run. And it’s no trouble to carry another fifty-five gallons in cans.’

‘There’s just the one engine?’

‘The biggest outboard on the market. Three hundred horsepower. A beast. Fifteen grand’s worth of motor.’

‘Reliable?’

‘Just don’t run over anything and it’ll be fine.’

‘What if it breaks down?’

‘It won’t.’

‘Have you got a manual I can read?’

‘If anything does go wrong, I don’t want a bloody amateur tinkering with it,’ growled McConnell. ‘You have a problem, you call me. Now, I’ve a question for you. What will you be carrying?’

‘Hargrove didn’t tell you?’

‘I wouldn’t be asking if he had,’ said McConnell. ‘I don’t play silly mind games, life’s too short.’

‘Sorry,’ said Shepherd, not wanting to offend the man. ‘I just assumed he’d filled you in. Cash. Counterfeit euros. Maybe a couple of passengers.’

McConnell nodded. ‘At least it’s not drugs.’

‘Does it matter? Doesn’t Hargrove give you a “get out of jail free” card?’

McConnell chuckled. ‘It’s not as easy as that,’ he said, ‘but you know as well as I do that villains who deal in drugs are at the nasty end of the spectrum. The people-smugglers are a bad bunch, too. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Or my boat.’

‘I’m a big boy, Gordy,’ said Shepherd. ‘Besides, the guys at this end are sweethearts.’

‘And the ones in France?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘Could be Albanians.’

McConnell grimaced. ‘Now they can be heavy bastards,’ he said. ‘Albanians and Serbs are worse than the Russians.’

‘Yeah, but it’s currency, not drugs.’

‘Still worth killing for,’ said McConnell. He gestured at the notepad. ‘Okay, let’s run through a few things and then I’ll go over the charts with you.’

After two runs across the Channel in close to complete darkness, then seeing the dawn come up as they brought the boat back into Southampton, McConnell decided they needed refuelling, which meant going back into a pub for a full English breakfast: fried eggs, bacon, black pudding, beans, potato pancakes, tomatoes and two slices of fried bread.

‘So, have you got any questions?’ asked McConnell, through a mouthful of egg and bacon.

‘How do you earn a living down here?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I meant about handling the rib,’ said McConnell. He twisted the top off a bottle of HP sauce and poured it over his fried bread.

‘I’m fine on the boat,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m trying to work out where you stand in the grand scheme of things.’

McConnell scratched his ear. ‘I’m a sort of consultant,’ he said. ‘Your old mob uses me from time to time, and I’m a regular visitor to Poole.’

Poole in Dorset, headquarters of the SBS. Shepherd had twice been on courses there during his days as an SAS trooper.

‘Ribs are used for all sort of things these days – interception of craft at sea, boarding oil-rigs, getting people into places with the minimum fuss. I do a fair bit of training.’ He grinned. ‘And in my spare time, I take merchant bankers out deep-sea fishing.’

‘Really?’

‘Pays well and I get stock tips to boot. You wouldn’t believe the size of my portfolio.’

As Shepherd laughed, his work phone rang and he fished it out of his pea coat. It was Hargrove. ‘How are you getting on, Spider?’ asked the superintendent.

‘Fine,’ said Shepherd. He nodded an apology to McConnell and went outside the pub. ‘Gordy’s a good teacher,’ he continued. ‘Hell of a crash course he’s given me.’

‘Think you can handle the boat?’

‘I can’t guarantee a smooth crossing, but I can get there and back,’ said Shepherd.

‘On your own, or do you want him with you?’

‘I think the brothers are more likely to be spooked if I bring in someone else,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I’ll play it by ear when I speak to them. He’s a character, though. No way they’d think he was any sort of law-enforcement official.’

‘A maverick?’

‘Definitely.’

‘You’re probably getting on like a house on fire, then,’ said Hargrove. ‘Are you done there?’

‘We did two trips in the dark. We’re going back out this morning and then I’ve asked him to give me a rundown on maintenance and stuff in case I get asked awkward questions.’

‘Did he tell you there’s a tracking unit on the boat?’

‘He didn’t, but that’s good news.’

‘We’ll know where you are every step of the way. And we’ll have both ends covered.’

‘You sound like you’re worried.’

‘It’s a big stretch of water and I didn’t want you to think you’d be on your own out there,’ said Hargrove.

‘I’ve already proved I can swim,’ said Shepherd.

‘No question about that,’ said the superintendent. ‘When you get back to London, Charlotte Button wants to meet with you.’

‘A job interview?’ said Shepherd.

‘A chat,’ said Hargrove. ‘I’ll text you her number. She’s expecting your call.’

‘Have they said when you’ll be leaving?’

‘Sooner rather than later.’

‘What about this operation? They won’t pull you off it before it’s done?’

‘I can’t guarantee that won’t happen, Spider. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m putting my life on the line here, and some desk jockey decides that my safety-net gets taken away?’

‘If I’m pulled off, Button will be fully briefed and she’ll take over. I guarantee you won’t be put in harm’s way.’

Shepherd cut the connection. He waited outside the pub until the text message arrived, then called Charlotte Button. She was brisk and to the point, and asked him to meet her for tea at the Ritz the following day at three o’clock. He smiled as he cut the connection. ‘No time for chit-chat, then,’ he muttered.

He went back inside. McConnell was waving at a barman and ordering two more slices of fried bread.

Shepherd was an hour outside London when his personal mobile rang. It was Katra, and she was clearly upset. ‘Dan, you have to go to the school now,’ she said, voice shaking.

Shepherd’s stomach lurched. ‘What’s happened? Is Liam okay?’

‘There’s some problem, but they won’t tell me what it is. The office of the headteacher called and said you have to go to the school right away.’

‘He’s not hurt, is he?’

‘No, but there is a problem. I think he’s done something wrong.’

‘What?’

‘They wouldn’t tell me because I’m not a relative or his legal guardian. Only you.’

Shepherd looked at the clock on the dashboard of the Land Rover.

‘Okay, I’ll go now. I’m on my way back to London anyway – I can easily swing by the school.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Katra.

‘It’s not your fault,’ said Shepherd. ‘Whatever it is, I’ll sort it out.’

Shepherd spent the rest of the drive to Liam’s school running through all the reasons why he’d get an urgent summons to see the headteacher. Liam wasn’t hurt or sick, and anything to do with his work could have been dealt with by letter. Which left only a disciplinary problem, but that didn’t make sense because Liam wasn’t the sort of boy to get into fights. He wasn’t a coward, far from it, but he had a sharp tongue and a wicked sense of humour and generally preferred to talk his way out of trouble. It was a talent he had inherited from his mother. Sue had always been able to cut Shepherd to the quick with a few well-chosen words.

He had to park several hundred yards from the school and buy a pay-and-display sticker. Then he walked briskly to the school gates, across the playground to the main block and followed a sign that pointed to the administration office. In it he stood at a large wooden counter that bore a strong resemblance to the reception area in many police stations he had been in. The three middle-aged women standing behind it had the same world-weary look of police officers.

Shepherd told them who he was and that he was there to see the headteacher. He couldn’t remember her name but as he waited to be called through he scrutinised a noticeboard and eventually found a memo that told him she was Mrs Lucinda Hale-Barton. Shepherd pictured a woman in her fifties with permed hair and a tweed suit, but the woman who shook his hand and ushered him into her office was barely out of her twenties, with shoulder-length red hair, a low-cut top and a figure-hugging skirt. Liam had never mentioned what an attractive headteacher he had, but then he rarely spoke to Shepherd about school.

Suddenly Shepherd realised he was wearing his sea-going gear, that his hands were stained with oil from the outboard engine and that it had been twenty-four hours since he had showered or shaved. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair and opened his mouth to apologise for his dishevelled appearance but the headteacher had already started to speak.

‘I’m so sorry to have called you in like this, Mr Shepherd,’ she said, as she dropped down on to a high-backed leather swivel chair behind a chrome and glass desk, ‘but we have a problem and I wanted to let you know face to face, as it were.’ She opened a drawer and took out a flick-knife. Shepherd recognised it immediately. ‘Liam had this with him today,’ she said and placed it in front of him. ‘It’s what they call a flick-knife.’

‘He brought it to school?’

‘Yes, he did,’ said the headteacher, ‘and mere possession of a knife like this is a criminal offence.’

‘Actually, he’s below the age of criminal responsibility,’ said Shepherd. ‘He isn’t ten for another month.’

She flashed him a cold smile. ‘Well, strictly speaking, the Crime and Disorder Act of 1998 allows the authorities to bring in a child-safety order and have him placed under the supervision of a social worker or a youth-offending team, even if he isn’t yet ten.’ She must have seen Shepherd’s horror because she put up her hands in a placatory gesture. ‘Mr Shepherd, I’m just explaining the law,’ she said. ‘Trust me, there’s no question of the police or social workers being involved. But carrying a weapon in school is not something we can tolerate. On the rare occasions it’s happened here, we have excluded the pupil immediately.’

‘You mean you want to throw Liam out?’

‘We have no choice, Mr Shepherd. We have a policy of zero tolerance and we must show that we act on it.’

‘He wasn’t threatening anyone with it, was he?’

‘That’s not really the point,’ said the headteacher. ‘But, no, he was just showing it to his classmates. Do you have any idea where he might have got it from?’

Shepherd took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘It’s mine,’ he said eventually. ‘Well, not mine exactly. I took it from a mugger on the Underground. I was going to destroy it but Liam must have found it. Mrs Hale-Barton, I really can’t apologise enough for this, but I’m at least partly to blame. I left it in the house – in my bathroom, actually, but he goes in there all the time. I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm by bringing it in.’

The headteacher frowned. ‘You took it from a mugger? I don’t understand.’

‘I’m sorry – I thought you knew that I’m a police officer,’ said Shepherd.

‘No, I didn’t. Liam’s file has you down as being in the army.’

‘I don’t shout about it,’ said Shepherd. He took out his wallet and handed her his warrant card. ‘I left the army some time ago. I’m not a uniformed officer, I have more of an administrative role.’ He gestured at his clothing. ‘I was actually on my way back from a friend’s boat when my au pair called.’

‘You tackled a mugger?’

‘Actually, he tackled me,’ said Shepherd. ‘He didn’t know I was in the job – just wanted my watch and mobile. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘And you disarmed him?’ She handed back the warrant card and Shepherd slid it into his wallet.

‘That sounds more dramatic than it was,’ he said. ‘We grappled and I took it off him. I don’t know which of us was more scared. Look, this is absolutely my fault, Mrs Hale-Barton. I shouldn’t have had the knife in the house. I should have handed it in straight away but it slipped my mind. I’ve a lot on my plate at the moment, not that that’s any excuse. I promise Liam will never do anything like this again – he’s a good boy generally, isn’t he? He’s never been in trouble before?’

‘He works hard and behaves well,’ said the headteacher. ‘Especially when you consider what he’s been through, losing his mother.’

‘He’s a great kid,’ said Shepherd, and gestured at the knife. ‘He just made a mistake with that. And it’s not one he’ll repeat.’

The headteacher picked up the knife and grimaced. ‘What a horrible thing,’ she said. She pressed the button and flinched as the blade sprang out. ‘And the mugger was trying to stab you with this?’ she asked.

Shepherd nodded. ‘He was just a teenager. Only a few years older than Liam.’

The headteacher shook her head sadly. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to,’ she said. ‘Violence within our school is very rare, but I wonder how well we’re preparing our pupils for life in the real world. You must see it all the time, doing what you do.’

Shepherd smiled. ‘I’m not really in the firing line,’ he lied, ‘but you’re right. Gun crime is at an all-time high. We have drive-by shootings and stabbings and all the other things we used to associate with American cities. These days there’s more violent crime in London than there is in New York.’

The headteacher pressed the blade with the palm of her hand, trying to get it back into place.

‘Let me,’ said Shepherd. He took the knife from her, depressed the chrome button and clicked the blade back into its safe position.

‘The council has a facility for disposing of knives, so perhaps I should take care of it,’ said the headteacher. She held out her hand and Shepherd gave it back to her. She put it back in the drawer. ‘As I said, we have a policy,’ she said. ‘Zero tolerance.’