Shepherd held out his arm. Joyce cuffed the wrist and fastened the other end to himself. Then the four men walked along the corridor and out into the car park. They took Shepherd to a black Vauxhall Vectra. Sharpe sat in the driver’s seat next to Hargrove, while Shepherd and Joyce climbed into the back.
Joyce waited until Sharpe had driven away from the hospital, then removed the handcuffs. Hargrove opened the glove compartment and passed Shepherd a flask and a carrier-bag containing two plastic-wrapped sandwiches.
Shepherd unwrapped a sandwich and bit into it. Ham and mustard. He poured himself some coffee and settled back in the seat.
‘They’re going to drop me in town,’ said Hargrove. ‘I’ve got to get back to London. Anyway, there’s no reason for your solicitor to be with you as you’re not going to be interviewed.’
‘No sweat,’ said Shepherd.
‘The local cops will transfer the father later this afternoon. I’ve cleared it with the local chief super that he’s to be put into a holding cell with you.’
‘He knows I’m undercover?’
‘He’s sound – Garth Carpenter. I’ve known him for years.’
Shepherd nodded. He was never happy about strangers knowing his true role, but there were times when it was necessary.
Sharpe wound down his window and showed the young uniformed constable his warrant card. ‘He’s expected,’ said Sharpe, and waved at Shepherd, who was again handcuffed to Joyce.
The constable scrutinised Shepherd’s face. ‘Who is he?’
‘Name’s Corke. Floats like one, too. Pulled him out of the water after he jumped off a trawler full of illegal immigrants. He’s here to be questioned before we put him up before a magistrate.’
Joyce held out his warrant card and the constable nodded. He straightened up and waved at his colleague, who was watching from a cubicle at the entrance to the car park. The metal gate rattled back and Sharpe edged the Vectra forward. ‘Wonder if he joined the force so that he could be a bloody security guard,’ he muttered.
‘We can’t all be high-flyers,’ said Joyce, grinning at the constable as they drove past him.
They parked between two white vans with mesh-protected windows and walked into the rear entrance of the station. Sharpe flashed his warrant card and asked to speak to Chief Superintendent Carpenter. Then Shepherd was taken to a holding cell that contained a mattress on a concrete plinth, a single plastic and metal chair and a stainless-steel toilet.
He sat on the bunk and bent forward, arms resting on his legs, to run through his legend. Tony Corke. Fifteen years at sea, mostly on cross-Channel ferries, married but divorced, one child, a boy, a short spell inside for assault after a drunken brawl in a Portsmouth bar. Not a particularly nice guy, but not an outright villain. He lay back on the bed and relaxed, staring up at the ceiling. Someone had scraped ‘ ALL COPPERS ARE BASTARDS ’ into the plaster. He smiled to himself. Not all coppers were bastards, but he had met a fair few whose parentage might be called into question. He closed his eyes but didn’t sleep.
Time seemed to crawl by. He wondered what was taking so long. An hour passed. Then another. The only light filtered in through a square of glass breeze blocks in the wall close to the ceiling. As the sky darkened, he stood up and switched on the light. Something must have gone wrong. He glanced at his watch. He’d been in the cell for almost five hours and all he’d had to eat were the sandwiches in the car. There was a bell push beside the door but Shepherd didn’t want to start asking for favours.
He sat down on the bunk again. It wasn’t his first time in a cell and he was no stranger to long waits. On SAS surveillance operations he’d spent days at a time lying in a rain-swept hide, pissing and shitting into plastic bags, so a few hours in a cell with plumbing was no real hardship. But that didn’t make it any less boring. He should have asked Sharpe for a newspaper or magazine.
He lay back on the bed. The concrete was hard against his back through the thin plastic mattress but, considering the number of drunks who had probably spent the night here, the smell wasn’t too bad.
Hargrove had definitely said that Rudi would be put in the cell that afternoon. Now it was evening. Hargrove wasn’t the sort of man who made mistakes so something must have disrupted his plans. It happened on every operation, and Shepherd knew there was nothing he could do but ride it out.
It was almost seven o’clock when he heard footsteps, then the rattle of a key. The door was pushed open and Rudi stood on the threshold. Shepherd grinned at him. ‘Hello again,’ he said.
A uniformed constable gave Rudi a nudge and he stepped inside the cell. The door clanged shut behind him. ‘You are not still in the hospital?’ he asked.
‘They said I’m okay,’ said Shepherd, standing up. ‘How’s Jessica?’
‘She’s good. Not in danger any more.’
‘Why didn’t they let you stay in the hospital?’ asked Shepherd.
‘My wife is with her,’ said Rudi. He sat down on the plastic chair. ‘Everything will be okay. I have asked for asylum already. Now they have to get me a lawyer. Soon they will find us a place to live and then I can work.’
Shepherd smiled, but he knew it wouldn’t be as easy as that. Even without the million euros of counterfeit currency in Rudi’s bags, life as an asylum-seeker wasn’t as rosy as Rudi seemed to imagine. ‘Have they given you anything to eat?’ he asked.
‘Last night, but nothing today,’ he said.
‘You should tell them you want food,’ said Shepherd, and sat on the bunk. ‘They have to feed you. These people, they won’t do anything for you unless you stand up for your rights.’
Rudi wiped his face with his hands. ‘I want to be with my wife and daughter,’ he said.
‘You can ask your lawyer,’ said Shepherd. ‘They should at least let you see your daughter.’
‘What about you?’ asked Rudi. ‘Have they said what will happen to you?’
‘Prison,’ said Shepherd.
‘But you are a good man,’ said Rudi. ‘You saved my daughter.’
‘I was smuggling people,’ said Shepherd. ‘They will send me to prison for that.’
‘You have a wife?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘But we are not together any more.’
‘And you have children?’
‘A boy.’
‘It will not be easy for them if you go to prison.’
‘It won’t be for long,’ said Shepherd. ‘Two years, maybe three.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘It isn’t your fault,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s nobody’s fault but my own. I decided to break the law so I have to take the consequences.’
‘It makes no sense,’ said Rudi. ‘I broke the law but your government will find me a place to live and take care of my family. You broke the law and you will go to prison.’
‘Shit happens,’ said Shepherd.
Rudi frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Sometimes bad things happen. No matter what you do, no matter how carefully you make plans, things go wrong.’
‘Shit happens,’ Rudi repeated. ‘It is true.’
Shepherd lay back on the bunk. Rudi was about to discover how true it was. Shepherd would take no pleasure in what he was about to do, but Rudi was a means to an end. ‘I heard the police talking about you,’ said Shepherd, quietly.