‘Because it’s the way we guys operate. There’s a girl he likes, she starts piano lessons so he wants piano lessons.’
‘You are suspicious because you are a policeman,’ she said.
‘I’m suspicious because I know how guys think.’
‘Liam is nine,’ said Katra.
‘Nine, nineteen, ninety-nine – guys are all the same. Trust me.’
‘She is pretty,’ admitted Katra.
Shepherd stood up again and stretched. ‘I’ll just go up and check on him,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a minute for the coffee.’
He went upstairs and nudged open the door to Liam’s bedroom. His son was asleep on his side, mouth slightly open, snoring softly. Shepherd knelt down next to the bed and stroked Liam’s hair. He looked so like Sue when he was asleep, he thought, with a twinge of sadness. ‘Sweet dreams,’ he murmured. ‘Sleep tight. Hope the bedbugs don’t bite.’
‘Hello, Mum,’ whispered Liam.
‘It’s me,’ said Shepherd.
Liam’s eyes fluttered open. ‘Oh. Hi, Dad. You’re back.’
‘I just got in,’ said Shepherd. ‘Sorry. It took longer than I thought.’
‘Can I have a cuddle?’
‘Sure you can.’ He lay down next to Liam and put his arm round him. ‘Goodnight,’ he whispered.
‘Goodnight, Dad,’ said Liam. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ said Shepherd.
‘Three, four, five,’ said Liam.
Shepherd closed his eyes, took a deep breath and was asleep.
‘Dad?’ Shepherd groaned and rolled over at the sound of his son’s voice. He opened his eyes and blinked.
Liam was standing next to the bed in his school uniform, carrying his sports bag. ‘Dad, I’m going to school.’
Shepherd sat up and rubbed his face. He was still wearing his Tony Corke clothes and they smelt foul. Katra appeared behind Liam. ‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’ Shepherd asked her.
‘I tried,’ said Katra. ‘You were fast asleep.’
‘I’m sorry, Liam,’ said Shepherd. ‘I just came in to say goodnight. I guess I was more tired than I thought.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Liam. ‘I’ll see you tonight, yeah?’
‘Sure.’
‘Can we go to the park and play football?’
‘Of course.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’ Liam held out his hand, little finger crooked.
Shepherd linked his own with it. ‘Pinkie promise,’ said Shepherd.
‘I made coffee for you in the kitchen,’ said Katra, and grinned. ‘You and Liam were so cute, asleep together.’
‘Thanks.’ Shepherd rolled off the bed and ruffled Liam’s hair. His son protested. ‘Go on with you,’ he said. ‘You’ll be late. We can talk about your piano lessons tonight.’
‘Katra told you?’
‘Oh, yes. She told me.’
Shepherd headed for the bathroom as they went downstairs. He shaved and showered, then put on his white towelling robe and went to his bedroom. There were three mobile phones on the bedside table. He hadn’t wanted to risk taking them on the trawler. There’d be no reason for a sailor like Corke to have more than one. While he was away he’d missed a call on the phone he used for personal business. The caller had blocked their number, but there was a voicemail message. It was Major Allan Gannon of the SAS. He didn’t identify himself but Shepherd recognised the clipped tone and note of authority in the voice. ‘Call me back when you get the chance, Spider.’ Short and to the point.
Shepherd phoned the Major’s mobile. Gannon answered on the second ring.
‘What are you doing this evening?’ asked the Major. ‘Sixish?’
‘Nothing special,’ said Shepherd.
‘Fancy a drink? The club?’
Shepherd knew that he could only mean the Special Forces Club, behind Harrods. ‘Sure. Anything wrong?’
‘Just a chat,’ said the Major. ‘It’s been a while since we had a chinwag.’ He cut the connection.
The Major wasn’t one for small-talk and Shepherd doubted that it was a chinwag he wanted.
He changed into a faded T-shirt and shorts, then put on thick socks with his well-worn army boots and went downstairs. He poured some coffee, took a couple of gulps, then got his old canvas rucksack from the cupboard under the stairs. It contained half a dozen house bricks wrapped in newspaper. Shepherd always ran with the rucksack, a habit picked up from his army days. Before he had taken the SAS selection course he had spent many weekends running up and down the Brecon Beacons with a brick-filled rucksack, pushing the limits of his endurance and stamina. During SAS training all cross-country running was done with a full pack, and even though those days were behind him, he still felt that a run without a rucksack wasn’t a run. He went back to the kitchen, finished his coffee, grabbed a plastic bottle of Evian from the fridge and headed for the door.
Rudi Pernaska was barely aware of the cold, hard concrete through the thin plastic mattress. From the moment that the Englishman had told him the detectives had been talking about the cans he’d known his life was over. Rudi had no idea what was inside them. He hadn’t wanted to know. All he had cared about was delivering them to London. The men in France had told him that if he made any attempt to open them, he would pay with his life.
Now there was nothing he could do to make things right. If the police had the cans and there was something illegal inside, they would never give them back to him, so the men who had entrusted them to him would kill him. They would kill him and probably his family, too. His beloved Jessica – he couldn’t bear her to suffer. Or his wife. She had been through enough already. They both had.
Tears ran down his face. He grabbed his hair and pulled it, cursing his stupidity. He should have stayed in Albania, should never have gambled on a new life in the West. They had barely scratched a living out of their smallholding on the outskirts of Tirana, but at least it had been a living. Now he had nothing. Less than nothing.
He slipped off the bed and paced round the cell. The window was made of glass blocks. The overhead fluorescent light was protected by a Perspex panel. There was a stainless-steel toilet in the corner with a button to operate the flush. Rudi knew what he had to do, but the cell had been designed to thwart any attempt at suicide. He’d asked for food, hoping they would give him a knife and fork, but he’d received a cheese sandwich, a handful of chips, two plain biscuits, a plastic cup of weak coffee, and no utensils. He could tear up his shirt to produce a home-made rope, but there was nothing in the cell to tie it to.
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.