Lyn translated. Edita answered angrily.
‘She says it was nothing to do with her. They met only her husband, and her husband told her not to talk about it.’
‘They? Who does she mean?’
Lyn translated. Edita snapped back.
‘Two men in France. They met her husband before they got on to the boat.’
‘Why would he agree to take something on board? Did they threaten him? Or the little girl?’
This time the conversation went back and forth a few times before Lyn offered a translation: ‘She doesn’t know who the men were, but they were gangsters. There was no need to make any threats because they didn’t have enough money to pay for their passage to England. The husband was told that if he carried the cans with him they would make up the difference. She guessed there wasn’t oil in them but her husband said she was to mind her own business.’
‘Would she recognise them if we showed her photographs?’
Lyn translated, and Edita shook her head firmly.
‘And she didn’t know what was in the cans?’
Lyn spoke to Edita, who waved her away. Lyn looked to Shepherd for guidance. He sighed. It was pointless asking her any more. And he didn’t think there was any point in taking the woman away for further questioning. ‘Let’s call it a day,’ he said. ‘Tell her we’re through here.’
Lyn spoke to Edita, who nodded, then got up and went to Shepherd. ‘Mr Corke, we thank you,’ she said, in halting English. She grabbed his hand and pressed the palm against her cheek. ‘Thank you.’ Then she said something to Lyn. ‘She wants to see her husband,’ said the interpreter.
‘Later,’ said Shepherd. ‘Tell her later.’
Shepherd untangled his hand and followed Sharpe out of the room. A wave of guilt washed over him. He wanted to tell Edita the truth, that her husband was dead, but he knew that the job of breaking the bad news was better left to professionals, to men and women who could offer therapy and support. Even if he had told her, what would he have done when she’d broken down? Held her and told her that everything would be all right? Patted her back and told her that time healed all wounds? He was finding it hard enough to come to terms with the loss of his wife and had no idea what to say to a woman whose husband had just killed himself.
Lyn followed them out of the room. ‘Why does she think your name’s Corke?’ she asked, as they walked down the corridor.
‘It’s a long story,’ said Shepherd.
‘He’s a man of mystery,’ growled Sharpe. ‘Just leave it at that.’
Shepherd phoned Hargrove on his mobile as soon as he climbed into the Vectra. ‘They’re Albanians, not Kosovans,’ he said. ‘Their passports need a going-over with any other documents they had. They told me they’re called Rudi and Edita, and the interpreter says they’re Albanian names. I’m guessing they won’t be the names on the passports.’
‘Did she tell you anything else?’
‘Her husband spoke to some men in France before they got on to the trawler. They gave him the oil cans. She asked him what they needed the oil for and he said it was nothing to do with her, and that it was helping to pay for their passage to England.’
‘What did she think was in the cans? Drugs?’
‘She says she didn’t think anything. Her husband told her not to question him, and she’s a woman who obeys her husband.’
‘She’s lucky it wasn’t heroin. If it was, we’d have a hard job keeping her out of prison. So, she’s no idea what he was supposed to do with the cans once they were in the UK?’
‘She says not. She could be lying, but I doubt it. She just wanted a new life in the UK and didn’t much care what she did to achieve it.’
‘I’m going to get Forensics to examine everything. I can’t see that they’d have expected her husband to remember the contact details, not with a million euros at stake, so there must be an address or phone number somewhere.’
‘Who’s going to tell her about her husband?’ asked Shepherd.
‘I’ve got someone from one of the refugee charities on their way,’ said Hargrove. ‘They’ll break the news, fix her up with somewhere to stay, legal advice, the full monty. She’ll be in good hands, Spider. I promise. Get a decent night’s sleep and I’ll call you tomorrow.’
Shepherd cut the connection, sat back and closed his eyes as Sharpe powered down the motorway. When he opened them again, they were driving up the road towards his house. All the lights were off. Shepherd cursed.
‘What?’ said Sharpe.
‘I didn’t call Liam. I promised I’d take him to play football.’
‘He’ll understand,’ said Sharpe. ‘He’s a cop’s son.’ He brought the car to a gentle stop in front of Shepherd’s house.
‘It was a pinkie promise,’ said Shepherd.
‘What?’
‘A pinkie promise. We linked little fingers.’
‘Right…’
‘The sort of promise you can’t break.’
‘Except you did.’
Shepherd smiled sarcastically. ‘See? You do understand.’
‘He’s a kid,’ said Sharpe. ‘Kids know that dads do their best.’
‘Cheers, Razor.’ Shepherd punched his arm and climbed out of the Vectra. Sharpe drove away as he walked up to the front door and let himself in.
He switched on the hall light, padded upstairs and pushed open the door to Liam’s bedroom. His heart lurched when he saw that his son’s bed was empty, the quilt thrown to one side. He switched on the light and glanced round the room, then hurried to the bathroom. Liam wasn’t there. Shepherd’s heart raced and he fought to quell rising panic. If anything had happened, Katra would have phoned him. He took a deep breath, headed for her room and opened the door. Liam was curled up next to Katra, who was lying on top of the quilt in flannelette pyjamas, one arm round the child, her hair a dark curtain over the pillow. She opened her eyes as the light from the hallway fell across her face.
She opened her mouth to speak but Shepherd smiled and pressed his index finger to his lips, then closed the door. He went to his room, pulled off his clothes and showered. He still felt bad about not calling Liam, but at least he had until morning to think of some way to make it up to him.
It was just after eleven when Shepherd woke. He changed into his running gear and went downstairs. Katra had heard him and had a mug of strong coffee waiting for him. ‘I didn’t hear you guys get up,’ he said.
‘Liam went in to say good morning but you were fast asleep,’ she said, as she unloaded the dishwasher. ‘You must have been tired.’
‘I’ve had a rough few days,’ he said. He took several gulps of coffee. ‘I had to go back up north. Unfinished business.’
‘You work too hard,’ she said.
‘I don’t know about hard, but I’m certainly putting in more than my fair share of hours.’
‘Can’t you transfer to an office job, with more regular hours?’
That was exactly what Sue had always said. Undercover work was dangerous and meant long hours away from home. But the overtime payments were generous and he knew he’d never get the same satisfaction sitting behind a desk. ‘It’s what I do, Katra,’ he said. That had always been his answer to Sue, even though he knew it was more excuse than explanation. He could have done other jobs within the police – he still could. He could even go back to the SAS as an instructor. The major had made clear to him that an offer to join the Directing Staff was always on the table.