Liam sat up and shuffled back so that he was propped against the headboard. ‘Millions?’
‘Sure.’
‘Millions of pounds?’
‘Euros.’
‘And how do they smuggle it in?’
‘Boats,’ said Shepherd.
‘And is that what you’ve been doing?’
Shepherd was telling his son more than he should about an operational matter, but Liam was enthralled. He patted the boy’s leg. ‘This is top secret, you know that?’
Liam nodded seriously. ‘Secret Squirrel.’
Shepherd held out his hand, his little finger crooked. ‘You mustn’t tell anybody,’ he said. ‘Pinkie promise.’
‘Pinkie promise.’ Liam crooked his little finger and linked it with Shepherd’s.
‘They use boats to bring the money in from France. I’m pretending to be a sailor. That’s why I drive the Land Rover with the boat stuff in it.’
‘Is it dangerous?’
Shepherd remembered the Albanians. ‘No, not really.’
‘Do they have guns?’
‘Most gangsters have guns,’ said Shepherd.
‘Do they fire them at you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘But you were shot in the army.’
Shepherd’s shoulder began to ache. It was his brain playing tricks, he knew, a subconscious reminder of the bullet he’d taken in the Afghan desert. ‘That was different,’ he said. ‘That was a war.’
‘But gangsters shoot people, don’t they?’
‘Not police officers,’ said Shepherd. ‘If they do, they go to prison for ever. Liam, I’m really sorry about today, but I have to talk to these men and show them the boat.’
‘The smugglers’ boat?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘I won’t be more than a few hours. If I get back before it’s dark, we can still play football. Okay?’
Liam smiled unwillingly. ‘Okay.’
‘And I’ll owe you one,’ said Shepherd.
‘So you’ll let me have my television back in my bedroom?’
‘Don’t push it.’ Shepherd grabbed him and began to tickle him.
Liam writhed on the bed. ‘No!’ he screamed. ‘I give in, I give in!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes!’
Shepherd released him and stood up. ‘And I want all your homework done by the time I get back,’ he said, ‘or I’ll tickle you again.’
‘I’m too old to be tickled.’
Shepherd lunged at him again and the boy squealed. ‘Okay! I’ll do it!’
The boat was moored at a berth in a small marina on the outskirts of Southampton, rented in the name of Tony Corke and backdated for twelve months. Salik and Matiur stood on the wooden jetty as Shepherd pulled the faded blue tarpaulin off the boat and rolled it up.
‘Come on, climb aboard,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m not good on boats,’ said Matiur. ‘I get seasick.’
‘A rib doesn’t roll like a normal boat,’ said Shepherd. ‘It cuts through the waves. It’s more like a car than a boat.’
Matiur put his hands up. ‘I’ll stay here,’ he said.
Shepherd looked at Salik. ‘What about you?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I’ll just show you how it works so you can see for yourself how simple it is.’ He helped Salik climb in, fired the engine and told Matiur to release the moorings. He coiled the ropes, then eased the boat away from the jetty.
‘He liked you,’ said Salik, as Shepherd headed out to open water.
‘Who?’
‘Kreshnik. He said you were professional.’
‘Did he tell you what he did to me?’
‘What?’
‘His men hit me over the head and put me into the boot of a car at gunpoint.’
Salik seemed genuinely surprised. ‘They did that?’