‘He’s right,’ said Button. ‘They all got phone calls and they’re all leaving. It was a dry run. A rehearsal.’ Button patted Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Spider. You called it right.’
‘And if I hadn’t, Charlie? What then? Would have you killed them all?’
‘If I was convinced that they were carrying bombs, and if I was convinced that they were going to use them, then of course.’
Shepherd nodded slowly but didn’t say anything.
Shepherd was just about to put the key into the lock of his front door when his John Whitehill phone rang. It was Chaudhry.
‘John, it’s okay,’ he said. ‘Were you watching? It was a test. It was just a test.’ His words were coming out so quickly that they were running into each other. ‘We were scared shitless, I can tell you. Harvey thought they were going to use anthrax or something. Then Khalid called and said we were to go home.’
‘I know,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just give me a minute.’ He let himself into the flat and closed the door behind him before switching off the burglar alarm. ‘Where are you?’
‘Home,’ said Chaudhry.
‘Is Harvey with you?’
‘We’re both here. It was a dry run. A rehearsal.’
‘I know,’ said Shepherd again. ‘We were watching you. I told you, MI5 has professionals. They watched you all the way from Stoke Newington and we had you on CCTV at the station.’
‘Did you see the others? There were other brothers there.’
‘We saw them,’ said Shepherd. ‘Did you recognise them?’
‘Just one of them. The one who was driving the van we were in. Harvey had played football with him. But they all had the same backpacks. So you think we’re going to attack the station? Is that what it was about? Next time they’ll give us guns?’
‘I don’t know, Raj. It’s possible. Did they say anything to you?’
‘They just told us to go home and that they’d talk to us soon. Someone is going to collect the bags and the phone.’
‘I’ll arrange a tail,’ said Shepherd.
‘Do you think I should open the backpack, see what’s inside?’
‘Best not,’ said Shepherd. ‘It might be part of the test.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We wait and see what happens next,’ said Shepherd. ‘And well done, you handled yourself brilliantly. Tell Harvey from me, you guys did a great job.’
‘I just did what they said. I don’t know what I would have done if they’d given me a gun.’
‘Let’s meet tomorrow and we’ll talk it through,’ said Shepherd. ‘And well done with the hood.’
‘The hood?’
‘Letting me know that everything was okay by leaving your hood up.’
Chaudhry didn’t say anything for several seconds.
‘You forgot, didn’t you?’ said Shepherd eventually.
‘I’m sorry, John. I was just so caught up in what was happening.’
Shepherd laughed softly.
‘What?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Shepherd. ‘All’s well that end’s well.’
‘Did I do something wrong?’
‘You did just fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s meet tomorrow. We can talk about it then.’
Ray Fenby used his remote to flick through the channels of his TV and sighed at the stream of dross that made up daytime television: endless repeats, banal talk shows and rolling news. There was nothing at all worth watching. He pushed himself up off the sofa and padded over to his poky kitchen in his bare feet. The worst thing about working undercover was that for most of the time he was doing absolutely nothing. Pretty much all of the people he came in contact with had jobs, in which case they were tied up all day, or they were criminals, in which case they were usually asleep.
Fenby’s days were spent watching television, catnapping and waiting for the phone to ring. The fact that he was based in Birmingham just added to his misery because he had no friends or family in the city. At least when he’d been working in London he could drop round and have a beer with his mates. He opened the fridge. He’d run out of milk and there was nothing there that he wanted to eat, but there were half a dozen cans of Carlsberg Special. He sighed and wondered whether it was a good idea to start drinking at three o’clock in the afternoon, finally deciding that it probably wasn’t but that he was old enough to make bad decisions. He took out a can, popped it open and took it back to his sofa. He flopped down and drank.
His doorbell rang and he frowned. His flat was on the third floor with a door-entry system at the main entrance, and he hadn’t buzzed anyone in. He figured it was either Jehovah’s Witnesses or a cold caller wanting him to change his electricity supplier so he ignored it. His bell rang again, more insistently and for longer this time. He put the Carlsberg can on the floor and went to his front door. He looked through the peephole. It was Kettering. And Thompson. Fenby frowned. Kettering and Thompson had never been round to his flat before, though they had dropped him off outside the building. He took a deep breath and mentally switched himself into Ian Parton mode before opening the door. He forced a smile.
‘Hey, guys, what’s up?’
‘We’re on the way to the pub and thought we’d swing by and see if you wanted a pint,’ said Kettering.
‘Yeah, sure, I’ll get my coat,’ said Fenby.
He moved down the hall to get his jacket, but as he did so Kettering and Thompson followed him. As he turned round to look at them, a third man stepped into the hallway. He had close-cropped hair and a strong chin with a dimple in the centre. He was wearing a long dark-brown leather coat and as he reached up to scratch his head Fenby caught a glimpse of a heavy gold identity bracelet.
‘This is Mickey. He’s an old mate from London,’ said Kettering.
Mickey nodded at Fenby but didn’t say anything. He clasped his hands over his groin and studied Fenby with cold blue eyes.
‘Haven’t got any bubbly, have you?’ asked Kettering.
‘Afraid not,’ said Fenby. ‘Just lager.’
‘Not really thirsty anyway,’ said Kettering. He took out a leather cigar case, tapped out a cigar and lit it. He blew smoke slowly up at the ceiling and smiled. ‘Can’t beat a Cuban,’ he said.
Fenby wasn’t sure what to say. Something was wrong, he was certain of that, but he couldn’t for the life of him work out what it was.
‘How about we sit down and have a chat?’ said Kettering.
The three men bundled Fenby into his sitting room and pushed him down on the sofa. Kettering sat down in an armchair while Mickey stood by the door, glaring at Fenby. Thompson went over to a bookcase by the window and began flicking through the books there.
‘So how are things?’ asked Kettering.