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.
Shepherd’s feet pounded on the pavement. He was breathing evenly, and although his T-shirt was soaked and his shoulders ached with the weight of the rucksack, he knew he could do at least another ten miles. When he saw the black Mazda sports car parked opposite his house he slowed and groaned.
Kathy Gift climbed out and waved. She was wearing a fawn raincoat with the collar turned up and carrying a black-leather briefcase. She brushed her chestnut hair behind an ear and locked her car. Shepherd forced a smile. He liked Kathy Gift but, as the unit’s psychologist, she was a nuisance. ‘Hey,’ he said, stopping at the car.
‘I thought that, rather than play phone-tag, I’d come to the mountain,’ she said.
‘I won’t shake hands,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m all sweaty.’ He jogged past her and unlocked the front door. She followed him down the path. ‘Make us both some coffee while I shower,’ called Shepherd. ‘You know where everything is.’
He tossed his rucksack into the cupboard under the stairs and went up to the bathroom. After he’d showered, he changed into a grey pullover and black jeans. He found Gift sitting at the kitchen table, her hands round a mug of coffee. She had hung her coat on the back of a chair and pushed up the sleeves of a pale blue cashmere polo-neck. A thin gold necklace with a Star of David hung over the sweater. She indicated a second mug on the table opposite her. ‘Splash of milk and no sugar,’ she said.
Shepherd grinned. ‘You remembered. Or is it in my file?’
‘I remembered,’ she said. ‘It isn’t rocket science.’
Shepherd sat down. ‘And to what do I owe the pleasure?’
Gift opened her case and took out a notepad and pen. ‘It’s your biannual. Last time it took us ages to schedule a meeting.’
‘I was busy,’ said Shepherd.
‘Not a problem,’ said Gift. ‘Anyway, I’m here now. How’s things?’
Shepherd smiled easily. ‘Things is fine.’
Gift tapped her pen on the notebook.
‘Aren’t you going to write that down?’ he teased.
‘You’ve never liked these assessments, have you?’ she said.
‘I think they’re a waste of time,’ said Shepherd. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken.’
‘If I didn’t think I could do the job, I’d be the first to quit,’ he said. ‘It’s my life on the line, remember.’
‘I’m here to help you do your job better,’ said Gift.
Shepherd smiled thinly. ‘That’s not strictly true, is it? You’re also the one who decides whether or not I’m fit for duty.’
‘And are you?’
‘Definitely. Are you hungry?’
‘I could eat.’
‘Toast?’
‘Why not?’
Shepherd went over to the toaster and slotted in two slices of wholemeal bread. He pressed the lever, then turned and leaned against the counter top. ‘I’m fine. Really.’
‘Still running, I see.’
‘Keeps me fit.’
‘How’s Liam?’
‘Doing well at school. No nightmares. He seems fine, too.’
‘Does he talk about what happened to his mum? The accident?’
‘He talks about her. We both do. He misses her, of course – he’ll miss her for ever – but he doesn’t talk about the crash.’
‘Do you think he blames himself?’
‘No,’ said Shepherd, emphatically.
‘He was in the back of the car, your wife was turning to help him when she jumped the red light. If wouldn’t be unnatural for Liam to blame himself.’
‘He doesn’t.’
‘What happens when you’re away on a case?’
‘We have the au pair. She lives in. Is this about me or my son?’
‘It’s about putting you in context, that’s all. Are you in a relationship at the moment?’
‘I’m a father,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s a relationship, right?’ The toaster pinged and ejected the two slices. Shepherd put them on to a plate and arranged it on the table with butter, strawberry jam and marmalade.
‘You know what I mean,’ said Gift, as she picked up a slice of toast.
‘I’m too busy for a relationship at the moment,’ he said. ‘When I’m working, I’m with villains or victims and neither would make suitable girlfriend material. When I’m not working, I’m at home with my son.’
‘It can’t be easy, being a single parent and an undercover policeman.’ She was buttering her toast.
‘Katra’s a big help. She does the school run, same as his mum would have done. She cooks, cleans, helps him with his homework if I’m not around.’
‘Are you away much?’
‘The unit operates all over the UK,’ said Shepherd. ‘You know that. We go where the work is.’
‘And you were overseas recently?’
‘France. But only for a few days.’
‘And you’re okay with that?’
Shepherd sighed. ‘In a perfect world, I’d like to be able to spend more time with Liam. But in a perfect world, my wife wouldn’t have died. Look, I don’t see what Liam has to do with my ability to function under cover.’
‘It’s stress, Dan. Pressure.’
‘I can take it.’
‘Stress manifests in different ways.’
‘I don’t have nervous twitches and I sleep like a newborn babe.’
‘Newborn babes tend to cry a lot and wet themselves,’ said Gift, with a smile. ‘So I’m told.’
Shepherd laughed and helped himself to a slice of toast. ‘I know you’re only doing your job,’ he said, ‘but, really, I’m fine.’
‘What happened down the Tube last year. The suicide-bomber. Can we talk about that?’
‘He was going to kill a lot of people. I shot him. End of story.’
‘It’s a big thing, to kill a man,’ said the psychologist, then took a bite of toast.
‘With respect, how the hell would you know?’
‘I could take that as defensive,’ she said.
‘It’s just such a glib thing to say,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know it’s a big deal, but it needed doing. I’m not going to lose any sleep over a dead suicide-bomber. Anyway, he’s up in heaven with his seventy-two virgins so I’m sure he’s not complaining.’
‘You believe in heaven, do you?’
Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. He was silent for several seconds. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t believe in heaven, or hell, or God.’
‘You’ve never been religious?’
‘I was baptised as a kid,’ said Shepherd, ‘but it meant nothing to me.’
‘The Catholic religion is based on guilt, pretty much.’
‘I guess.’
‘And confession, of course. The premise that, by confessing, your sins can be absolved.’
‘Three Hail Marys and Jesus will forgive you. I don’t see what I do as sinning, if that’s what you’re getting at.’