‘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.
‘I know Liam wishes he could spend more time with you,’ said Katra.
‘It’s just been a busy period, that’s all,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll be around over the weekend. Most of it.’ He drained his mug and put it into the sink.
‘Do you want breakfast?’ asked Katra.
Shepherd grabbed his rucksack and headed for the door. ‘I’ll eat when I get back,’ he said.
Shepherd was lying on the sofa watching a black-and-white cowboy movie when he heard Katra walking down the hallway. He looked at his watch and realised she was going to pick up Liam from school. ‘Katra!’ he called. ‘Hang on a minute.’ He switched off the television and hurried into the hallway. ‘I’ll fetch Liam.’ He held out his hands for the car keys.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m on a day off,’ said Shepherd, ‘and I owe him some quality time.’
‘You are always busy,’ said Katra. She was wearing a baggy denim shirt over a pair of khaki cargo pants and looked about fifteen.
‘So are you,’ he said. ‘Have a few hours off. Don’t bother cooking – I’ll take Liam for fast food. You talk about me working long hours but you’re always on the go. Kick back, watch some TV.’
Katra laughed. ‘I’ve got ironing to do,’ she said. ‘And fast food is bad for you.’
‘Once in a blue moon won’t kill him.’
Katra frowned. ‘A blue moon?’
Shepherd grinned. Katra’s English had improved rapidly during the months she’d been with him and Liam, but she still didn’t have too good a grasp of slang and idiom. Her English was still a hundred times better than Shepherd’s Slovenian, though. ‘It means rarely. Not often. You don’t often see a blue moon.’
Katra’s brow creased into a frown. ‘I don’t think I have ever seen the moon blue.’
‘It’s just an expression,’ said Shepherd. He waved goodbye, went outside and climbed into the dark green Honda CRV. Parked next to it was the battered Land Rover he used when he was being Tony Corke.
He’d barely started the car when one of his mobiles rang. He fumbled in his pocket for it. It was his work phone and Hargrove was on the line. Shepherd slotted the phone into the hands-free socket. ‘Can you talk?’ asked the superintendent.
‘I’m just heading to Liam’s school,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s up?’ He slowed down to well under the speed limit – the main road was peppered with cameras.
‘We found a telephone number under the insole of one of Rudi Pernaska’s shoes,’ said Hargrove. ‘A throwaway mobile. There’s a good chance it’s the contact for the money. We’ve run a check on the phone and it’s never been used.’
‘Sounds like they’re waiting for a call.’ A set of traffic-lights ahead turned red and he brought the CRV to a stop. ‘How do you want to play it?’
‘Assuming the number is that of the contact who’s expecting delivery of the cans, we should run with it. I’ve got our technical team resealing them and fitting a tracking device. We deliver them and see where they lead us.’
‘You want me to handle the delivery?’ said Shepherd.
‘There’s a number of options,’ said Hargrove. ‘You could switch roles, call up and say you were on the boat with Rudi, that he’s been sent to an immigration centre and you’ve got the cans. It’d mean you pretending to be an asylum-seeker.’
‘My language skills aren’t up to that,’ said Shepherd. ‘If I say I’m from Kosovo and they wheel in a Kosovan speaker, it’ll all be over.’
‘Plan B would be to bring in someone who can pass themselves off as an asylum-seeker. We’ve got a Chinese guy on a long-term drugs play – I could pull him in.’