‘Is there a Plan C?’
‘You stick with the Tony Corke legend. Make a call, say you were on the crew and that you’ve got the cans. Tell them Pernaska gave you the number but you’ll want paying.’
‘And if they’re hard cases, I get a bullet in the back of my head for my trouble.’
‘You’ve got a million euros of their money,’ said Hargrove. ‘I would think they’ll negotiate. Just make sure you arrange the handover in a public place.’
‘Then you bust them?’
‘I’ve had a word with Europol,’ said Hargrove. ‘They’re keen to nail down both ends of this operation, Britain and France, and they’d like you to make contact with the British end, see if you can set up some sort of a deal to bring in more currency.’
‘Offer to smuggle in more for them?’
‘Find out why they’re using refugees. And see if they’d be interested in you using a more direct method. We can set you up with a high-speed boat, which would fit in with your Corke legend.’
‘I’m going to be sailing across the Channel on my own?’
‘I’m told it’s no more complicated than driving a car,’ said Hargrove. ‘We’ll have you well trained, don’t worry.’
‘And you think they’ll trust me?’
‘You’ll be handing over a million euros. That’s got to buy you a lot of goodwill.’
‘Why wouldn’t Corke just do a runner with the cash?’
The lights turned green and Shepherd edged the car forward, looking both ways as he crossed the junction.
‘Because he figured he was dealing with some very heavy people. And he’s out on bail facing a prison sentence. He’d be looking for money to pay his lawyers.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Shepherd. ‘Okay, when do I call them?’
‘Sooner rather than later. We’re keeping Pernaska’s suicide under wraps. His wife and daughter will be held by Immigration in Croydon until the investigation’s run its course – Pernaska’s contact here will be expecting him to get in touch today so we don’t want to go beyond tonight because they might start asking questions. Call this afternoon, but be cagey. It’s going to take a day or two for us to get the tracker in place. Make contact, but tell them you’ll need time to think about where to do the handover.’
‘Do I tell them I know what’s in the cans?’
‘Best not – or maybe that you think it’s drugs. Then play it by ear when you meet.’
‘How do I explain that I’m footloose and fancy-free?’
‘Tell them you’ve got a good lawyer and he got you bail. You used your house as security.’
‘And you’ll keep Pepper and Mosley out of the way?’
‘It’s already in hand. So, you’re up for this?’
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’ll text you the number. Be handy if you could record the conversation with them.’
‘I’ll do it from home later tonight,’ said Shepherd. He cut the connection.
He was still half a mile from Liam’s school but already the traffic had slowed to a crawl. Ahead all he could see were middle-aged women at the wheel of expensive SUVs. As a kid Shepherd had spent thirty minutes on the bus to get to and from school, with a ten-minute walk at either end – his parents had been happy for him to go out on his own. At weekends he’d disappear on his bike for hours and they were perfectly happy, providing he was back before dark. Those days were long gone. Now Shepherd lived in Ealing, which was as safe as anywhere could be, but every year across the UK children were raped and murdered, or disappeared never to be seen again. Teenagers were out on the streets with knives and guns. Twelve-year-old crack addicts thought nothing of mugging a kid for his mobile phone and lunch money, while paedophiles were allowed to roam at will. There was no way Shepherd would allow Liam to use public transport to get about, and while he knew that the school run was a waste of time and fuel he, like most other parents, preferred it to the alternative.
Liam was waiting outside the school gates. He waved at the CRV and ran towards it, sports bag banging on his hip. He frowned when he saw that Shepherd was driving. He pulled open the passenger door, climbed into the front seat, dropped his bag in the back and fastened his seatbelt. ‘Where’s Katra?’
‘I said I’d pick you up today. We can go and have a burger.’ Shepherd put the CRV in gear and pulled away from the kerb.
‘You said we’d play football yesterday,’ said Liam sullenly.
‘I got held up,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Where were you?’
‘I had to go and see someone and they were late.’
‘It was a pinkie promise,’ said Liam, folding his arms and staring straight ahead.
‘I know.’
‘Pinkie promises are real promises.’
‘I meant it when I promised, I really did, but something happened.’
‘And you didn’t even get up this morning.’
‘I was tired.’
‘It’s like you don’t care.’
‘I care, Liam. Of course I care – I’m your dad.’
‘You don’t always act like my dad.’
Shepherd felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He didn’t know what to say, because he knew that Liam was right. Recently he hadn’t been behaving much like a father. He was a policeman who happened to have a son, and more often than not his son ended up playing second fiddle to the job.
‘Do you want McDonald’s or Burger King? Or we could have KFC?’
‘I don’t like KFC much.’
‘McDonald’s, then? Or Burger King?’
‘McDonald’s, I guess.’
Shepherd drove to the nearest branch and they went inside. Liam ordered a Big Mac, fries and a Coke. Shepherd had a cheeseburger. They sat at a table by the window. ‘How was school?’
‘School’s school,’ said Liam.
‘I was hoping for a bit more information than that,’ said Shepherd.
‘We did geography. And literature.’
‘Yeah, what are you reading?’
‘Anthony Horowitz’s new Alex Rider book.’
‘Alex Rider?’
‘He’s great. He’s a kid who’s a secret agent. He does the coolest stuff.’
‘And you read that at school?’
‘Yes.’
‘In my day we did Dickens and Jane Austen.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind,’ said Shepherd. ‘What does he do, this Alex Rider?’
‘Fights bad guys and saves the world.’
‘And how old is he?’
‘He’s a teenager.’
Shepherd grinned. ‘And you believe that a teenager can save the world?’
Liam raised his eyebrows. ‘They’re books, Dad. Stories.’
Shepherd rarely spoke to his son about his work. He hadn’t told Sue much, either. Not the details. Not that every now and again his life was on the line, that he’d looked down the barrels of several guns, and that while he hadn’t actually saved the world he had fought more than a few bad guys. Part of him wanted to tell his son a few war stories, to see his eyes light up with excitement, but he didn’t want Liam to know how dangerous his work was. In the real world, heroes didn’t get shot in the chest and live to fight another day. Fist fights hurt like hell, and when you did shoot someone you never forgot the way the body slumped to the ground and the blood pumped out of them as they died. There was nothing glamorous about violence, although Shepherd couldn’t deny the adrenaline rush it gave him.
‘What about we go and play football tonight?’ asked Liam.
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can have a kickabout.’ Liam grinned. Then Shepherd remembered Major Gannon. ‘I’m sorry, Liam,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to meet someone.’ Liam’s face fell. ‘I’m really sorry. It’s important.’
‘It’s always important,’ said Liam. He put down what was left of his burger.
‘Come on, finish your Big Mac and we’ll buy you some comics. Maybe a new game for your PlayStation.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ said Liam.
‘Tomorrow’s Saturday. We can play football then.’
‘Whatever.’
Shepherd could see he was close to tears. ‘Liam…’
‘I want to go home.’
Shepherd reached over to ruffle his son’s hair, but Liam leaned back, out of reach. Then he pushed himself out of his chair and headed for the door.