‘You ate a spider?’
‘A big one.’ He held out his hand, fingers splayed. ‘About that big. When I was doing jungle training with the Sass. Sort of for a bet.’
Button shuddered. ‘Must have been horrible.’
‘Tasted like chicken, actually.’
Button giggled so much that she spilled tea into her saucer.
The surveillance van was parked in a side-road off Inverness Terrace, less than half a mile from Paddington station. Shepherd knocked on the back door, which opened immediately. He climbed in and Amar Singh pulled the door closed.
Hargrove was sitting on a small stool at the far end, pouring coffee from a stainless-steel flask into a plastic cup. ‘Want some?’ he asked, offering the flask.
‘I’m fine.’
Hargrove screwed the top back on to the flask and put it on the floor. ‘Okay, here’s the situation,’ he said. ‘We’re not going to put anyone else into the restaurant, but we’ll be watching everyone who goes in and out. The main restaurant is on the ground floor and there’s another seating area in the basement, but that’s rarely used. The floors above are apartments. There’s a backyard, which leads out to an alley, and we’ll have that covered but, frankly, I don’t see that there’s anything to worry about, do you?’
‘I’m pretty sure they trust me,’ said Shepherd. ‘If anything was up I don’t think they’d have suggested a restaurant.’
Singh handed Shepherd a Nokia mobile. ‘We decided against a recording device, as it’s only the second time you’ve met them.’
‘Agreed,’ said Shepherd. ‘They patted me down the first time and might well do it again.’ He turned the mobile phone over and examined it.
‘Apparently they checked your phone before so it’s unlikely they’ll look at it again. This one functions as a transmitter as well as a phone.’
Shepherd removed the back cover of his regular phone, took out the battery and slid out the Sim card. He gave the old phone to Hargrove and installed the Sim card in the new one.
‘Providing it’s switched on, we’ll hear everything,’ said Singh. ‘Range is practically unlimited. It transmits through the mobile-phone system rather than an independent transmitter. We’ll be recording here. The microphone isn’t great – ideally you’d want it out in front of you but that’s up to you. You don’t want to draw attention to it.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to start teaching you how to suck eggs.’
‘We’ll see how it goes,’ said Shepherd. ‘Back-up?’
‘I’ve got Sharp and Joyce nearby, but we’ll keep our distance. What’s your rescue phrase?’
‘Does anyone have the time?’ said Shepherd.
Hargrove wrote it down on a piece of paper in capital letters. It was one of Shepherd’s regular phrases. If he used it, Hargrove and his team would move in immediately. ‘Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be,’ said Shepherd. He put the phone into his pocket and climbed out of the van.
The restaurant where Salik had wanted to meet was in a road off Queensway, which ran parallel to Inverness Terrace. While Inverness Terrace was mainly residential, Queensway was a bustling mix of ethnic restaurants, gift shops and bars, and the pavements were packed with tourists and students looking for a cheap meal or heading for the cinemas in the Whiteleys shopping mall. It was the worst possible area to look for a taiclass="underline" there were too many people, and too many types – black, white, Asian, Oriental, young, old, male and female, a mass of humanity in which nobody stuck out because everybody was different. The only ones likely to be noticeable were Sharpe and Joyce – middle-class, middle-aged white men in suits.
There were a dozen tables in the restaurant and the Uddin brothers were sitting in the far corner. A big man in a purple suit tried to steer him towards a small table in the window but Shepherd nodded at the brothers. ‘I’m expected,’ he said. He walked towards their table and Salik got to his feet. He was wearing a grey silk suit and a white shirt with an Asian collar buttoned up to the neck. ‘Tony, good of you to come,’ he said.
‘How’s it going?’ said Shepherd.
Salik’s brother stood up. He was wearing a pale blue suit and a white shirt with a flowery tie.
‘You already know my name,’ said Shepherd. ‘Don’t you think it’s time I was told who I’m dealing with?’
‘I suppose you are right,’ Salik said. ‘I am Salik. My brother is Matiur.’ Matiur nodded at Shepherd.
‘The drive from Dover was okay?’ asked Salik.
‘Traffic wasn’t great, but I made it.’
Salik took out his mobile phone and placed it on the table. It was a new Motorola.
‘How do you find it?’ asked Shepherd, indicating the phone and placing his own Nokia in front of him. ‘I’ve always used Nokias.’
‘Very reliable,’ said Salik.
Matiur put his phone on the table too, another Motorola. ‘We have a supplier who gets them in bulk from Hungary,’ he said. ‘We can get you one, if you want. Nokia is a good brand but a phone is a phone. They are all the same.’
Shepherd smiled and nodded, although his phone was not an ordinary mobile: if it was working properly Hargrove and Singh should be listening to every word of the conversation and, hopefully, recording it.
‘You like Indian food?’ asked Salik.
‘Sure. I’m a big fan of chicken tikka masala and a pint of Cobra,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s pretty much our national dish, these days, isn’t it?’
‘On the phone you said you were as British as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,’ said Salik, with a sly smile.
‘You’ve a good memory.’
‘I need it in my business. Let me tell you something, Tony. Chicken tikka masala is British. It was invented here. And Cobra is brewed in the UK. And I’ll tell you something you didn’t know, I’m sure. Every time you’ve had an Indian meal in London, the chances are it was cooked by a Bangladeshi.’
‘Yeah?’
‘We are great cooks,’ Salik went on. ‘We cook better Indian food than the Indians. Most Bangladeshis are Muslim, as are we, but they still have to work in restaurants where alcohol is served. We are an adaptable people, Tony. We have had to adapt to survive.’ A waiter hovered at Salik’s shoulder and he spoke to him in rapid Bengali. The waiter moved away. ‘I have ordered you a Kingfisher,’ Salik said. ‘It is more authentic, but only just.’
‘You don’t drink beer?’
‘Muslims don’t drink any alcohol,’ said Salik, emphatically.
‘I’ve seen Arabs in the West End knocking back champagne like there was no tomorrow,’ said Shepherd.
‘Then they were not Muslims,’ said Matiur. ‘Or not true Muslims.’
‘We have no problem with you partaking,’ said Salik, ‘but alcohol must not pass a true Muslim’s lips. And pork is forbidden, too. That’s why you will never see it in an Indian restaurant. The chef would rather die than prepare it.’
‘Do you know much about our country?’ asked Matiur.
‘It has the wettest climate in the world,’ said Shepherd, and the two Bangladeshis burst out laughing.
‘That is true,’ said Salik. ‘I am sure that when I was a child it rained every day.’
‘It is one of the reasons we love this country,’ said Matiur. ‘When it rains, it reminds us of home. And it rains a lot here.’
The waiter returned with Shepherd’s Kingfisher lager, which he poured into a frosted glass, then placed three glasses of iced water on the table. Salik and Matiur raised one each to toast Shepherd. ‘To our new friend,’ said Salik.
‘To a profitable relationship,’ said Matiur. ‘ Inshallah.’
Shepherd frowned. He knew what the phrase meant, but Tony Corke wouldn’t.
‘God willing,’ explained Salik.
Shepherd nodded. ‘ Inshallah,’ he repeated. He put down his lager, picked up his water glass, and clinked it against the brothers’. ‘ Inshallah,’ he said again.
The two brothers nodded approvingly and Shepherd knew he’d done the right thing in not accepting the toast with his lager. He sipped his iced water.
‘So, what else do you know about Bangladesh?’ asked Salik, as the waiter tried to hand them menus. He spoke briefly to the man, who hurried off. ‘The chef is an old friend. He will take care of us,’ Salik explained. ‘So, you think Bangladesh is part of India, don’t you? Everybody does.’