Four men in black overalls appeared at the doorway, members of the Metropolitan Police’s firearms unit, and began to pack up the weapons. Singh put the transmitting equipment into his briefcase and went to Sharpe, who was taking off his shirt. Like Shepherd, he had also been wearing a transmitter.
Shepherd indicated the roof. ‘Pictures okay?’ The three small cameras that Singh had fitted the previous day were hidden in the metal rafters. They had transmitted pictures to the temporary control centre in one of the adjacent warehouses.
‘Perfect,’ said Button. ‘We’ve everything we need. The transmitters that Amar embedded in the guns are good for seven days so we’ll track them for five and see how many of O’Sullivan’s gang we can pull in. Hopefully one of them will roll over on the Hatton Garden robbery in which case O’Sullivan and Corben will go down for life.’
Three weeks earlier a security guard had been shot in the stomach at close range with a sawn-off shotgun. Half a million pounds’ worth of diamonds and rubies had been stolen, and the man had died in hospital two days later, his wife and three sons at his bedside. O’Sullivan hadn’t fired the fatal shot, but he had orchestrated the robbery, one of more than half a dozen he was thought to have carried out in the previous year. Conor O’Sullivan was a professional criminal who, either through luck or good judgement, had never been to prison. The Serious Organised Crime Agency’s undercover operation was about to change that.
‘Is that it, then?’ asked Sharpe.
‘Keep the mobiles going for a week or so just in case,’ said Button. ‘There’s always a chance that O’Sullivan will spread the good word.’
The men in black overalls carried out the cases containing the weapons and ammunition. One, a burly sergeant with a shaved head, flashed Button a thumbs-up as he walked by. ‘Thanks, Mark,’ she said. ‘I’ll have the paperwork for you by tomorrow morning.’
‘What’s next for us?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Don’t worry, Dan, there’s no rest for the wicked. I’ll have something for you.’ She consulted her watch. ‘I have to be at the Yard this afternoon. I’ll call you both later. But job well done, yeah? O’Sullivan’s needed putting away for years.’ She headed towards the door, then stopped. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ‘you’ve both got biannuals this month, haven’t you?’
Shepherd and Sharpe nodded. Every six months all SOCA operatives had to be assessed by the unit’s psychologist.
‘We’ve a new psychologist on board,’ said Button. ‘Caroline Stockmann. She’ll be getting in touch to arrange the sessions.’
‘What happened to Kathy Gift?’ asked Shepherd.
‘She’s moved on,’ said Button.
‘To where?’
‘Academia. Bath University.’
‘Couldn’t stand the heat?’ asked Sharpe.
Button’s expression registered disapproval. ‘She got married, actually.’
‘To a man?’ asked Sharpe, unabashed. He raised his hands as if to ward off her glare. ‘Hey, these days, who knows?’
‘Razor, not everyone gets your sense of humour.’
‘But you do, right?’
Button smiled. ‘You’re a bloody dinosaur,’ she said.
‘But dinosaurs have their uses,’ said Sharpe.
‘Actually, they don’t,’ said Button. ‘That’s why they’re extinct.’
‘She got married?’ said Shepherd.
‘It was all quite sudden,’ said Button.
‘Probably up the spout,’ said Sharpe.
‘Jimmy…’ said Button.
‘This Stockmann, what’s her story?’ asked Shepherd.
‘She’s top notch,’ said Button. ‘Very highly qualified. I’ve known her for ten years.’
‘She’s worked with undercover agents before?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Not per se,’ said Button. ‘She was in MI5’s Predictive Behaviour Group.’
‘Which means what?’ said Shepherd.
‘The group is used to determine the way various people might react in a given situation. Generally heads of state. So, if you wanted to know how the Iranian government will react to EU pressure to drop their nuclear programme, you’d ask the PBG. The group has other uses, too. Mostly classified.’
Shepherd groaned. ‘So a spook’ll decide whether or not I’m fit for undercover work.’
‘She’s a highly qualified psychologist who happened to work for the security services,’ said Button. ‘It’s only because she knows me that she’s agreed to work for SOCA. We’re lucky to have her.’
‘It’s not about qualifications,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s about understanding people – understanding what we go through. And if she’s only ever been behind a desk, she’s not going to know what life’s like at the sharp end.’
‘So tell her,’ said Button. ‘That’s the purpose of the biannual, to get everything off your chest.’
‘That’s not strictly true, though, is it?’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s also a test we have to pass to remain on active duty.’
‘Spider, you’re fine. I know you’re fine and you know you’re fine. You have a chat with Caroline and she’ll confirm what we both know.’ She glanced at her watch again. ‘I have to go.’
As she headed for the door, Shepherd saw that Sharpe was grinning at him.
‘What?’ said Shepherd.
‘What happened to Kathy Gift?’ said Sharpe, in a whiny voice.
‘Behave,’ said Shepherd.
‘You had a thing for her, didn’t you?’
‘How old are you, Razor?’
‘Spider and Kathy, sitting in a tree…’ sang Sharpe.
‘Screw you,’ said Shepherd, walking away.
‘… K-I-S-S-I-N-G.’ Sharpe’s voice followed Shepherd out of the warehouse. Button’s black Vauxhall Vectra was driving away. She was in the back, reading something.
‘You okay?’ said Singh, behind him.
Shepherd shrugged. ‘What do you make of her?’ he asked.
‘She’s a good boss,’ said Singh. ‘Gives you room to do your own thing but she’s there when you need her.’
Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, she’s growing on me.’ He jerked a thumb at the warehouse. ‘That went well, from start to finish.’
‘She had all the bases covered,’ agreed Singh. ‘I had to laugh at Razor, though. Pulling a gun like that.’
‘Yeah, he’s a bugger sometimes. But he’s a pro.’
‘Fancy a drink?’
‘Nah,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got to get home. Rain check, yeah?’
‘No sweat,’ said Singh. ‘I’ll take Wild Bill Hickok for a drink.’ He turned back to the warehouse. ‘Oy, Razor, d’you fancy a pint?’
‘Do bears shit in the Vatican?’ yelled Sharpe.
Shepherd chuckled and headed for his car.
Shepherd parked the Series Seven BMW in the driveway. He was going to miss Graham May’s vehicle of choice. His own Honda CRV was four years old and he needed to replace it. But a Series Seven was well out of his price range.
The estate agent’s sign in the front garden had ‘ UNDER OFFER ’ across the top. A young couple, looking for somewhere bigger, had offered the asking price, which was double what Shepherd had paid six years earlier. He had made an offer on a house in Hereford, less than a mile from where his in-laws lived.
His son was in the sitting room, eating a sandwich. A glass of orange juice stood in front of him. Liam’s mouth was full so he waved at his father. Shepherd went to the kitchen, made himself a mug of instant coffee, then returned to the sitting room and dropped down on the sofa next to his son. ‘Did you do your homework?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ said Liam, and drank some juice. ‘I had to do a book report.’
‘Which book?’
‘ Animal Farm. George Orwell.’
‘Great story,’ said Shepherd. ‘“Four legs good, two legs bad.”’
‘You’ve read it?’ said Liam, surprised.
‘At school, same as you,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s a classic.’
‘You don’t read books.’
Shepherd raised his eyebrows. ‘What?’
‘You read newspapers.’
Shepherd wanted to argue but his son was right. The last time he’d read a book for pleasure must have been four years ago when he was on holiday in Spain with Sue and Liam. He rarely had time to read these days, and when he did have a few hours to spare more often than not he’d just vegetate in front of the television. In his younger days he’d been an avid reader – Ian Fleming, Len Deighton, Jack Higgins, John le Carre – but his work as an undercover police officer meant he no longer enjoyed crime stories. Real-life police work was never as cut and dried as it appeared in fiction, and the truly guilty rarely got their just deserts.