The last thing Samuel Brown ever saw was the contempt on his colleague’s face. The bullet ripped through his throat at eight hundred metres a second and virtually severed his spinal cord. He was dead before he hit the ground, the M4 still in his hands.
‘ Allahu Akbar,’ whispered the Sniper, as he chambered a second round.
‘ Allahu Akbar,’ echoed the Spotter. The dead soldier in the street below was his two-hundred-and-fortieth kill. The attack on the vehicle had been fortuitous. The Sniper had been waiting for an American foot patrol, and he had watched from his vantage-point on top of the building as the insurgents had placed the IED at the side of the road and hidden it under a pile of garbage. Their target was a civilian, probably a government official, and the Sniper had watched dispassionately as the car, a Mercedes, had been blown on to its side and the occupants burned to death. He had watched without emotion as the Humvee had turned up and the marines had shot out the tyres of the pick-up truck that the insurgents were using, and he had waited as the gun battle raged below. More soldiers would arrive, he knew. The insurgents were pinned down and had nowhere to go. The Americans would call for reinforcements, and the insurgents would fight to the death.
One of the soldiers knelt beside the dead man, checking for a pulse. He was wasting his time, the Sniper knew. It had been the perfect killing shot. The Americans were constantly improving their body armour and their new helmets would stop a rifle round, but there were always gaps. The face was the perfect target. And the back of the head. There was a gap at the bottom of the body armour, and at the sides. The more difficult the Americans made it, the more the Sniper enjoyed the challenge.
The officer hurried to the dead man. The Americans had no way of knowing where the shot had come from. They would assume it had been the insurgents. It was the best sort of killing zone, one where confusion reigned, and the gunfire down below had covered the sound of his shots. He sighted on the officer’s neck and tightened his finger on the trigger. ‘ Allahu Akbar,’ he said.
The Emirates flight landed at Heathrow Terminal Three just after midday. The queue through Immigration snaked back almost a quarter of a mile. Shepherd could have short-circuited it by identifying himself as a police officer but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He joined the line and forced himself to be patient. It was a full ten minutes before he got to the immigration hall. Shepherd smiled to himself as he realised that Sharpe would have had a field day if he had been there. Terminal Three dealt with flights from Asia and Africa, and few of the passengers ahead of him in the EU line could be classed as IC1s. Clearly a plane had recently arrived from India: he could see a group of two dozen overweight women in saris and headscarves, all clutching British passports. Four Arab businessmen, who had been in the first-class section on his plane, were ahead of him and appeared to have French passports. Several Nigerians with bulging hand luggage and ill-fitting suits had British ones and a Pakistani in a long coat was juggling three. Eventually he chose an Irish one and put the other two back into his pocket.
Shepherd looked to the front of the queue. Three men and a woman were processing the EU queue, barely glancing at the passports handed to them. It had never made sense to Shepherd the ease with which the British allowed people to move in and out of the country. As an island, its borders could easily have been policed. But the checks were cursory and the immigration officials were more interested in the passports than they were in those carrying them. More often than not an official didn’t speak to the person, just checked the passport and handed it back. It was only after the bombs on the London Tube system that the authorities had begun to check who was leaving the country. The government had long since admitted that it had lost control of its borders and that it had no idea how many immigrants, legal or illegal, were in the country. And, as far as Shepherd could see, it was in no hurry to remedy the situation. At the very least, he thought, the British should be following the example of the Americans, photographing and fingerprinting every foreigner who entered the country, but there was no sign of that happening.
The queue moved quickly, almost at walking pace, and soon Shepherd was in a black cab heading to Ealing.
When he went into his house Liam was engrossed in his Sony PlayStation. The game seemed to involve mowing down pedestrians with a high-powered sports car. ‘Hi, Dad, where’ve you been?’ he asked, eyes fixed on the screen.
‘Working,’ said Shepherd. ‘I need a shower. Where’s Katra?’
‘Getting some herbs from the garden. Hey, she said I had to go and stay with Gran and Grandad.’
‘We might not be able to get the new house in Hereford so Gran said you can stay with them until I get everything sorted,’ said Shepherd. ‘That way you can still go to the school.’
‘You’ll be there, too?’
Shepherd pulled a face. ‘I’ll have to stay here until we’ve sold it,’ he said.
‘With Katra?’ Liam grinned mischievously.
‘What are you grinning at?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Nothing,’ said Liam.
‘Tell me.’
‘Nothing,’ repeated Liam.
‘She has to stay here to take care of the house,’ said Shepherd. ‘Once we have the new house in Hereford she can move there.’
‘You like her, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. But not in the way you mean.’
‘What way is that?’ said Katra, behind him.
Shepherd jumped. Katra was standing behind him in a baggy pullover and pale blue jeans that had worn through at the knees. She was holding a basket of the herbs she’d picked. ‘Liam was teasing me,’ said Shepherd, ‘for which he’ll pay next time he comes to me for pocket money.’
‘Are you in for dinner?’ she asked. ‘I’m making cevapcici.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Shepherd.
Liam sighed theatrically. ‘Slovenian meatballs, shaped like sausages,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know anything?’
‘I know that your pocket money’s just been halved,’ said Shepherd, ruffling Liam’s hair. He smiled at Katra. ‘I’ll have to pass on the cevapcici,’ he said. ‘I’m just dropping in to pick up some clothes and then I’m heading off, probably for a few days this time.’
‘Anywhere interesting?’ she asked.
‘Just work,’ he said. ‘I’ll shower and change and then I’m off.’
‘Your solicitor called. She wants you to phone.’
‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. As he went upstairs, he called Linda Howe on his mobile.
‘Thanks for calling back,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to know that the buyer of your house has agreed to pay the original price.’
‘That’s great news,’ said Shepherd. ‘What brought about his change of heart?’
‘I thought you might be able to tell me,’ said the solicitor.
‘What do you mean?’ said Shepherd. He went into the bedroom and tossed his holdall on to the bed.
‘The buyer said he’d spoken to a friend of yours. A detective.’
‘Ah,’ said Shepherd.
‘Apparently the detective explained that you were working on a stressful case and that the last thing you needed was to be worried about the sale of your house.’
Shepherd put his hand on his forehead. Only one person would have done that. Jimmy bloody Sharpe.
‘And suggestions were made about a possible Financial Services Authority investigation into the buyer’s company, I gather.’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was out of the country. I’ve only just got back.’