‘I’m sorry, Lex. Seriously.’
‘Not your problem, mate.’
‘You could have spoken to Major Gannon. He might have been able to pull some strings.’
‘That boat’s sailed,’ said Harper. He shrugged. ‘Anyway, a group of us figured that if it was the banks that had fucked us over, we should give them a taste of their own medicine. Make a few unauthorised withdrawals, if you like.’
‘With shotguns?’
‘With AK-47s, as it happens,’ said Harper. ‘Some of the guys had brought guns back over as souvenirs. We had all the guns we needed. The ammo we had to get here, but ammo’s easy enough to get. Though to be honest we never had to fire a gun in anger. Point and shout and they hand over the cash without a fight. That’s what they’re trained to do.’
‘Health and safety,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’re not allowed to put up a fight.’
‘Yeah, well, we did a dozen or so banks, up and down the country. Then we used that money to get into the drugs game and that’s what we’ve been doing ever since. We keep a low profile these days, but we’re making money hand over fist. Millions, Spider. We’re making millions.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s good to hear,’ said Shepherd, his voice loaded with sarcasm. ‘Drugs, Lex? Bloody drugs?’
‘You’re looking at it from the point of view of a cop, or a former cop,’ said Harper. ‘Drugs is the modern prohibition. If this was in the States back in the 1920s we’d be heroes.’
‘What, like Al Capone? You’re breaking the law. Don’t expect me to approve of what you’re doing.’
‘I’m not asking for your approval, Spider. I’m just explaining the way things are. And that’s why I’ve got to keep my head down. I’m still wanted in the UK.’
‘So where are you based now?’
‘Thailand, most of the time.’
Shepherd turned to look at him. ‘Are you serious? I was over in Thailand a few years back. Bangkok and Pattaya.’
‘I know, mate. I saw you.’
‘No bloody way,’ said Shepherd.
‘Saw you and kept well away,’ said Harper. ‘You were hanging around Mickey and Mark Moore and I figured you were up to something. I asked around and you were using some fake name or other so I figured you wouldn’t want to have to explain how come you know a former Para.’
Shepherd sat back and ran his hands through his hair. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said.
‘Believe it,’ said Harper. ‘You were with a guy who was a few years older than you. You kept meeting up with him.’
‘Razor,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was my wingman.’
Harper chuckled. ‘He spent most of his time in massage places when you weren’t around.’
‘You know the Moore brothers?’
‘Sure. Been to some great parties at their place.’
‘How are they?’
‘Same old,’ said Harper. ‘They’ve given up blagging. Like me, they finance the odd import–export thing now and then. Enough to make a good living but not enough to attract attention. You were a cop then, right?’
‘SOCA,’ said Shepherd. ‘Serious Organised Crime Agency. Supposed to be the British FBI but it turned out to be the Keystone Kops.’
‘Is that why Mickey and Mark are still living the life in Pattaya?’
‘It’s complicated,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I owe you one for not blowing my cover.’ He looked around the park. A woman in a Chanel suit walked by with two chihuahuas in matching pink jackets. ‘Can’t we go to a pub? Or a coffee shop.’ He jerked a thumb to the north side of the park. ‘Bayswater’s over there.’
‘I’d rather not, mate,’ said Harper. ‘There’s CCTV everywhere these days. That and face recognition could have me behind bars faster than you could say …’ He laughed. ‘Dunno how to end that sentence.’
Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, you were never a great talker. But you were one hell of a soldier.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘Seriously, mate, two grown men sitting on a bench talking looks a bit weird, don’t you think.’ He nodded at the Serpentine in the distance, the water as steely grey as the overcast sky. ‘We can sit outside at the Lido Bar. There’s no CCTV, you can smoke and at least we can have a drink. Keep the hood of your parka up if it makes you feel better.’
‘OK, OK.’ Harper sighed. He pushed himself up off the bench and the two men headed over the grass towards the bar. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapped one out and offered it to Shepherd. Shepherd shook his head so Harper slipped it between his lips and lit it with a yellow disposable lighter. ‘How did you know I was a smoker?’
‘I can smell it on you, and you’ve got nicotine stains on your fingers,’ said Shepherd. ‘Elementary, dear Watson. What’s the story? You never smoked in Afghanistan.’
‘Never wanted to,’ said Harper. ‘But most of the guys I hang out with now are smokers and I sort of got pulled into it.’ He held up the burning cigarette. ‘It feels good. If it didn’t, people wouldn’t smoke, would they?’
‘There’s no accounting for folk,’ said Shepherd. ‘I hear a lot of people like Marmite, but I’ve never seen the point of that.’
‘Now Marmite, there I agree with you. Never seen the point of it either.’
They found a quiet table in the outside area of the bar and ordered coffees. ‘I’ll have a brandy as well,’ said Harper. ‘Take the chill off it.’ He pushed his hood down and shook his head. His hair was starting to grey at the temples but he looked pretty much the same as he had when they had served together in Afghanistan. He had the same lean, wiry frame and his habit of jutting up his chin as if expecting an argument at any moment.
‘I’ll have a Jamesons,’ said Shepherd.
As the waitress walked away, Shepherd stretched out his legs and folded his arms. ‘Why are you here, Lex? If being seen in the UK is such a big thing, why are you putting yourself in the firing line?’
‘Because of this,’ said Harper. He reached into his parka and pulled out an envelope. He gave it to Shepherd. Inside was a newspaper cutting with a photograph of a man in a grey shell suit trying to hide his face with an umbrella.
Shepherd read the story. There were just a few paragraphs. The newspaper said the man’s name was Wayne McKillop and that he was accused of ripping the headscarves off two Muslim women in the Westfield shopping centre. According to the article, McKillop had pleaded not guilty and had told police that it had only been a joke and not a racial attack. ‘So?’ said Shepherd.
‘You’re not looking carefully enough,’ said Harper.
Shepherd stared at the cutting, rereading it slowly. Then he moved his face closer to the photograph. There wasn’t much to see of the man’s face. There were two women in the background, and a man. Shepherd’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the man. He was Arabic looking with a straggly beard and a woollen Muslim cap. The man didn’t seem to be aware of the photographer; he was striding along the pavement, staring straight ahead. In his right hand was a bulging white plastic carrier bag. In profile his hooked nose gave him the look of a bird of prey, but the most distinctive feature was his milky eye. ‘No bloody way,’ whispered Shepherd.
Harper took a long pull on his cigarette and blew smoke before speaking slowly. ‘Ahmad Khan,’ he said. ‘The bastard who killed Todd and put a bullet in your shoulder. And shot three of my mates in the back.’
The breath caught in Shepherd’s throat. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘He’s alive and well and living in London. Or at least he was when that photograph was taken. That’s him walking by West London County Court. And the paper’s dated exactly one week ago.’