‘Just wondered, that’s all.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Whitehouse. He closed his metal case and snapped the locks shut. ‘More than thirty years.’
‘Time heals all wounds?’
‘I often wish I’d told the sergeant to go to hell and had just pulled the trigger,’ said Whitehouse. ‘That was the time for the bastard to get what he deserved. In the heat of battle. That is one of the great regrets of my life. I went to Will’s funeral and met his mum and his dad and his sister and it fair broke my heart when they asked me what had happened. I had to tell them, right? I had to tell them that Will was shot and that the guy who shot him went unpunished. They wanted to know why he wasn’t at least put on trial and you have to explain that it was war. But then if it was war why wasn’t I allowed to shoot him?’ He grimaced at the memory. ‘I’ll never forget the way his mum burst into tears and his father tried to comfort her, all the time looking at me with the unspoken question in his eyes. Why? Why didn’t I do something?’
‘Like you said, he’d surrendered. That changes everything.’
‘Yes, but it shouldn’t. You can’t be a killer one second and a prisoner of war the next. That’s just not right. But if you’re asking me if I’d slot him now, then no, I wouldn’t. He’d be in his fifties now, he’s probably a father himself, maybe a grandfather. He wouldn’t be the same man who’d killed Will all those years ago.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Now, if Will had been my son, then it might be different. You’ve got a kid, right?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah, Liam. He’s sixteen this year.’
‘Will was only a few years older. See now, that I would never forgive. If someone killed one of my kids I’d never forgive or forget, I’d slot them no matter how much time had passed.’
‘Yeah, amen to that,’ said Shepherd.
Whitehouse stood up. ‘Well, better be going.’ He held out his hand and the two men shook. ‘I’m not sure what’s on your mind, Spider, but you take care. There’s an old Chinese proverb. A man setting out for revenge needs to dig two graves.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said.
After the armourer had left, Shepherd made himself a mug of coffee and phoned Charlotte Button. ‘I’ve got my car, gun and vests,’ he said.
‘And Grechko is expecting you, so you’re good to go. He’s at home all day and says he’ll see you after dinner. You’re to liaise with Dmitry Popov.’
‘I’ll Popov and see him,’ said Shepherd.
‘Just be aware that the Russians aren’t renowned for their sense of humour,’ said Button. ‘Popov’s nose will be out of joint, so bear that in mind.’
‘I’ll treat him with kid gloves,’ said Shepherd. ‘But at the end of the day I’ll be the one carrying the gun.’
‘Please don’t shoot any of Grechko’s bodyguards,’ said Button, only half joking. ‘I really couldn’t bear the paperwork.’
The Bishops Avenue was a ten-minute drive from Shepherd’s Hampstead flat. The tree-lined road ran from the north side of Hampstead Heath to East Finchley. Houses on the road had never been cheap but in recent years prices had gone stratospheric and it was now commonly known as Billionaires’ Row. There were just sixty-six houses on the road, each standing on a two- to three-acre plot. As and when older properties came on the market they were snapped up, demolished, and replaced with multimillion-pound mansions, with the result that only the word’s richest families could afford to live there.
The president of Kazakhstan had paid £50 million for his mansion in 2008 but many in the street were now valued at double that figure. Ten of the houses were owned by the Saudi royal family with a collective value of almost a billion pounds, and the Sultan of Brunei’s residence there was rumoured to have solid gold toilets and baths.
The houses that Shepherd drove by were a strange mix. There were designs based on traditional Greek and Roman styles with towering columns and triangular pediments, but there were also huge modern cubes of steel and glass and massive country houses that would have been more at home on a Scottish grouse moor. Most were hidden by high walls and electric gates and all had the warning signs of private security firms predominantly displayed.
Shepherd had often driven down the street and was always struck by the thought that the mansions resembled prisons. He couldn’t imagine a more soulless place to live. The residents usually flew in by private jet and were taken to their luxurious mansions by limousine to be protected by high walls and guards. There would be no popping around to a neighbour’s for a chat. In fact no one ever walked down The Bishops Avenue and if anyone did decide to take a stroll they’d be under CCTV and human scrutiny every step of the way.
Grechko’s mansion was about halfway down the avenue. It was fronted by a brick wall that was a good ten feet high and there was a black metal wheeled gate. He pulled up and sounded his horn. The gate steadfastly refused to move and he blipped the horn again. There was a loud clicking sound and then the gate slowly rattled back, revealing a drive a hundred metres long leading to a sandstone mansion with half a dozen towering chimneys. There were tennis courts to the left of the house and a double-door garage to the right.
As the gate withdrew, Shepherd edged the car forward. He had barely moved a dozen feet when a large man in a black suit appeared in front of the car holding up his hand. ‘Turn off the engine!’ he shouted.
Shepherd wound down the window. ‘Tony Ryan,’ he said. ‘Dmitry Popov is expecting me.’
‘Turn off the engine and get out of the car!’ the man shouted again. He was short, probably not much more than five foot seven, but he was broad shouldered and had bulging biceps that strained at the arms of his suit. He was wearing impenetrable Oakley wraparound sunglasses and had a Bluetooth earpiece in his left ear. Shepherd recognised him as Timofei Domashevich, one of the recruits to the security team. From his attitude it looked as if he had something to prove.
Shepherd pulled his Tony Ryan warrant card from his jacket pocket and held it out. ‘I’m a cop,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Dmitry Popov.’ The gate started to rattle closed behind him.
A hand grabbed at the handle of the X5 and yanked the door open. ‘Out!’ said a second man. He was tall, a good foot taller than the first man, and wearing a similar suit, shades and earpiece. It was Konstantin Serov. According to the file he’d read, Serov had been with Grechko for almost ten years. Shepherd realised there was no point in arguing. He put his warrant card away and released his seat belt. He stepped down out of the four-by-four but his feet had hardly touched the ground before the man had spun Shepherd around and pushed him against the car. ‘Hey, go easy!’ shouted Shepherd, but as he put his hands on the roof to steady himself the bodyguard roughly kicked his legs apart.
A third bodyguard appeared on the other side of the car. It was Alina Podolski, the only female member of the security team. Like the other two bodyguards she was wearing a black suit but her white shirt was tieless and open at the neck. She stood watching him with amused pale blue eyes, her arms folded. She had short blond hair with a fringe that reached down past her eyebrows and her red lipstick matched the colour of her nails.
Shepherd flashed her a tight smile as hands roughly patted him down. He decided not to tell them that he was armed, he figured they might as well discover it for themselves. A few seconds later a hand patted the Glock in its holster. Serov shouted something that sounded like ‘pistolet’ which Shepherd assumed was Russian for ‘gun’. He held the Glock in the air and waved it around for the rest of the bodyguards to see.