The third album, the white one, was filled with wedding pictures. The first was familiar – he had seen it on the bookcase in the sitting room. The second was a group photograph of everyone at the wedding, more than a hundred people. John Maplethorpe was standing next to Robbie Carter.
In the middle of the album he found a photograph of Carter with five men and, again, Maplethorpe was standing next to him. He must have been best man, Shepherd thought, and the others were ushers. There were pictures of Elaine with her parents, Carter with his parents, Elaine with the bridesmaids, the couple inside the church and in the churchyard. Shepherd had a similar album of his own wedding. Like Elaine, he kept it in the attic. He couldn’t throw it away, but neither could he bear to open it.
Under the third album he found five framed photographs. Two had been taken at the wedding – in one Robbie was holding her under a cherry tree in full blossom, and in the other he and Maplethorpe were both planting a kiss on her cheek. The other three were of Timmy as a baby in his mother’s arms, as a toddler, grinning at the camera, and in his school uniform.
Underneath the photographs lay a small bubble-wrapped package, which Shepherd opened carefully. Inside he found a stainless-steel Omega watch and a gold wedding band on a thin gold chain. They had obviously belonged to her husband and for some time at least she had worn the ring round her neck. Shepherd felt like a grave robber. Elaine had loved her man with all her heart, and he knew he had no right to root through her possessions. He kept Sue’s jewellery in a box in his wardrobe, next to his gun and ammunition, and knew how he’d feel if a stranger ever touched it. He rewrapped the watch and the ring, then put them on top of the framed photographs.
He turned back to the trunk and took out several newspapers, all from 1996, with Robbie Carter’s photograph on the front pages. Underneath them were two hardback journals with the RUC crest on the front. Shepherd flicked through them – lists of dates and times, people Carter had met and places he’d been to. In notes of meetings with informers he had used codewords in place of names. He scanned a few entries but they were innocuous.
A red wool scarf came next, but when Shepherd picked it up his eyes widened. A box of ammunition lay beneath it, .357 rounds made by an American company, PMC. He opened it. Inside, there were spaces for fifty bullets. Shepherd quickly counted those that remained. Twenty-six. Two dozen were missing. He took one out and slipped it into his pocket.
The doorbell buzzed and Shepherd froze. Instinctively he switched off the light even though there was no chance of it being seen from the outside. His heart pounded, even though he knew there was nothing to worry about. Elaine would hardly be ringing her own doorbell.
He replaced the contents of the trunk, taking care to put them in the position he’d found them. He relocked it and went down the ladder, pushed it back into place and closed the trapdoor. Then he crept into the bedroom. A dark saloon car was driving away from the house.
He hurried downstairs, reset the burglar alarm, went outside and locked the front door. He hadn’t found a gun but the ammunition was worrying. Why would Elaine keep it if she didn’t have a gun? There was something else too. The Omega watch had been ticking. It was a self-winding model, which meant that after a day or two in the trunk it would have stopped. It had been rewound or even worn in the past couple of days.
Hassan Salih thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. A cold wind blew down the Thames, rippling the muddy brown waters. On the south side of the river the giant London Eye turned slowly, giving the tourists in its capsules the best view of the city. The sky was cloudless, as blue as it was above Salih’s native Palestine, but the temperature was at least thirty degrees lower.
Salih glanced over his shoulder, but he was already sure he wasn’t being followed. London was a great place to hide. He had read somewhere that a third of its inhabitants had been born overseas. It was a city of foreigners, a city of strangers. There was no such thing as a typical Londoner any more, so no one stuck out.
The Russian was sitting on a wooden bench that overlooked the river. He blew smoke as Salih sat down next to him and gestured at the giant wheel with his cigar. ‘It has to be the mother of all targets, doesn’t it?’ he said. Salih assumed that the question was rhetorical so he said nothing. ‘I mean, its full name is the British Airways London Eye, so blowing it up would be on a par with bringing down a 747. And you’d probably kill as many people.’
‘Are you planning a terrorist atrocity?’ asked Salih. ‘I didn’t think it was your style.’
‘Nor my area of expertise,’ said the Russian. ‘I leave that sort of thing to your kinsfolk. But what do you think? Four suicide-bombers? Blow up individual pods? Or a massed attack at the bottom to see if you could bring down the entire structure. Can you imagine what it would look like? One big bang and the wheel slams into the Thames. Everyone on it would be killed, guaranteed. And such an image! That’s what al-Qaeda wants – images. They didn’t care about the three thousand or so who died in the Twin Towers. They wanted that image of the buildings on fire, then collapsing. Same with the attacks on the Tube. It’s a symbol of the city, and their attacks are all about symbolism.’ He blew smoke, then jabbed his cigar towards the giant wheel. ‘And over there, my friend, is one hell of a symbol.’
‘I’ve no interest in terrorist attacks or symbolism,’ said Salih. ‘The only symbols I care about are those found on banknotes.’
The Russian guffawed and slapped Salih’s knee. ‘We are alike in that respect, my friend.’ He took out a leather cigar case and offered it to Salih, who shook his head. ‘You don’t smoke?’ asked Merkulov.
‘A hookah pipe sometimes,’ said Salih. ‘I like my smoke sweet and fragrant.’
Merkulov put the cigar case back inside his coat. His hand reappeared with a gleaming white envelope, which he gave to Salih. ‘She’s in Belfast,’ he said. ‘At least, she was this morning. She’s moving backwards and forwards between Northern Ireland and London. She visits Glasgow every two weeks.’
Salih opened the envelope and took out three computer printouts. One was a list of phone calls made and received with the date and time of each. The second showed the location of the mobile when the calls had been made and received. The third was a list of landline locations.
A group of Japanese tourists walked past, heading for a booth that offered boat trips along the river. ‘And what about getting the locations of the mobile numbers she’s been communicating with?’ asked Salih.
Merkulov grimaced. ‘That’s tough and expensive. If you want that done you’ll have to tell me which numbers to check and we’ll do them one by one.’
Salih studied the list. ‘She’s been calling one mobile number a lot while she’s in Belfast. Can you get me a list of calls made and received from that phone? Say, another five thousand pounds?’
‘You don’t need locations?’
‘Just the numbers at this stage.’
‘Then five will be okay,’ said the Russian.
Salih handed him an envelope. ‘Here’s twenty on account.’
The Russian put it into his pocket. ‘It is always a pleasure to do business with a professional like yourself,’ he said. ‘Be careful, old friend. I wouldn’t want to lose such a good customer.’ He grunted as he stood up and blew a cloud of blue-grey smoke towards the Thames. Then he walked off in the direction of the Houses of Parliament.
Salih watched him go. The Russian’s legs moved awkwardly as if he was having problems with his hips. Merkulov was in his late sixties, but he was in a business where age was no barrier to success. All that mattered was the quality of the information he traded. Salih’s profession was much more age-dependent: his survival depended on his fitness and performance. He reckoned he had another five years ahead of him, ten at most. By the time he was forty he would be either retired or dead.