He cleared the search engine and entered the Virginia Water address with the name ‘Charlotte’. He hit the search button and, almost immediately, the address popped up with two names above it. Charlotte Pickering and Graham Pickering. Salih muttered a prayer, thanking Allah for all his works. Charlotte Pickering was almost certainly Charlotte Button.
‘Got you,’ he muttered.
Shepherd was stretched out on the sofa watching an episode of Midsomer Murders when his mobile rang. It was Button. ‘We’ve got a problem, Spider.’
Shepherd squinted at the digital display on his wristwatch. It was just after three thirty in the afternoon. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Gerry Lynn was murdered last night near Dublin.’
‘Shit.’
‘Shit is right. Now, tell me you’ve got Elaine Carter under surveillance.’
‘No can do, Charlie. She’s not at home and I haven’t seen her all day.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Home.’
‘I’m coming round.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
‘She’s not there, you said.’
‘I know but-’
‘Stay put, Spider. I’ll be there within the hour.’ The line went dead.
Shepherd made himself a mug of coffee and went on watching Inspector Barnaby. Like most television shows Midsomer Murders bore almost no relation to reality. Two polite middle-class detectives were knocking on the doors of well-kept cottages asking questions over cups of tea and cucumber sandwiches. In the real world ninety per cent of murders were solved within the first hour or so of the victims’ deaths. More often than not a family member or business acquaintance had killed them, and the motive boiled down to anger brought on by money, revenge or sex, with drugs or alcohol fuelling it. Usually there was no real detective work involved. It wasn’t easy to take a life and most people who killed were immediately stricken with remorse. They’d stay with the body until the police came or walk into a police station and confess. Those who tried to cover their tracks were usually caught because a few simple questions asked of the deceased’s nearest and dearest would throw up the names of any suspects. Then it was simply a matter of nailing down where they had been at the time of death. Rarely was there any mystery to be solved.
One of the nice middle-class detectives was about to reveal who the murderer was when Shepherd’s doorbell rang. He muted the television’s sound and went to open the front door.
Button was wearing a fawn belted raincoat over a dark suit and carrying a Prada bag. She walked past him and down the hall to the kitchen. ‘Got any wine?’ she asked. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Red or white?’
‘I don’t care what colour it is.’ She took off her coat, threw it over a chair and sat at the kitchen table. She put her head in her hands.
Shepherd opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Frascati. Button groaned when she saw the label. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’
‘There’s champagne,’ said Shepherd. ‘Elaine gave it to me. But I like Frascati. It’s crisp, clean, and you can drink it with anything.’
Button laughed. ‘Just pour it, Spider.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Shepherd, as he uncorked the wine.
‘The Garda Siochana called it in last night,’ said Button. ‘They found the bodies on a farm in County Dublin.’
‘Bodies?’
‘Lynn and his two IRA minders. The guy who owned the farm, Jonas Filbin, was in gaol with Lynn and was released under the Good Friday Agreement at about the same time. He moved south and took over the family farm. Lynn and his minders had left and were heading back to Belfast. There was a Land Rover in a ditch on the road outside. Looks like they stopped to see what was going on and the minders were shot through the car windows. Lynn either got out or was forced out and was walked into a field. A bullet in each knee and one in the back of the head. Filbin heard the shots but the Garda took their time getting to the scene and the killer was long gone.’
‘Killer or killers? One woman taking out three men?’
‘Don’t get sexist on me, Spider. You’re starting to sound like your dinosaur of a colleague Jimmy Sharpe.’ There was a packet of Marlboro on the table and she reached for it, then plainly had second thoughts. ‘He sends his regards, by the way.’
‘I can’t see Elaine Carter taking on three IRA killers in a shoot-out,’ Shepherd said. He pushed the cigarettes towards her.
Button picked up the packet and took one out. Shepherd lit it for her. ‘The driver was shot in the back of the head, the guy in the back seat took a double-tap to the chest and didn’t even have his hand on his gun,’ she said. ‘Lynn wasn’t armed. It was hardly a shoot-out.’
Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. ‘I don’t want to get all forensic on you, but if this happened in a field, there must have been footprints.’
‘It happened in Ireland, and they’re not as forensically minded as we are,’ said Button. ‘Half a dozen of the Garda’s finest were trampling around before anyone thought to cordon off the area.’
‘But the same gun was used?’
‘They’re going to check the bullets and will send us the results, but they’re insisting on doing the work themselves. The murders took place on Irish soil so we’ve got no claim on the evidence. But the way Lynn was shot makes it a fairly safe bet that it’s the same killer. Now, talk me through this. When did you last see her?’
‘Yesterday evening.’
‘So she’d gone when you got up this morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘But she could have left last night?’ She looked around for an ashtray.
Shepherd retrieved one from the draining-board and put it in front of her. ‘Her car’s still in the driveway,’ he said. ‘She either walked or called a cab, and before you ask I didn’t see a cab.’
Button put her still-burning cigarette into the ashtray and ran her hands through her hair. ‘This is one hell of a screw-up, Spider.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘I’m not saying it’s your fault – I’m not saying it’s anyone’s fault – but the shit has really hit the fan. We were tasked with monitoring the single suspect in a multiple-murder case and now it looks as if she’s killed again.’
‘Assuming it’s her.’
‘It’s a hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? The one day she’s not here Gerry Lynn’s blown away. A shot in each leg and one to the head. Same way her husband died.’
‘She travels a lot, so it’s not unusual for her to be away,’ said Shepherd. ‘She’s always driving to see clients.’
‘But her car’s still here.’ She picked up her cigarette and drew deeply on it.
‘Maybe she took the train. Look, we still don’t know she’s the killer, Charlie. And nothing she’s said or done has suggested to me that she is.’
‘Except that you can’t account for her whereabouts last night when Lynn was being marched into a field and executed.’
Shepherd held up his hands. ‘Hey, you know as well as I do that you can’t have effective surveillance one-on-one,’ he said. ‘If you’d wanted her watched every minute you should have put multiple teams on her. There’s only me here, and even if I sat by the window all day I’ve still got to sleep.’
‘I said I’m not blaming you, just trying to work out where we go from here.’
‘She’ll be back. I’ll talk to her, sound her out.’
‘You’re getting closer to her?’ She picked up the cigarette, took a drag and blew smoke.