Yokely told Hepburn the number Merkulov had given him. ‘The phone belongs to a Palestinian who uses a number of names,’ said Yokely. ‘The one I have is Hassan Salih but that doesn’t count for anything. He’s in the UK at the moment, but there might be a Belfast connection. I need to know every call he makes and receives, and a location. I also need you to get a voice print next time he makes a call and run it through the computers. See if you can get a match.’
‘You think this guy’s active?’
‘Oh, he’s very active, I’m just not sure in what field. That’s why I’d like you to keep it off the books for now, until I know for sure what he’s up to.’
‘I hear and obey,’ said Hepburn.
‘I’d appreciate an SMS on my cellphone anytime you get anything,’ said Yokely. ‘I might be under some time pressure here.’
Hepburn raised his glass. ‘See you in Crypto City some time,’ he said.
‘You can bank on it,’ said Yokely. He winked and ended the conference call. He swiped his ID card through the reader to get out of the secure room. The marine was still holding the cup of coffee. Yokely took it from him. ‘Thanks, son,’ he said cheerfully. ‘All’s well with the world and we can sleep easy in our beds tonight.’
‘Sir, glad to hear it, Sir,’ said the marine, stone-faced.
‘You and me both, son,’ said Yokely.
Shepherd was lying on the sofa reading the Belfast Telegraph when his doorbell rang.
He found Elaine, wearing dark glasses, outside. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Sorry for what?’ he asked, genuinely confused. The flowers he’d bought for her by way of apology were on the coffee-table in the sitting room.
‘Snapping at you. I drank too much wine. Sorry.’
Shepherd put his hand on his heart. ‘Elaine, I was ringing your bell this morning to apologise for the way I behaved. It should be me saying sorry.’
‘I was drunk,’ she repeated.
‘And I was an arsehole,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t open the door when you rang,’ she said. She gestured at her sunglasses. ‘I did some more drinking when I got home and my eyes look like the proverbial piss-holes.’
‘Can we stop apologising to each other?’ said Shepherd.
‘Only if you let me buy you lunch,’ said Elaine.
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘When?’
‘Now, of course. Or do you have a better offer?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘My better offer is thawing in the sink before I microwave it.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Elaine.
She drove into the city centre and down a side road Shepherd didn’t know. She parked with two wheels on the pavement and switched off the engine. On his left Shepherd saw a line of metal railings, and on his right a brick building, whose lower windows were covered with mesh screens similar to the ones he’d seen protecting armoured cars in Iraq. ‘Where are we?’ he said.
‘What’s wrong?’
Shepherd’s pulse raced. They were alone in the street and he couldn’t even hear traffic in the distance. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
She slid a hand round his neck and moved her face closer to his. ‘You’re not still thinking I’m a mad woman out for revenge, are you?’
He could see his face reflected in the lenses of her sunglasses. ‘Of course not.’
She kissed his cheek. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Come on, I’m starving.’
They got out of the car, and she pushed open a red door that led into a fish-and-chip shop that looked as if it hadn’t been decorated since the fifties. From behind the counter a middle-aged man peered over the top of a pair of reading glasses and waved a spatula at them. ‘Elaine, love, how are you?’
‘Hungry,’ said Elaine. ‘How’s the haddock?’
‘The cod’s better. Sit yourself down and I’ll get you something special.’
Shepherd followed her to the seating area – three lines of wooden booths. He sat down opposite her on a hard wooden bench. A glass salt cellar and a bottle of vinegar stood between them on the table. ‘I’ve been coming here since before I was born,’ said Elaine. ‘My mum used to have cravings for the batter when she was pregnant. My dad used to bring her in and she’d peel the batter off the fish and eat it. I still come with my parents once a month.’
The walls were lined with wood panels and the room was bright with utilitarian fluorescent lights. A fan heater had been screwed to one wall close to the ceiling. A printed sign read optimistically ‘WE DO NOT ACCEPT ?50 OR ?100 NOTES’. Another sign offered garlic mayo, pepper sauce and sweet chilli sauce for fifty pence a portion. A woman in her sixties, wearing a padded anorak over a black and white checked apron, came with the food, two oval plates piled high with battered cod and chips. She put down a handful of sachets of ketchup on the table. ‘I know you like your tomato sauce, Elaine,’ she said. ‘Mugs of tea?’
‘Lovely, thanks.’ Elaine picked up her knife and fork and grinned at Shepherd. ‘Tuck in, and tell me it’s not the best fish and chips you’ve ever tasted.’
‘I’m still getting over the image of your mother picking off the batter,’ said Shepherd.
‘The fish wasn’t wasted. My dad took it home,’ she said.
Shepherd cut off a piece of fish and popped it into his mouth. The batter was crisp and the fish perfectly cooked. ‘Excellent,’ he said. As he chewed, a large man in a brown trenchcoat appeared in the doorway. John Maplethorpe waved and came over to them.
‘You’re not following me, are you, John?’ asked Elaine, standing up to kiss him on both cheeks.
Maplethorpe nodded at Shepherd over her shoulder. ‘Now, why would I be doing that?’ he said. ‘What’s with the movie-star shades?’
‘Hangover,’ she said. ‘Join us.’
‘I’ll just have a mug of tea, but I won’t eat,’ said Maplethorpe, squeezing on to the bench seat next to her. ‘Good to see you again, Jamie,’ he said.
‘And you,’ responded Shepherd.
‘I saw Elaine’s car outside so I thought I’d stop by for a chat. This place hasn’t changed in . . . how many years?’
‘More than I can remember,’ said Elaine. ‘John, Robbie and I used to come in at least once a week for lunch, if I could drag them out of the office.’
Maplethorpe patted his expanding waistline. ‘Those were the days when we used to burn off the calories as fast we ate them,’ he said. ‘Now they go straight to my gut and stay there.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Elaine. ‘I’m still wearing the same size jeans as I was back then.’
The waitress came back to their table, notebook in hand, and looked disappointed when Maplethorpe only ordered a mug of tea. ‘Tell you what, bring me cod and chips as well,’ he said, ‘but make it a small one.’ As she walked away, Maplethorpe rested his arms on the table and interlinked his chunky fingers. ‘You heard what happened to Gerry Lynn?’ he asked Elaine.
‘Good bloody riddance,’ she said.
‘Here’s to that,’ said Maplethorpe.
‘Do they know who did it?’ she asked.
Shepherd sipped his tea as he watched Elaine carefully. The question seemed genuine.
‘It happened in the South so the Irish cops are handling it, which probably means they’ll never find out,’ said Maplethorpe. ‘The Garda are the original Keystone Cops,’ he said to Shepherd.
‘We saw it on the news,’ said Shepherd.
The waitress returned with Maplethorpe’s fish and chips and a mug of tea. Maplethorpe groaned when he saw the size of the fish, which was several inches longer than the plate. ‘It’s put the wind up Noel Kinsella, I can tell you that much,’ he said. He speared a chip on his fork and stuffed it into his mouth.
‘Good. Maybe he’ll go back to the States with his bitch of a wife.’
‘Funny you should say that,’ said Maplethorpe. ‘According to the guys babysitting him, she wants to get the hell out of Belfast.’
‘Please tell me you’re not protecting that slimy bastard,’ said Elaine.