‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I mean it, Spider. There’s a lot of very hard men in that city, and I’m not just talking about the paramilitaries.’ Sharpe cut the connection.
Tariq pulled in at the side of the road and consulted the street map for the twentieth time since he’d left London. The gun and silencer were in the glove box, with a pair of binoculars. He still wasn’t sure where and when he was going to kill Daniel Shepherd. He kept having to fight the urge to phone Salih and ask his advice, but he knew he was being tested and that Salih would see any contact as a sign of weakness. Salih hadn’t given him a photograph of the man he was supposed to kill. All he had was a name and address. Tariq knew that first he had to check out the house, find out what Shepherd looked like and what car he drove. Then he could decide on the when and where.
He ran his finger along the route to Shepherd’s street. It was trembling and he fought to keep his hand steady. If he was shaking now, how would he be when he was pointing his gun at Shepherd? Or at the man’s family? He clenched and unclenched his hand, then willed the shaking to stop. He could do what Salih wanted, and once he had proved himself, Salih would teach him everything else he needed to know.
Tariq put the map on the passenger seat. He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror. He had washed out the styling gel and given himself a parting. He was wearing a checked shirt, cargo pants and brown Hush Puppies. He had left his gold chains at home. He bared his teeth and snarled, then grinned. Anyone who saw him would think he was a nonentity, a waiter in an Indian restaurant or a shelf-filler at a corner shop. Nobody would suspect he was a killer. A stone-cold killer. ‘I’m going to kill you, Daniel Shepherd,’ he said to his reflection. ‘I’m going to put a bullet in your head. Then I’m going to kill your family.’
A horn sounded behind him and Tariq jumped. It was a delivery van. The horn sounded again as the van sped by. The driver waved at a woman pushing a pram along the pavement. Tariq’s heart was pounding and his hands were shaking again. He put them on the steering-wheel, took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then exhaled slowly.
He put the car in gear, had a final look at the map, then pulled away from the kerb. He drove slowly and indicated at every turn, even though there was little traffic. When he reached Shepherd’s road he drove slowly until he saw a house number. Shepherd’s was five away. Tariq accelerated; he didn’t want it to be obvious that he was looking for something. He glanced to his left as he passed the house, a two-storey cottage with a small garden at the front. There was a separate garage, with a dark green Honda CRV and a black BMW SUV parked outside it.
He drove to the end of the road and turned left. He needed a vantage point, somewhere he could get an overall view of the house and see who came and went. He stopped the car again and reached for the map.
Shepherd’s personal mobile rang just before midday. It was Jimmy Sharpe. They arranged to meet at Belfast airport, and an hour later Shepherd was sitting next to his colleague with a cup of cappuccino and an almond croissant in front of him. Sharpe had a wheeled black carry-on case at his feet.
‘I don’t suppose I can put this trip on expenses, can I?’ said Sharpe.
‘I’ll see you right,’ said Shepherd.
‘What about all the booze I had to buy to lubricate his tongue last night?’ said Sharpe. ‘He could drink for Scotland.’
‘I’ll see you right,’ said Shepherd. ‘Curry’s on me next time we’re in London. Now, what did Staniford tell you?’
‘It’s messy,’ said Sharpe, ‘and from what he says, it’s going to get messier. You know what the Historical Enquiries Team is doing, right?’
‘Investigating all the murders that took place during the Troubles.’
‘Right. All three thousand two hundred and sixty-eight deaths since nineteen sixty-eight. Every case is being looked at and, where necessary, re-examined. Half of the murders committed during the Troubles are still unsolved. You had Catholics killing Protestants, Protestants killing Catholics, Catholics and Protestants killing the police and security services, and vice versa. The HET team is looking for miscarriages of justice, and at cold cases that still have to be solved.’
‘And they’ve brought in outsiders like Staniford because they won’t be tainted by the old regime.’
‘Pretty much. HET is made up of two teams, one team made up of outsiders, the other made up of locals, former RUC now PSNI.’ He grinned. ‘You know they were going to call it the Northern Ireland Police Service until they realised that the newspapers would talk about the bad guys being grabbed by the NIPS?’
‘Stick to the point, Razor. You’ve got a plane to catch.’ Shepherd sipped his cappuccino.
‘So, HET starts at ’sixty-eight and is working its way to the end of hostilities. The locals are doing the non-controversial cases. Staniford and his colleagues look at the ones that might benefit from an outsider’s eye. And they’ve given Staniford one of the hottest potatoes to deal with.’ He paused to make sure he had Shepherd’s undivided attention, then leant across the table. ‘Back in the late eighties and early nineties, RUC Special Branch was passing information to Loyalist paramilitaries. Information that led directly to the assassination of IRA members. Staniford is trying to identify the officers involved.’
‘With a view to prosecution?’
‘The powers-that-be want to show they’re being evenhanded,’ said Sharpe. ‘If they’re investigating murders by the IRA, they want to clear up any RUC-sponsored killings as well.’
Shepherd picked at his croissant. ‘That is messy,’ he said.
‘It gets messier,’ said Sharpe. ‘Seems that the funding for the RUC’s intelligence operations came from our very own MI5.’
‘MI5 was funding an RUC operation to use Protestant killers to murder IRA members? If ever there was a case for letting sleeping dogs lie, that would be it, don’t you think?’
Sharpe shook his head. ‘Nah, the powers-that-be want every case wrapped up so there can’t be any comeback down the line that would give either side an excuse to start shooting and bombing again. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get all the dirty laundry washed and hung out to dry.’
‘And now Staniford’s looking at Robbie Carter’s murder?’
‘I couldn’t press Colin too hard without tipping him off that my interest’s personal. But from what he told me, Robbie Carter probably wasn’t whiter than white.’
‘Oh, shit.’ Shepherd sighed.
‘Yeah,’ said Sharpe. ‘Staniford’s trying to put Carter in the frame for a number of killings in the late eighties and early nineties, maybe not as the triggerman but as part of an RUC conspiracy.’
‘This just gets better and better,’ said Shepherd.
‘Come on, Spider, you know how murky Ireland’s been over the years. Your old mob pretty much ran shoot-to-kill operations all over the North.’
‘Allegedly.’
‘Aye, allegedly. Well the RUC, allegedly, decided that the odds had swung so heavily against the Loyalists that they were justified in giving them a little support now and then.’
‘And how did this come to light?’
Sharpe took a quick look at his watch. There was just over an hour before his flight was due to leave. ‘Detective superintendent by the name of Scott Devlin killed himself two years ago. Nothing untoward, he had terminal cancer and the doctors had done all they could. They gave him the phone number of a Macmillan nurse and sent him home to die, basically. Devlin decided there was no point in hanging around so he took a mouthful of water, put his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. It wasn’t exactly a cry for help.’
Putting a gun in your mouth and pulling the trigger wasn’t a guaranteed way of ending your life, but doing it with a mouthful of water meant your head literally exploded. ‘He leave a note?’ asked Shepherd.