‘No. His wife died ten years ago and they had no children. There was no one to leave a note to. It was the gun that triggered the investigation.’ He grinned. ‘No pun intended.’ He pointed at the croissant in front of Shepherd. ‘Are you going to finish that?’ Shepherd pushed the plate towards him. ‘The gun was an automatic, a Browning Hi-power. But it wasn’t his official gun. He’d handed that in when he left the service. Turns out that the gun he used to kill himself had been used in the murders of four IRA men.’
Shepherd grimaced. ‘Unsolved murders, right?’
‘One was, but three were sorted,’ said Sharpe, breaking off a piece of croissant and shoving it into his mouth. ‘The UFF did the actual killings and eight of their men were sent down for them. All are now out under the Good Friday Agreement. The cops have a pretty good idea who did the fourth but the two guys responsible did a runner to the South and are thought to be OTRs in Limerick.’
‘OTRs?’
‘On the run. There’s several dozen IRA men in the States and Ireland who haven’t served any time for their crimes. In theory, they could still be sent down to serve the two-year minimum required under the Good Friday Agreement. Sinn Fein’s trying to thrash out a deal with the British Government to allow the OTRs back.’
‘Hang on, you’re saying the gun was involved in all four killings, but it was different men each time?’
‘Exactly,’ said Sharpe. ‘Which means that the gun went back and forth. It was used in a killing, then given back, used again and returned. Backwards and forwards like a bloody yo-yo.’
‘And it ends up with this guy Devlin.’
‘The question is, did it end with Devlin or did it start with him? That’s what Staniford’s looking at. The suspicion is that Devlin was supplying the weapon and the intel, and that the UFF were doing the dirty work.’
‘And how does this involve Carter?’
‘The second killing took place when Devlin was on holiday with his wife in Spain, ten days after he’d left the country. And Robbie Carter was his aide at the time.’
‘So it’s circumstantial?’
‘Devlin and Carter were tight, from what Staniford’s been told. If Devlin was up to something, it’s unlikely Carter wouldn’t have known about it.’
‘Knowing and taking part are two different things, Razor.’
‘Assuming it was Devlin who was looking after the gun, someone must have given it to the UFF while he was out of the country.’
‘But now both men are dead, what’s the point?’
‘Yeah, that’s what Staniford thinks. But the powers-that-be want to be seen to be even-handed. Every single case has to be closed.’
Shepherd finished his coffee. ‘And how close is he to fingering Carter?’
‘Not very,’ said Sharpe. ‘That’s why he was talking to the wife. He’s tried interviewing the UFF men involved, but they’re not talking. Truth be told, Staniford reckons he’s banging his head against a brick wall.’
‘His sidekick was asking Elaine for her husband’s diaries. I guess he’s trying to pin down where Carter was during all the killings. You don’t think he plans to get a search warrant for the house, do you?’
‘He didn’t mention it. At the moment it’s softly-softly. How is the merry widow, then? Given her one yet?’
‘You’re a class act, Razor.’
‘Best place to get her talking’s in bed, you know that.’
‘Thanks for the tip,’ said Shepherd, standing up, ‘and thanks for talking to Staniford for me.’
‘What are friends for?’ said Sharpe. ‘I’d better be going. Don’t know how long the security checks’ll take. It’s bloody nonsense, isn’t it? Look at me. I’m a middle-aged white male with a Scottish accent. How the hell could anyone think I’d be a bloody suicide-bomber?’
‘Middle-aged?’ repeated Shepherd, in disbelief. ‘What? You’re going to live to ninety-six, are you?’
Sharpe opened his mouth to retort but Shepherd had already walked away.
Liam pretended to kick the ball to his left, but at the last second he shifted his centre of balance and sent it sailing past Billy Bradford. ‘Nice kick!’ called Bradford.
‘I’m on the school team,’ said Liam, as Bradford retrieved the ball from the hedge.
‘I can see why,’ said Bradford. He threw it back to Liam, who caught it on his chest, dropped it to his foot, then kicked it up and headed it half a dozen times before letting it fall to his feet again. Bradford clapped enthusiastically.
‘Billy, what do you want to eat tonight?’ called Katra, from the kitchen door.
‘Bacon sandwich’ll do me fine.’
‘You had that last night,’ said Katra. ‘And this morning for breakfast.’
‘What can I say, sweetheart? I like bacon sandwiches.’
‘You’ve got to eat vegetables,’ said Katra.
‘Put ketchup on it,’ said Bradford.
Katra laughed and went back into the house.
‘Come on, Liam, take your best shot,’ shouted Bradford.
Tariq put down the binoculars. He had parked his hire car on the brow of a hill overlooking the road where Daniel Shepherd lived. Earlier that afternoon he had seen Shepherd get into the dark green Honda CRV with a young woman he had assumed was his wife. They had returned half an hour later with a boy of twelve or thirteen, obviously Shepherd’s son. But Tariq thought the girl could only be in her mid-twenties, which meant she was too young to be the boy’s mother and too old to be his sister. That meant the boy’s mother had gone and the girl was probably Shepherd’s girlfriend. Not that the exact relationship mattered. They were clearly a family, which meant Salih wanted them dead.
The digital clock in the dashboard showed just after five, which meant it wouldn’t be dark for a few hours. He couldn’t stay parked where he was until then. There were several houses nearby and the road was reasonably busy. An old man had walked by twice with a small terrier on a leash and the second time he’d looked at Tariq’s car. Tariq had quickly lowered the binoculars and he was fairly sure that the old man had been curious rather than suspicious, but it was better to be safe than sorry. He knew where the house was, he knew who the targets were. There was nothing to be gained from sitting in the car and watching the house. He decided to drive to the nearest motorway and find a motel. There, he could bathe, pray and prepare himself. Once it was dark he’d come back and keep the house under surveillance until he was sure everyone was asleep. Then he’d do what he had to do.
A silver Volvo was parked outside Shepherd’s house. A man sat in the driving seat, his coat collar turned up. Shepherd slowed as he drove by and recognised the driver. It was John Maplethorpe.
Maplethorpe climbed out of his car as Shepherd parked in front of his garage. ‘How’s it going, Jamie?’ he asked. He put his hands into his coat pockets.
‘Fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘Are you here to see Elaine?’ Her car wasn’t outside her house.
‘Thought I’d drop by and say hello to you, as it happens,’ said Maplethorpe.
‘Sure, come on in,’ said Shepherd. ‘Everything’s okay, yeah?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ said Maplethorpe. His right hand reappeared from his coat pocket. Shepherd tensed, but relaxed when he saw Maplethorpe was holding a packet of Benson amp; Hedges. Maplethorpe lit a cigarette and offered one to Shepherd.
He shook his head. ‘I’m a Marlboro man.’
Maplethorpe chuckled. Shepherd took him into the house. ‘Beer or something stronger?’ he asked, as they went into the sitting room.
‘Have you got whiskey?’
‘Jameson’s,’ said Shepherd.
‘Perfect,’ said Maplethorpe.
‘Ice?’
‘Just a splash of water,’ said Maplethorpe. He stretched out on the sofa.
As Shepherd poured a whiskey and soda for himself, then a whiskey and water for his visitor, he wondered what Maplethorpe wanted. No red flags would have flown when the detective ran a PNC check on Jamie Pierce. He gave Maplethorpe his whiskey, then sat in an armchair facing him. ‘So . . .’ said Shepherd.
‘Yes,’ said Maplethorpe. ‘So . . .’