Dead Men (35 page)

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.

‘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 & 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 . . .’

‘Is there anything in particular you wanted? Or is this purely social?’

‘Elaine’s a good friend of mine,’ said Maplethorpe.

‘I know that.’

‘I was best man at their wedding.’

‘I know that, too.’

Maplethorpe’s eyes narrowed. ‘How?’