Rough Justice (36 page)

‘Bastard!’ Talovic hissed.

Shepherd twisted the arm further up the man’s back and Talovic gasped. ‘I mean it,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll break it.’ He pushed Talovic away from the door.

Talovic staggered forward, then turned around to glare at Shepherd. ‘I’ll get you for this,’ he said.

‘And if you threaten me again, I’ll report you to the police,’ said Shepherd.

Talovic sneered at him. ‘You think I’m scared of the police?’

‘I think you’re angry and confused and I think you need to go home and calm down,’ said Shepherd. ‘If the police have a problem with your boy, go and talk to them.’ He went back inside and closed the door.

‘Who was that?’ asked Liam, as Shepherd went back into the kitchen.

‘Peter Talovic’s father,’ said Shepherd. He picked up his mug.

‘What did he want?’ asked Liam.

Shepherd didn’t want to worry his son but he didn’t want to lie to him. ‘He’s not very happy about the police knowing about the video, that’s all.’

‘So why did he come here?’

‘He just wanted to talk to me,’ said Shepherd.

‘What about?’

‘His son.’

‘Peter?’

‘He’s upset that the police want to talk to Peter. But it’s okay, he’s gone now. He was just a bit upset – he’ll calm down.’ Shepherd looked at his watch. ‘What time’s football this afternoon?’

‘Same as always, Dad, two o’clock start, but Mr Finch wants us there at one.’

‘Great,’ said Shepherd. ‘Gives us time to get some practice in. But just to let you know, I’ll be out for a drink tonight with some friends from the SAS. And I’m going to be busy all day tomorrow.’

‘Work?’

‘Sorry,’ said Shepherd.

‘But it’s Sunday.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd again. ‘I’ll be leaving really early, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. But this afternoon I’m all yours, okay?’

Liam shrugged. ‘Okay, no problem.’

‘I’ll make it up to you,’ said Shepherd.

‘Dad, it’s okay,’ said Liam. ‘I’m not a kid any more.’

‘You’re twelve.’

‘I’m almost thirteen and then I’ll be a teenager.’

‘And I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to that.’

Katra put Liam’s breakfast on the table. ‘What do you want, Dan?’

‘I’ll have a shower and then a bacon sandwich would be great. I don’t know what time I’ll be back tonight so don’t wait up. And I’ll be out first thing tomorrow morning. Busy all day.’

‘You work too hard,’ she said, opening the fridge and taking out a pack of best back bacon.

‘And make sure he does his homework,’ said Shepherd.

‘Dad . . .’ moaned Liam.

‘I will do, Dan,’ she said.

He picked up his wallet and took out the business card that Detective Sergeant Hollis had given him at Hereford police station. ‘Just in case that guy comes back when I’m not here, here’s the number of the policeman I spoke to. Just call him.’

Katra frowned. ‘Do you think he will?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘It’s just in case,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Mr Talovic’ll calm down.’

The Swan was on the outskirts of Hereford, well away from the Stirling Lines barracks and therefore not one of the watering holes that was generally frequented by the Regiment. It was a black and white building with a slate roof and a garden behind it, with a red-metal climbing frame and a set of swings. Shepherd parked his BMW X3 in the pub car park and walked in through the back door. It was just after six o’clock in the evening. The Major was sitting at a corner table with Jack Bradford. Shepherd ordered a black coffee. ‘Everything okay with Billy?’ he asked.

‘We left him with his feet up watching the footie,’ said Jack. ‘The boss has filled the fridge with lager so he’s a happy bunny.’

Shepherd looked at his watch. ‘We should eat now before we head off,’ he said. ‘It’s an easy drive to Holyhead at this time so we’ve plenty of time. We can catch some sleep on the ferry.’

‘What have you told your boy?’

‘I’ve said I’m popping out for a drink with friends and that I’ll be back late. And that I’ll be working all day tomorrow with an early start. There’s nothing unusual in that. The au pair will take him over to see his grandparents.’

‘How is the lovely Katra?’ asked Jack.

‘She’s fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘She asks about you all the time.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘No, you moron,’ said Shepherd. ‘Why would she?’

‘Because I’m the better-looking of the Bradford boys, always have been.’

‘You’re identical,’ said Shepherd.

‘Ah, but you’ve never seen us naked.’

Shepherd rapped on the table with his knuckles. ‘And touch wood, I never will,’ he said. ‘Anyway, they’re expecting me back late Sunday, which is fine. They’ll both be asleep by the time I get in.’

‘Looks like we’re all sorted,’ said the Major, picking up a menu. ‘Now, what’s good here? I’m starving.’

Shepherd left his car in a brightly lit side-street a fifteen-minute walk from the ferry terminal. He and the Major were carrying holdalls containing washbags and a change of clothes. They walked together through the streets of Holyhead. It was just after one o’clock in the morning and the pavements of the town were pretty much deserted, though a constant stream of cars and trucks headed towards the terminal. Holyhead didn’t seem to have prospered from its association with the ferries: there were few restaurants and bars and the town had a dingy, depressing feel.

All Shepherd had to show at check-in was the computer printout of his on-line booking; they weren’t asked to show identification and their belongings weren’t searched. They waited with another two dozen or so foot passengers, most of whom appeared to be Polish construction workers. Shepherd and the Major had dressed to blend in and were wearing heavy workboots, faded jeans and donkey jackets. No one gave them a second look as they sat down in the waiting area and stretched out their legs.

‘You’ve done the ferry a few times?’ asked the Major.

‘It’s the easiest way into Ireland, North or South,’ said Shepherd. ‘There are no passport checks and Customs are more concerned about what’s in the vehicles than what the passengers are carrying. Most of the drugs and arms brought into Ireland come through the ferries, and probably half the terrorists, too.’

A group of Romanian gypsies walked into the waiting room, the men unshaven and wearing cheap suits, the women with gold hooped earrings and brightly coloured skirts, several holding small babies. They began talking in loud voices and two lit cigarettes, in defiance of a ‘No Smoking’ sign behind them.

‘Makes a change from flying in on a Hercules, which is how I did most of my trips to the North,’ said the Major.

A voice cut in over the Tannoy, informing the foot passengers that they could now board the ferry. The gypsies pushed their way to the front of the queue. Two of the Polish workers objected loudly, but the gypsies ignored them.

Shepherd and the Major joined the end of the queue and walked slowly onto the ferry. They found themselves a couple of seats near the cafeteria and made themselves comfortable. At exactly two thirty in the morning the ferry pulled out into the Irish Sea.

Shepherd woke to the sound of a male voice telling passengers with vehicles that they should make their way down to the parking levels as the ferry would shortly be arriving at the port of Dublin. He sat up. He had been lying across three seats, his head resting on his holdall, and had managed a couple of hours of fitful sleep. The Major was drinking a cup of coffee. ‘Didn’t sleep?’ Shepherd asked, wiping his face with his hands.

‘Your snoring kept me awake.’ He nodded at a second cup on the table in front of Shepherd. ‘I got you a caffeine injection,’ he said.

Shepherd thanked him and sipped the coffee as he watched the ferry glide effortlessly into port.

By the time Shepherd and the Major were walking into the arrivals terminal, cars and trucks were already streaming off the ferry. There were no checks of any kind, immigration or Customs, and less than five minutes after the ferry had docked they were walking out into the cold Dublin air. Martin O’Brien was standing at the side of his Mercedes, the collar of his pea coat turned up against the wind. He shook hands with them both and opened the boot so that they could drop in their holdalls.

‘Everything okay?’ asked Shepherd, as he climbed into the front seat. The Major got into the back and slammed the door.

‘All sorted,’ said O’Brien. He started the engine. ‘Do you want to eat?’

‘I could eat,’ said Shepherd.

‘There’s a café that the market boys use,’ said O’Brien. ‘Full fry-up, plus they do booze in a teacup if you want.’

‘Fry-up sounds the business,’ said the Major.

O’Brien headed away from the terminal, joining a queue of horseboxes that had just driven off the ferry. ‘I got a Transit van, like you wanted,’ said O’Brien. ‘Five years old, Kerry plates – it’s got a fair few miles on the clock but I’ve had it fully checked and serviced and it won’t let you down.’

‘Where is it?’

‘I’ve left in a lock-up, not far from the café we’re going to. The stuff you wanted is in the back.’

‘Including the shorts?’

O’Brien nodded. ‘Two Glocks. I’ve cleaned them and test-fired them and they’re as good as you’ll get.’

‘What’s their provenance?’ asked the Major.

‘They were in an IRA arms cache we came across when I was with the Rangers,’ said O’Brien. ‘We were a bit free and easy back then so me and a couple of the guys kept a few back for a rainy day. I had them wrapped in oilcloth and plastic under a few feet of earth.’

‘I hope the ammunition’s fresh,’ asked Shepherd.

‘It’s fresh and untraceable,’ O’Brien said. ‘Mate of mine runs a logistics company, shipping gear to security contractors in Iraq. He gave me a box of nine mill ammo. I’ve put two clips with each gun.’ He grinned at Shepherd. ‘And before you get all forensic on me, I cleaned the cartridges and the clips.’

‘You’re a star, Martin,’ said the Major. ‘Let me know how much I owe you.’

O’Brien waved his hand dismissively. ‘It’s on me, boss. Forget about it.’

The Major leaned forward and patted O’Brien on the shoulder.

‘Boss, I’m not happy about you and Spider going up North on your own,’ said O’Brien. ‘It’s still bandit country around Newry.’

‘That’s why it’s better if it’s just the two of us,’ said Shepherd. ‘Three men in a car are going to stick out.’

‘I could be close by, watching your back.’

‘We’ll be okay, Martin,’ said the Major. ‘We’ll be back tonight and then we’re straight over the water.’

O’Brien nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

The café was a fifteen-minute drive from the port. It was a single-storey building with wire mesh over the windows and a dozen trucks and vans parked behind it. O’Brien locked the Mercedes and took them inside. They ordered three full breakfasts but declined the elderly waitress’s offer of whiskey in teacups and went for coffee instead. As she walked back to the kitchen, O’Brien leaned forward. ‘So, what’s the story?’ he asked.

‘We’ll be up and down today,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’ll bury them up there and leave the shorts. We come back here for a full clean-up and we’ll torch the van before catching one of the late ferries back. We need somewhere to burn the van, somewhere we won’t attract any attention.’

‘I’ve got the perfect place for you. Old quarry, hasn’t been used for years.’

‘When we’re driving back from the North I’ll call you to arrange the meet,’ said Shepherd.

O’Brien took them to the rear of the Transit van and unlocked the door. There was a green nylon sports bag on the floor of the van next to a tarpaulin. He took a pair of black leather gloves from the pocket of his coat and slipped them on, then unzipped the sports bag. He pulled out a plastic-wrapped bundle and unwrapped the plastic to reveal a piece of oilcloth. Inside it, there were two more cloth-wrapped packages.

Shepherd and the Major put on gloves and O’Brien handed them a package each. Both contained Glock semi-automatics. They checked the guns, and ejected the magazines. Both were fully loaded. The two men rewrapped the weapons and put them back in the sports bag.

‘Everything you wanted is here,’ he said to Shepherd, and pushed aside the tarpaulin. ‘All the fishing gear. I even got you the latest flies – the guy I got them from says the fish will snap them out of your hand.’

Shepherd picked up two brand new spades and examined them.

‘Bought them from a garden centre out in the sticks, no CCTV and I paid in cash,’ O’Brien told him. ‘Just like you said. You’ve got a criminal mind, Spider.’

‘Just making sure that we cover all our tracks,’ said Shepherd. He pulled the tarpaulin back into place and looked at his watch. ‘Speaking of which, tracks is what we’ve got to be making.’

‘And you’re absolutely sure you don’t want me as back-up? Just give me the word – you won’t even know I’m there.’

The Major punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘You’ve done more than enough, Martin,’ he said. ‘We’ll see you later tonight.’

Shepherd climbed into the van’s driver’s seat and turned the ignition key. The engine kicked into life straight away. Shepherd listened to it idle. It sounded fine. O’Brien locked the rear door of the Transit while the Major climbed into the front passenger seat. Then he walked around to the driver’s door. ‘You need anything, you call me,’ he said.

‘Will do, Martin,’ said Shepherd. ‘But if all goes to plan, we’ll be back here in a few hours.’ He drove off. In his wing mirror, he saw O’Brien waving goodbye.

It took less than an hour to reach the border, though there was nothing to mark that they had crossed from Ireland into the United Kingdom. There were no barriers, no police or Customs, no CCTV cameras. The only indication that they had left Ireland was that the road signs were in miles and not kilometres. The Major had a map book open on his lap. ‘We’re well ahead of schedule,’ he said.