Spider Shepherd 10 - True Colours (2 page)

Shepherd shook his head. He was far from OK. He opened his mouth to speak but the words were lost as he coughed. Helpless, he saw the dark shape of the Taliban killer move away, inching around the rubble heap and then disappearing into the darkness beyond. He tried to point but all the strength had drained from his arms.

‘I’m on it,’ said Shortt, standing up and firing a burst in the direction of the escaping gunman.

Spider tried to sit up but Mitchell’s big, powerful hand pressed him flat again. ‘Keep still and let me work on you,’ he growled. Mitchell clamped the trauma pad over the wound, compressed it and bound it as tight as he could. ‘Oboe! Oboe! All stations minimise,’ said Mitchell into his mic, SAS-speak ordering all unnecessary traffic off the radios. Mitchell looked down at Shepherd and slapped him gently across the face. ‘Stay with me, Spider. Just stay with me.’

T
here were four of them sitting around the table in the corner of the pub, half-full pints of lager in front of them. A football match was playing on a television mounted above the door but they paid it no attention. Dennis Weaver was holding court. He was a big man gone to fat, with a gut as large as a full-term pregnancy that bumped the table each time he moved. He was wearing an England football shirt and gleaming white Nike trainers but it had been years since he had taken part in any exercise that hadn’t involved lager or cigarettes. Weaver was in full flow, jabbing a nicotine-stained finger in the air to punctuate his angry words. ‘Yasir Chaudhry. The guy’s taking the piss. Did you see him on TV last week? The council knocked two houses together so that he had a place big enough for him and his wife and eight kids.’

‘Bastard,’ muttered Stuart Harris, a heavy-set man with a shaved head and a tattoo of a cobweb across the left-hand side of his neck. He had the words LOVE and HATE tattooed across his knuckles. Like Weaver, he was wearing a football shirt, but his was the claret and blue of West Ham.

‘Then one of the papers finds out that he’s got another wife living nearby in another council house and she’s got four kids. And who’s paying for all his little bastards?’ Weaver jabbed a finger at his own chest. ‘We are,’ he said. ‘Do you think he pays tax? Does he hell. Benefits, that’s what he gets. Benefits and free houses and free health and free schools for his bastard kids.’ Flecks of spittle erupted from between his lips and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before draining his pint. ‘Then do you know what the raghead goes and does? Stands in front of his house and tells a group of his raghead mates that they should all go on benefits. Jihad Seekers Allowance, that’s what he called it. And you know what he called us? Us Brits? Kuffars, that’s what. He hates us, but he’s happy enough to take our money.’ He banged his hand down on the table. Several heads turned to look at him, but just as quickly turned away. Weaver had a reputation as being a man who didn’t like being looked at, in pubs or out of them.

The men at his table all nodded in agreement. ‘Bastards,’ muttered Harris again. ‘Fucking bastards,’ he said, louder this time, as if gaining confidence.

‘Whose round is it?’ said Weaver, pointing at his empty glass.

‘Barry’s up,’ said Harris, gesturing at Barry Connolly, a diminutive Irishman with a straggly moustache and a greying ponytail. He was wearing a battered black leather vest over an Irish rugby shirt and had a pack of cigarette papers and pouch of tobacco on the table in front of him.

‘I got the first round,’ whined Connolly.

‘Bollocks, I got the first one,’ said Harris. ‘You went straight to the shithouse and I got them in. And you were in the shithouse again when Stuart got the second round.’

Connolly rubbed his stomach. ‘I had a bad curry last night, I’ve had the runs all day.’

‘More information than we need,’ said the fourth man at the table. His name was Andy Taylor. Like Harris he had the words LOVE and HATE on his knuckles. The ink had faded over the years and both Es had all but gone. ‘I’ll get them.’ He headed over to the bar, pulling a nylon wallet from the back pocket of his baggy jeans, which were hanging so low his underwear was visible.

‘What’s your problem, Barry?’ Weaver asked Connolly. ‘You’re always ducking your round.’

‘Dennis, mate, I’ll get the next one,’ whined Connolly. ‘Cross my heart.’ He made the sign of the cross on his chest.

‘Make sure you do,’ said Weaver. ‘It’s bad enough with these ragheads sponging off us without you not paying your way.’

‘Short arms and long pockets,’ said Harris. ‘I thought it was the Scots that were tight fisted, not the Paddies.’

‘I’ll get the next one, swear to God,’ said Connolly. He stared sullenly at the floor. A cheer went up from a group of football supporters standing at the bar and they began jumping up and down and punching the air. The men at the table looked up at the television in time to see the goalkeeper retrieving the ball from the back of the net.

‘Who scored?’ asked Harris.

‘Who cares?’ said Weaver. ‘It’s only the bloody Eyeties. Who gives a toss about the Eyeties?’

Taylor returned with four pints of lager and placed them carefully on the table before sitting down.

‘Anyway, tonight’s the night,’ said Weaver. ‘We’re going to burn the bastard out.’

‘Are you serious?’ asked Harris, his hand suspended in the air as he reached for his pint.

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ said Weaver.

Taylor leaned forward, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity. ‘Tonight?’

‘Tonight,’ repeated Weaver. ‘I’ve got the address and I’ve got the petrol. We’re going to burn the bastard’s house down with him and his bastard family in it.’

Taylor formed his right hand into a fist and punched the air. ‘Yes,’ he hissed.

Connolly grinned. ‘Woof!’ he said. ‘Woof, woof, woof!’

Taylor frowned. ‘Woof? What do you mean?’

‘Woof!’ repeated Connolly. ‘It’s the sound that petrol makes when you set fire to it.’ He held up his hands and splayed his fingers as he said ‘woof!’ again. ‘Get it?’

Taylor sneered in contempt. ‘Yeah, I get it.’ He looked at Weaver. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘First, I need you all to hand over your phones,’ said Weaver.

‘Why?’ said Connolly.

‘Because they track phones these days,’ said Weaver. ‘If we go there with our phones the cops will know.’ He grinned. ‘But if we leave them here, it’ll look like we never left the pub.’

‘What, we’re just going to leave them on the table?’ asked Harris. ‘They’ll be gone in a minute.’

‘Give me some credit, mate,’ said Weaver. He reached under the table and pulled out a black Adidas kitbag. ‘We’ll put them in here. The landlord’s a pal, he’ll keep them behind the bar. And there’s half a dozen guys here who’ll swear we never left the place.’ He unzipped the bag and held it open. One by one the men put their mobiles inside. Connolly switched his off and Weaver glared at him in disgust. ‘Didn’t you get what I just said? What’s the point of switching it off? It has to be on so that it shows up.’

Connolly grimaced, switched the phone back on and dropped it into the bag. Taylor tossed in an iPhone and reached for his pint. ‘Don’t forget the other one, Andy,’ said Weaver.

Taylor frowned as if he didn’t understand.

‘You’ve got a Nokia as well.’

‘That’s a throwaway,’ said Taylor. ‘I use it for stuff I don’t want traced. It’s not in my name and I change the SIM card every couple of weeks.’

‘Didn’t realise that selling used cars meant you had to behave like James bloody Bond,’ said Harris. His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you need a throwaway phone for?’

Taylor took out a battered Nokia and dropped it into Weaver’s bag. ‘Let’s just say that sometimes I might sell a motor that’s less than kosher and I wouldn’t want an angry buyer turning up on my doorstep,’ he said.

Weaver zipped up the bag and looked at his watch. It was just after eleven. ‘Right, the pub’s closing at one this morning and it’ll take half an hour to get to the raghead’s house. Let’s move.’ Weaver drained his glass and the rest of his men did the same. He stood up and took the kitbag over to the bar.

The landlord, a balding man in his fifties, nodded and took it from him without a word and put it down behind the bar. He winked at Weaver. ‘Be lucky,’ he said.

Weaver caught up with the men at the door, buttoning their coats and pulling on leather gloves. ‘We need to pick up Colin,’ he said.

‘Colin’s got the flu,’ said Connolly.

‘Man flu,’ said Weaver. ‘I spoke to him on the phone this afternoon, he’s sniffing a bit but nothing major. We’re the five musketeers, all for one and one for all and he’s coming along.’

They walked out of the pub and over to Weaver’s car, a ten-year-old Jaguar. They climbed in, Taylor sitting in the front passenger seat next to Weaver, with Connolly and Harris in the back.

Weaver drove the short distance to where Colin McDermid lived in a small flat in a terraced street. Both sides of the road were lined with cars so Weaver had to double park while Taylor ran over to the house. He rang the middle of three bells and shortly afterwards disappeared inside. Weaver drummed his gloved hands on the steering wheel as the seconds ticked by. He looked at his watch and then at the clock set into the dashboard and swore under his breath.

‘Do you want me to go and get them?’ asked Harris.

‘Give them a minute,’ said Weaver. ‘McDermid’s probably getting his trousers on.’

‘You sure you want him along?’ said Harris. ‘We hardly know the guy.’

‘Colin’s sound,’ said Weaver. ‘And he needs to get bloodied.’ He looked at his watch again. He was about to open his mouth to speak when the door opened and Taylor emerged, followed by a gangly man with a greasy comb-over wearing a blue anorak and black tracksuit bottoms. McDermid pulled the door closed and he and Taylor jogged over to the car.

McDermid climbed into the back, forcing Connolly to move closer to Harris. ‘What’s going on?’ asked McDermid, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Taylor got into the front seat and Weaver drove off.

‘Yasir Chaudhry, that raghead who keeps giving speeches about our dead soldiers burning in hell, we’re going to give him a taste of his own medicine,’ said Weaver.

McDermid sniffed noisily. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Serious as a can of petrol and a lighter,’ said Weaver. ‘We’re going to burn the bastard’s house down.’

‘About bloody time,’ said McDermid. He banged the roof of the Jag with the flat of his hand. ‘He’s been due for a while, that one.’

‘That’s the truth,’ agreed Harris.

‘Why do I always have to sit in the bitch seat?’ whined Connolly.

‘Because you’ve got the smallest arse,’ said Weaver. ‘And because you’re so short I can still see out of the mirror with you sat there.’

Connolly folded his arms and scowled. ‘It’s not fair.’

‘Life’s not fair,’ said Harris. ‘Get over it. And if you don’t stop bitching we’ll send you back to live with Snow White.’

Taylor laughed out loud and Connolly folded his arms and cursed under his breath.

Weaver twisted around in his seat and looked at McDermid. ‘You left your phone in your flat, yeah?’ he asked.

McDermid jerked a thumb at Taylor. ‘Andy took it off me,’ he said. ‘Said I had to leave it in the flat and switched on.’

‘He’s right,’ said Weaver. ‘If the cops check on you they’ll find your phone was in your flat and you can say you were in all night watching TV or internet porn or whatever you do when you’re in there on your own.’

‘We’re sitting in the Bleeding Heart right now,’ laughed Harris.

Weaver drove at just below the speed limit and all the men in the car kept a look out for police vehicles. They all tensed when they saw a car with fluorescent stripes turn into the road ahead of them but they quickly realised it was a paramedic and relaxed.

‘So what’s the plan?’ asked McDermid. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and slipped one between his lips.

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said Weaver. ‘And don’t even think of lighting that, not with the amount of petrol I’ve got in the boot.’

McDermid put the cigarette back in the packet and the packet back in his jacket pocket and stared sullenly out of the window.

Taylor looked at his watch, a cheap Casio. ‘You sure he’s home?’ he asked.

‘Sure I’m sure,’ said Weaver. ‘Had a guy around there this evening. He sent me a text while I was in the pub.’

‘Texts can be traced,’ said Taylor.

‘I’m not stupid,’ said Weaver. ‘It’s the same as your Nokia, a pay-as-you-go, untraceable.’ He reached into his pocket and held it up. ‘It’s switched off now and I’ll dump it later tonight.’

‘Looks like you’ve thought of everything,’ said Taylor.

‘Andy, when you’ve known me a bit longer you’ll know that planning is what I do best. Planning and burning out ragheads and Pakis.’

‘You’ve done this before?’

Connolly laughed and jiggled up and down. ‘This is my third,’ he said.

‘Sit the fuck down, Barry,’ said Weaver, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

‘Seriously? This is your third?’ Taylor asked Weaver.

Weaver grinned. ‘Barry’s third. I’ve done half a dozen.’

‘Good for you, mate,’ said Taylor. He beat a quick tattoo on the dashboard with his gloved hands. ‘They need showing who’s boss.’

‘Damn right,’ said Weaver.

Taylor sat back, nodding. ‘That Paki family in Southall, was that you?’

‘Bloody right it was,’ said Harris, punching the back of Taylor’s seat. We showed them what for, didn’t we, Dennis?’

‘That we did,’ said Weaver. ‘The trick is waiting until they’re asleep and then doing the front and back door. That way there’s no way out.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Taylor, looking at his watch again.

‘Don’t worry, mate,’ said Weaver. ‘We’ve plenty of time, and Chaudhry and his bastard brood are already tucked up in bed.’

Fifteen minutes later, Weaver pulled up in front of a patch of waste ground. Half the street lamps were off but there was enough light to illuminate a burnt-out car and an old boiler and what looked like the insides of a washing machine next to it. The ground was littered with beer cans, discarded needles and fast food wrappers.