Spider Shepherd 10 - True Colours (7 page)

‘That’s because I keep below the radar whenever I can,’ said Harper. ‘The guys who drive the Rollers and the Ferraris and who swan around the nightclubs and restaurants, they’re the ones who get on the most-wanted lists. I’m a nobody, Spider, and I plan to stay that way. For as long as possible.’ He stubbed the cigarette out on the sole of his shoe and then slipped the butt into the pocket of his parka. He realised Shepherd was watching. ‘DNA,’ Harper said.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Dead right I’m serious,’ said Harper. ‘At the moment, I’m not in the system. But once they have your DNA, they have you for ever. And then it’s game over.’

‘Who’s “they” exactly?’

‘Your mob, for a start. And the cops. And the government. I’ll make you a bet, Spider. Within our lifetimes they’ll make DNA sampling compulsory. They want everyone in the world to be in a mass database so that they can track and identify us all. And they’ll have us chipped, too.’

‘Chipped?’

‘A GPS-enabled microchip, under the skin. Then they’ll know who you are and what you are. Trust me, Spider. It’s coming. All I’m doing is delaying the inevitable.’

‘And why would they do that?’

‘Control. So that we all became good little consumers.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘You’re starting to sound paranoid.’

‘Really? Most criminals get caught in the act, or they get grassed up, right?’

‘Sure.’

‘But how else do you catch people?’ Shepherd opened his mouth to speak but Harper beat him to it. ‘I’ll tell you. DNA. And mobile phones. The cops use phones to show where you were at such and such a time. Which is why they want the chip out of the phones and under your skin. I tell you, mate, that’s where we’re heading. Everyone’s DNA on record, a chip under your skin, and then they can see everything you do. They’ll do away with money, too. All your assets will be recorded on the chip and if you don’t toe the line your chip will be wiped and you’ll be a non-person.’

‘I’m starting to wish I hadn’t asked.’

Harper leaned closer to him. ‘Listen, Spider, do you think we could get away with slotting Khan if the cops were able to pinpoint his location and then identify everyone who came near him? That information plus the time of death makes it an open and shut case. That’s what they want, and eventually that’s what they’ll get.’ He sat back again. ‘But until then, I stay off the grid and squirrel away my assets as best I can. At least in Thailand the authorities pretty much leave you alone. Do you know what Thailand means?’

‘Land of the free,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah. Land of the free. And they are free, pretty much. Much more free than people are here. I don’t understand how we let things get as bad as they are.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Anyway, enough of my bellyaching. Let’s find this Khan and give him what he deserves.’

‘Where are you staying?’ asked Shepherd.

Harper nodded over at the north side of the park. ‘I’m in a B&B in Bayswater,’ he said. ‘One of the few places left that doesn’t ask for a credit card.’ He stood up and flipped the hood of the parka up over his head. ‘It’s good to see you, Spider. The circumstances are shit but I wish I’d kept in touch.’

‘Me too,’ said Shepherd. He stood up and the two men shook hands, then Shepherd grinned, pulled the man towards him and hugged him, patting him on the back between the shoulder blades. ‘You be careful,’ he said.

‘You too, mate.’

Shepherd called Jimmy Sharpe’s number as he walked across the park. It had been almost six months since he had seen his former colleague but he needed someone he could trust and Razor Sharpe had never let him down. ‘Please tell me you’re in London,’ said Shepherd as soon as Sharpe answered.

‘I’m in New Scotland Yard as we speak,’ said Sharpe in his gruff Glaswegian accent. ‘Being briefed on a group of Romanian ATM fiddlers.’

‘Now how the hell are you going to blend in with a group of Romanian gypsies?’

‘You can’t call them gypsies,’ said Sharpe. ‘That’s racist.’

‘You’ve been on another racism and diversity course, haven’t you?’ Shepherd laughed.

‘My sixth,’ said Sharpe.

‘Is it sinking in yet?’

‘You know me, Spider, I treat everyone the same no matter what their colour or where they’re from. If you’re bad you go to jail, if you’re good I’ll do what I can to help you. But I have to say, these Romanians are a right shower of shits. They’re bringing in hundreds of child pickpockets because they know that even if we catch them red handed we can’t do a thing to them. Now they’re using the kids to work the ATM skimmers. The adults stay in the background, organising and taking the money, while ten-year-old kids do the criminal work. And they’re all EU now so we can’t even deport them. ‘

‘So what’s the strategy?’

‘Following the little fish upstream, see if we can get the godfathers. But you know as well as I do that the sentences the judges hand out are a joke these days. Anyway, enough of my trials and tribulations, what do you need?’

‘Why do you think I need anything?’

‘Because the only time I ever hear from you is when you want something,’ said Sharpe. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken, mate. Any chance of a quick chat?’

‘It’ll have to be near me,’ said Sharpe. ‘We’re out and about all this evening and into the early hours.’

‘I can get to the Feathers.’ The Feathers was the closest pub to New Scotland Yard, a regular hangout for off-duty officers, or at least the ones that still drank.

‘Text me when you get there and I’ll pop down,’ said Sharpe.

Shepherd ended the call and as soon as he left the park he flagged down a black cab. The traffic was light and in less than half an hour the cabby dropped him in front of the pub. Shepherd paid the driver and sent Sharpe a text telling him he’d arrived. As he walked into the pub, Shepherd received a text back. ‘Mine’s a pint of Foster’s.’

Shepherd was sitting at a corner table with a pint of lager and a Jamesons with ice and soda when Sharpe walked in. He was wearing a heavy black leather coat over a black pullover and black jeans and clearly hadn’t shaved in a few days. The two men shook hands. Sharpe was in his fifties, his hair was greying but the beard growth was almost pure white. He’d grown his hair long and combed it back and was only a week or so away from a ponytail.

‘You look tired,’ said Shepherd as Sharpe sat down and picked up his pint.

‘I’ve been on this case for over a week and it’s doing my head in,’ said Sharpe. ‘They’re real lowlifes and I’ve got to blend. They drink in some very dodgy dives.’

‘I’m assuming you’re not trying to pass yourself off as a Romanian?’

Sharpe laughed. ‘Nah, I’m a Scottish gangster in the market for swiped debit cards,’ he said. ‘I keep upping the ante and I’m working my way up to the top guys.’ He took a long pull on his pint and then smacked his lips. ‘First of the day.’

‘They’re OK with you drinking on duty?’

‘On this one I’m on duty twenty-four hours a day,’ said Sharpe. ‘And the guys I’m dealing with, if they don’t smell alcohol on my breath they’ll assume something’s wrong.’ He looked around the pub and shook his head sadly. ‘Back in the day this would have been full of coppers,’ he said. ‘Some of them in uniform. Now most of them are scared to show their faces here. God forbid a copper should enjoy a drink or two.’ He chuckled. ‘My old boss in my first CID job, up in Strathclyde, kept a bottle of malt in his bottom drawer and every time we had a result it would come out and it’d be drinks all round. You get caught with a can of lager over there and you’d be out on your ear. I tell you, I’m glad I’m getting near retirement.’ He took another long pull on his lager.

‘You’ll never retire, Razor. And they’ll never sack you. You’re too valuable a resource.’

‘Aye, well, maybe I’ll go freelance for your mob,’ he said.

‘They’d have you like a shot,’ said Shepherd.

‘Even the fragrant Miss Button?’

Shepherd grinned. ‘Well, her not so much, maybe, but there’d be plenty of departments would jump at you. Surveillance is always recruiting.’

‘I’m too old to be a pavement artist,’ said Sharpe. ‘And like you I get a kick out of being undercover.’

‘A kick? I don’t do undercover for kicks, Razor. Behave.’

‘You say that, but we both know that you get a buzz from it,’ said Sharpe, jabbing his finger at Shepherd. ‘The adrenalin rush, the endolphin thing.’

‘Endorphins,’ said Shepherd. ‘And I don’t get a buzz. It’s a job. And it’s a bloody scary one at times.’

‘And you like that. We both do. If you didn’t, you’d have taken a desk job at Five a long time ago.’ He leaned towards Shepherd and lowered his voice. ‘Come on, admit it. Telling lies to get close to someone and then turning them over, you get a kick out of that. Getting a complete stranger to trust you, when everything you’re telling them is a lie, there’s not many people who get the chance to do that, legally.’

‘It’s my job, and I’m good at it, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy lying to people,’ said Shepherd. ‘I do get a kick out of putting away bad guys, though. I can’t deny that.’

Sharpe took another pull on his pint. ‘So what is it you want?’

‘You know I got shot, back when I was in Afghanistan? Well, the Pakistan–Afghanistan border to be accurate.’

‘I’ve seen the scar,’ said Sharpe.

‘I nearly bought it,’ said Shepherd. ‘Closest I ever came. A young SAS captain died during the same operation. Died in my arms.’

Sharpe said nothing and sat watching Shepherd, his face impassive.

‘His name was Harry Todd,’ continued Shepherd. ‘Typical Rupert, wet behind the ears but thought he knew everything.’ Shepherd shrugged. ‘Afghanistan was a baptism of fire for him. He fucked up and three Paras were killed.’ He stopped talking and stared at the floor as the memories flooded back.

‘Fucked up how?’

‘He thought he had this SEP. A Surrendered Enemy Personnel. Basically a Taliban fighter who wanted to change sides. The story was that this muj wanted to bring in his mates and they needed an escort. Todd got a hard-on for the guy and sent him out with three Paras. We found them dead a few hours later. Two of them shot in the back of the head, one shot as he was running away. And no sign of the muj.’

‘It was a trap?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah. It was a trap. The muj – his name was Ahmad Khan – had set the whole thing up. Told Todd what he wanted to hear and Todd sent three Paras to their deaths.’

‘I hope he was out on his arse,’ said Sharpe.

‘Nah, he wasn’t RTU’d.’

‘RTU?’

‘Returned to unit,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s generally what happens when someone screws up. But they let Todd stay on.’ He shrugged. ‘As it turned out, it would have been better for him if he had been RTU’d.’

Sharpe sipped his lager and waited for Shepherd to continue.

‘Some time later Todd found out where Khan was. He’d been seen at an al-Qaeda place over the border in Afghanistan, a staging post for money they’d been collecting from opium farmers and the like. Todd put together a team and we went out on a search and destroy mission.’ He drained his glass, then took a deep breath. It wasn’t a memory that he enjoyed reliving. ‘We flew in by helicopter, six of us including the captain. Four-man perimeter while me and Todd set explosives and blew the place. The concussion killed everyone inside so we set fire to the place and exited. That was when Khan started firing. Killed the captain and caught me in the shoulder.’ He shook his head, trying to blot out the memory of the captain dying in his arms. ‘Khan did a runner and the guys got me to the chopper.’

‘That was why you left the SAS, right?’

‘It was part of it,’ said Shepherd.

‘So what’s the problem now?’ asked Sharpe.

Shepherd sighed. ‘I need another drink,’ he said, and stood up.

Sharpe finished his lager and held out his empty glass. ‘Amen to that.’

Shepherd went over to the bar and returned with fresh drinks. He sat down and stretched out his legs. ‘The thing is, it looks like Khan is in the UK. I don’t know how he managed it but he’s here.’

‘Probably got asylum,’ said Sharpe. ‘He’s not the first and he won’t be the last. Remember we let Robert Mugabe’s chief torturer claim asylum here not so long ago?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘It’s a crazy system, there’s no doubt about that,’ he said. ‘In the old days any Afghan threatened by the Taliban could claim asylum if he got to the UK. Then after the Coalition invaded Afghanistan, the Taliban could maintain that their lives were at risk so they could claim asylum. Now that the Taliban is regaining control, we’re back to stage one. It’s crazy.’

‘If it was me, I’d put them all up against a wall and shoot them,’ said Sharpe.

‘Afghans?’

Sharpe grinned. ‘The bloody politicians who got us into this state,’ he said. ‘You explain to me why we’ve got Taliban, former or otherwise, living here?’

‘Ours not to reason why, Razor. You know that. We’re just instruments of the state.’

‘And what do you want from me?’ asked Sharpe.

‘I need you to have a root around the PNC for Ahmad Khan,’ said Shepherd. ‘And run the name by the intelligence guys.’

‘I’d have thought your mob would have had more intel on him,’ said Sharpe. ‘You’ve got access to the PNC, right?’

‘Sure. But every time Five accesses it the request is flagged and I don’t want a trail.’

‘But you’re happy for my name to be flagged?’

‘No, I know you’re smart enough to get in and out without anyone knowing you were there.’

‘You know that’s a sackable offence now?’ said Sharpe. ‘The days of pulling up reg numbers for mates are long gone.’

‘Yeah, and I know how you always play by the rules, Razor,’ said Shepherd, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

‘So this isn’t official?’

‘If it was official, Razor, why would I be plying you with drink and asking for a favour?’

Sharpe nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ll sniff around. But that won’t be any help if he’s here illegally. In fact, if he’s got into the country under a false name and is living below the radar …’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

‘If it was easy, I wouldn’t be asking you, would I?’

Sharpe grinned. ‘Don’t try manipulating me, Spider. I’ve known you too long.’