‘You’re alive and Mum isn’t. I know who got the better deal.’

  The two men sat in silence again. A young woman was crying at a table close by, her head buried in her hands. The man she was visiting reached over and touched her shoulder but she pushed him away.

  ‘The thing that gets me is that you never said sorry,’ said Standing. ‘You never apologised.’

  ‘I pleaded guilty. I put my hand up.’

  ‘That’s not the same as apologising.’

  ‘To who? To Sally? What good would that have done?’

  ‘To me,’ hissed Standing. ‘And to Lexi. You killed our mother. You took her away from us and had us thrown into care. You ruined our lives. ‘

  ‘Ruined, is it? Your life?’

  Standing glared at his father but didn’t reply.

  ‘If you want to hit me, hit me. The screws won’t stop you – they’ll probably give you a medal.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Standing.

  ‘You want to. You know you want to.’

  Standing had bunched his hands into fists. He forced himself to relax. ‘No, you’re the one that wants it.’

  ‘I want to be punished, that’s what you think? Didn’t know they taught you amateur psychology in the army.’ He cleared his throat noisily. ‘You know, in a way you should be grateful to me.’

  ‘Grateful?’ Standing looked at him in disbelief.

  ‘You are what you are because of me. There’s no getting away from that. If things hadn’t worked out like they did, maybe you’d be stuck in some dead-end job now, serving coffee or working in a garden centre. Instead you’re a soldier, travelling the world.’ He grinned. ‘And killing people with no comeback.’ He leaned forward. ‘Is that why you signed up? To take out your anger on someone else? You can’t shoot me so you go out and shoot ragheads instead?’

  ‘I’ve barely given you a day’s thought since they took you down,’ said Standing.

  His father grinned and sat back in his chair. ‘And yet here you are.’

  The woman had stopped crying and was blowing her nose. The man she was visiting was crying now, tears running down his cheeks.

  ‘I came because I wanted to know if you’d seen Lexi. If she’d visited you.’

  ‘She hated me more than you do.’

  ‘So that’s a no?’

  ‘That’s a no.’

  Standing pushed back his chair and got to his feet. Heads swivelled in his direction and he raised his hands to show that he wasn’t a threat.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘You thought I was going to give you a cake with a file in it? You can rot in here for all I care.’

  ‘There’s a lot of anger in you, boy. I can feel it.’

  Standing’s hands bunched into fists again and he clenched his teeth. He could feel the adrenalin coursing through his system and he had to fight the urge to throw himself across the table, grab his father by the throat and squeeze the life out of him.

  ‘Let it out,’ said his father, his eyes sparkling. ‘Come on, you know you want to.’

  Standing took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. ‘Fuck you,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t have the balls to throw a punch,’ laughed his father.

  Standing’s eyes blazed and he took a step towards him, but then he turned on his heels and walked quickly towards the exit, counting to ten as he went.

  Shepherd slid his passport into the automatic reader and waited patiently while the camera focused on his face and compared it with the photograph stored in the passport’s chip. It was pretty impressive technology and he was grateful he didn’t have to have a face-to-face with a Border Force employee. He was old enough to remember when immigration officers wore suits and welcomed you back to the United Kingdom. Most now seemed to be dressed as paramilitaries and it was rare they managed a smile. The automatic passport readers had become the friendlier option.

  The doors hissed open. He took the escalator down to the baggage-reclaim area and walked through the blue Customs zone. Willoughby-Brown was waiting for him in the arrivals area, wearing a camel-hair overcoat. ‘Good flight?’ he asked.

  ‘Virgin Upper Class. So yes.’

  ‘You’re a valued employee. Nothing is too much trouble,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘How did it go with BM?’

  ‘Nice guy,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Isn’t he? That Dreamcatcher is one heck of a boat, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not a big fan of boats, I have to say. But if I had to choose, sure, I’d go with a cat.’

  ‘And you’re up to speed with the whole life-on-the-ocean-waves thing?’

  ‘Sure. Why are you here, Jeremy?’

  Willoughby-Brown patted his shoulder. ‘You’re so suspicious, Daniel. Come on, let me buy you a coffee.’

  Shepherd followed him with a heavy heart. There was only one reason why Willoughby-Brown would come to the airport and that was to turn him around and send him on a flight out. If that was the case, Katra wasn’t going to be happy.

  Willoughby-Brown got the coffees and two chocolate muffins. He broke off a piece of his and popped it into his mouth. ‘Meyer is in Marbella. Lisa is with him. He got in last night and we’re not sure how long he’ll be there. We think he’s got a meet with a supplier so he could be gone in a day or two. We need to strike while the iron’s hot.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Shepherd, hesitantly.

  ‘We put together a legend for you – well, two, actually. You’ll be a bank robber by the name of Rich Campbell, sent down for ten years in 2001, released in 2007. All the files are good for that, PNC, prison records, the whole shebang. But you took on a new identity in 2008, and became Jeff Taylor. The story you can tell if it comes up is that the guys in your crew blamed you for getting caught and you feared for your life. You left London, changed your name and headed for the Med. You became a sailor, crewman, then a mate, and eventually got your skipper’s licence. That’s the legend. Jeff Taylor. Professional captain. You’ve got all the necessary paperwork and a valid skipper’s licence. There’s a CV showing the vessels you’ve sailed on, and if anyone checks, you’ll come up as good as gold. You have a place in Portsmouth, a small flat, which has been kitted out by our dressers just in case anyone breaks in for a look-see.’

  ‘So everything will be in the Jeff Taylor name?’

  Willoughby-Brown nodded. ‘But the Rich Campbell fingerprints are on file along with your picture, and you’ll show up on the Police National Computer. So if someone starts digging it won’t take much to realise that the Jeff Taylor is a cover and you’re really Campbell. The thing is, of course, that Meyer is going to be very interested in Campbell. You’d be a very useful addition to his team, a sailor who isn’t afraid of violence and is good with guns. Plus, the fact he knows your “true” identity means he thinks he has one over on you.’

  ‘You think Lisa will check up on me?’

  ‘Either she’ll pass on your details to Sam Hargrove, in which case the NCA will do the checks, or she’ll do it herself. If the latter, that’s a serious red flag, obviously.’

  ‘I see a problem right there. Sam Hargrove is going to recognise me and he’s going to want to know what the hell I’m up to.’

  Willoughby-Brown grinned. ‘We’ve thought of that. The Rich Campbell picture has been doctored, just enough to make it look a lot less like you. Campbell’s got different colour eyes. Plus He’s got a shaved head. I’ve seen the pictures, they’re different enough.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘The story is that you had plastic surgery to throw the gang off the track. Hargrove won’t realise it’s you, trust me.’

  ‘That’s all well and good, but what if she sends him an up-to-date picture?’

  ‘Just make sure she doesn’t get one. Don’t let her take a selfie with you and you’ll be fine. She’ll have your name and a description and that’s enough to get your basic details. She can have your Jeff Taylor phone number, and she can see your passport. Just make sure she doesn’t get a picture of it. If she wants to dig deeper she’ll need to get your prints. DNA will draw a blank. I agree the photograph is an issue. Watch her when she’s got her phone in her hands. A floppy hat and dark glasses always conceal a multitude of sins.’ Willoughby-Brown took a brown manila envelope from his coat pocket and slid it across the table to Shepherd. ‘There’s a Jeff Taylor passport inside, with the skipper’s licence and a CV. The dates in the CV match the stamps in the passport. There’s an AmEx card and two Visa cards – the spending records fit with the passport stamps – a UK driving licence, and a few other bits and bobs, including a Vodafone SIM card, with a contract in Taylor’s name. And some cash … quite a lot of cash. Accounts tell me they’d like to see at least some receipts. Your ticket’s an e-ticket so just go to checkin.’

  ‘When’s my flight?’

  Willoughby-Brown looked at his watch, a cheap plastic Casio that seemed at odds with the expensive overcoat. ‘Two hours. You’ll need to get a move on because security is a pain. Apparently there’s a terrorism threat.’ He chuckled.

  ‘What about back-up in Spain?’

  ‘One of Six’s people will be there to meet you. We’ve got a plan to get you close to Meyer but he can explain it to you.’ He took out his phone and showed Shepherd a photograph of a man in his thirties, grey-haired with a movie-star smile, as if he was posing for the shot. ‘His name’s Tony Docherty.’

  ‘And he’ll be my back-up while I’m there?’

  ‘Tony can stay on if you feel you need him. The problem is that Meyer tends to move around a lot. He’ll be hard to keep up with.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll see how I get on.’

  ‘So, all good?’

  Shepherd smiled coldly. Actually, it wasn’t good. It was all moving too quickly. He’d barely had time to draw breath since leaving for Miami. Now he was being rushed into an undercover operation when really he’d have preferred some time to get into his role. But he knew Willoughby-Brown would take that as a sign of weakness so he said, ‘Yes, Jeremy. All good.’

  Zoë Middlehurst’s school was on her Facebook page. It was about a mile from where Alexia had lived. Standing caught the Tube to St John’s Wood station at about three o’clock and walked to the school. Most of the children were picked up by their parents and by three fifteen there was a queue of vehicles – mainly SUVs – outside the school. Standing knew he had to be careful – he was too young to be a parent – so he walked slowly down the road, faking a phone call. Some of the older pupils walked home or headed for the Tube and he was fairly sure that Zoë would walk. She left the school at three thirty on the dot, with two friends. She wore her skirt short and her tie loose around her neck, the top buttons of her shirt open. She looked younger than she did in the pictures on her Facebook page, probably because she wasn’t wearing make-up. Standing figured the school didn’t allow it.

  He followed the three girls at safe distance, mumbling into his phone. After a couple of hundred yards her friends left her and went down a side-road. Standing put his phone away and jogged up to her. ‘Zoë?’

  She turned to him. ‘What?’

  He drew level with her but kept his distance, not wanting to crowd her. The last thing he wanted to do was to spook her. ‘My name is Matt and I’m Lexi’s brother, I know—’ He was going to explain that he was her real brother, not her adopted brother, but before he could get the words out she stepped forward and hugged him, pressing her cheek against his chest. ‘Matt!’ she said. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  ‘You know who I am?’ he said, confused by the sudden show of affection.

  She let go of him. ‘Of course! Lexi talked about you all the time. She was so proud of you.’ She bit down on her lower lip and looked close to tears. ‘I’m so sorry about what happened.’

  He forced a smile. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Can I talk to you about it?’

  She nodded slowly. ‘I guess so.’ She started walking again and he fell into step next to her.

  ‘The police said she injected heroin and overdosed. They said you were trying to help her out of the house.’

  ‘I wanted to get her to hospital but it was too late. It was … horrible.’

  ‘What about you? Had you taken heroin as well?’

  Zoë shook her head. ‘No. Never. Just ecstasy.’

  ‘Were you going to?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said.

  ‘Okay,’ said Standing. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Lexi said you were in Afghanistan.’

  ‘I’ve been around.’

  ‘What’s it like there?’

  ‘Hot.’

  She laughed. ‘She said you were in the SAS. Is that right?’

  Standing smiled. He had told his sister he was in the Regiment, which he wasn’t supposed to, but he’d wanted her to be proud of him, so he’d told her war stories. Not the gruesome kind, not the killing kind, just stories about defending the free world against terrorists. He’d made her promise not to tell anyone else, but teenage girls did like to talk. ‘We’re not supposed to tell anyone,’ he said.

  ‘But you wear ski masks and stuff?’

  ‘Not in the desert,’ he said. ‘Zoë, do you have Lexi’s phone?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ she said quickly. Too quickly, Standing thought. Her rush to answer had confirmed what he suspected.

  ‘Because you were with her when she died, and because the police didn’t find her phone. I didn’t see it in Lexi’s room, either.’

  ‘You went to Lexi’s room?’

  He nodded. ‘First time ever. And the last.’

  ‘She said her parents wouldn’t let you in the house. She said you hit her father.’

  ‘I didn’t, but that was what he said and the police believed him. Where is her phone, Zoë?’

  ‘In my room.’

  ‘Will you give it to me?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to see what’s on it. Who she called before she died.’

  ‘It’s password protected.’

  That’s okay. Can I have it?’

  She nodded. ‘Do you want to come home with me?’

  He smiled. ‘I’m not sure your parents would be thrilled about you getting home with a strange man.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re not strange. And they won’t be home. They’re never in at this time.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yeah. I only took Lexi’s phone because I didn’t want the cops getting nosy. I’d die if anyone ever went through mine.’ She fell silent as she realised what she’d said. She walked with her head down for a while and Standing saw she was crying. He wanted to comfort her but she was just a kid so he kept his distance. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her blazer. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I miss her too.’

  ‘They didn’t let me go to her funeral,’ she said. ‘Because of the drugs, you know.’

  ‘Did the police ask you a lot of questions?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘They didn’t want to know where Lexi got the drugs from?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You bought them?’

  Her smile stiffened. ‘I don’t want to talk about the drugs,’ she said.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. He knew there was no point in pressing her because he’d only scare her off. They walked in silence for a few minutes. Eventually Zoë pointed at a house, a stucco-fronted semi-detached with two empty parking spaces. ‘That’s where I live. Told you no one would be home.’

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ he said.

  ‘You can come in. It’s okay.’

  ‘It’s not a good idea,’ he said.

  ‘Because you’re a stranger?’

  ‘I know it sounds silly, me being Lexi’s brother and all, but yeah, you shouldn’t be allowing strangers in your house.’

  ‘But you’re not a stranger.’

  ‘To you I am. I’ll stay here. Really.’

  She looked at him quizzically. ‘You’re funny.’

  ‘There are some scary people in the world, Zoë. You need to be careful.’

  She laughed but there was a harshness to the sound. ‘Tell me about it,’ she said.

  He was going to ask her what she meant but she turned and ran to the house, her heels clicking on the pavement, like snapping twigs. She pulled out a keychain with a fluffy pink ball on the end and let herself in.

  Standing paced up and down. How old was Zoë? Sixteen? The same as Lexi. What the hell was a sixteen-year-old girl doing taking drugs? And why weren’t her parents taking better care of her? How could they go to a house in Kilburn and take drugs without their parents knowing? These weren’t parents on a sink estate surrounded by neglect and decay – the house was worth millions and the kids at Zoë and Lexi’s school all seemed to be from good families. It didn’t make any sense to Standing. No sense at all. His heart was pounding so he took several slow, deep breaths to calm himself, then switched to square breathing. After a few minutes Zoë reappeared and gave him an iPhone.

  Standing put it into his pocket and took out the photograph. He handed it to her. ‘Zoë, who’s this?’

  Her mouth fell open in surprise. ‘What the fuck?’ she said. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Lexi had it in a locket.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ She thrust it back at him. ‘You shouldn’t have that. It’s personal.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But who is the guy?’

  ‘That’s Frankie.’

  ‘Frankie? Frankie who?’

  She shrugged. ‘Just Frankie.’

  ‘Her boyfriend?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have that,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Tell them what?’

  She was agitated now, switching her weight from leg to leg, bobbing from side to side. ‘This is fucked up,’ she said. ‘You have to throw that away. Just forget about it, right?’

  ‘I just want—’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, hurrying away. She practically ran to the house and disappeared inside.

  Standing looked at the photograph in his hand. ‘So who the fuck are you, Frankie? And what the fuck were you doing with my sister?’

  There were two of them, big men, Algerians, and they both had knives. Flick-knives. One was pearl-handled, the other wood, but the blades were the same length, just over eight inches. They weren’t big knives, but the men who were holding them were clearly expert in their use, and in the right hands a small knife was just as lethal as a large one. They held them low and ready to stab. A flick-knife wasn’t designed to slash: it was a straight in-and-out weapon. The blades were narrow, too, so a guaranteed kill would require multiple stabs, three at least, all in the same area. Three to the heart, a kidney or the chest, and the victim would bleed out so quickly that they would be unconscious within seconds and dead within a minute.

 

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