Shepherd started to walk back along the jetty. In the distance he could see Meyer and Lisa, walking arm in arm into the marina. His heart began to pound as the adrenalin kicked in, and he took slow, even breaths. He was just a tourist, taking an evening stroll. He pulled the throwaway phone out of his pocket and tossed it into the water. Ahead of him, Farouk and Salim emerged from a side jetty. They were wearing Tshirts, showing off their bulging forearms, loose cargo pants and trainers. They were talking to each other but walking purposefully towards Meyer and Lisa, who were laughing and paying no attention to the Algerians. Meyer was wearing blue trousers and a long-sleeved Tommy Hilfiger shirt. Lisa had on a skin-tight canary yellow dress and high heels that were totally unsuitable for the jetty. She was putting her feet down carefully so that she wouldn’t get caught in the gaps between the wooden planks. Her hair was jet black and much longer than in the photographs Willoughby-Brown had shown him. Shepherd hadn’t realised how short she was. Even in high heels she barely reached Meyer’s shoulder.

  There were some overhead lights but they were few and far between. Farouk and Salim waited until Meyer and Lisa were in a pool of darkness before they made their move, sprinting forward and pulling out their knives.

  Salim pushed Lisa hard in the stomach with the flat of his left hand and she toppled back onto the jetty, yelping as she fell. Meyer put up his hands and cursed but Farouk was too quick, backhanding him across the face.

  ‘Give me your fucking wallet!’ shouted Farouk, waving his knife in Meyer’s face. ‘Or I’ll cut you to the bone!’

  Salim knelt down next to Lisa and put his knife against her throat. ‘Take off your watch and your rings!’ he shouted.

  ‘Leave her the fuck alone!’ shouted Meyer. He went to grab Salim but Farouk kicked his knee and shouted at him to stay where he was. Meyer clenched his fists, ready to fight. Even from twenty feet away Shepherd could see there was no fear in his eyes, even though he was facing a big man with a wicked knife. Farouk slashed at Meyer, who rocked back but stayed where he was, his hands up, refusing to give ground.

  Salim saw that Meyer was preparing to fight. They were under instructions not to hurt him but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t defend themselves. Salim got to his feet and pointed his blade at Meyer’s face. ‘Just give us your fucking wallet!’ he said. ‘And your fucking watch.’

  ‘Oy!’ Shepherd shouted, at the top of his voice, breaking into a run.

  Farouk and Salim turned to look at him and Meyer took the opportunity to kick, catching Salim close to his groin. Salim grunted and lashed out with the knife without thinking. The blade missed Meyer’s arm by inches.

  Farouk kicked out and caught Meyer in the stomach, knocking him back, arms flailing.

  ‘Leave them alone!’ shouted Shepherd.

  Salim threw himself on top of Meyer, using his legs to hold the man’s arms down. He grabbed him by the throat with his left hand and put the point of the blade against his temple. Lisa screamed in terror.

  Shepherd reached Farouk and bobbed to the side as Farouk jabbed at his face. He parried the knife to the left, chopping at Farouk’s wrist with his hand. Then he let his left hand move over Farouk’s arm and down. Shepherd locked eyes with Farouk. His left arm was against the blade of Farouk’s knife. Shepherd gritted his teeth, pushed his flesh against the blade and felt a slicing pain followed by a trickle of blood. Farouk did as he’d been told and kept the knife still so that Shepherd did all the damage. Shepherd cursed and pulled his arm away cleanly, then hit Farouk in the chest, hard enough to push him backwards but not to do any serious damage. Farouk regained his balance and came at Shepherd with the knife. Shepherd side-stepped, grabbed his wrist, twisted and flipped Farouk onto his back with a crash that shook the jetty. The knife clattered along the wooden planks and plopped into the water.

  Salim stopped choking Meyer and stood up. Farouk got to his feet, looked as if he was about to continue the fight, then Salim shouted at him and the two men ran towards the lights of the main street, their trainers slapping on the jetty.

  Shepherd stood where he was, breathing heavily, his hands still bunched into fists as he stared after them.

  Meyer rolled over and pushed himself up, then hurried to help Lisa to her feet. ‘Did they take anything?’ asked Shepherd.

  Meyer held up his wallet. ‘No,’ he said. He turned to Lisa. ‘What about you, darling?’

  She held up her left hand, tears in her eyes. ‘He tried to take my watch,’ she said. ‘He was going to cut me. That bastard was going to cut me.’

  Meyer put his arms around her and she collapsed against his chest, sobbing. Meyer looked at Shepherd. ‘I owe you big-time,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘I fucking hate muggers.’

  ‘Yeah, you and me both.’ He held out his right hand as he clasped Lisa with the left. ‘Marcus.’

  Shepherd shook hands. ‘Jeff.’

  ‘This is Lucy.’

  ‘Hi, Lucy,’ said Shepherd. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  She twisted around to look at him and her tear-stained face broke into a smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘If I ever see them again I’ll rip their fucking balls off,’ said Meyer, looking towards the main road.

  ‘We should call the cops,’ said Lisa.

  ‘No,’ said Shepherd, quickly. ‘No cops. Really, it’s fine.’

  Lisa noticed the blood on his arm and gasped. ‘You’re bleeding,’ she said.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘They cut you,’ said Meyer. ‘You should go to hospital.’

  Shepherd examined his arm. It was a long cut, but not deep. ‘It’s okay.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll live.’

  Meyer shook his head. ‘You need stitches.’

  Shepherd lowered his voice. ‘If I go to a hospital they’ll tell the cops. And I really don’t want the hassle.’

  ‘Not for a knife-wound,’ said Meyer. ‘For a gunshot, maybe.’

  ‘I’d just rather not take the risk,’ said Shepherd. ‘Have you got a first-aid kit?’

  Meyer chuckled. ‘Not on me,’ he said.

  ‘There’s one on the boat,’ said Lisa.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Meyer. ‘Okay, come to our boat and we’ll get you fixed up. We can give you a drink too, the least we can do.’ He grinned. ‘For our Good Samaritan.’ He waved down the jetty. ‘This way.’

  They walked together towards the boat, Meyer with his arm around Lisa. She had taken off her high heels and was carrying them in her left hand. ‘So who do you think they were?’ asked Shepherd. ‘They didn’t look like Spaniards.’

  ‘Moroccans, probably,’ said Meyer. ‘Or Algerians. There’s a lot of them over here illegally. A guy was killed for his watch last month.’

  ‘I hope it was a Patek Philippe,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Sadly, it was only a Cartier,’ said Meyer. ‘I mean, for fuck’s sake, dying for a Cartier. How sad is that?’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘Fucking sad.’

  ‘It’s not the place it used to be,’ said Meyer. ‘Used to be as safe as houses. Now you’ve muggers coming over from Africa and the Russians shooting things up with AK-47s.’

  ‘Still, the weather’s nice,’ said Shepherd.

  Meyer slapped him on the back. ‘Good to hear you’ve still got your sense of humour,’ he said. He pointed towards his boat. ‘That’s us.’

  Close up, Shepherd could see that it was a similar design to BM’s catamaran in Jacksonville, but about fifty per cent bigger. It was registered in the Bahamas and called Windchaser. At the stern of the starboard hull there was a Yamaha jetski on a metal cradle, and at the back of the port hull there was a row of compressed-air cylinders and scuba equipment.

  ‘Nice boat,’ said Shepherd. ‘What is she? Eighty foot?’

  ‘Ninety,’ said Meyer.

  ‘She’s a Catana, right?’

  ‘Right. You’re a sailor?’

  ‘I’m a captain, when I can get the gig,’ said Shepherd. ‘First mate if not.’

  ‘Excellent, you can talk boats with Jeeves.’

  ‘Jeeves?’

  ‘There he is,’ said Meyer, pointing at a guy in a white shirt and white shorts emerging from the cabin. He waved at him. ‘Hey, Jeeves, get over here.’

  The man walked down the steps at the stern of the port hull and on to the jetty. He was in his thirties, tall with a shock of ginger hair and freckles across his cheeks and nose. ‘This is Jeff,’ said Meyer. ‘He’s had a bit of an accident. Help him on board, will you?’

  ‘Sure,’ said the man. He took Shepherd’s right arm and ushered him onto the boat.

  ‘Your name’s not really Jeeves, is it?’ asked Shepherd.

  The captain smiled. ‘Phil Jeeves,’ he said. ‘But everyone just calls me Jeeves.’

  Shepherd offered his right hand. ‘Jeff.’ The two men shook.

  ‘Jeff here saved us from a couple of nasty-looking muggers, and paid the price,’ said Meyer. He gestured at Shepherd’s injured arm. ‘Have you got a first-aid kit?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jeeves, and hurried down to the cabin. He returned carrying a large white box with a green cross on the top. He opened it and peered inside.

  ‘Have you got any antiseptic?’ asked Shepherd. ‘I’ve no idea how dirty that knife was.’

  Jeeves took out a tube of ointment and a couple of cotton-wool balls. Shepherd wiped away the blood, then smeared the antiseptic cream over the cut. Jeeves grimaced. ‘That could do with stitches,’ he said.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ said Shepherd. ‘Have you got any superglue?’

  ‘Superglue?’ replied Meyer, frowning. ‘What for?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’ He looked at Jeeves. ‘You must have some, right?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jeeves. He went over to one of drawers in the galley and opened it. He looked inside, moved a few things around, then pulled out a tube of Loctite. ‘I used it a couple of months ago – it should still be okay.’ He gave it to Shepherd.

  There was a small needle in the nozzle and Shepherd pulled it out. A blob of glue immediately formed on the tube’s tip, glistening under the lights. ‘Perfect,’ he said. He gave the tube to Lisa. ‘Can you be the nurse?’

  ‘What?’ she said, clearly bewildered.

  ‘Are you serious?’ asked Meyer.

  ‘Medics used superglue during the Vietnam War to close wounds,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s fine so long as the wound isn’t bleeding too badly and isn’t over a joint. Ideally you’d want medical-quality glue but Loctite will do the trick.’

  ‘You’ve done it before?’ asked Meyer.

  ‘Well, no, but I’ve seen it done and it works a treat.’ He held the cut edges of skin together and nodded at Lisa. ‘Go on, just run the glue along the edges of the cut.’ She did as she was told and he was surprised at how steady her hand was. When she’d finished he pressed the edges together and they immediately sealed. He held the skin for a few seconds, then released it. The cut had closed. He held up the arm and grinned. ‘There you go. As good as new.’

  ‘You’re a bloody marvel,’ said Meyer. ‘So, what can I get you to drink?’

  ‘Bubbly would be good,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Cristal?’

  ‘You read my mind.’ Cristal was the champagne of choice for most of the gangsters Shepherd had come across. It was first made in 1876 for Alexander II of Russia, who asked producer Louis Roederer to create a clear glass bottle with a flat bottom, ostensibly so that no one could plant explosives under it. Whether or not the assassination fear was true, it was still one of the most expensive champagnes around. Shepherd didn’t particularly enjoy champagne but it was as much a part of his Jeff Taylor persona as the gold watch and the chains around his wrist and neck.

  Meyer waved at the captain. ‘Jeeves?’

  ‘I’m on it,’ said Jeeves.

  Meyer turned back to Shepherd. ‘I do love saying that,’ he said. ‘It’s very P. G. Wodehouse, isn’t it?’

  Jeeves returned with the champagne and four glasses threaded between his fingers. He gave the glasses to Lisa and popped the cork with barely a whisper. When they each had a glass, Meyer raised his in salute to Shepherd. ‘To Jeff, the white knight who galloped to our rescue.’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘To be fair, you looked like you were giving as good as you got before I arrived.’

  ‘If they hadn’t had knives I’d have beaten the shit out of them.’

  ‘But they did have knives,’ said Lisa. ‘They could have killed us, Marcus. You could see it in their eyes. It was scary.’

  ‘But they didn’t, did they? They ran off like the cowards they were.’ He gestured at Shepherd with his chin. ‘So where did you learn to fight, Jeff?’

  ‘Did a bit of boxing as a kid,’ said Shepherd. ‘But you know what life’s like when you’re sailing from port to port. It’s not all champagne and caviar. Sometimes it’s drunks and knives.’

  ‘We try to steer clear of the downmarket places,’ laughed Meyer. ‘But I know what you mean.’

  ‘So, this is an awesome boat,’ said Shepherd. ‘Crew of three?’

  ‘Five when we’re chartering,’ said Jeeves. ‘We have a hostess and a chef. Guests need to be pampered.’

  ‘What are the engines?’

  ‘Two Perkins 210 horse power.’

  ‘I bet she can move.’

  ‘We tend to keep her at about ten knots under sail, but we’ve had a few days when we’ve covered three hundred miles.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Shepherd. ‘Have you sailed her single-handed?’

  Jeeves nodded. ‘Yeah, but it’s challenging. You’d want two to be comfortable. So you sail?’

  ‘I’m a big fan of cats,’ he said. ‘Haven’t captained anything bigger than sixty feet, though.’

  ‘Do you want to take her out tomorrow?’ asked Meyer.

  ‘Hell, yeah,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Why don’t we do that?’ Meyer said to Jeeves. ‘Put her through her paces. Maybe do a spot of diving.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ said the captain.

  ‘But not too early,’ said Meyer, raising his champagne glass. ‘We’ve got some serious drinking to do tonight.’

  Standing woke at six. He went for an hour’s run in Hyde Park, shaved, showered, grabbed a coffee and a sandwich in Queensway, then headed for the Tube. He was outside the Chapmans’ house at eight and hid from view when Greg Chapman got into his car and drove off. He waited a few minutes, then walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Mrs Chapman answered and frowned when she saw who it was. ‘Matt? What are you doing here?’

  He took the photograph of Lexi and Frankie from his pocket and gave it to her. ‘Mrs Chapman, did you ever see Lexi with this man?’ She continued to stare at him in surprise and he pushed the picture at her. ‘Look at it, Mrs Chapman.’

  ‘I’m calling the police,’ she said, backing away. ‘My husband said I should call the police if you came back.’

  ‘I just want to talk to you,’ said Standing. ‘This man, did you see him? Did he come to the house?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said, but she wouldn’t look at the picture. He pushed it to her chest and she put her hands on it.

  ‘Just look at it,’ pleaded Standing.

  She shook her head and let the picture fall to the floor, then stepped away from the door. She didn’t make any attempt to close it. Standing pushed the door further open and saw that she was holding her mobile to her ear. ‘Please don’t call the police, Mrs Chapman. I’m just talking with you here. We’re having a conversation.’

  ‘He’s back,’ she said, into the phone. There was a pause. ‘He’s at the door now.’

  She walked back down the hall to the front door and thrust the phone at him. Standing realised she wanted him to talk to whoever was on the line. ‘Hello?’ he said hesitantly.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing at my house?’ shouted Greg Chapman. ‘The court told you stay away.’

  ‘I just wanted to talk to your wife about a photograph I found.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I have a picture of Lexi with a man and I wondered if you knew about him.’

  ‘Alexia’s dead!’ shouted Chapman. ‘And I don’t want you upsetting my wife! I want you to leave now!’

  ‘Mr Chapman, I’m not upsetting your wife. I just showed her a photograph, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m calling the police!’ snapped Chapman, and the line went dead.

  Standing gave the phone back to Mrs Chapman. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ he said. ‘I really didn’t mean to cause you any grief. I’m sorry.’

  She took the phone from him and he realised her hands were trembling. The photograph had fallen on the floor and she picked it up. She brushed a lock of stray hair away from her face as she looked at it. ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

  ‘I think he’s a boyfriend.’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘Oh, no, Alexia didn’t have a boyfriend.’ Her lip curled in disgust. ‘And she certainly wouldn’t …’ She left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘You can see how happy she is in the picture,’ said Standing. ‘And he was messaging her all the time.’

  She looked at it again. ‘Maybe it’s someone from school.’

  ‘No, he’s an adult. He’s at least twenty-five. Maybe older.’ She thrust the picture back at him. He took it but held it up. ‘That’s a boyfriend-girlfriend picture, Mrs Chapman. Surely you can see that.’

  ‘Alexia didn’t have time for boyfriends,’ she said firmly. ‘She only went out to study with her girlfriends. She was a good girl.’

  ‘I’ve seen the messages she sent to him. She said she loved him. She called him her boyfriend.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘She died of a heroin overdose, Mrs Chapman. Maybe this man gave her the drugs. Did you think about that?’

  Mrs Chapman began to cry, and Standing put the photograph back into his pocket. ‘I think his name is Frankie,’ he said. ‘Did she ever mention a Frankie?’

  She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. ‘No.’ She sniffed. ‘But she never really told us about her friends. Just Zoë. She used to go to Zoë’s house to study. She said she found it easier to work with her. I said they could come here but she said Zoë preferred to stay at home so she went there. She didn’t have time to go gallivanting with boys.’

 

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