‘It’s because I don’t really care. Gay or straight, people are people, good or bad. Unless a guy goes around in a dress or camps it up, I’m probably not going to notice, that’s true.’ He shook his head. ‘I really thought you and he …’

  ‘Because we hold hands? He’s very tactile, with women anyway. And don’t get me wrong, we hang out a lot and he’s great fun. He’s charming, he makes me laugh, he’s bloody great to go shopping with, but sex? It’s just not on the agenda.’

  He turned the shower off and grabbed a towel. ‘If it was, would you be tempted?’

  She tilted her head on one side. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I dunno. He sounds like the perfect boyfriend, other than the fact that he’s gay.’

  ‘Even if he was straight, nothing would happen,’ she said.

  ‘Because?’

  He tried to get past her but she blocked his way, an amused smile on her face. ‘Because he’s not my type.’

  ‘So what is your type?’ Immediately the words had left his mouth, Shepherd regretted them. She moved closer, her lips parting, and he knew she was going to kiss him. His mind whirled. How the hell was he supposed to react? She was an undercover cop, he was an MI5 officer, both on active operations. He had a girlfriend, and this woman might well be working for a big-time drug importer. She reached up with her right hand, slipping it behind his neck.

  Suddenly the phone rang, startling them both. She laughed nervously and Shepherd picked it up. He squinted at the screen. ‘It’s Marcus.’

  She laughed. ‘Speak of the devil.’

  ‘Hey, what’s up?’ said Shepherd into the phone.

  ‘Is Lucy with you?’

  ‘Yeah, she wanted to hit my minibar.’

  ‘Fancy an early dinner? Lobster? My treat?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Come down to the boat. We’ll crack a bottle of bubbly, then head off.’

  He ended the call. ‘We’ve been summoned,’ he said.

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. ‘To be continued,’ she said, and patted him on the backside.

  Camouflage was the key to stalking a target if you had to get up close and personal without arousing suspicion. If you were attacking from a distance, the target wouldn’t see you, so you could dress for efficiency. But Standing needed to wait close to the entrance to the building where Faisal Khan lived so he had to blend in. He was wearing his long black coat and he went to a charity shop in Kilburn High Road and bought himself a multi-coloured wool hat with ear flaps that looked as if it might have been a souvenir from a holiday in South America. Then he bought a large bottle of cheap cider from an off-licence and walked back to the high-rise. There was a garden area with a few benches close to the entrance to the block and he chose one that gave him a clear view, sitting down with his legs spread wide, the bottle of cider in his lap. He had looked up his quarry on Facebook. There were hundreds of Faisal Khans but he found the right one eventually. From the postings, Faisal came across as a good Muslim boy, who loved his family and his religion, who played five-a-side football with a local team and enjoyed working out in the gym. There was no mention of a job, and the only girls who featured in the pictures were Asians wearing hijabs. He was able to download a much clearer photograph of the man and had that on his phone.

  He sat patiently, every now and again pretending to take a drink from the bottle. Most people who walked by avoided eye contact with him, more so when he let out a long, satisfying burp or muttered to himself. People came and went. Early in the afternoon it was mainly young women, usually with toddlers in pushchairs, and old folks carrying shopping. From five o’clock onwards people were returning from work – men and women with tired, unsmiling faces, many walking from the nearby Tube station. The occupants of the tower block reflected the multi-racial mix of the city and probably ten per cent were Asian.

  Standing kept the photograph of Faisal in his hand and looked at it frequently to refresh his memory. There were two false alarms, one at ten past five and the other twenty minutes later, when he saw men who were a close match. On the second occasion he had actually stood up and headed for the door of the block until he realised the man was considerably taller than Faisal.

  It was just before eight o’clock and night had fallen when Faisal Khan appeared. He was driving a red Peugeot 106 with wire wheels and a large spoiler at the back. He parked and walked towards the entrance, his mobile phone pressed to his ear. Standing checked the photograph on his smartphone. It was definitely Faisal. He stood up, shoved the bottle into the pocket of his coat and ambled towards the man, muttering loudly.

  Faisal tapped in an entry code and pushed open the door. Standing slipped in behind him, keeping his head down, and followed him through the lobby to three lifts. The middle one was the first to arrive. Faisal was talking into his mobile. ‘Yeah, bruv, I’m heading into the lift so I’ll lose my signal, yeah.’

  He got into the lift and stabbed at the button for the seventh floor. Standing followed him and pressed the one for the top floor. The doors closed. As the lift started to move, Standing reached over and grabbed the phone from Faisal’s hand.

  ‘What the fuck, bruv?’ shouted Faisal. He tried to get his phone back but Standing put it into his coat pocket, seized him by the throat and rammed him back against the side of the lift. He kept up the pressure, easily avoiding Faisal’s attempts to claw at his face, and started to count. His grip was blocking the blood flow in the carotid artery and the jugular vein and, if applied for too long, would result in death. Faisal’s eyes bulged and his chest heaved as Standing reached eight. After he got to ten Faisal’s eyes closed and his legs lost their strength. Standing kept applying pressure and used his other hand to force the man up against the side of the lift. He counted to fifteen, then took away his hand. Faisal’s head slumped forward, unconscious.

  Standing bent at the knees and hefted him over his shoulders. The lift reached the seventh floor and the doors rattled open. He pressed the button to close the doors and they were soon heading up to the top floor.

  Standing carried Faisal out and looked left and right. There was a fire door to the left and he pushed it open. Concrete stairs led down and up. He went up and reached another fire door. This one was locked and the key was in a glass-fronted red metal case. A notice warned of the penalty for unauthorised use. Standing used his elbow to smash the glass and pulled out the key. He unlocked the door and carried Faisal onto the roof. The door clicked shut behind him and he slipped the key into his pocket.

  He dropped the unconscious man onto the floor and stood over him. ‘Wake up,’ he said, and when there was no reaction he kicked him in the side. Faisal grunted but didn’t come round. He pulled the bottle of cider from his pocket and poured it over the man’s face. Faisal coughed and spluttered as the cider trickled into his open mouth, then rolled over, choking. Standing gave him another kick in the side and this time the man groaned. ‘Wakey, wakey,’ said Standing.

  Faisal rolled onto his back, still coughing. His eyes fluttered open and he frowned in confusion. Standing bent down, grabbed the scruff of his jacket and pulled him into a sitting position, his back against the concrete parapet that ran around the roof. Faisal wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What the fuck, bruv?’ he croaked.

  ‘Where do you get off grooming underage girls?’

  Faisal glanced around, trying to get his bearings.

  ‘You heard me, Faisal. What do you think you’re doing, taking young girls and passing them around your mates like they were nothing?’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about, bruv? I don’t groom no girls.’

  ‘You buy them presents, you give them booze and drugs and then you fuck them. Right?’

  ‘Are you fucking high, bruv? Cos you’re making no sense.’

  ‘That pound shop in Kilburn. That’s where you used to take them. Now it’s the cab office. Don’t fuck me around, Faisal. I know what you do and I know where you do it.’

  ‘What the fuck do you want, bruv? You want to mug me? I’ve got maybe fifty quid on me. You went to all this trouble for fifty quid? You are fucking demented.’

  ‘I don’t want your money, Faisal. I want to know who runs your grooming group. Who’s the ringleader?’

  ‘You keep saying grooming. Fuck that, no one grooms them.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Old enough.’

  ‘Twenty-five? Twenty-six?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘The girls you’re grooming, they’re – what? Fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen?’

  Faisal shrugged. ‘I don’t ask. Don’t ask, don’t care.’

  ‘And you give them drugs?’

  ‘They ask for drugs. Nobody forces anybody to do anything. If a girl wants drugs, she can have drugs. If a girl wants to suck my cock …’ he grinned ‘… who am I to say no, right? It’s a free country, innit?’

  ‘Not when men screw underage girls and think it’s okay.’

  ‘Fuck off, man,’ said Faisal. ‘Are you telling me you’d turn down free sex if it was offered? With a fit young girl who’ll do exactly as she’s told?’

  Standing felt the anger flare inside him and drew back his foot to kick the man.

  Faisal glared up at him. ‘You think I’m scared of you? I’m not scared of you, man. You don’t scare me.’ His hand disappeared inside his jacket and reappeared clutching a large knife, its blade protected by a cardboard sheath. He flicked the knife to the side as he got to his feet and the cardboard flew through the air. ‘Yeah, now who’s scared?’

  ‘Tell me about Lexi,’ said Standing.

  Faisal frowned. ‘Lexi? Lexi Chapman? Is that what this is about? What are you – some relative or something?’

  ‘Or something,’ said Standing.

  ‘And you’re pissed because she topped herself? Ain’t my fault, bruv. Silly bitch overdosed. Shit happens, right?’ He jabbed the knife at Standing to punctuate his words.

  ‘She was sixteen when she died. Fifteen when she met you.’

  ‘Never asked her age, bruv. Don’t ask, don’t tell. She was young, though, I can tell you that.’

  ‘I know exactly how old she was, bruv,’ said Standing, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

  Faisal’s eyes narrowed. ‘So who the fuck are you? You’re not her father.’

  ‘I’m her brother.’

  Faisal frowned. ‘Didn’t know she had a brother.’

  ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell?’

  Faisal shrugged. ‘Don’t give a fuck.’ He jabbed the knife at Standing’s face but Standing didn’t flinch. ‘Now you need to get the fuck away from me before you get cut.’

  ‘You cut many people with that?’ asked Standing.

  ‘Some. Why?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it would do a lot of damage, that’s all. And the handle. I’m guessing your hand would slip right off it if you stabbed anyone with any real force. You need a quillon for a knife to be effective.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘A quillon. A crossguard. A metal bar at right angles to the blade, between the blade and the hilt. If you’re going to slash, a quillon isn’t that important, but if you’re planning to stab someone and you don’t have a quillon, your hand will probably slip onto the blade and you’ll end up cutting yourself.’

  It was clearly too much information for Faisal. ‘What are you? The knife whisperer?’

  ‘I’ve had some experience with knives, yeah.’

  ‘Like a butcher?’

  Standing nodded. ‘Yeah. Like a butcher.’

  Faisal waved the knife from side to side. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve got the knife and you haven’t so maybe you’d best be on your way, bruv.’

  ‘See, I’m really not sure stabbing is the way to go,’ said Standing. ‘Stabbing is the equivalent of a gunshot. In and out, leaving a single wound. But, like a gunshot, placement is the key. You can get shot several times but if no vital organs or blood vessels are damaged you can keep moving. Sure, a shot to the head will stop you every time but I’ve seen guys take three or four rounds and still be able to return fire.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about, man?’

  ‘I’m just saying that you might want to rethink the stabbing technique, that’s all. Stabbing an artery is bloody difficult, but relatively easy to achieve when you slash. Stab an arm, it hurts and you bleed. But slash an arm severing muscle and tendons and the arm becomes useless. You have to put in the effort, though. You have to slash deep or the cuts will just be superficial.’

  Faisal had a blank look in his eyes.

  ‘And, like gunshots, you want to go central mass. The chest and stomach. Bigger target, less effort. I always find a combination of stab and slash is best. Stab then slash. Works every time.’ He nodded at the knife in Faisal’s hand. ‘But, seriously, that’s not the knife you’d want to be using. I mean, it looks the business, it’s big and all, but it’s not a great blade. Me, I always prefer a double-edged dagger. Nice and sharp, with a milled fuller. The fuller reduces the weight of the blade, without sacrificing strength, and limits lateral flexion.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It stops the blade twisting. It also helps you pull it out because it reduces the suction effect. That’s why you hear the fuller called the “blood groove”, but it was never about the blood. It was about making the knife strong and light.’ He nodded at Faisal’s knife. ‘That’s heavy and, frankly, probably not too strong.’

  ‘It’ll do the job,’ said Faisal.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Standing. ‘So who gave Lexi the drugs? The heroin?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to know who killed her.’

  ‘She killed herself, bruv. She injected herself. It was her call.’

  ‘So it was you? You gave her the drugs?’

  ‘Fuck off, bruv. If it hadn’t been me it would have been someone else. She was well up for it.’

  ‘Well up for what?’

  ‘For everything, man. She loved sex, she loved drugs. I couldn’t keep her away from me, bruv. I didn’t have to try that hard. She wanted it. She wanted me. She wanted the brown sugar and she wanted my brown cock. She loved it, man, she fucking loved it.’

  Standing stepped forward, his hands bunching into fists, his jaw clenched. Faisal took half a step back and raised the knife, then stabbed it at Standing’s throat. Standing’s left hand shot out instinctively, knocking the knife to the side. His punch was also instinctive and caught Faisal on the chin with such force that his neck cracked. Faisal staggered back and fell over the guardrail, his arms flailing even though the blow had almost certainly knocked him out.

  Standing tried to grab his legs as he disappeared over the edge but his fingers only managed to touch the bottom of his trousers and then he had disappeared into the darkness. Standing started counting in his head as he breathed in. When he got to three he heard a dull thud from 180 feet below. He turned away and walked back to the door, still counting. Inhale, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four.

  On the way to the Tube station he shoved the coat and hat into a clothing recycling skip and the empty cider bottle into a glass bin.

  The restaurant Meyer had chosen overlooked the sea and they were given a corner table on the terrace. The maître d’ knew him by name and shook his hand, then kissed Lisa on both cheeks and patted Jeeves’s shoulder. Meyer introduced him as Billy but Shepherd recognised the man from an NCA file he’d seen a few years earlier – his name was Rupert Cunningham and he was a convicted fraudster with several charges still outstanding.

  Billy gave them the first bottle of Cristal on the house and during the evening Meyer bought another four. The food was excellent, possibly the best Shepherd had ever eaten in Spain, and the lobsters were huge and succulent.

  As always with Meyer, conversation was amusing, never boring. He had a fund of stories, mainly his adventures at various ports around the world. He was clever enough to skirt around what he actually did for a living, but his tales were populated by villains of various nationalities.

  Shepherd told his fair share of tall stories, mainly tales he’d picked up from Barry Minister, but it was Meyer who did most of the talking, holding court like a king surrounded by his courtiers. Shepherd found himself genuinely liking the man, but he was professional: he recognised the signs and forced himself to focus on the fact that Meyer was a criminal, whose product caused untold misery and who was almost certainly responsible for the death of a DEA informer.

  They left the restaurant just before midnight. Shepherd assumed they were heading home but Meyer had other ideas. A Mercedes was waiting for them and drove them to a nightclub in the hills overlooking Marbella where another maître d’ welcomed them, this one a glamorous blonde in a tight-fitting black dress that showed off a clearly enhanced cleavage. Again it was evident that Meyer was a regular: he and Lisa were kissed and hugged, and Jeeves got a smile. Meyer introduced Shepherd as his good friend Jeff, and Shepherd was rewarded with a kiss on the cheek before she took them to a VIP section, unhooked a red rope and waved them through. They had barely sat down before the first of several bottles of Cristal arrived, each accompanied by a lit sparkler. Meyer and Lisa danced together while Shepherd and Jeeves talked sailing.

  It was after two when Meyer eventually called for the bill. Shepherd tried to pay his share but Meyer would have none of it, waving away his money. ‘You’re my guest, Jeff,’ he said. ‘End of.’

  Shepherd thanked him and put his money away. In the circles Meyer moved in, who paid was a matter of status. The top dog picked up the tab, the beta males expressed the requisite amount of gratitude.

  The Mercedes was parked outside, waiting for them. Jeeves sat in the front and Lisa sat between Meyer and Shepherd. As soon as the doors slammed, Lisa put her head against Meyer’s shoulder and fell fast asleep. Meyer grinned over the top of her head at Shepherd and winked. ‘She’s a lightweight.’

 

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