Rough Justice Part 3

'I'm not sure that's true,' said Shepherd. 'After what happened in the bedroom, they must have realised I'm not kosher.'

'They might just a.s.sume that you're a villain with a soft heart,' said b.u.t.ton. 'Anyway, we'll put it out that you escaped from custody while you were in hospital and the rest of the gang will go down for at least ten years.' The kettle finished boiling and she stood up. 'I'll make us all a coffee and then I'll run you along to the hotel. I've got rooms booked for us all.'

'I'd rather get back to Hereford,' said Shepherd. 'It's been a while since I saw Liam.'

'No problem,' said b.u.t.ton, spooning coffee into a cafetiere. 'I'll arrange a car. What about you, Razor?'

'Minibar included?'

'Within reason,' said b.u.t.ton.

Sharpe rubbed his hands together. 'I'll phone the wife and tell her to expect me tomorrow.'

'And I'm going to need to see you both in London on Monday.'

'A new job?' asked Shepherd.

'All lined up and ready to go,' she said.

'Care to give us clue?'

She smiled brightly. 'Now, Spider, that would spoil the surprise.'

The occupants of the six cells looked up as Shepherd walked into the block. Six pairs of brown eyes gazed at him hopefully. He was the key to their salvation: one word from him and they would be released. The floors were bare concrete, the rear walls whitewashed brick, and there was a single metal-barred gate fronting each three-feet-by-eight cell.

'How long have they been here?' he asked the middle-aged woman who had escorted him into the block.

She indicated the occupant of the first cell. 'He's been here two years,' she said. The Alsatian-Labrador cross growled softly and wagged its tail. 'He's six years old and most people want a puppy.'

'What do you think, Liam?' asked Shepherd. 'Do you see anything you like?'

'I like them all, Dad,' said Liam. He bent down and pushed his fingers between the bars. The dog licked them, its tail swishing from side to side like a metronome. 'We can really have one? Really?'

'I promised you, didn't I? I said we'd get a dog after I'd finished the job I was on.' The investigation into Alex Grimshaw and his gang of armed robbers had taken the best part of two months and for most of that time Shepherd had been in the West Country. He'd managed a few weekend trips back to Hereford but he knew he hadn't been spending enough time with his son.

He'd arrived back in Hereford just as Liam was waking up and had realised he hadn't brought him a present. He'd been promising to let his son have a dog for months, so he'd offered to take him to the local RSPCA kennels. The dog was a bribe, Shepherd knew, to make up for him being such an absentee father, but it was clear from the look on Liam's face that it was more than acceptable.

'What happens to the ones you don't find homes for?' Shepherd asked the woman. She was dressed in a tweed suit and sensible shoes, and had her RSPCA identification hanging on a long chain around her neck. 'Do you...' He left the sentence unfinished.

'Oh, these days it's quite rare to put down a healthy dog,' said the woman. 'If a dog is very old or sick or has an impossible temperament then we might be forced to, but generally they just stay here until a home becomes available. The local paper is very good. Whenever we get close to capacity they run a story with photographs of our more appealing animals and that always gets results.'

Liam had moved on to the next cage, where a small beagle wagged its tail and made a fuss of him. 'Look, Dad, it's Snoopy.'

'She's a pure beagle,' said the woman. 'That's quite unusual for us generally we get the Heinz 57 varieties. She's probably from a good home and just got lost. But we've had her for two weeks and no one has claimed her so we've put her up for adoption. She'll go quickly pedigrees are always popular. You'd pay several hundred pounds to buy a dog like that from a breeder.'

Liam scratched the animal behind an ear. 'It's so cute, Dad,' he said.

'Beagles need a lot of exercise,' said Shepherd.

'You have a house and garden?' asked the woman.

'Quite a large garden,' said Shepherd. 'And we live close to a lot of open s.p.a.ce. Liam here has promised to walk the dog at least once a day.'

'And you're married, are you?'

Shepherd frowned. 'Why's that important?' he asked.

'We don't want the dogs left on their own for long periods,' she said. 'We need to know that there's someone around for them.'

'We have an au pair, and she's home all the time,' said Shepherd.

'That'll be fine,' said the woman. 'We'll need to do a home visit, of course.'

'A home visit?'

'To check that it's the sort of environment that's suitable for a dog. A lot of our dogs have been mistreated and we need to know that their new home will give them the stability they need.'

'It's probably easier to adopt a child than a dog,' said Shepherd.

'Sadly, Mr Shepherd, that could well be true. But we do our bit by making sure that our dogs only go to good homes.'

'Can we have this one, Dad?' asked Liam. The beagle was scrabbling at the cage door, trying to get to him.

'You remember the rules?' asked Shepherd.

Liam sighed theatrically. 'Walk her at least twice a day, feed her, clean up after her, and take responsibility for any damage she does.'

'The kennel maids have been calling her Lady,' said the woman, 'but she's only been here two weeks so there wouldn't be a problem calling her something else.'

'Lady's a good name,' said Liam. He looked up at his father. 'Can we take her now, Dad?'

Shepherd looked at the woman. 'There's some paperwork to do,' she said. 'And we still have the home visit to arrange. Where do you live?'

Shepherd told her his address and she agreed to do the home visit early the following day, even though it was Sunday.

'That'll give us a chance to get some supplies in,' said Shepherd.

'Supplies?' queried Liam.

'Bedding, food, brushes, a lead, a collar dogs need almost as much stuff as children,' said Shepherd.

'But we can have her, right?'

'Sure,' said Shepherd. He crouched next to Liam and put his hand through the bars of the cage. The dog licked his fingers enthusiastically.

'You're great, Dad. Thanks.'

'Just remember the rules,' said Shepherd. 'Six months down the line, I don't want to be the one feeding her and taking her out whenever she needs a pee.'

'That's what we've got Katra for,' said Liam.

Shepherd glared at his son and pointed a warning finger at him.

'Dad, I'm joking,' said Liam. 'She's my responsibility, I'll take good care of her, I swear.'

'Just make sure that you do.'

The waitress was a pretty Chinese girl with waist-length hair, flawless olive skin and long fingernails painted bright red to match the figure-hugging cheongsam dress that she was wearing. All the men at the table turned to watch her walk away.

'She's a cracker,' said the youngest of the group of five. Ben Portner had just turned nineteen and had only been in the army for six months. He had a shock of ginger hair and a ma.s.s of freckles across his nose and cheeks, so he wasn't at all surprised to be nicknamed 'Ginge' before he'd even got off the bus that had taken him to basic training.

'Yeah, a prawn cracker,' said the man sitting next to him. Greg Ma.s.sey was two years older than Ginge but had gone through basic training at the same time and, like Ginge, was preparing for his first overseas posting. Afghanistan.

The men around the table laughed, including the one officer, Captain Tommy Gannon. Gannon was in his mid-twenties, a career soldier, good-looking with a strong chin and piercing blue eyes. Like all the men, he was casually dressed, wearing a dark blue polo shirt and brown cargo pants, with a leather bomber jacket hanging on the back of his chair.

'What are the girls like in Afghanistan, sir?' Ma.s.sey asked Gannon.

'No idea,' said Gannon. 'They always have their faces covered, once they're past p.u.b.erty. And they keep well away from us.'

'What about female suicide bombers?'

'It happens,' said Gannon. 'They've been using kids, too. But in Afghanistan the main hazards for us are going to be Taliban fighters, snipers and IEDs. Most of the Taliban suicide bombers are for their own people.'

The pretty waitress returned with bottles of Chinese Tsingtao beer on a tray. 'Hey, darling, do you go out with round-eyes?' asked the soldier sitting on Gannon's left. He was in his late twenties, the most experienced squaddie at the table. Craig Broadbent had already done one tour of Iraq and had the scars from a car bomb down his back to prove it.

The waitress scowled at him. 'I don't go out with squaddies,' she said, her accent pure Northern Irish.

'You should try Mr Gannon, then,' said Ma.s.sey, pointing his chopsticks at Gannon. 'He's an officer.'

The waitress looked at Gannon and raised her eyebrows. 'A sergeant?' she said.

'Sergeants aren't officers,' he said. 'I'm a captain. Ney ho mah Ney ho mah?'

She looked surprised. 'You speak Cantonese?'

'Siu siu,' he said. 'Just a bit. I was in Hong Kong last year, picked some up while I was there.' He gestured at the men sitting around the table. 'Don't worry about these guys. They're off to Afghanistan next week.'

'Are you going with them?' asked the waitress.

'We wouldn't go without the captain,' Ma.s.sey put in. 'We've got it written into our contracts.'

'Is that true?' asked the waitress.

'No,' laughed Gannon. 'But they can't even put on their boots without me, so I've got to go with them. What's your name?'

'May,' said the waitress.

'Well, I tell you what, May, as soon as I get back I'll pop in and you can teach me more Cantonese, okay?'

She grinned. 'Okay.'

He held out his hand. 'Tommy Gannon,' he said. The waitress shook it timidly.

'Captain Tommy Gannon,' said Ma.s.sey. 'Killer of the Taliban and breaker of hearts.'

Gannon's men cheered and the waitress hurried back to the kitchen, blushing.

The door to the street opened and two men in ski-masks and long dark coats walked in. Gannon's jaw dropped and a prawn slipped from between his chopsticks. His first thought was that the restaurant was about to be robbed, but then both men swung Kalashnikov a.s.sault rifles from under their coats. He looked around for a weapon but there was nothing, just the chopsticks, plates and bottles. He started to get to his feet. 'Get down!' he screamed to his men, as he grabbed the beer bottle nearest to him.

The gunmen stood with their feet shoulder-width apart, the stocks of the Kalashnikovs tucked into their hips, braced for the recoil to come.

Gannon drew back his hand but before he could throw the bottle the guns burst into life. He felt two thumps in the chest and saw Ma.s.sey's head explode, blood splattering across the tablecloth. Bullets thudded over the table, shattering bottles and kicking food into the air. Gannon saw Broadbent fall backwards with a gaping wound in his neck.

The gunfire was deafening in the confined s.p.a.ce and the cordite stung his eyes. The bottle fell from his hand as he felt another thud, this time in his guts, and bent forward. His shirt and trousers were drenched with blood.

Still the guns kept firing, a non-stop rat-tat-tat of burning lead that ripped through the men at the table. Portner was on his hands and knees, crawling towards the kitchen, until half a dozen bullets thudded into his back and he went down, his hands clawing at the carpet.

Gannon put his hands to his chest, trying to stem the flow of blood, but he knew it was a waste of time. He couldn't feel anything the body's natural painkillers had flooded into his system, dulling the pain and making him almost sleepy. His last thought before his eyes closed and he slumped to the floor was that sometimes life was so b.l.o.o.d.y unfair.

The two men jumped into the back of the Toyota and the driver stamped on the accelerator as they slammed the door. Both were breathing heavily. The bigger of the two grabbed his companion's knee. 'Perfect,' he said. 'f.e.c.king perfect.'

'How many do you think we got?'

'Four. Five. Six, maybe,' said the Big Man. 'Did you see the look of surprise on their faces, the stupid Brit b.a.s.t.a.r.ds? Didn't have a clue what was happening.' The man pulled off his ski-mask. 'We b.l.o.o.d.y well showed them, Sean. We b.l.o.o.d.y well showed them that the fight's not over.'

Sean pulled off his ski-mask and twisted around in his seat. The road was clear behind them. He turned back and cradled the Kalashnikov.

The driver took a hard left and the tyres squealed in protest. 'Easy there, Joe,' said the Big Man. 'Nice and easy now.'

'The s.h.i.t's going to hit the fan, right enough,' said the driver.

'And that's how it should be,' said the Big Man. Now he removed his own mask. He was in his late forties with pale blue eyes and skin the texture of old leather, reddened and roughened from years out in the sun. 'The s.h.i.t should be flying left, right and centre till they get the h.e.l.l out of our country. Tiocfaidh ar la Tiocfaidh ar la.'

'Tiocfaidh ar la,' echoed the Sean and the driver. Our day will come.

Shepherd's alarm woke him early on Sunday morning. He pulled on a sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms, went downstairs and made himself a cup of black coffee. Then he put on a pair of old army boots and took his rucksack out from the cupboard under the stairs. Inside the rucksack, a dozen bricks were wrapped in newspaper. He took his running seriously. He didn't believe in state-of-the-art trainers with gel insoles and Lycra shorts: he believed in doing it the hard way, in heavy boots with weight on his back.

He left the house and ran on the roads for two miles at a medium pace until he'd worked up a good sweat, then cut off into the countryside along a route through fields and woods that he knew was exactly six miles. At the halfway point two men in black tracksuits pa.s.sed him. They were both in their early twenties with full bergens on their backs. Shepherd smiled to himself. They were obviously in the Regiment, SAS troopers at the peak of physical condition and probably carrying twice the weight he had on his back. Shepherd's bergen was a GS issue, general service. The troopers were running with SAS-issue, bigger, with a zipped compartment on the lid, a zip on the outer central pouch, buckles on the lid straps and s.p.a.ces for skis or a shovel behind the side pouches. When fully packed, an SAS bergen weighed between thirty-six and forty kilos. Shepherd was still in good condition but he doubted that he'd be able to run more than five miles with that amount of weight on his back. The two troopers pulled away from him and Shepherd let them ago. His racing days were over.

By the time he'd done his countryside route he was bathed in sweat, his shoulders ached from the weight of the rucksack and his feet were sore. He vaulted over a five-bar gate and started running on the pavement again. He upped the pace, his chest heaving, and ran the last two miles at full pelt.

When he got home, Katra was in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Shepherd went upstairs, showered and changed into a clean polo shirt and black jeans. By the time he was back in the kitchen, Liam was already tucking into scrambled eggs and bacon, the eggs done with cheese the way he liked them.

Katra gave Shepherd a mug of coffee. 'What would you like, Dan?' she asked.

'Tomato omelette would hit the spot,' said Shepherd, ruffling his son's hair and sitting down next to him. 'Homework done?'

'Almost.'