Free Cold Kill by Stephen Leather

settled back in the seat.
    ‘They’re going to drop me in town,’ said Hargrove. ‘I’ve got to get back to London. Anyway, there’s no reason for your solicitor to be with you as you’re not going to be interviewed.’
    ‘No sweat,’ said Shepherd.
    ‘The local cops will transfer the father later this afternoon. I’ve cleared it with the local chief super that he’s to be put into a holding cell with you.’
    ‘He knows I’m undercover?’
    ‘He’s sound – Garth Carpenter. I’ve known him for years.’
    Shepherd nodded. He was never happy about strangers knowing his true role, but there were times when it was necessary.
    Sharpe wound down his window and showed the young uniformed constable his warrant card. ‘He’s expected,’ said Sharpe, and waved at Shepherd, who was again handcuffed to Joyce.
    The constable scrutinised Shepherd’s face. ‘Who is he?’
    ‘Name’s Corke. Floats like one, too. Pulled him out of the water after he jumped off a trawler full of illegal immigrants. He’s here to be questioned before we put him up before a magistrate.’
    Joyce held out his warrant card and the constable nodded. He straightened up and waved at his colleague, who was watching from a cubicle at the entrance to the car park. The metal gate rattled back and Sharpe edged the Vectra forward. ‘Wonder if he joined the force so that he could be a bloody security guard,’ he muttered.
    ‘We can’t all be high-flyers,’ said Joyce, grinning at the constable as they drove past him.
    They parked between two white vans with mesh-protected windows and walked into the rear entrance of the station. Sharpe flashed his warrant card and asked to speak to Chief Superintendent Carpenter. Then Shepherd was taken to a holding cell that contained a mattress on a concrete plinth, a single plastic and metal chair and a stainless-steel toilet.
    He sat on the bunk and bent forward, arms resting on his legs, to run through his legend. Tony Corke. Fifteen years at sea, mostly on cross-Channel ferries, married but divorced, one child, a boy, a short spell inside for assault after a drunken brawl in a Portsmouth bar. Not a particularly nice guy, but not an outright villain. He lay back on the bed and relaxed, staring up at the ceiling. Someone had scraped ‘ ALL COPPERS ARE BASTARDS ’ into the plaster. He smiled to himself. Not all coppers were bastards, but he had met a fair few whose parentage might be called into question. He closed his eyes but didn’t sleep.
    Time seemed to crawl by. He wondered what was taking so long. An hour passed. Then another. The only light filtered in through a square of glass breeze blocks in the wall close to the ceiling. As the sky darkened, he stood up and switched on the light. Something must have gone wrong. He glanced at his watch. He’d been in the cell for almost five hours and all he’d had to eat were the sandwiches in the car. There was a bell push beside the door but Shepherd didn’t want to start asking for favours.
    He sat down on the bunk again. It wasn’t his first time in a cell and he was no stranger to long waits. On SAS surveillance operations he’d spent days at a time lying in a rain-swept hide, pissing and shitting into plastic bags, so a few hours in a cell with plumbing was no real hardship. But that didn’t make it any less boring. He should have asked Sharpe for a newspaper or magazine.
    He lay back on the bed. The concrete was hard against his back through the thin plastic mattress but, considering the number of drunks who had probably spent the night here, the smell wasn’t too bad.
    Hargrove had definitely said that Rudi would be put in the cell that afternoon. Now it was evening. Hargrove wasn’t the sort of man who made mistakes so something must have disrupted his plans. It happened on every operation, and Shepherd knew there was nothing he could do but ride it out.
    It was almost seven o’clock when he heard footsteps, then the rattle of a key. The