get some sleep. His fellow passengers were a mixed bag. There were middle-aged motorcyclists in black leathers, families with children, and groups of workmen travelling with the tools of their trade.
Shepherd studied a Belfast street map as he ate. He had been to Belfast three times in the past when he had worked for Superintendent Sam Hargrove’s police undercover unit, twice to infiltrate drugs gangs and once as back-up for a local Irish cop who had been trying to penetrate a counterfeit-currency ring. He had missed out on the IRA years, when members of the SAS put their lives on the line working under cover in Northern Ireland. It had been a dirty war, with casualties on both sides. There had been successes and failures, and war stories were still told in the bars and pubs of Hereford by the guys who had been through it.
Shepherd had come up against paramilitaries from both sides during his time in Belfast, but only as members of criminal gangs. As both sides downgraded their terrorist activities, the men with the guns found other ways to fill their time, from drug-dealing to armed robbery. Going up against criminal gangs in the city had been tough, not least because Shepherd’s English accent marked him as an outsider. The city’s criminal fraternity had split along tribal lines, but he’d been surprised to find that his nationality had never been held against him. The anger and hostility seemed to be directed between Catholics and Protestants, and as an Englishman he was deemed almost superfluous to the conflict. They were hard men, though, and most had started out throwing stones and petrol bombs at armoured Land Rovers before graduating to shootings, punishment beatings and, eventually, sectarian murder. That was the big difference for Shepherd. Most of the criminals he dealt with in mainland Britain were hard men, but few had seen a dead body and the vast majority had never killed anyone. But Belfast was brimful of men who had been trained to kill and who had taken lives for no other reason than that the victim was of the wrong religion. He was interested to see how the city had changed following the historic agreement for power-sharing.
He headed for his cabin at just after midnight and went straight to sleep. He woke at five thirty, shaved and washed, then went back to the cafeteria for coffee. At just before six the captain announced over the loudspeaker system that they were arriving in Belfast and Shepherd went down to the vehicle deck and sat in his Audi.
There were no checks as he drove off the ferry. There was little traffic on the roads and he was soon on a dual-carriageway on the outskirts of Belfast. He drove up into the Castlereagh Hills and turned on to Castlemore Avenue. The first houses he passed were detached, but then he came to a neat row of semis. He slowed and checked the numbers. His house was on the right, a neatly tended garden in front with a wrought-iron gate. He stopped the car, opened the gate, then drove up to the garage door. It was just before eight o’clock.
A white VW Golf was parked outside the garage attached to Elaine Carter’s house, but no tell-tale movement of the curtains on the ground or upper floor. Shepherd guessed she was probably still in bed. He looked at the house that would be his home for the next few weeks. The windows hadn’t been cleaned for a while but the white-painted wooden frames were in good condition, as was the front door.
He took out the keys Button had given him and unlocked the front door,which opened into a small hallway. Two rooms led off to the right, a front room with a brick fireplace and a dining room with a single bare bulb hanging from a ceiling rose. Upstairs there were three bedrooms. The one at the front was the largest, with built-in wardrobes. The window gave over the city, and in the distance he saw the giant yellow cranes of the Harland and Wolff shipyards, which had built the ill-fated Titanic , and beyond the urban sprawl, the
Shepherd studied a Belfast street map as he ate. He had been to Belfast three times in the past when he had worked for Superintendent Sam Hargrove’s police undercover unit, twice to infiltrate drugs gangs and once as back-up for a local Irish cop who had been trying to penetrate a counterfeit-currency ring. He had missed out on the IRA years, when members of the SAS put their lives on the line working under cover in Northern Ireland. It had been a dirty war, with casualties on both sides. There had been successes and failures, and war stories were still told in the bars and pubs of Hereford by the guys who had been through it.
Shepherd had come up against paramilitaries from both sides during his time in Belfast, but only as members of criminal gangs. As both sides downgraded their terrorist activities, the men with the guns found other ways to fill their time, from drug-dealing to armed robbery. Going up against criminal gangs in the city had been tough, not least because Shepherd’s English accent marked him as an outsider. The city’s criminal fraternity had split along tribal lines, but he’d been surprised to find that his nationality had never been held against him. The anger and hostility seemed to be directed between Catholics and Protestants, and as an Englishman he was deemed almost superfluous to the conflict. They were hard men, though, and most had started out throwing stones and petrol bombs at armoured Land Rovers before graduating to shootings, punishment beatings and, eventually, sectarian murder. That was the big difference for Shepherd. Most of the criminals he dealt with in mainland Britain were hard men, but few had seen a dead body and the vast majority had never killed anyone. But Belfast was brimful of men who had been trained to kill and who had taken lives for no other reason than that the victim was of the wrong religion. He was interested to see how the city had changed following the historic agreement for power-sharing.
He headed for his cabin at just after midnight and went straight to sleep. He woke at five thirty, shaved and washed, then went back to the cafeteria for coffee. At just before six the captain announced over the loudspeaker system that they were arriving in Belfast and Shepherd went down to the vehicle deck and sat in his Audi.
There were no checks as he drove off the ferry. There was little traffic on the roads and he was soon on a dual-carriageway on the outskirts of Belfast. He drove up into the Castlereagh Hills and turned on to Castlemore Avenue. The first houses he passed were detached, but then he came to a neat row of semis. He slowed and checked the numbers. His house was on the right, a neatly tended garden in front with a wrought-iron gate. He stopped the car, opened the gate, then drove up to the garage door. It was just before eight o’clock.
A white VW Golf was parked outside the garage attached to Elaine Carter’s house, but no tell-tale movement of the curtains on the ground or upper floor. Shepherd guessed she was probably still in bed. He looked at the house that would be his home for the next few weeks. The windows hadn’t been cleaned for a while but the white-painted wooden frames were in good condition, as was the front door.
He took out the keys Button had given him and unlocked the front door,which opened into a small hallway. Two rooms led off to the right, a front room with a brick fireplace and a dining room with a single bare bulb hanging from a ceiling rose. Upstairs there were three bedrooms. The one at the front was the largest, with built-in wardrobes. The window gave over the city, and in the distance he saw the giant yellow cranes of the Harland and Wolff shipyards, which had built the ill-fated Titanic , and beyond the urban sprawl, the
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