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police or CPS files that suggested Bob Macdonald was an undercover cop. But the final robbery hadn’t gone as planned, and at the last minute Shepherd had had to step in to make sure that civilians didn’t get hurt. He’d flattened Verity and threatened to shoot Owen. The script that Shepherd had stuck to was that he wasn’t happy with Verity’s plan to hurt the civilians and wanted out. So far as he knew the gang had believed it and no one had suspected he was a cop, but that didn’t mean they were likely to forgive and forget.
    Shepherd considered his options. Jeff Owen might not recognise him – not everybody had his memory for faces. But ten years wasn’t a long time in the grand scheme of things and Shepherd hadn’t changed much over the past decade. Owen might have calmed down while he was in prison but Shepherd doubted it. Owen had personally vouched for Bob Macdonald and had brought him into the gang. They had become quite close over the months it had taken Shepherd to earn the man’s trust.
    If Owen spotted Shepherd and confronted him, the O’Neill operation would go down in flames. There was no way he could explain how Owen knew Terry Taylor as Bob Macdonald, not in any way that would convince the O’Neills that something wasn’t wrong. It was just about possible that Macdonald had changed his name but if Taylor was a stone-cold hitman why would he be so coy about his armed-robbery past? And if Owen told them about the bust, how could he explain his decision to poleaxe the leader of the gang? Shepherd might, just might, be able to talk his way out of a beating, or worse, but the O’Neills would never trust him again.
    ‘So, you been busy?’ asked Evans.
    Shepherd grinned. ‘Ducking and diving.’
    ‘A little bird tells me you were out in the New Forest.’
    Shepherd kept smiling but his mind was racing. How much did Evans know? ‘You been following me, mate?’
    Evans grinned and put his mouth close to Shepherd’s ear. ‘I was chatting to Marty earlier. He said you’d done him a favour. Taken care of some business.’
    ‘Fuck me, Paul, I was hoping there’d be some client confidentiality in operation.’
    Evans laughed. ‘Your secret’s safe with me, mate. And I love that crack – they call you the Hammer because you nail it every time. That’s a fucking classic.’
    ‘What else did he tell you?’
    ‘No details, mate, don’t worry.’ He gestured at the door. ‘Now, come on. They’re going in.’
    Evans guided Shepherd into the main dining room. There were a couple of dozen tables, each seating twelve, around a boxing ring, plus a long table for the main guests facing the action.
    Shepherd glanced over his shoulder. Owen was lost in the crowd. ‘Give me a minute, just want to see where a pal of mine’s sitting.’
    ‘See you at the table,’ said Evans.
    Shepherd hurried to a whiteboard with two sheets of paper stuck to it. He ran his finger down the first page, then found Jeff Owen halfway down the second. He was on table eighteen. There was a map of the seating plan. Evans had table three, which put them on the opposite side of the boxing ring. As long as Owen stayed seated, he wouldn’t see Shepherd. But if he decided to take a trip to the toilet, there was a fair chance he’d walk by Shepherd’s table. He cursed under his breath. He had to do something, and quickly.
    He took another look around, then headed for the hotel reception area, which was still packed with dinner-jacketed men holding invitations. Shepherd went outside. There were fewer smokers than before, now split into two groups. Cigars seemed to outnumber cigarettes. Shepherd took out his phone, jogged across the road and tapped in Jimmy Sharpe’s number. He kept none on his phone, called everyone from memory and made a habit of deleting his call history. ‘Hi, Razor, where are you?’
    ‘What are you? My mother?’ growled Sharpe.
    ‘I’m in deep shit and you’re the only person who can get me out of it.