Howard Wedekind was sitting at a corner table with a vodka and tonic in front of him. He looked like a typical accountant, balding and wearing a rumpled suit with a scuffed briefcase at the side of his chair. He had the yellowing fingers of a smoker and, from the way he was tapping them on the table, Shepherd figured it had been a while since he’d had a cigarette.

‘You’re late,’ said Wedekind.

‘I said four-ish,’ said Shepherd, sitting down.

Wedekind glanced at his watch, a cheap black plastic Casio. ‘It’s half past.’ There was something off about his left eye. It was slightly closed and the pupil seemed a bit further to the side than it should have been.

‘Which is four-ish,’ said Shepherd. ‘In a few more minutes it’ll be five-ish and I’ll be officially late.’ He smiled at a waitress in a short skirt. ‘Bombay gin, Schweppes tonic, lime and ice,’ he said. She smiled and tottered away on impossibly high heels. Shepherd turned to watch her, playing the ladies’ man for Wedekind’s benefit. ‘I’d give her one,’ he said.

‘How did it go?’ asked Wedekind.

‘Same as it always goes. He begged me not to shoot him, he offered me money, then I shot him.’ He shrugged. ‘Same old, same old.’

‘As easy as that?’

‘I didn’t say it was easy,’ said Shepherd, ‘but there’s a predictability about it. First they don’t believe it’s happening, then they try to negotiate or threaten their way out of it, and finally they accept it. Or they try to rush you. But Larry wasn’t a rusher. You’ve got my money?’

‘Obviously I’d like proof of death,’ said Wedekind, his voice a low whisper.

Shepherd reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the gold bracelet he’d taken from McGovern. He gave it to Wedekind, who smiled as he weighed it in the palm of his hand. ‘He loved this, Larry did. Never took it off.’

‘Yeah. Well, not any more.’ He fished a small memory card out of his wallet. ‘If the lads want to see McGovern’s final seconds, show them this.’

Wedekind stared at it in amazement. ‘You’re joking.’

‘Serious as cancer.’

‘You filmed it?’

‘Howard, there’s a reason they call it a handgun. One hand is all you need.’

‘This is a fucking first,’ said Wedekind, taking the card.

The waitress returned with Shepherd’s gin and tonic. She bent down low, giving him a fairly decent view of her impressive cleavage and flashed him a smile, then straightened up and tottered away.

‘I can’t believe you filmed it,’ said Wedekind, putting the card into his wallet. ‘The boys are going to love that. And no one will ever find the body?’

‘Buried deep in the New Forest,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve put a dozen in the woods and no one’s ever the wiser. You’ve got to bury them deep enough so dogs don’t get the scent, but other than that it’s easy-peasy.’ He raised his glass in salute and took a long drink.