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They’ve stolen bearer bonds, jewellery, art, bullion and cash. Every job is different. There’s nothing predictable about them so we’ve no idea where they’ll strike next.’
    ‘What about red-flagging them at the airports and following them when they come back?’
    ‘The Flying Squad tried that two years ago but they keep coming in under the radar. You know yourself how porous our borders are. Last time they flew from Bangkok to Paris, Paris to Dublin, and then we lost them. Presumably they either drove over on the ferry or went up to Belfast and flew from there.’
    ‘Because Belfast is in the UK so no passport control?’
    ‘Exactly. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. After a big job has gone down, we can find out what flights they were on. But the fact that they left Thailand when the robberies were committed isn’t evidence that they carried them out.’
    Shepherd knew there was nothing to be gained from trying to second-guess Button, but the questions helped to put his thoughts in order. ‘Will the Thais know I’m there under cover?’
    ‘We can’t take the risk of making it official. If the wrong cop finds out, you’ll be dead.’
    ‘That’s reassuring,’ said Shepherd.
    ‘There won’t be any arrests made on Thai soil,’ said Button. ‘We’ll wait until they’re back in the UK and hopefully we’ll catch them in the act.’
    ‘And what were you planning in the way of back-up?’
    ‘Ricky Knight’s on the run from the cops, so legend-wise you’ll be on your own,’ said Button.
    ‘You won’t be there?’
    Button smiled thinly. ‘A Western woman in Pattaya isn’t exactly going to blend in, though I’m told there are quite a few Russian hookers plying their trade there now.’
    ‘Charlie, with the best will in the world you can’t send me to another country without some sort of back-up. If the shit hits the fan I’ll need to be able to call on someone local to pull my nuts out of the fire.’
    ‘Leaving aside the mixed metaphors, I take your point,’ said Button. ‘Who would you suggest?’
    Shepherd gestured at the surveillance photographs. ‘Who took those?’
    ‘Bob Oswald, but he’s surveillance. He wouldn’t be any good as back-up and anyway we need him for a job in London. He can brief you when you get to Pattaya but then I’ll need him back here.’
    ‘Jimmy Sharpe, then,’ said Shepherd. ‘He could go over as a tourist and keep away from the bad guys, but be around if I need him.’
    ‘Agreed,’ said Button.
    Shepherd studied the photographs. The Moore brothers looked like a couple of easy-going working-class blokes, the type who, if they’d made different choices, might have ended up in the army or the police. They were both well muscled, with thick gold chains hanging around their necks and chunky Rolex watches on their wrists. He’d seen their type in nightclubs and gyms all over the country. He could guess the sort of cars they drove and the houses they lived in and the girls they slept with. Over the course of his undercover career, first with the police and then with SOCA, Shepherd had befriended dozens of men like them. Befriended them and ultimately betrayed them. That was his job, and he was good at it.
    ‘I realise it’s on the other side of the world, Spider, and I know you don’t like being away from your son. But with Terry Norris out of commission, we’ve got a window of opportunity that I’d hate to miss.’
    ‘I’ll do it,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m guessing the sooner the better, right?’
    ‘Saturday will be soon enough,’ said Button. ‘I’ve booked you on a flight from Heathrow at nine thirty in the evening. That’ll give you a couple of days with your boy at least.’
    ‘I’m already booked on?’
    ‘I figured you’d want the assignment, Spider. It’s right up your street.’ She reached into her briefcase and took out a bulky padded envelope. ‘Here’s a passport with your picture in the name of John Westlake and a ticket to