Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller by Stephen Leather Page A

from the windows of the main building, dozens of faces looked down.
    They bundled him a few yards to a ramp that led to a grey door where there were two more armed cops. They hustled him down a corridor and into a custody suite where a grey-haired sergeant stood behind a computer terminal. The sergeant was wearing glasses but he looked over the top of them to scrutinise Shepherd.
    ‘This is him?’ he said. He had a West Country drawl that suggested haystacks and cider. His workstation was raised about a foot off the ground so that he was able to look down on Shepherd, even though he was several inches shorter.
    ‘It’s him,’ said one of the armed cops.
    There were half a dozen uniformed officers standing by a door, all staring at Shepherd. One of them was an inspector. He was in his late twenties and had fast-track graduate-entry written all over him, his uniform neatly pressed, his hat on perfectly straight, his hands clasped behind his back as if he were on parade.
    ‘Name?’ the sergeant asked Shepherd.
    Shepherd ignored him. He looked over at the inspector, the highest-ranking officer in the room. ‘Can I have a word, inspector?’
    The inspector frowned. ‘What?’
    ‘I need to talk to you in private.’
    ‘That’s not going to happen,’ said the officer. He jutted his chin up as if to reinforce his decision.
    ‘I have some information that you need to hear.’
    ‘I would suggest that you do not say anything until you have a solicitor present.’
    ‘There’s no need for that,’ said Shepherd. ‘This is all going to be sorted out in the next hour or so. Just put me in a room or a cell if you’d prefer and I’d really appreciate a cup of coffee and a sandwich if you could grab one from the canteen. I haven’t eaten for a while.’
    The inspector looked across at the custody sergeant. ‘I think we need the doctor in here to assess his mental condition,’ he said.
    ‘Look, I’m just trying to make this easier for you,’ said Shepherd. ‘Within the next hour someone is going to come and take care of this. They’ll be accompanied by a senior officer and he’s going to want to know what you did in the way of processing. And trust me, the more you do now the more you’re going to have to undo down the line. Just let me sit in a cell for an hour and I’ll be out of your hair.’
    The inspector looked at Shepherd coldly for several seconds, then nodded at the sergeant. ‘Fingerprint him, DNA him and bag his clothes.’
    ‘Fine,’ said Shepherd.
    ‘Name?’ asked the custody sergeant.
    Shepherd stared at the officer but didn’t reply.
    ‘We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way, but the end result is going to be the same.’
    Shepherd still said nothing.
    The sergeant waved a constable over. ‘Turn out his pockets,’ said the sergeant.
    The constable pulled a wallet from Shepherd’s back pocket. He took out a driving licence and compared the photograph to Shepherd’s face before handing it to the sergeant. The sergeant pushed his spectacles further up his nose and smiled as he examined the licence. ‘Craig Brannan. Date of birth, July fifteenth 1975.’ He smiled down at Shepherd. ‘See now, that wasn’t too difficult, was it?’
    Shepherd continued to stare at the sergeant but kept his mouth shut. He’d done all he could do, said all he could, now it was just a matter of waiting for it to be over.
    ‘Ever been in trouble with the police before, Mr Brannan?’ asked the sergeant. He tapped away on his computer for several seconds and then smiled thinly. ‘Apparently not.’ He looked at the constable. ‘Anything else in his pockets?’
    The constable fished out Shepherd’s keys, two sets, one for his flat and one for his car. He put them down on the counter. ‘That’s everything.’
    The sergeant looked down at Shepherd. ‘Your driving licence has your current address, does it, Mr Brannan?’
    Shepherd stared sullenly at the sergeant but didn’t reply.
    The