Rough Justice (19 page)

‘So he could stand for the BNP or something. UKIP, maybe.’

‘The UK Independence Party isn’t much different from the rest of them,’ said Dawson. ‘They’ll talk big about us leaving Europe but they’re not prepared to do what’s necessary to make this country great again.’

‘So, BNP, then,’ said Sharpe.

‘The media would eat him alive,’ said Dawson. ‘They’d see him as a real threat so they’d bring out the big guns. The papers hate the BNP. They’d dig into everything he’s ever done, every skeleton in every closet.’

‘Do you think he’s got skeletons in his closet?’ asked Sharpe.

‘Who hasn’t?’ said Dawson. He sipped his gin and tonic, watching Sharpe over the top of his glass.

Sharpe smiled amiably. ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

‘Gary’s right,’ said Brennan. ‘The media hates us because we don’t swallow the bullshit they feed us. Anyone who stands up and tells the truth gets cut down.’

‘That’s why all the secrecy, yeah?’

Dawson nodded. ‘If Searchlight or any of the other leftie groups found out that Simon was appearing, there’d be demonstrations like you wouldn’t believe.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Brennan. ‘They talk about free speech but we’re not allowed to tell the truth. And they can say whatever they want about us, but if you start saying that darkies are responsible for most of the problems this country has, they put you in prison.’

Sharpe drank some beer.

‘So what do you do, Brian?’ asked Dawson.

‘I’m a book-keeper,’ said Sharpe. ‘Accounts and stuff. You?’

‘Insurance,’ said Dawson. ‘How’s business?’

‘Suffering like everyone else,’ said Sharpe. ‘Bloody economy.’

‘We’d be in a lot better shape if we didn’t have so many immigrants sponging off the system,’ said Brennan.

‘That’s the truth,’ agreed Sharpe. ‘But what can we do?’

‘Send the bastards home,’ said Brennan. ‘Pay those that want to go, then force the rest of them out. It’s like Simon was saying – why the hell are we letting Taliban fighters live here? They kill our boys and then we give them a house and a TV. The world’s gone mad.’

‘Not the world, Lenny,’ said Dawson. ‘Just this country.’

‘So what’s the answer?’ asked Sharpe. ‘How do we stop the rot? How do we turn back the clock?’

‘We stand and fight,’ said Dawson. ‘We fight for what’s ours.’

Shepherd set his alarm for seven o’clock on Monday morning and did thirty minutes on his exercise bike before shaving and showering. He put on his black police-issue trousers, long-sleeved white shirt and black tie, then fixed his black epaulettes with his police number; the U prefix showed he was with the TSG. He made himself a coffee and a bacon sandwich, then hauled on his motorcycle leathers over his uniform and put his police boots into a backpack.

Paddington Green police station was just fifteen minutes’ drive from the house, and it had just turned eight thirty when Shepherd indicated and drove off Edgware Road down the side street that led to the rear of the station. He pulled up next to a wooden shed at the entrance and showed his Terry Halligan warrant card to a civilian guard who was reading a copy of the
Daily Mirror
. ‘PC Terry Halligan,’ he said. ‘I’m reporting for duty with the TSG.’

The guard squinted at the card and handed it back. ‘So?’

Shepherd pointed at the metal shutters that led to the car park. ‘Can I leave my bike in there?’

The guard shook his head. ‘Work vehicles only.’

‘Where’s the nearest place I can park, do you know?’

The guard shrugged. ‘There’s pay-and-display the other side of Edgware Road.’

‘Not sure I want to leave the bike on the street.’

The guard shrugged again. ‘Hyde Park’s your best bet, then,’ he said. ‘Down to Marble Arch – you’ll see the signs.’ He went back to studying his paper.

Shepherd flicked the visor of his helmet down and drove back around the police station and along Edgware Road to Hyde Park Corner, where he left the bike in the NCP underground car park. By the time he’d walked back to the station it was twenty past nine. He went in through the main entrance and asked a couple of Community Support Officers where he’d find the TSG offices. He followed their directions and found himself in a corridor on the first floor with several teak-effect doors. Each had a small plastic sign denoting the occupant and Shepherd knocked on the door belonging to Inspector Phillip Smith. ‘Come in,’ said a clipped voice.

Shepherd opened the door. Smith was in uniform, sitting behind a desk piled high with files. He was slightly plump with thinning blond hair.

‘PC Terry Halligan,’ said Shepherd, as he stepped into the office.

‘We were expecting you at nine o’clock,’ said Smith, looking up at a clock on the wall.

‘I’m sorry about that, sir, I had trouble parking my bike.’ He held up his helmet. ‘Wasn’t allowed to park it on the premises.’

‘We don’t have the space for private vehicles,’ said Smith. ‘Make sure you’re on time in future.’

‘I will do, sir. Sorry.’

‘You were told that you were going to Gravesend. Your Serial is up for its training day.’

‘Yes, sir, sorry.’

‘The bus is waiting for you so get a move on.’ Smith waved him away with a languid hand.

A uniformed sergeant holding a clipboard appeared in the doorway and grinned at Shepherd. ‘Ah, the late Terry Halligan, I presume.’ He held out his hand. ‘Roy Fogg, Sarge or Skip on the bus, Foggy in the pub. Welcome aboard.’ The sergeant looked older than he had appeared in the picture Shepherd had seen, and he was a few kilos heavier. He was Shepherd’s height with a rapidly receding hairline and deep worry lines across his forehead.

Shepherd shook his hand. ‘Yeah, sorry I was late, Sarge. I had to find somewhere to park my bike.’

‘Parking’s a nightmare here,’ said Fogg. He smiled at the inspector. ‘Can I take him now, sir?’

‘You’ll be in Sergeant Fogg’s bus,’ Smith said to Shepherd. ‘You’d better get a move on.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Shepherd. He followed Fogg out of the inspector’s office and closed the door behind him.

‘What sort of bike have you got?’ asked Fogg.

‘A BMW HP2 Sport.’

‘Nice,’ said Fogg. ‘I’ve got a Ducati Streetfighter. Where did you park?’

Shepherd pulled a face. ‘Miles away. Hyde Park Corner.’

‘Let me have a word with Robin Potter. He’s a sergeant with Traffic and a bike nut. He’s tight with the PC in Admin who assigns parking spaces and he arranged for me to park in the bike area. You might have to let him borrow it now and again.’

‘It’d be worth it.’

‘Probably won’t be able to do it until tomorrow. Okay, let’s get you your gear and then get on the bus. The team’s in the canteen. I’ll introduce you first. They’re a good bunch.’ Fogg ignored the lifts and took Shepherd up the stairs and through double doors into the canteen. A group of community support officers were sitting at a table close to the doors, tucking into fried breakfasts. One looked up. ‘Newbie’s arrived, huh?’ he asked the sergeant.

‘How’s it going, Ross?’ said Fogg, ignoring the man’s question. He walked by the table towards some officers wearing long-sleeved shirts and black ties, sitting with cups of coffee and tea in front of them. One spotted him and said something, and they all turned to look at Shepherd.

‘Right, lads, listen up,’ said Fogg. ‘This is the man we’ve been waiting for. Terry Halligan. From sheep-shagging country, but don’t hold that against him.’

Shepherd raised his hand in greeting. ‘Hi, guys,’ he said. Then he realised that one of the officers at the table was female. ‘And lady.’ He had recognised her from Button’s file: Carolyn Castle.

One of the men laughed. ‘Watch it, Pelican, he’s got a hard-on for you already.’

‘The comedian there is Lurpak,’ said Fogg. ‘Known to his mother as Nick.’

He stood up and shook Shepherd’s hand. ‘Welcome aboard,’ he said. ‘Nick Coker.’

Fogg continued the introductions. ‘The more feminine side of our team is represented by . . .’ He started to point at Castle, but then jabbed a finger at another man. ‘KFC over there, Barry Kelly.’

Kelly laughed. His hair seemed a brighter shade of red than it had been in his file picture, and the freckles across his nose were more pronounced.

‘Before anyone gives me a crap introduction, I’m Carolyn Castle,’ said the female officer. When she shook Shepherd’s hand, her grip was as firm as a man’s. ‘Though these buggers insist on calling me Pelican.’ She was prettier than she’d appeared in the photograph, blonde hair tied up at the back and amused green eyes.

‘The big man is Carpets,’ said Fogg. ‘Richard Parry.’

Parry was a huge West Indian with massive forearms and a shaved head. His hand was about twice the size of Shepherd’s but he didn’t squeeze hard. ‘Good to meet you,’ he growled.

The man next to Parry introduced himself. ‘Darren Simmons,’ he said. He was the youngest of the group, with a cleft chin. ‘Glad I’m not the newbie any more,’ he said.

‘Known to us as Nipple,’ said Kelly, ‘because, to be honest, he can be a bit of a tit.’

Fogg nodded at the last member of the group. ‘This is Angus Turnbull, a.k.a. Colgate. He’s our driver today.’

Turnbull grinned, revealing perfect gleaming white teeth. ‘Glad to have you aboard,’ he said.

‘I’ll get Terry sorted with his kit,’ said Fogg. ‘On the bus in fifteen, right?’

Fogg took Shepherd back down to the first floor and showed him the team room where they could relax when they weren’t working and then a large briefing room. Then he led him along a corridor to a room lined with lockers. ‘Take this one,’ he said, pointing. ‘I’ve put a kitbag there. Overalls, pads, gloves, everything’s in it. The only thing I haven’t got is boots. You’ve got them, right?’

Shepherd held up his backpack. ‘Sorted,’ he said.

‘Dump your gear and let’s go, then.’

Shepherd put his motorcycle helmet into the locker and stripped off his motorcycle leathers. He sat down, took off his motorcycle boots and put them in the bottom of the locker, then pulled on his work boots.

‘Let’s go – we’ve got to be at Gravesend by eleven,’ said Fogg.

Shepherd picked up the black kitbag, which had METROPOLITAN POLICE SERVICE along the side in white letters, then followed the sergeant along a corridor, down the stairs and through a set of double doors to the underground car park where a grey Mercedes van with empty parking spaces either side of it was waiting. Above the front windscreen there was a black wire mesh shield that could be pulled down when needed. ‘That’s our bus,’ said Fogg. ‘You stow your gear and I’ll chase up the team.’

Shepherd climbed into the van. There were eight seats and, behind them, racks on either side that were already filled with kitbags. At the back there was a row of long riot shields. Shepherd pushed his kitbag onto the rack on the left, then sat down by the side door. A hand sanitiser was fitted to the bulkhead. A rack above the seats opposite contained bags of forms, police tape and a first-aid kit.

An unmarked police car drove slowly by, heading for the exit. The driver nodded at Shepherd, who nodded back.

‘Bloody hell, the newbie’s nabbed the jump seat,’ said a voice. It was Kelly, heading towards the van while he munched a ham roll. Behind him were Castle and Turnbull.

‘That’s where Carpets sits,’ said Castle. ‘He always likes to be first off the bus.’

‘Right,’ said Shepherd. He stood up – there was at least a couple of inches of space above his head – and went to sit down at the rear on the driver’s side.

‘Whoa, Lurpak always has the bingo seat,’ said Kelly.

‘Bingo?’ said Shepherd.

‘Boxed In, Not Getting Out,’ said Castle. She dropped onto the seat directly behind the driver. ‘Or Bollocks, I’m Not Getting Out,’ she added. ‘Depends who you ask. Lurpak likes it because it gives him a good view of traffic.’

‘Why don’t you just tell me where to park my arse?’ Shepherd said to Kelly.

‘Take the prisoner seat,’ said Kelly, pointing to a single seat behind Castle. ‘That’s always free until we haul in a slag.’

Turnbull climbed into the driver’s seat and Kelly opened the front passenger door. As he got in, Fogg hurried across the car park with Parry, Coker and Simmons. They filed onto the van. Simmons sat next to Castle, Coker walked to the back and sat in the bingo seat while Fogg went to the back on the passenger side. Parry sat by the door and grunted as he pulled it shut. ‘Are we there yet?’ asked Coker.

The rest of the team groaned. It was obviously a standard joke. Turnbull started the engine and Kelly switched on the radios. The van edged forwards, heading for the exit. ‘How did you find the inspector?’ asked Kelly, looking over his shoulder.

‘He was in his office,’ said Shepherd, ‘so it was easy. Just opened the door and he was there.’

Castle laughed. ‘He got you there, KFC,’ she said.

‘Hey, Terry, did you have a nickname at West Mercia?’ asked Coker.

‘Yeah, but I’m not telling you what it was,’ said Shepherd.

‘That bad?’

‘I’m just not saying,’ said Shepherd, folding his arms.

‘Defensive,’ said Parry.

‘We could call him that,’ said Coker. ‘Defensive.’

‘Nah,’ said Castle. ‘Too obvious. Let’s see how he gets on today before we name him.’ She twisted in her seat and winked at Shepherd. ‘Everyone gets a nickname,’ she said.

‘How did you get yours?’ Shepherd asked.

The men laughed. ‘Dictionary definition of a pelican,’ said Kelly. ‘A bird with a big mouth.’

‘Shall I tell him why we call you KFC?’ Castle asked Kelly.

Kelly laughed. ‘Do I care?’

Castle grinned at Shepherd. ‘He used to be called Chicken because of his small cock,’ she said.

‘That’s not true,’ said Kelly. ‘I happen to be fond of fast food, that’s all.’

Fogg shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, KFC,’ he said. ‘It’s your tiny cock.’