Rough Justice (23 page)

‘Did you get that from my fridge?’ asked Holmes. ‘What are you doing, going through my fridge? That’s theft, that.’

The policeman unscrewed the top off the bottle and slowly poured it onto the carpet.

‘That’s shag pile, that!’ shouted Holmes. ‘I’ll sue you for that. I’ll sue you for a new carpet.’

‘So, were you named after the actor, Denzel?’ asked Fluorescent Jacket.

‘What actor?’

‘Tom Cruise, you dipshit. What actor do you think? Denzel Washington. Was your mum a fan? Did she have the hots for him, is that it?’

‘It’s my grandad’s name. I was named after him. What’s my name got to do with anything?’

‘I was just curious.’

‘Yeah, well, curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it? Now I’m through pissing about, I want my phone call and I want my lawyer.’

‘You don’t have a lawyer, Denzel. Whenever you’re in trouble you get legal aid, paid for by us taxpayers. When did you last pay tax, Denzel? Did you ever pay tax?’

‘What is this? Are you Five-O or the taxman?’

‘Oh, we’re Five-O, Denzel. We’re most definitely Five-O.’

‘So why don’t you get on with policing so we can all head off home?’

‘Because we’ve got something to take care of first,’ said Fluorescent Jacket.

‘Yeah, well, I want to see warrant cards because I want your names, man. I’m gonna complain loud and long about what you’re doing here. You ain’t got no cause and you ain’t got no warrant and you ain’t read me my rights.’

‘You haven’t got any rights, Denzel,’ said the West Indian. ‘You gave up any rights you might have had when you started firing your gun in a crowded street.’

‘So what do you want?’ asked Holmes. ‘What’s so important that you come bursting into my crib at night?’

The West Indian grinned and cracked his knuckles. He was wearing the purple latex gloves that the cops used when they were doing searches, Holmes realised. He looked around. All three of the men were wearing gloves. He heard noises downstairs. Somebody moving around. ‘You’d better not be setting me up for nothing,’ he said.

‘Like what?’ asked Fluorescent Jacket.

‘Like putting drugs somewhere and saying they’re mine, which they’re not, cos I never keep drugs in my crib and anyone who knows me knows that’s the truth.’

Fluorescent Jacket took out a semi-automatic. He pulled back the slide and a cartridge click-clacked into place.

‘What’s that?’ asked Holmes.

‘This?’ said the policeman, holding up the gun. ‘You know what this is, Denzel. It’s a gun. A firearm. Actually it’s a Glock nine millimetre, which is what our armed boys use. And the gun of choice for many a gangbanger. No safety – you know that, right? No annoying safety to click on or off. It’s got that trick trigger with its different bits so that it can’t be pulled accidentally. Was that what you used in the drive-by in Harlesden when the little girl got shot? Or something bigger, something with a bit more kick? A Mac Ten, maybe. Or an Uzi?’

‘I didn’t shoot no little girl,’ snarled Holmes.

‘No, you tried to shoot up the Lock City Crew and it was one of them who shot the little girl, but it’s all cause and effect. And you were the cause of that little girl getting shot in the head.’

‘Yeah? So prove it.’

‘I don’t have to prove anything, Denzel,’ said Fluorescent Jacket, sighting along the top of the gun. ‘This isn’t a court. There’s no high-priced lawyer paid for by the state, there’s no jury of
Sun
readers who get their view of what’s right and wrong from watching
Coronation Street
and
EastEnders
, there’s no witnesses pulling out because you’ve threatened to burn down their houses. There’s just you and me and these guys.’

‘So this is about what? This is about you trying to scare me into confessing, is that it? You wave your little gun around and I pee my pants and confess to something I didn’t do?’

‘You don’t have to confess to anything, Denzel. This isn’t about confessions, it’s about justice. Justice and punishment.’

‘Fuck you,’ spat Holmes. ‘You’re the police, you can’t do nothing.’

The policeman smiled. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong, Denzel,’ he said. ‘It’s because we’re the police we can do what the hell we want.’ He held out his left hand and his colleague tossed the plastic bottle to him. ‘And what we want, Denzel, is for you to stop behaving like an arsehole.’

‘Fuck you, man.’

‘Here’s the thing, Denzel. Generally if it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck then it’s a duck. You walk like a Yardie and you talk like a Yardie but you were born here and so were your parents, God rest their souls.’

‘What?’

‘How do you think your mum and dad would feel if they knew how you’d turned out, Denzel? Dealing crack, firing guns in crowded streets, living the gangster life. Do you think they’d be proud of their little Denzel?’

‘Leave my parents out of this, man,’ said Holmes. ‘Ain’t nothing to do with them.’

‘Quite right, Denzel. You have to take responsibility for your actions. But my point is that you’re British-born, which means we can hardly force you to go home because this is your home.’

‘That’s right, man. I’m as British as you.’

The policeman looked pained. ‘Two words, Denzel. Dog. Stable.’

Holmes frowned. ‘Say what?’

‘Just because a dog is born in a stable doesn’t make it a horse.’

The frown deepened. ‘What?’

‘You’re a Brit, Denzel, but you’re not behaving like a citizen. You’re behaving like an animal. And it’s down to me and my friends here to stop you.’

‘What you gonna do, man? You gonna shoot me?’

‘You must be psychic, because that’s exactly what I’m going to do, Denzel.’

‘Bollocks! You the police – you can’t shoot me.’

‘You’ve never been shot, have you, Denzel? You’ve never felt a bullet rip through your flesh, have you? You see, that’s the problem. You’ve no real concept of the damage that a gun can do. The pain it can cause, the physical and psychological damage that someone goes through when they’ve been shot. The little girl that got hurt in Harlesden, she’s never going to be the same again. Neither will her father. Can you imagine what it must have been like for him, cradling his little girl in the street, blood pouring from her head?’

‘I told you already, it wasn’t me what shot her.’

‘It’s only the fact that the little girl didn’t die that’s keeping you alive, Denzel. I want you to remember that. And I want you to remember that if you ever carry a gun again, I’ll come back and put a bullet in your head. And if you’re seen with one gram of crack or smack or any other Class A drug, we’ll kill you. You so much as get a speeding ticket and we’ll be back.’

For the first time Holmes realised that the men were serious. His hands began to shake and he pulled the quilt up around his neck even though he knew it wouldn’t offer any protection against the Glock. ‘Look, man, you’re cops, right? Cops can’t do this.’

The West Indian grabbed the bottom of the quilt and snatched it from Holmes.

Fluorescent Jacket pressed the top of the empty plastic Pepsi bottle against the barrel of the Glock and pulled the trigger. The makeshift silencer absorbed most of the explosion as the bullet ripped into Holmes’s left knee. He screamed. Fluorescent Jacket fired again and the right kneecap shattered, blood splattering across the sheet.

Holmes collapsed back on the bed, his whole body in spasm.

‘How’s it feel, Denzel? How’s it feel to be shot? Is it like it is in the movies?’

Holmes lay gasping for breath, his chest rising and falling as the blood soaked into the sheet he was lying on.

‘If this was a movie you’d jump off that bed and karate-kick me into the middle of next week. Or jump out of the window and run down the street. But this isn’t a movie and it hurts like hell, doesn’t it? And it’s going to be weeks before you heal, months before you can walk again.’

Holmes closed his eyes.

‘Are you passing out, Denzel? That’s good because the next shot is really going to hurt. Then we’ll call an ambulance. Get you to a hospital. The nurses who took care of that little girl might well be the ones who look after you. That’d be ironic, wouldn’t it? And just so you know, Denzel, if you tell anyone who did this to you, we’ll come back and finish the job.’ He put the plastic Pepsi bottle on the end of the barrel, aimed at Holmes’s gut and pulled the trigger.

By Thursday Shepherd was able to operate as part of the TSG team almost on autopilot. He had developed the knack of spotting when a car was wrong or a pedestrian was acting suspiciously. He could pat down a man in less than thirty seconds and fill out a Form 5090 in a minute. A lot of time was spent sitting in the van, but there were spurts of adrenalin too, when Turnbull would have the lights and sirens on and they would chase after a car that refused to stop.

Although the Mercedes van was called a Sprinter, it wasn’t designed for high-speed car chases, a fact that the city’s drug-dealers and gangsters were all too well aware of. If they were in a crowded street, a driver would pull over because there was no place to run, but if they were on an open road and he or she had something to hide, it was worthwhile trying to get away. Twice on Thursday Turnbull had been given the slip by cars, in both cases small hatchbacks driven by black teenagers. They could zip around corners and along back-streets much faster than the lumbering van. But in both cases the registration numbers were noted and entered into the system. They’d be caught eventually, hopefully in traffic conditions that wouldn’t allow them to get away.

Over the days Shepherd had found his attitude hardening. Most of the people they stopped, pedestrians and drivers, clearly resented being pulled up by the police and reacted accordingly. Because of the areas where they were working, the majority stopped were black or Asian, and most would claim that the stop was racially motivated. It wasn’t, because the team only stopped people who were acting suspiciously or who were flagged up by the MDT. But after he had been accused a dozen or so times of being a racist, Shepherd stopped listening. He would stand tight-lipped until the complainant had run out of steam, then politely explain why they had been searched and exactly what their rights were. Several times the police were accused of not doing their jobs and told that they should be out catching real criminals, not harassing innocent motorists, but the plain fact was that most of the motorists they stopped weren’t innocent, which was why they had been stopped in the first place.

If the MDT showed that a car wasn’t insured, and if the driver wasn’t able to produce evidence that he did have insurance, the team had the right to seize the vehicle, which they did on Thursday morning. The car was a brand new Lexus SUV driven by a white teenager with half a dozen chunky gold chains hanging around his neck. And a New York Yankees baseball cap worn back to front. He claimed to have borrowed the car from a friend but he couldn’t remember the friend’s name or phone number or where he lived. The car wasn’t insured or taxed but hadn’t been reported stolen. Fogg tried to contact the registered owner but without success, so he seized the car and the driver walked off sullenly, a fifty-ninety in one hand and his mobile phone in the other, calling a friend to pick him up.

When vehicles were successfully stopped, more often than not it would be in full view of the public – by a bus queue or close to shops – to get the maximum publicity value. The man in the street might not want to be hauled out of his car and searched, but the fact that the TSG were out and about meant that villains were more likely to stay at home. Shepherd wasn’t sure how effective the stop-and-search patrols were in keeping down crime long term, but there was no doubting their value as a temporary deterrent.

Towards the end of the shift the van was heading back to Paddington Green when Sergeant Fogg got a call over his police radio. ‘Overtime, guys!’ he shouted. Everyone on the van cheered. ‘Colgate, turn us around and head back up to Neasden. We’ve got intel that lefties are gonna lay siege to a pub where England First are having a meeting.’

When the van pulled up outside the Duke of York in Neasden, there were already five TSG vans parked at the side of the road. ‘Commissioner’s Reserve from Area Two,’ said Kelly, pointing out three of the vans to Shepherd. ‘They must be expecting something big to kick off.’ More than twenty demonstrators, half of them Asian, were gathered on the pavement on the opposite side of the road, facing the pub. Some were waving posters with ‘Nazi Scum!’ and ‘Racist Pigs!’ and pictures of Adolf Hitler with ‘BNP’ superimposed across his chest. They were jeering and chanting slogans as vacuous as the ones on the posters. Twenty TSG officers in full riot gear and blue helmets with long shields were standing in the road in front of the demonstrators but the protesters made no move to get past them, seeming content simply to hurl abuse at the building.

Parry pulled open the side door and climbed out.

‘Right, get your gear on while I talk to the inspector,’ said Fogg. He jumped out and hurried over to Inspector Smith, who was standing close by, talking to one of the Area Two sergeants.

Parry went around to the rear of the van with Kelly and began pulling out kitbags. The team put on their elbow, shoulder, thigh and knee protectors, then their fireproof overalls.

As they were pulling on their balaclavas, Inspector Smith strode over with Fogg at his heels. It was the first time that Shepherd had seen the inspector in riot gear. ‘There’s an England First meeting going on upstairs in the pub,’ said Smith. ‘Probably fifty or so people, including a few well-known troublemakers. Most of the regular punters have already left so I need you lot to line up outside the door. We’re not letting anyone out into the street until the demonstrators have dispersed. Keep them in a bubble, as long as it takes. And don’t take any nonsense from them – give this lot an inch and they’ll take a bloody mile.’ He turned on his heel and went back to the vans.