Rough Justice (24 page)

Fogg grabbed his kitbag. ‘Right, lads,’ he said. ‘Long shields and over to the pub. I’ll catch up with you.’

Parry and Kelly pulled the shields from the racks and handed them out. Shepherd snapped down the visor of his helmet. There was one entrance to the pub in the middle of the building, with double doors that opened into the main bar, which was almost empty. Shepherd looked up at the first-floor windows. Half a dozen skinheads were shouting at the demonstrators but the windows were closed so they couldn’t be heard.

A bottle hurtled through the air above Shepherd’s head and smashed into the pub door. He looked around and saw the TSG officers pushing the crowd back.

‘Come on,’ said Parry, jogging towards the pub. Shepherd followed him with Kelly, Castle, Simmons and Coker close behind. They formed a semicircle around the double doors, slotting their shields together.

Through the glass-fronted door Shepherd could see three men in black bomber jackets coming down a flight of stairs. They all had close-cropped hair, tight blue jeans, Doc Marten boots and the overdeveloped arm muscles that went with hours in the gym and over-enthusiastic use of steroids. They walked up to the double doors and pulled them open. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ asked one. ‘This is a private meeting, the room has been paid for, and no one’s doing anything wrong.’ More men came down the stairs, including the skinheads.

Fogg walked up behind Shepherd. He had his helmet on but the visor up. He held up his hands to attract the attention of the men coming out of the pub. ‘Please stay where you are,’ he said. ‘No one can leave the premises at the moment. Bear with us and we’ll soon be able to let you out.’

‘You can’t keep us here!’ shouted one of the skinheads. ‘It’s a free country!’

Two more behind him punched the air. ‘Yeah, it’s a free country!’ yelled one.

‘Free country or not, I’m of the opinion that if you leave the pub there is a good chance that a breach of the peace will be committed!’ shouted Fogg, fighting to be heard above the noise of the swelling crowd in the bar. ‘I need you all to stay put until we clear the demonstrators from across the road.’

‘We’re not scared of no leftie scumbags!’ shouted a skinhead, but Fogg had already turned his back on them and was jogging back to the inspector.

Shepherd scanned the faces of the England First supporters pushing to get out of the pub. Most were young and angry, eyes blazing with hatred, lips curled into snarls like dogs preparing to attack. A skinhead with a swastika tattooed across his neck spat at Shepherd and saliva splattered across his shield. Shepherd stared at the man, his face impassive. There was no point in taking it personally, he knew. The man wasn’t angry with him, he was angry with the system. Maybe even the world. The saliva slid slowly down the Perspex screen.

More men were trying to get out of the pub, pushing those already outside against the shields. Shepherd’s eyes narrowed as he saw someone he recognised. Gary Dawson. And, just behind him, Jimmy Sharpe.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Parry. Shepherd looked at him. He was staring at Dawson. ‘You see that?’ asked Parry.

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘What do we do?’

Parry looked over his shoulder. Fogg was talking to Inspector Smith by one of the vans. ‘Skip!’ shouted Parry. Fogg looked across. ‘Over here, Skip!’

Fogg said something to the inspector, then jogged over to Parry. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked. The skinhead spat again and Fogg lowered his visor.

Parry didn’t say anything but he jutted his chin towards the pub door. Fogg looked at the men crowding in the doorway and cursed when he saw Dawson. They had eye-contact for less than a second before Dawson looked away.

‘What do we do, Skip?’ asked Shepherd.

‘If we start taking names he’s screwed,’ said Parry.

‘I’m pretty sure that’s what Smith intends,’ said Fogg. ‘He reckons there’s a few in there with cases outstanding.’

‘He’s not undercover, is he?’ said Shepherd, out of the side of his mouth, playing the naïve newbie to the hilt.

‘I bloody well hope so,’ said Fogg. He looked over his shoulder to where the inspector was talking into his radio. ‘Look, I’ll distract Smithy. While I’m doing that let a few of them through. If there’s repercussions, just say they breached the shields and you couldn’t hold the bubble. It happens.’

‘Yeah, it happens to idiots,’ said Parry. ‘Thanks, Skip.’

‘I’ll owe you one, Carpets,’ said Fogg. He went over to Smith and started talking to him, moving his body so that the inspector’s back was towards the pub. Parry glanced over his shoulder and nodded at Shepherd. They moved their shields apart and created a gap a couple of feet wide. The skinhead who had spat at Shepherd’s shield pushed through, and when his companions saw that no one was stopping him, they followed. Parry and Shepherd widened the gap and a dozen more men rushed through it, including the three bodybuilders in bomber jackets. Dawson and Sharpe slipped by without a glimmer of recognition, and ran along the pavement. Shepherd and Parry forced their shields towards each other, trying to close the gap, but the men coming out were moving too quickly. A fist thumped into the side of Shepherd’s helmet but it was a flailing limb rather than a deliberate punch. He grunted and shoved harder with the shield.

He heard shouts behind him. Three officers ran up, rammed their shields together and pushed up behind Parry and Shepherd. They moved aside, the shields slotted together and the gap was closed. The men trapped in the bubble screamed abuse and shook their fists but the shields held.

The inspector hurried over, his face hard. ‘What happened?’ he shouted.

‘Sorry, sir, I slipped,’ said Shepherd. ‘My fault.’

‘Get a grip, Terry. Now, keep those shields together and keep them up.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Shepherd.

Fogg appeared behind the inspector. ‘Okay, sir?’

‘Just don’t let anyone else through,’ said Smith. He turned to Fogg. ‘Keep an eye on them, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait for the lefties to calm down and then we’ll let this lot go. Explain to them we’ll be walking them down the road that way and if they make any attempt to go any other way they’ll be back in a bubble until the early hours.’ He walked off, talking into his radio.

Fogg patted Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘Nice one, Terry. Thanks.’

‘Yeah, thanks for eating the shit sandwich,’ said Parry. ‘I owe you one.’

Dawson jogged down a side-street, Sharpe following. They stopped behind a skip to catch their breath. ‘What just happened, Gary?’ asked Sharpe.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Dawson.

‘You know what I mean,’ said Sharpe. ‘Back there. The cops let us go. Why did they do that?’

‘They made a mistake,’ said Dawson. ‘They screwed up.’

Sharpe shook his head. ‘Like fuck,’ he said. ‘They knew you, didn’t they?’

‘Just forget it,’ said Dawson, walking away.

Sharpe hurried after him. ‘What’s the story, Gary?’ he asked. ‘Why won’t you tell me?’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Dawson.

Sharpe reached for Dawson’s shoulder and pulled him back. ‘Are you with the lefties, is that it?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Dawson.

‘What, then?’

‘I’m a cop,’ said Dawson. He glared at Sharpe. ‘There – are you happy now?’

‘What – under cover?’

Dawson laughed. ‘No, just a cop. I’m with the TSG.’ He looked down the alley. ‘We can’t talk here,’ he said. ‘Let’s find a pub. I need a drink.’

They walked down the alley and turned into a main street. A few yards down they found a pub and went inside. Dawson ordered the drinks and carried them over to a table next to a bleeping fruit machine. He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

Sharpe returned the salutation. ‘You were joking about being with the heavy mob, right?’

‘No. Been with the TSG for four years now. I’m a sergeant. I know those guys back there. That’s why they let us go. Otherwise we could have been in the bubble all night.’

‘Bubble?’

‘That’s what they call it when they hold you in one place. The media calls it kettling but to us it’s always been the bubble.’

‘You know what’s funny?’ asked Sharpe.

Dawson shook his head.

‘We’re sort of in the same line of business.’ He took out his wallet and showed him his Brian Parker SOCA identification.

Dawson laughed. ‘You’re right, that is funny. I had no idea. You don’t look like a cop.’

‘I’m not. I’m a civil servant,’ said Sharpe. ‘No powers of arrest, no blues and twos, no uniform. I shuffle papers, fill out expense sheets and that’s it.’

‘Not very fulfilling, then?’

‘Waste of bloody time, truth be told,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’m an accountant and that’s as far as it goes.’

‘What did you do before SOCA?’

‘Inland Revenue,’ said Sharpe. ‘Fraud. That’s pretty much what I do with SOCA but I have to say I put more guys behind bars when I was a taxman. SOCA just doesn’t get the job done, you know.’

‘Yeah, I heard it was for the chop,’ said Dawson. ‘Not fit for purpose, they say.’

‘It’s certainly not putting the bad guys away like it was supposed to,’ said Sharpe. ‘Not like your mob. At least you get to make arrests. Where are you based?’

‘Paddington Green,’ said Dawson.

‘And you do the full bit with helmets and riot shields and batons?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Dawson. ‘Just like the guys back there at the pub.’

‘Wish they’d give me a baton,’ said Sharpe. ‘There’s a fair few heads I wouldn’t mind cracking.’ He wanted to give Dawson the chance to say something, anything, that suggested he, too, would relish the opportunity of righting a few wrongs, but Dawson just stared into his beer. ‘You’re taking a risk, aren’t you, Gary? Going to England First meetings? Wouldn’t you lose your job?’

Dawson shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I care any more.’

‘Why’s that?’

Dawson shrugged again. ‘I just hate what’s happened to our country, Brian. I hate what we’ve become, and I hate the fact that no one seems to want to do anything about it.’

‘I hear that,’ said Sharpe.

‘You know, my grandfather was born in the East End. He fought hand-to-hand against Mosley’s Blackshirts. Had a scar on his chin from where he was hit by a docker’s hook. Cut him right through to the bone. The Battle of Cable Street, they called it. And look at me now, going to meetings to cheer the men who are Mosley’s descendants.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘My grandfather would be spinning in his grave.’

‘But they talk sense, right?’

‘They’re the only people who do, Brian. They’re the only ones who care about our country and not themselves. See the way that Labour and the Conservatives were filling their boots with fake expenses, lying and cheating and stealing at the taxpayer’s expense? They don’t care about our country, they care about themselves. About feathering their own nests.’ He took a long drink of his lager. ‘People are fed up with being treated like third-class citizens in their own country. They’re sick of seeing relatives pushed to the back of the housing queue or having to wait for medical treatment while asylum seekers are fast-tracked for whatever they want. You know why the Left hate the BNP and England First so much? Because when they enter into debates with the likes of Simon Page or Nick Griffin they get trounced. They talk sense, and that’s why they have to throw eggs at them and scream, “Nazi scum,” and accuse them of wanting a second Holocaust. That’s not what they’re about, Brian. They’re talking a lot of sense.’

He sat back and folded his arms. ‘It’s the unfairness that gets me, Brian. Do you remember the anti-military march in Luton a while back? A load of Muslims got together to heckle the Royal Anglian Regiment when they got back from Iraq. Placards telling the squaddies to go to hell, all that sort of stuff.’

‘Yeah, I remember,’ said Sharpe.

‘Ten people were arrested,’ said Dawson. ‘But it wasn’t the Muslims who were arrested, it was locals who’d gone there to support the army. One of them was arrested for throwing a pack of streaky bacon. I kid you not.’

Sharpe laughed. ‘That’s funny.’

‘Yeah, it’s funny, but at the same time it’s not. Muslims can shout all sorts of shit at our troops who’ve been risking their lives in Iraq, but throw a pack of bacon at the Muslims and you’re arrested. And what happens when left-wing activists hurl eggs at Nick Griffin? The cops do nothing. Now, you tell me what’s going on there. Throwing bacon at a Muslim is an arrestable offence, but throwing eggs at an MEP is okay?’

‘Either way it sounds like a waste of a good breakfast to me,’ said Sharpe.

‘It’s a serious point, Brian. We’re all bending over to be politically correct while our country slides into anarchy. Someone has to stand up and fight for what’s right.’

‘Can’t we do something about it?’ asked Sharpe.

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. Hit the bad guys where it hurts? Be more proactive?’

Dawson shook his head. ‘It needs more than that. It needs political change. We need a party that can change the way our society operates.’

‘And you think England First can do that?’

‘I hope so,’ said Dawson. He picked up his lager. ‘Because if something isn’t done soon, our country’s finished.’

Shepherd and his team arrived back at Paddington Green just before midnight. It had taken the best part of three hours to disperse the protesters from the street outside the pub, and another hour to search and process the sixty-seven people who had attended the England First meeting. All were issued with Form 5090. No weapons or drugs were found during the searches but a quick look around the ground floor of the pub afterwards turned up three flick-knives, half a dozen brass knuckledusters and a considerable quantity of cannabis. ‘Nice bit of overtime,’ said Parry, as he climbed out of the van. ‘Soon have my kitchen paid for. The wife’s going to love me.’

‘Carpets, Terry, KFC, can I have a quick word in the briefing room before you get changed?’ said Fogg. Parry, Kelly and Shepherd followed him down the corridor. The sergeant waited until they were all inside and the door was closed before speaking. ‘I just wanted to clear the air about what happened in Neasden,’ he said. ‘You all saw Gary Dawson where he shouldn’t be. I’ll have a word with him, obviously, but so far as we’re concerned it never happened, right?’