Rough Justice (29 page)

He took out the last transponder as he walked to the third van. Once he had slotted it under the wheel arch, he went to the locker room, swinging his helmet.

While he was changing into his uniform, Nick Coker and Barry Kelly arrived. ‘You’re in early, Terry,’ said Coker.

Shepherd looked at his watch. There were fifteen minutes to go before his shift started. He’d wanted to get in early to attach the transponders. ‘Yeah, traffic was light.’

‘Didn’t think traffic worried you Hell’s Angels,’ said Kelly. ‘And you can use bus lanes now, right?’

‘Wouldn’t catch me on a bike,’ said Coker. ‘Half the drivers in London don’t have a licence.’

‘That’s a fact, is it?’ asked Shepherd, taking off his polo shirt and hanging it in his locker.

‘You should talk to Traffic,’ said Coker. ‘It’s a bloody nightmare out there. You think the illegals bother with licences – never mind tax, insurance and MOT?’

‘I guess not,’ said Shepherd, taking his police shirt from the locker.

‘Damn right,’ said Coker. ‘If one of them knocks you off your Harley he won’t be hanging around, that’s for sure. Off like the bloody wind.’

‘It’s not a Harley, it’s a BMW,’ said Shepherd.

‘Bloody hell, mate, what’s that?’ asked Kelly, pointing at the mass of scar tissue just below Shepherd’s right shoulder.

‘What do you think it is?’ Shepherd turned to face him, his hands on his hips.

Kelly bent forward to get a closer look at the scar. ‘It’s a bullet wound, right? You were shot?’

‘You ought to be a detective,’ said Shepherd, drily.

Kelly straightened. ‘I didn’t think there was much gun crime in West Mercia. I thought sheep rustling was as bad as it got.’

‘Happened in Afghanistan,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was in the Paras before I became a cop.’

‘A raghead did that?’ asked Kelly.

Shepherd grinned. ‘Nah, friendly fire,’ he joked. ‘Of course it was an Afghan.’

‘How did it happen?’ asked Coker. ‘Firefight?’

‘Sniper.’

Coker took a closer look at the wound. Then he walked around to look at Shepherd’s back. ‘There’s no exit wound,’ he said. ‘Is the bullet still in there?’

‘They dug it out from the front,’ said Shepherd. ‘It hit the bone and went down, just missed an artery.’

‘You were lucky.’

‘Yeah, well, I always say that if I was really lucky I wouldn’t have been shot in the first place.’

‘What sort of gun was it, do you know?’

Shepherd turned to put on his uniform shirt. ‘It was a 5.45 millimetre round, fired from an AK-74,’ he said.

‘AK-47, you mean?’ said Coker.

Shepherd shook his head. ‘AK-74,’ he repeated. ‘It’s a small-calibre version of the AK-47. The Russians manufactured it for their parachute troops, but it was so good they made it the standard Soviet infantry rifle.’

‘You know a lot about guns, yeah?’ asked Kelly.

‘Just the one that shot me,’ said Shepherd.

‘Did it hurt?’

‘Bloody hell, KFC, you don’t half ask some stupid questions,’ said Coker. ‘Of course it bloody well hurt.’

‘Actually, not as much as you’d think,’ said Shepherd. ‘The body kicks in with its endorphins, natural painkillers, so immediately after the impact you don’t feel much. But afterwards, yeah, it hurt like hell.’ He put on his tie and took out his stab vest.

‘You’re a war hero,’ said Kelly.

‘I got shot,’ said Shepherd. ‘That doesn’t make me a hero.’ He closed the door to his locker. ‘Any idea what we’re doing today?’

‘Winning friends and influencing people,’ said Coker. ‘Same old, same old.’

After he had finished his shift on Wednesday evening, Shepherd drove his bike over to Chelsea where the Major lived in a three-storey mews house in a quiet side-street. There was an integral garage to the left of the front door and beyond it a concrete tub containing a well-tended conifer. Shepherd swung the kickstand down, took off his helmet and pressed the doorbell, then smiled up at the CCTV camera that covered the front of the building. As he was taking off his backpack, he heard footsteps on stairs and the door opened. The Major was casually dressed in beige slacks and a salmon pink polo shirt. He ushered Shepherd into the hallway. There was a kitchen to the right and he nodded for Shepherd to go through as he closed the front door. ‘I’ll make coffee – or do you want something stronger?’

‘Coffee’s fine,’ said Shepherd. He held up his helmet. ‘I’m on the bike.’

‘Yeah, what’s the story about that? Never had you down as a Hell’s Angel.’

‘It’s part of my cover,’ said Shepherd, putting the helmet and backpack on a chair. ‘I’ve got to look and act like an action man.’

‘Because?’

‘Because then they’ll invite me into their gang of vigilantes,’ said Shepherd. He held up his hands. ‘I know how stupid that sounds but it’s the basic plan.’

‘And how’s it working out?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘Softy, softly,’ he said.

‘Black, no sugar?’ asked the Major, holding up a mug.

‘Splash of milk,’ said Shepherd.

The Major took a jar of coffee beans down from a shelf and ground them by hand. ‘The rest of the guys will be here at seven thirty. I figured you and I could have a chat first,’ he said.

‘Sounds good,’ said Shepherd, taking off his motorcycle jacket and sliding onto a wooden barstool next to a chest-level counter. The kitchen was spotless with white marble flooring, stainless-steel equipment and black marble worktops.

The Major spooned coffee into a stainless-steel cafetière and added boiling water. He gestured at an A4 manila envelope on the counter. ‘Intel’s there,’ he said.

Shepherd opened the envelope and slid out two head-and-shoulders shots, half a dozen surveillance photographs, satellite photographs and a number of computer printouts, several of which were marked ‘SECRET’. He flicked through the printouts. It was all detailed information about Padraig and Sean Fox, including RUC Special Branch reports, PSNI intel and MI5 briefing notes. ‘This is good stuff, boss.’

‘Yeah, I’ve got friends in low places,’ said the Major.

‘It can’t come back to haunt you, can it?’

‘Not if you eat it after reading it,’ said the Major, pushing down the plunger of the cafetière.

‘I’m serious, boss,’ said Shepherd. ‘This intel is gold – if something happens to the Fox brothers, whoever gave it to you is going to have a pretty good idea of what happened.’

‘I think they’ll take the view that the murdering bastards got what was coming to them.’ The Major put the cafetière in front of Shepherd along with two mugs and a milk bottle. ‘There’ll be no comeback, Spider. I promise.’

Shepherd spread the three satellite photographs over the counter. ‘This is Newry, right?’ he asked.

‘South of the town,’ said the Major, sitting on the stool next to Shepherd. He tapped the middle photograph. ‘This is Sean’s farm. It was the family farm, handed down from the father who died five years ago. The barn here has underground diesel tanks and they used to hide arms in the woodland here.’

‘He lives alone?’

‘Wife and three kids, and his mother-in-law.’

‘Messy,’ said Shepherd.

‘Sunday afternoon the brothers go fly fishing, then off to the pub.’

‘So we get them then?’

The Major poured the coffee. ‘Before we go any further, there’s something we have to get straight.’

‘I’m listening,’ said Shepherd.

‘This is my fight, Spider. I’m doing it. I appreciate your help, and there’s no one I’d rather have watching my back, but when it comes to pulling the trigger, that’s my job.’

‘However you want to play it is fine by me,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m serious about this,’ said the Major. ‘If anything goes wrong, I want you to be able to say you didn’t kill the Foxes. I want you to be able to say that and to mean it.’

‘I have no problem with that,’ said Shepherd.

The Major gripped his shoulder. ‘Thanks, Spider.’

‘You don’t have to thank me, boss. You’d do the same for me. For any of us.’

The Major picked up his mug. ‘So, the Foxes fish the same river every Sunday this time of year, unless it’s raining. The weather forecast for the weekend looks good. They finish at about five and get to the pub just before six. Then they have a few drinks and drive back to the farm where Sean’s wife cooks whatever they’ve caught. They normally get to the river at about one o’clock. I reckon we pick them up when they arrive, take them into the hills and do it there.’

‘So we’d need to get over there on the Saturday. Back here Sunday night.’

‘And Martin’s sorted?’

‘He’ll fix us up with transport and he’s already got two shorts, throwaways that we can leave there. He wants to go up with us but I’ve made it clear it’s just the two of us. If you want we can do it the weekend after next. It’s your call, boss.’

The Major looked at the watch on his wrist, a Rolex Daytona. ‘Let’s head up to the sitting room,’ he said, gathering up the sheets of paper and photographs and putting them back in the envelope.

They took their coffees up a wooden staircase to the first floor where there was a spacious room with large windows overlooking the mews. There were two dark red chesterfields either side of a Victorian cast-iron fireplace and above it an oil painting of the Duke of Wellington on horseback. The Major dropped the envelope onto the large teak coffee-table and sat down on the sofa facing the window. Shepherd had brought his backpack with him and placed it by the side of the coffee-table before he sat down. There was a sideboard against one wall, topped by more than a dozen framed photographs in most of which the Major was holding a weapon of some sort.

‘I was Tommy’s godfather, you know that?’ asked the Major.

‘I didn’t.’

‘I always wanted kids but never found a woman prepared to put up with me long enough to have one. Henry knew that, so he practically shared Tommy with me. Let me take him to football, teach him to shoot – I think it was because of me that he signed up.’ The Major put his head into his hands. ‘That’s what screws me up about this, Spider. My brother works in the City, bloody good job with all the trimmings, but Tommy always looked up to me – you know? I was the action hero abseiling down mountains and jumping out of planes, shooting the bad guys. He was always asking for war stories and I was happy enough to tell them. Took him to Hereford for a few open days when he was a kid, let him fire Hecklers and play around with the gear. He loved it.’ The Major sighed and leaned back. ‘The only time Henry and I argued was when Tommy said he wanted to sign up. Henry hit the roof, and Tommy asked me to talk to him. Do the godfather thing. Henry didn’t want Tommy in the army. Nothing to do with the danger, he just figured that Tommy would have a better life in the City.’

‘You’ve done all right, boss,’ said Shepherd, waving his arm around the room they were sitting in.

The Major laughed. ‘This?’ he said. ‘You should see Henry’s places. He’s got a five-bedroom duplex in Clerkenwell with views over the City, a mansion in Sussex, a villa in Tuscany and a house in the Florida Keys. Money coming out of his ears. And he wanted his son to have the same life.’

‘But Tommy didn’t?’

‘Tommy wanted to be a soldier. That’s all he wanted. He compromised eventually and agreed to go to university. Studied law at Durham. Henry figured that a few years as a student would get him out of the army thing, but it didn’t. Soon as he graduated he signed up. Henry never really forgave me.’

‘He was doing what he wanted, and that’s the best that any of us can ask from life,’ said Shepherd.

‘I know, but I was his role model. If it wasn’t for me . . .’

‘If it wasn’t for you he could have been a banker and got run over by a bus,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s no use in looking for someone to blame . . .’ He tailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence because he knew he was wrong. There was someone to blame: the men who had pumped bullets into Tommy and his friends as they’d sat down to enjoy a Chinese meal. Shepherd threw up his hands. ‘You know what I mean, boss. You can’t blame yourself.’

The doorbell rang. Shepherd sipped his coffee as the Major went downstairs. He heard voices and stood up as the other man returned with Jack and Billy Bradford. They shook hands and sat down. ‘I’ll get you guys coffee,’ said the Major, and headed for the kitchen.

‘How’s business?’ Jack asked Shepherd.

‘There’s never any shortage of bad guys,’ said Shepherd.

‘Where’s Martin?’ asked Billy.

‘Ireland,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve already filled him in.’

‘Just the five of us?’ asked Billy.

‘It’s all we need,’ said Shepherd.

Jack stood up, walked over to the windows and looked down into the mews. ‘Nice place, this. What do you reckon? A million? Million and a half?’

‘That much?’ said his brother, frowning.

‘It’s Chelsea,’ said Jack. ‘Chelsea’s expensive, recession or not.’

The Major came in with a tray that held the cafetière, a milk jug and two clean mugs. ‘I bought this place twenty years ago,’ he said. ‘Practically a shell when I got it. Rebuilt it myself pretty much.’

‘Never pictured you with a trowel in your hand, boss,’ said Jack, sitting down next to his brother and helping himself to coffee.

‘My father taught me,’ said the Major. ‘He was a great one for DIY.’

‘So what’s the story?’ asked Billy.

‘We’re going over Saturday night. More accurately, Sunday morning, first thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘Weekend after next. We’ll take the ferry to Dublin as foot passengers. There’s a two-thirty Stena Line sailing that gets in at a quarter to six in the morning. Martin will fix us up with transport and a couple of shorts and he can collect us at the terminal. The boss and I will drive up to Newry and do what has to be done. We already have satellite photos of the area and intel on the occupants of all the houses in the vicinity. When it’s done we drive back across the border. We torch the Irish vehicle and get the last ferry back to Holyhead on Sunday night. There’s a nine-fifteen sailing that gets in at half past midnight but I’ll also book us on the next day’s two-fifteen as a fall-back. I’ll drive us back to Hereford and if all goes to plan we’ll all be at work Monday morning as if it never happened.’