Rough Justice (39 page)

He was exhausted but he had to get to London in time for his shift with the TSG, so he poured some more coffee into a plastic cup to take with him. On the way to his car, he noticed that one of the rear tyres of the CRV had gone flat. He cursed and looked at his watch. He didn’t want Katra to have to change it and she needed the car to get Liam to school. He’d have to do it himself. He went back inside the house to get the keys.

Shepherd arrived at Paddington Green on his bike just before half past eight. He hadn’t slept and had had barely enough time to snatch a quick cup of coffee at his house in Kilburn. He’d phoned Katra as he drank his coffee and told her he’d changed the flat tyre for the spare. She promised to get it fixed after dropping Liam at school.

Kelly and Coker were in the team room watching television and Simmons and Parry were in the locker room changing into their uniforms. The Serial was starting a week on Commissioner’s Reserve, which meant that the three vans could be sent anywhere in London, as and when they were needed. The Serials took it in turns to act as Commissioner’s Reserve and it was generally more exciting than being tied to the borough.

‘Good weekend, Three-amp?’ asked Parry, as Shepherd walked in.

‘That really is my nickname, then?’ asked Shepherd, putting his helmet in the locker.

‘If the cap fits,’ said Simmons. ‘Do you think I’m happy about being called Nipple?’

Shepherd laughed. The man had a point. He stripped off his motorcycle leathers.

Fogg appeared at the door to the locker room. ‘Briefing room in ten minutes, guys,’ he said. ‘We’re heading for Trafalgar Square. The Tamils are kicking off again.’ He disappeared down the corridor.

‘I don’t get the Tamils,’ said Simmons. ‘They’re terrorists, right?’

‘The Tamil Tigers are the terrorists, but they’re a spent force,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, but the guys who keep demonstrating, they must support them, right?’

‘It’s complicated,’ said Shepherd, and laughed. He realised that was what he always said to Liam when he came up with a difficult question.

‘What’s funny?’ asked Simmons.

‘I was just thinking what we’d be doing if al-Qaeda was out on the streets claiming that it was unfair what we were doing to their terrorists,’ lied Shepherd. ‘We’d probably be lined up to protect their right to free speech.’

‘Yeah, the world’s gone mad,’ said Simmons. ‘Did you hear the latest bullshit from the government think-tank on drugs?’

Shepherd shook his head.

‘They’re saying we should follow the example of the cops in Boston. Apparently the cops did a deal with big drug-dealers, saying that they wouldn’t arrest them for dealing if they stopped shooting each other. The murder rate went down and the cops are saying it’s a brilliant scheme.’

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Shepherd. ‘The world has gone mad.’

‘It’s like telling burglars that we won’t arrest them providing they don’t damage anything.’

‘Yeah, if there’s no deterrent, criminals are just gonna keep on breaking the law,’ said Shepherd. ‘You know what I’d do with burglars?’

‘What?’

Shepherd made a chopping motion with his hand. ‘Do what the Saudis do,’ he said. ‘Chop off a bloody hand.’

Simmons grinned. ‘You’d do that?’

‘Just give me the axe, my son. And for rapists and the like . . .’ He made a snipping motion with his fingers. ‘It’d stop them reoffending, if nothing else.’

Castle appeared at the door. She was already dressed in riot gear. ‘Tamils are kicking off again,’ she said.

‘Yeah, we heard,’ said Simmons.

‘Good weekend, Three-amp?’ she asked.

There was no way he could possibly tell her what he’d been up to over the previous forty-eight hours. ‘Quiet,’ he said.

‘Well, the Tamils will liven it up for you,’ she said. ‘Word is that they’re going to try to storm the Sri Lankan Embassy today.’

Shepherd slammed his locker door. ‘Bring it on,’ he said.

Shepherd got home just after eight o’clock that evening. He was dog tired. It had been a hard day and towards the end of the shift he’d barely been able to keep his eyes open. He was hungry but he couldn’t face cooking. He’d spent most of the day face-to-face with angry Tamils who didn’t understand why they weren’t allowed to throw bottles at the Sri Lankan Embassy. He had been sworn at and spat at, accused of being a racist, a bastard, a racist bastard and pretty much every other abusive name under the sun in several languages.

He flopped onto the sofa and switched on the television but within minutes he was snoring loudly, dead to the world. He was woken by the sound of his mobile ringing and he answered it, still half asleep. ‘Dan?’ It was Katra.

‘Hi, Katra, is everything okay?’

‘Everything’s fine. Liam did his homework and he’s asleep now.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Nine o’clock.’

Shepherd groaned. He’d meant to phone his son when he got home. ‘Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I had a really busy day.’

‘I took the car to get the tyre fixed,’ said Katra. ‘I used the credit card to pay for it.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Shepherd.

‘The thing is, Dan, the mechanic said he thought someone had done it deliberately.’

‘Done what?’

‘Punctured the tyre,’ said Katra. ‘He said it looked like a knife had done it.’

‘It could have been a nail or anything,’ said Shepherd.

‘No, he showed me the cut and it looked like someone had stuck a knife into it. He said it couldn’t be repaired, he’d have to throw it away.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Katra.’

‘I thought it might be that man, the one that came around to the house.’

Shepherd shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. She meant Jorgji Talovic. ‘I don’t think that’s likely,’ he said.

‘Who, then?’

‘If it was anyone it could have been kids but it’s easy enough to get a nick in a tyre.’

‘Okay,’ she said, but he could tell she wasn’t convinced.

‘If it worries you, leave the car in the garage from now on,’ he said. ‘But, really, I don’t think you need worry about it. If it was somebody with a grudge, they wouldn’t just do one tyre, they’d do them all.’ Shepherd ended the call and put the phone on the floor. He closed his eyes and seconds later he was fast asleep. He woke up again in the small hours and groped his way upstairs to bed, where he fell asleep again, still fully clothed.

At seven thirty Shepherd was woken by his alarm clock. He sat up rubbing his face and wondering why there was such a bad taste in his mouth. Then he realised he was still wearing his clothes and that he hadn’t cleaned his teeth the previous night.

He stripped off his clothes, brushed his teeth, then shaved and showered. He felt well rested, which was hardly surprising since he’d slept for almost twelve hours.

He watched Sky News as he ate a fried-egg sandwich and drank a cup of coffee. There was nothing about the Fox brothers, but that wasn’t surprising. Shepherd doubted that their relatives would have gone running to the police when they didn’t return from their fishing trip.

He drove his bike to Paddington Green. The security guard at the gate knew who he was now so there was no need for him to show his warrant card: he just nodded and the guard opened the gate. As he was parking his bike his mobile began to ring. He didn’t recognise the number but he took the call. ‘You bastard! The police are still after my son!’ a man shouted.

Shepherd took the phone away from his ear and looked at the number again. ‘Who is this?’ he said.

‘You know who I am. Peter’s father. I told you, your boy has to tell the police my son had nothing to do with the video on his phone.’

‘And I told you, my son isn’t going to lie to the police.’

‘You want a problem with me?’ said Talovic. ‘Is that what you want? You want to fight with me?’

‘I don’t want to fight with anyone, Mr Talovic,’ said Shepherd. ‘The policemen I spoke to seemed reasonable. Just tell them your side of the story.’

‘You did talk to the police! I knew it!’

‘They questioned my son,’ explained Shepherd, patiently. ‘They wanted to know where he got the video from. My son told them. If your son received the video from someone else, all he has to do is to explain that to the police.’

‘The police say my son made the video. They say he was there – they say he was encouraging them.’

‘Is that true?’

‘I don’t care if it’s true or not true,’ said Talovic. ‘I don’t want my son in trouble with the police.’

‘It sounds like he’s in trouble already,’ said Shepherd. ‘Look, Mr Talovic, this is nothing to do with me.’

‘It’s everything to do with you,’ said Talovic. ‘It’s your fault. You have to fix it.’

‘I’m going to end this call now, Mr Talovic. I’ve nothing more to say to you.’

A few seconds later, Shepherd’s phone rang again. It was Talovic. Shepherd pressed the red button to reject the call. Talovic tried another three times before he gave up.

Shepherd paced up and down the car park, wondering what he should do. Talovic was becoming a nuisance and an aggressive one at that. He called SOCA’s intelligence unit in a nondescript office building in Pimlico, central London. The woman who answered said only, ‘Hello.’ It was standard procedure for SOCA operatives, who were instructed never to identify their location or function. If Shepherd had asked if he was talking to SOCA or to Intel the woman would immediately have ended the call.

‘Good morning, I need a mobile phone number checking, please,’ he said.

‘Name, ID number and radio call sign?’ asked the woman. Shepherd gave his full name and the two SOCA numbers. ‘And the number of the phone?’ Shepherd gave her the number of the phone that Talovic had used to call him. ‘Please hold,’ said the woman. Shepherd heard her typing away on a computer terminal. There was a brief pause, then more tapping. ‘The phone is registered to a Mr Jorgji Talovic. I have an address in Hereford if you want it.’

‘Please,’ said Shepherd. ‘And while I’m on would you run a PNC check on him for me?’

‘Hold the line,’ said the operator. This time the line was quiet for almost a full five minutes before the operator came back. ‘Nothing on the PNC,’ she said.

Shepherd thanked her and ended the call. As he turned he realised that Ross Mayhew was standing behind him. The CSO was wearing a fluorescent jacket and holding his cap. Mayhew grinned. ‘How’s it going, Three-amp?’

‘Same old,’ said Shepherd, wondering if the CSO had overheard his conversation. ‘You heard about my nickname, then?’

‘It could have been worse.’

‘What about you? Did they give you one?’

‘I’m only a bloody CSO, me,’ said Mayhew. ‘Nicknames are for the TSG.’

‘You heading out?’ asked Shepherd, still trying to read the man’s face, looking for any indication that he’d overheard the conversation.

‘Time to walk the streets for a bit, fly the flag,’ said Mayhew. ‘The guys said you were former army.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Three Para.’

‘See much action?’

‘Afghanistan. Just one tour.’

‘Heavy?’ said Mayhew.

‘Wasn’t too bad,’ said Shepherd.

‘I was in Iraq, did two tours, the last one in 2007,’ said Mayhew. ‘I was with the First Battalion, Royal Green Jackets but by the time I left it was Second Battalion, The Rifles.’

Shepherd felt his pulse quicken. There were times in his undercover life when his legend collided with the real world, and they were the times when he was at his most vulnerable. Of all the battalions in the British Army, Ross Mayhew had served in the same one as Tommy Gannon. Shepherd instantly flashed back to Gannon’s funeral but he was sure that Mayhew hadn’t been at the service.

‘Why did you leave?’ he asked.

‘Got fed up with the BS,’ he said. ‘Loved the action but back in the UK it was just square-bashing bollocks. You?’

Shepherd rubbed his shoulder. ‘Took a bullet,’ he said. ‘Didn’t want to push my luck.’

‘Plenty of guns in London,’ said Mayhew.

‘That’s the truth,’ agreed Shepherd. He was watching Mayhew carefully for any sign that the CSO was anything other than just a chatty colleague. ‘How’s the CSO thing working for you?’

Mayhew pulled a face. ‘It’s a foot in the door,’ he said. ‘I really wanted to be a cop but I didn’t fit the right ethnic profile.’

‘What?’ Shepherd was confused.

Mayhew took a step closer to him and lowered his voice. ‘The Met doesn’t want guys like me,’ he said. ‘They want the right ethnic mix, and that means blacks and Asians and women get priority.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Deadly,’ said Mayhew. He looked over his shoulder as if he was worried about being overheard. ‘Of course they can’t say that, but I was told on the QT. A few years ago they’d have fallen over themselves to take me on, but it’s all changed. Now the Met wants to show how diverse it is so Asians and blacks walk into the job but guys like me are shown the door. Still, can’t complain. This pays okay and there’s a fair amount of excitement. I’ll stick it for a couple of years and then reapply.’

‘What is it you want to do? TSG?’

Mayhew shook his head. ‘Nah, CO19. Firearms. I was a good shot in the army, bloody good, in fact.’

Shepherd turned to go. ‘Best of luck with it, anyway,’ he said.

‘Did you hear about the Sikhs wanting to join CO19?’ asked Mayhew. He looked around again but there was no one within earshot. ‘I’m not making this up. Sikhs have got to wear turbans, right? But in CO19 you have to wear helmets. So now they’re insisting that the Met comes up with a bulletproof turban.’ He sneered. ‘A bulletproof turban. Can you believe that?’

‘Sounds ridiculous,’ agreed Shepherd.

‘It’s a bloody travesty,’ said Mayhew. ‘Does that mean if they want to be police divers the Met has got to come up with a diving helmet to take their turbans? It’s bollocks – it’s political correctness gone mad and it’s the likes of me that suffer. The Met should be hiring people because they’re the right men for the job, not because of their bloody colour.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to blow my stack,’ he said.