Rough Justice (40 page)

‘No problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can understand why you’d feel annoyed. But, like you said, you’ve got a foot in the door.’

‘How did you switch from the army to the cops so easily?’ asked Mayhew.

‘It wasn’t that easy,’ said Shepherd. ‘There were plenty of interviews, the same sort of hoops that I’m sure they made you jump through. But I didn’t apply to the Met. I got taken on by West Mercia. I think they’re a bit less selective.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Probably isn’t a disadvantage to be white in Hereford. In London at the moment it’s a positive disadvantage.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, can’t say that, of course.’ He forced a smile. ‘I relish the opportunity to work in a diverse and multicultural society.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I can talk the talk,’ he said, ‘and these days that’s all that matters. See you around, Three-amp.’

The team was called in to help with an evidence search in south London towards the end of their shift, so Shepherd didn’t get back to Paddington Green until almost eight o’clock. No one seemed to mind working late as it meant more overtime. Shepherd was looking forward to an early night, but as he was changing into his civilian clothes Kelly came up to him. ‘Fancy a Spanish, Three-amp?’ asked Kelly. ‘Some of the guys are going over the road to San Miguel – it’s police friendly.’

The last thing Shepherd wanted was a night out drinking, but he knew it was important that he appear to be one of the boys. ‘Sure, but I can’t drink. I’ve got the bike.’

‘What is it with you and two wheels?’ said Kelly. ‘You can just get the Tube back to Kilburn. Hell, you can almost walk it.’

‘You’ve talked me into it,’ said Shepherd. ‘I could do with a beer.’

Simmons walked into the locker room and began stripping off his uniform. ‘Spanish, Nipple?’ asked Kelly.

‘Yeah, but lay off the
boquerones
, will you? Your breath always smells like a toilet the next day.’

‘Stop kissing me on the mouth, then,’ said Kelly.

‘
Boquerones
?’ said Shepherd.

‘Tapas,’ said Kelly. ‘Marinated anchovies.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Lovely.’

Shepherd pulled on a long-sleeved fleece. He walked out of the station with Kelly but Simmons and Castle caught up with them as they crossed Edgware Road. They went together down Chapel Street, opposite the Hilton Metropole, then passed a dry cleaner’s and laundry. A doorway led to a flight of steps heading down into the basement. ‘San Miguel,’ said Castle. ‘Our home from home.’

On the wall overlooking the stairs a sign said ‘OPEN’ in red lights surrounded by flashing blue ones. ‘The blue lights are for us,’ said Kelly. ‘They like us here.’

‘Given the amount of money we spend, they should love us,’ said Castle.

The stairs opened out into a large room with a bar to the left and tables to the right. Several off-duty policemen were at the bar wearing waterproof jackets over their uniforms and drinking bottled beer. Shepherd saw Robin Potter sitting at a table with two Traffic cops and waved hello. Potter smiled back and raised his bottle in salute.

Castle headed over to a large circular table with six wooden chairs. Shepherd followed her. As they sat down Coker came down the stairs and joined them. An elderly waiter wearing a grubby apron came over to give them menus.

‘Do you want a little wine, Three-amp?’ asked Castle.

‘Nah, I’m happy enough with my life,’ said Shepherd. ‘Nothing to whine about, really.’

The men all laughed and Kelly banged the table. ‘He got you there, Pelican.’

Castle ignored him and asked the waiter for two bottles of Rioja and two of sparkling water.

Kelly waved at the man. ‘
Boquerones al vinagre
,’ he said. ‘Two orders.’

‘Bastard,’ said Simmons.

‘I told you, don’t kiss me on the mouth and it’ll be fine,’ said Kelly. ‘Veal casserole,’ he said to the waiter. ‘
Chorizo al vino
and mushrooms in garlic oil.’

‘Good choice,’ said Castle. ‘And I want balls.’

‘Of course you do, Pelican,’ said Coker. ‘That’s why you joined the storm-troopers.’

‘Meatballs,’ she said to the waiter. She smiled sweetly. ‘Two orders.’

‘
Fabada
,’ said Simmons.

‘What’s
fabada
?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Bean stew,’ said Simmons.

‘Yeah, I know it’s been stew but what is it now?’ asked Kelly. Simmons groaned but everyone else laughed. The waiter patiently wrote down the rest of the order, most of which came from Kelly. Then he shuffled off.

Shepherd looked at Coker. ‘You said we were storm-troopers, which I can’t help thinking is a bit of a dangerous analogy.’

‘
Sieg Heil!
’ said Kelly.

Coker grinned. ‘Okay, crack troops, then. When you’ve got a problem, send in the police. When the police have got a problem, who do they send in?’

‘The Ghostbusters?’ asked Castle.

Coker ignored her. ‘The bloody TSG, that’s who,’ he said. ‘Who go into the places the borough are scared to go, and we deal with the scum that they’re too frightened to go near.’

‘You’ve got a pretty low opinion of the rank-and-file cops, then?’ asked Shepherd. Everyone at the table laughed.

‘Let me tell you a story,’ said Kelly, leaning forward. ‘A few years ago I had a run-in with a very heavy drug-dealer. Nasty piece of work, East End boy made bad, was big into crack cocaine and heroin, selling it into some of the bigger housing estates. Got very heavy with late-payers, had no qualms about shooting his rivals, and killed at least three people to my knowledge. Ricky Wilkes, his name was.’

‘Yeah, good old Wilkesy,’ laughed Coker. ‘He’s in Florida, right, doing life?’

‘Yeah, he went over there to meet some Colombians and one of them was a DEA agent,’ said Kelly. ‘He was never the sharpest knife in the drawer. Anyway, when he was in London he was pretty much untouchable. Whenever the Drugs Squad got close he’d just buy off a few witnesses or pay someone to take the fall. He must have been responsible for twenty per cent of the drugs and half the assaults on our patch. Anyway, I decided to get him. I couldn’t get him on drugs but I did pull him over once and got him fined a grand for driving without insurance. I used to do a stop-and-search whenever I saw him – must have given him a couple of dozen fifty-nineties. Then finally I got him on a biggie. Found a young druggie Wilkes had knifed, nearly killed him. Had him charged with assault and almost got him but he paid off the victim, gave him five grand to forget what had happened. Anyway, that’s when it starts to get a bit anti-woodentop because Wilkes found out who I was and got an address. My old address, as it happened, because I’d split from the missus and moved out. He got the old address and that means he got it from the book.’ He nodded enthusiastically. ‘And the only way he could have got my address from the book was if a bloody copper had given it to him. Some bent bastard taking a backhander.’

Shepherd knew that every police station had a staff book: it listed all the officers, their next of kin, addresses and contact numbers. It was supposed to be highly confidential and only used in emergencies.

‘Wilkes sends someone to cut the brake pipe of my car except of course it’s not my car it’s my missus’s and she almost crashes,’ continued Kelly. ‘Luckily my kids weren’t in it.’

‘Bastard,’ said Shepherd.

‘It gets worse,’ said Kelly. ‘About a week later I take the kids shopping and we’re in the Bluewater shopping centre. Wilkes had managed to track me there, don’t ask me how, but he comes up to me bold as brass and right there and then threatens me and says he’s going to put me in the ground. My kids started crying and, I tell you, if they hadn’t been there I’d have done for him. Thing is I was off-duty so I couldn’t do much even if the kids weren’t there. Anyway, he says that he was sorry I wasn’t in the car with the kids when it crashed but next time I wouldn’t be so lucky. He went off with two of his mates. Just then a copper walks by, one of Kent’s finest. So I tell him who I am and what happened and that I want to make a complaint and I want to get copies of any CCTV footage. You know what the woodentop does? He points and says there’s a station outside the shopping centre and that I should report it there.’

‘Moron,’ said Coker.

The waiter returned with their wine and water. Kelly waited until he had placed the bottles on the table and left before continuing his story.

‘I thought maybe he didn’t get what I was saying, so I took out my warrant card and said I was in the job, that I was with my kids and that I’d just been threatened by a big-time drug-dealer.’ He picked up one of the bottles of Rioja and sloshed wine into Shepherd’s glass. ‘He couldn’t have cared less, told me to go to the station and walked off like Dixon of fucking Dock Green. That’s why I hate the woodentops, mate. Worse than useless.’

‘And what happened with Wilkes?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Before he went tits up in Florida?’

Kelly carried on pouring wine for the rest of the team. ‘Why do you think something happened?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘Because you don’t look like the sort who’d let something like that drop,’ he said.

Kelly nodded. ‘Damn right,’ he said.

‘You should have given the guy a good kicking,’ said Shepherd.

Kelly pulled a face. ‘Do that with a shit like Wilkes and he’d come back at you with a gun. Or petrol-bomb your house. Once he knew where my wife lived I was screwed. I backed off but tried to get him flagged with Intelligence. That’s when I was told that SOCA were on to him and SOCA took precedence, so that was that.’

‘What did SOCA want him for?’ asked Shepherd.

‘They wouldn’t say, but nothing ever came of it. Two years ago he went over to Florida and, by all accounts, he’ll be inside for twenty years or so.’

‘So all’s well that ends well,’ said Shepherd.

‘I think you were right the first time,’ Coker told him. ‘Someone should have taken Wilkes down a dark alley and shown him the error of his ways. And screw SOCA for stopping you flagging him. Bigger waste of time than the woodentops, SOCA.’

‘I hear they’re going to wind it up,’ said Kelly.

‘SOCA? Where did you hear that?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Grapevine,’ said Kelly. ‘It’s a waste of money. Too many highly paid cooks and not enough Indians.’ He grinned. ‘Spot the mixed metaphor.’

‘Yeah, it was supposed to be a British FBI but it’s turned into as big a flop as the Child Support Agency,’ said Kelly. ‘Name me one major success they’ve had, one big bust. You can’t, can you? We go into battle every day for no thanks, they get big salaries and company cars and do fuck-all.’

Shepherd smiled and nodded. Kelly had a point, but he couldn’t tell him so. The waiter came back with a tray of dishes and began placing them on the table. A waitress appeared with two baskets of French bread. Coker took a chunk before she had even put them on the table.

Shepherd stabbed his fork into a piece of chorizo and listened to the banter of the cops around him. They were totally relaxed with each other, friends as well as colleagues, and when they teased each other it was with affection and mutual respect. Yet again the bond between them reminded him of the relationship between the men in the SAS. They knew they could rely on each other, that there would always be someone there to watch their back, someone they could trust. Shepherd knew that he was well on his way to being part of that trust, that they liked Terry Halligan and respected him, but Terry Halligan didn’t exist and the only reason he was trying to earn their trust was so that he could betray them. It wasn’t the first time that Shepherd felt disgust at the job he was doing, and he was sure that it wouldn’t be the last. It went with the turf.

Shepherd’s alarm woke him at seven thirty and he groaned as he fumbled for the snooze button. He’d drunk six glasses of wine in the restaurant, which was well within his capacity but his body definitely needed more sleep. He waited until his alarm beeped again, then rolled out of bed, showered and shaved, then made himself a mug of coffee, still in his bathrobe.

Kelly had dropped Shepherd outside his house a little after midnight so he had to take the Tube to work. It was no great hardship but meant an extra fifteen minutes’ travelling time. He sat down on the sofa, swung his feet up onto the coffee-table and phoned Charlotte Button.

‘Good morning, you’re up bright and early,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’

‘All good,’ he said. ‘Had a night out with the boys and we’re all getting on well. No one’s asked me to castrate a rapist yet, but it’s early days. Something I wanted to bounce off you. I had an interesting chat with a CSO at Paddington Green yesterday. Just chit-chat about making the transition from the army to the cops. He wants to be in CO19 but the best they would do is let him on litter patrol.’

‘And?’

‘And I explained that I’d joined West Mercia Police and he jumped immediately to Hereford.’

‘Ah,’ said Button.

‘Either he’s very good at joining the dots, or he’d been sniffing around. And he knew about my nickname, which means he must be on friendly terms with someone on my team.’

‘You have a nickname? That’s so sweet.’

‘Please don’t do this,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s far too early in the morning for sarcasm.’

‘Come on, you have to tell me.’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Shepherd.

‘Pretty please?’

Shepherd sighed. ‘Three-amp.’

‘Three-amp? I don’t get it.’

‘Good,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now, can we talk about this CSO?’

‘I’ll run a check on him,’ said Button. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Ross Mayhew. He was in Iraq, two tours.’ He decided not to mention that Mayhew had served with the Second Battalion, The Rifles. Button had never discussed the Real IRA attack on the Chinese restaurant but she must have known that Major Gannon’s godson was one of the men killed, and he didn’t want her going along that train of thought.

‘Anything else?’ she asked.