Rough Justice (42 page)

‘What career?’ said Brownlee, frowning. ‘I don’t have no career.’ He heard a noise behind him and twisted around in his chair. The four other policemen were standing by the van, staring at him with hard eyes. Brownlee turned back to look at the cop in front of him.

‘You’re responsible for about ten per cent of all break-ins in the area where you live. Did you know that?’ said the cop, swinging the sledgehammer. ‘Do you have any idea how much paperwork you generate?’

Brownlee said nothing and stared at the floor.

‘Every time you break into a house, two officers have to go around to talk to the victim, then we have to fill out a crime report and that’s a dozen pages right there. Then we have to do a follow-up visit and liaise with Neighbourhood Watch and send a report to Crime Prevention and all because you’d rather thieve than work for a living. If we can stop you thieving, I reckon we could save ourselves over a thousand man-hours every year.’ He let the handle of the sledgehammer slide through his fingers until the metal head hit the floor with a dull thud. ‘Do you know what they do to thieves in Saudi Arabia?’ asked the cop.

Brownlee shook his head.

‘They cut off their hands,’ said the cop. ‘Not both, just one. Unless they carry on stealing in which case they lop off the other. But you know what, Jason? You hardly ever see a thief missing both hands. And you know why that is?’

‘This is bullshit!’ shouted Brownlee.

‘It’s all about deterrence,’ said the cop, ignoring his outburst. ‘Chopping off a hand is a deterrent. A slap on the wrist by a well-meaning magistrate isn’t. Which is why you’ve been running riot for the past four years, isn’t it?’

Brownlee glared at the cop but didn’t say anything.

‘You see, what we can’t understand is why the courts didn’t put you behind bars years ago, Jason. You’ve been caught in the act, you’ve been caught with stolen goods, you’ve left footprints, fingerprints, and once you left a turd in the middle of a bed, didn’t you?’

‘This is bullshit,’ repeated Brownlee, quieter this time.

‘But what really pissed us off was the old lady that you pushed down the stairs last month. She was in hospital for a month. A month, Jason.’

‘I didn’t push nobody,’ said Brownlee.

‘It was in your patch. You broke in through the patio window like you usually do, you cut the phone line and you unlocked the front door for a quick getaway. It had your MO all over it. You understand MO, right?
Modus operandi
. Your way of operating.’

Brownlee didn’t respond.

‘But she came home early, didn’t she? Mrs Wilkinson, her name is. Alice Wilkinson. She was a primary-school teacher for almost forty years – did you know that? Two children, but she outlived them both, and she has three grandkids in Australia. You couldn’t meet a sweeter old lady. And what did you do? You pushed her downstairs, face first. Broke her jaw, fractured her arm.’

‘I didn’t do nuffink,’ said Brownlee, though his voice lacked conviction.

‘She’ll be scarred for life, the doctors say. Not that she’s much life left, but every time she looks into the mirror she’s going to remember what you did to her.’

Brownlee shook his head, even though he knew there was no point in denying it.

‘Her memory isn’t what it used to be so she couldn’t identify you. But it was you, Jason. Without a shadow of a doubt.’

He swung the sledgehammer, narrowly missing Brownlee’s knee. Brownlee flinched and began to beg them to let him go.

‘That’s not going to happen,’ said the cop, ‘not until we’ve done what we’re here to do.’

‘Please don’t,’ whimpered Brownlee.

‘Here’s the thing,’ said the cop. ‘We thought about running you out of town, but then someone else will have to clean up your mess and that’s just not fair. What we’ve got to do is to stop you reoffending.’ He nodded at two cops who had moved to stand behind Brownlee. One of them bent down and undid the handcuffs. Brownlee jumped up, but before he could run the two men grabbed an arm each. ‘We’re not going to do what the Saudis do, but we are going to make sure that you can’t use your right hand – not for a while anyway.’

‘You can’t do this!’

‘Yes, we can, Jason. And you’re going to take it like a man. And when we’ve finished, we’re going to drop you close to a hospital. Funnily enough, it’ll be the hospital that treated Mrs Wilkinson. I suppose that’s ironic, rather than funny, but you get my drift, right?’

The two policemen wrestled Brownlee to the ground. Another officer wrapped a piece of rope around the wrist above Brownlee’s right hand and pulled it tight. A fourth grabbed his left arm and held it to his side.

‘Please don’t do it – I won’t rob again,’ sobbed Brownlee. ‘I won’t steal – I swear.’

‘That’s the plan, Jason,’ said the cop, raising the sledgehammer above his head. ‘But remember one thing, and remember it well. If you ever tell anybody what happened to you, we’ll bring you back here and kill you. That’s a promise.’

Brownlee screamed as the cop brought the sledgehammer down on his hand. The bones splintered, blood splattered across the concrete and he passed out.

Friday was a relatively quiet day and Shepherd spent most of his shift sitting in the van around the corner from Trafalgar Square, where local-authority workers were demonstrating against plans to slash their pensions. Intelligence had suggested that a group of anarchists were planning to infiltrate the march but in the event it passed off peacefully and by six o’clock in the evening there were only tourists in the square.

Shepherd drove his bike back to Kilburn, collected his BMW and headed back to Hereford. He was just leaving London when his phone rang and he took the call using hands-free. It was Charlotte Button.

‘On your way home?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, Liam’s got a football match tomorrow.’

‘How is he?’

‘Heading towards his teen years with a vengeance.’

‘Still at the local school?’

‘Yeah, he’s fine there. Our au pair takes good care of him and his grandparents are just down the road.’

‘There’s a lot to be said for boarding,’ said Button.

‘Nah, I like hanging with him at weekends,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s at the fun age, you know? Old enough to have a decent conversation with but he still thinks I’m wonderful.’

‘You are wonderful,’ said Button.

Shepherd laughed. ‘You’ve called me up to massage my ego, have you?’

‘No – actually, I’ve called to fill you in on your CSO buddy, Ross Mayhew. Like you said, he was in Basra. That was his last tour, as a sergeant with the Second Battalion, The Rifles. I don’t suppose you know why they changed their name from the Royal Green Jackets, do you?’

‘They were amalgamating regiments, I think,’ said Shepherd. ‘Cost-saving. Some of the regiments had to go.’

‘And they moved their barracks to Northern Ireland. I guess part of the government’s policy of decentralisation. Anyway, again like you said, he did two tours. Did he tell you he left as a sergeant?’

‘We didn’t have too deep a conversation,’ said Shepherd. ‘Though he could have been feeling me out.’

‘He joined from school, did ten years as a squaddie and was made up to sergeant before his second tour. Left the army when he got back from Afghanistan.’

‘That’s a bit strange,’ said Shepherd. ‘He must have been career army to do that long. And getting his stripes suggested he was doing okay.’

‘He handed in his papers when he got back from Afghanistan and he was honourably discharged. But it’s not easy getting information from the army. Other than that he was honourably discharged, I can’t get a word out of them. But I can tell you why he didn’t get taken on by the Met.’

‘He says because he didn’t fit the right ethnic profile.’

‘I’m sorry, what?’

‘Mayhew said the Met was more interested in recruiting blacks and Asians.’

‘And you believed that?’

‘I’ve heard similar things from other cops,’ said Shepherd. ‘The Met wants its workforce to reflect the community it serves, and that means it needs more cops from the various ethnic groups.’

‘Well, I can tell you that Mayhew wasn’t rejected because he was white,’ said Button. ‘Apparently there were psychological issues.’

‘Post-traumatic stress disorder?’

‘Perhaps, but that’s not what showed up in the tests that all entrants have to take,’ said Button. ‘It was more a question of anger-management issues. Aggression is a great thing in a soldier but it’s not always helpful for a police officer.’

‘So he had the wrong temperament for the Met but he could join as a CSO?’

‘The criteria are a lot less stringent for Community Support Officers than they are for the police,’ said Button. ‘I guess because they don’t have the same powers or responsibilities.’

‘He wants to be in CO19,’ said Shepherd.

‘I doubt they’ll ever let him near a gun again,’ said Button. ‘Do you think he might be in on it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve seen him talking to the Serial in the canteen, but I just had him down as a wannabe. But, yeah, if he’s got his heart set on CO19 there’d be no point in him sucking up to the TSG. I’ll keep an eye on him.’

‘Meanwhile I’ll have a word with a friend of mine at the Ministry of Defence,’ said Button. ‘Everything else okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m easing in,’ he said.

‘Any problems?’

‘It’s fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just winning friends and influencing people, setting them up for the big betrayal.’ Button didn’t say anything and Shepherd winced as he realised how that had sounded. ‘I’ve had a tough week, Charlie. These TSG guys work hard and play hard. They’re a tight-knit team, and when I’m working I’m never alone so I’m constantly on my guard. There’s no let-up, you know?’

‘I know it’s not easy,’ she said. ‘Would a chat with Caroline help?’

For a moment Shepherd thought she was talking about Carolyn Castle, then realised she meant the SOCA psychologist. He chuckled. ‘I’m under cover, tracking down killer cops, and you think therapy’s the answer?’

‘I was thinking that perhaps you could talk through your feelings with someone who might be able to help put them into context,’ said Button, patiently.

‘I’ll go for a run with a rucksack full of bricks instead,’ said Shepherd. ‘That usually does the trick.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Button. ‘You have a good weekend.’

Shepherd arrived home just after midnight. Lady came running from the kitchen when she heard him open the front door and jumped up, pawing at his legs and whimpering. He patted her and tickled her behind the ears. He went through to the sitting room. The glazier had done a good job: there was no sign that the window had ever been broken. He made himself a cup of coffee and took it upstairs. Lady tried to follow him but he made her stay in the kitchen. On the way to bed he popped into Liam’s room but his son was fast asleep. As he went back into the hallway, Katra opened her door. ‘Hi,’ she said sleepily.

‘Go back to bed,’ he said.

‘I’m awake now,’ she said, rubbing her eyes.

‘It’s late,’ he said, ‘I’ll talk to you in the morning.’ She nodded, went back into her room and closed the door.

Shepherd showered and fell into bed. He was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

He woke to the sound of his phone ringing. He rolled over and looked at the alarm clock on his bedside table. It was eight o’clock. He groped for his mobile and squinted at the display. Talovic. Shepherd groaned and took the call.

‘So you are back,’ said Talovic.

‘What?’ said Shepherd.

‘You are in Hereford. Now you can talk to the police.’

‘If I talk to the police, Mr Talovic, it’ll be to report you for vandalising my car and throwing a brick through my window.’ Shepherd sat up. ‘How did you know I was back? Are you spying on me?’

‘You have to tell the police that my son had nothing to do with the video on your son’s phone.’

‘I’ve already told you that’s not going to happen. I’m not lying to the police and neither is Liam.’

‘You want a problem with me? Is that what you want?’

‘Mr Talovic, it’s obvious that I already have a major problem with you. The only question is, how do I deal with it?’ Shepherd ended the call. Talovic rang back almost immediately and Shepherd switched off his phone. He got out of bed, shaved, showered and pulled on a pair of black jeans with a denim shirt.

Katra was already in the kitchen and had a mug of coffee ready for him. She asked him what he wanted for breakfast but Shepherd shook his head. ‘I’m going out for a while,’ he said. ‘I’ll eat when I get back.’

‘For a run?’

‘No. I’ll take the car. I won’t be long.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘That man, Talovic, he hasn’t been phoning the house, has he?’

Katra leaned against the sink and folded her arms. ‘Somebody has been calling and hanging up. It might have been him. But they don’t say anything. When they hear it’s me they put down the phone.’

‘And you haven’t seen him hanging around?’

‘No,’ she said. She frowned. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He went outside and drove to Talovic’s house. It was a semi with a front garden that hadn’t been mown for at least a year and was on an estate of similar council houses to the north of the town. There was a Sky satellite dish on the end wall and a rusting Honda Civic in the driveway. Shepherd was trying to work out what to say to the man. He had no doubt that Talovic had thrown the brick through his window and punctured the CRV’s tyre, but no proof either.

The front door of the house opened and Talovic appeared on the step. He was wearing his Umbro shell-suit and holding a rolled-up newspaper, which he pointed at Shepherd. ‘I see you!’ he shouted across the street. ‘I see you watching me!’ He put his hands on his hips and stared defiantly at Shepherd, his chin up aggressively.