Rough Justice (54 page)

‘He knew she had a knife?’

‘He wanted to talk to her,’ said Fogg.

‘He should have stayed behind the shields. That’s procedure,’ said Smith. ‘How did he let her get so close?’

‘He was trying to take the knife off her,’ said Fogg.

Smith was more annoyed than upset. ‘That’s why we train for these situations,’ he said. ‘We have procedures in place so this doesn’t happen. He could have died.’

‘He didn’t want her hurt,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, well, it didn’t work out that way, did it?’ said the inspector. ‘And she got Tasered anyway. And that doesn’t make the TSG look good either, does it? Tasering a housewife and mother.’

‘She had just stabbed Gary in the throat, sir,’ said Fogg.

‘Yeah, but even so,’ said Smith. He shook his head. ‘What a mess.’ He nodded at Shepherd. ‘Paramedics said you helped Gary, stopped the bleeding.’

‘I just put a compress on the wound, sir, that’s all,’ said Shepherd.

‘Good job,’ said Smith. ‘But get back to base ASAP and wash that blood off you. It’s not good for our image.’

They drove back to Paddington Green. This time there was none of the banter and horseplay that usually heralded the end of a shift. They walked in through the rear entrance of the building and Shepherd went straight to the shower room. He took off his stab vest and held it under the shower to wash off Dawson’s blood, then did the same with his overalls. There were only a few spots on his boots and he wiped them with a paper towel. Then he stripped off the rest of his clothes and showered himself clean. He wrapped his towel around his waist and carried his clothing through to the locker room to change. Fogg was there, putting on a pair of jeans. ‘Gary’s in the hospital, doing fine,’ he said.

‘That’s good to hear,’ said Shepherd. He rolled his overalls around his stab vest and put them in the bottom of his locker.

‘Didn’t realise you did first aid,’ said Fogg.

‘Did some in the army,’ said Shepherd. ‘Battlefield injuries, but the principle’s the same. Stop the bleeding, keep them calm, get a medic.’

Fogg pulled on a Belstaff waterproof jacket and took his motorcycle helmet out of his locker. ‘I’m glad you were there, Terry. You’re a real asset to this team.’

‘Thanks, Skip.’

Fogg winked and closed his locker. ‘See you next week,’ he said, and left.

Shepherd pulled on a clean polo shirt. He jumped as a hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Fancy a Spanish, hero?’ asked Coker. ‘Drop of Rioja?’

‘I’ve got the bike,’ said Shepherd.

‘Nah, come and have Spanish with us over at San Miguel,’ said Coker. ‘Colgate can drive you home if you get too pissed. And put your uniform on.’

‘What?’

‘Just do as you’re told, Three-amp,’ said Coker. ‘Shirt, tie, trousers, boots. Casual jacket on top. Trust me, I’m a policeman.’

‘Who else is going?’ asked Shepherd, taking off his polo shirt.

‘It’s a surprise,’ said Coker.

Shepherd put on one of his long-sleeved white shirts, a pair of black trousers and his tie. Coker folded his arms and watched him get dressed. ‘Come on, Lurpak, fill me in.’

‘I don’t want to spoil the surprise,’ he said.

Turnbull appeared at the door wearing an overcoat over his uniform. ‘Is he coming?’ he asked Coker.

‘Yeah, he’s cool,’ said Coker.

Shepherd pulled on his sports jacket. He switched off his mobile phone and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘I wish someone would tell me what’s going on,’ he said.

Coker put on his waterproof jacket and flipped the collar up at the back. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

Shepherd walked out of the station flanked by Coker and Turnbull, feeling like a prisoner being escorted to his cell. The two men kept up a cheerful banter as they crossed Edgware Road and walked to San Miguel. He felt as if he was being abducted by two Mafia hitmen, but doubted that anything would happen in a Spanish restaurant across the road from the most secure police station in England.

They went downstairs. Shepherd and Coker sat at a corner table while Turnbull went to the bar.

‘What’s the story, Lurpak?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Is this about that other business?’

‘Thought you might want to meet the guys, that’s all,’ said Coker.

‘The guys? You mean the Caped Crusader?’

‘Masked Avenger, you prat,’ said Coker. ‘And we don’t call him that, we call him the sergeant.’

‘Foggy?’

Coker laughed and shook his head. ‘No, not Foggy,’ he said. ‘Foggy plays it by the book. He’d hit the roof if he knew what was going on.’

Kelly and Parry came into the restaurant, both wearing dark padded jackets over their uniforms. They sat down at the table. A waiter brought over a basket of crusty bread. ‘You all right, Three-amp?’ asked Kelly, reaching for a chunk.

‘All good,’ said Shepherd.

Turnbull came over with two bottles of Rioja and six glasses. He sloshed wine into the glasses, then sat down. He took one and raised it. ‘To crime!’ he said.

Everyone at the table raised their glasses and drank except Shepherd. Kelly pointed a finger at him. ‘Don’t even start to say you’ve got your bloody bike,’ he said.

Shepherd grinned and raised his glass. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and drank.

‘That’s better,’ said Kelly. He reached across and clinked his glass against Shepherd’s.

‘I’m getting fed up with the bike anyway,’ said Shepherd. ‘Too many nutters on the roads here.’

‘Too many nutters everywhere,’ agreed Turnbull.

‘Where’s the sergeant?’ asked Shepherd, nodding at the untouched glass.

‘On his way,’ said Kelly, picking up another chunk of bread. The waiter returned with menus. Kelly ordered half a dozen tapas and another bottle of Rioja.

‘So you’re okay with this, Three-amp?’ asked Turnbull, when the waiter had gone.

‘Okay with what?’ said Shepherd.

Turnbull looked at Kelly. ‘He’s okay,’ said Kelly.

‘I’m okay,’ said Shepherd.

‘You’d better be, because there’s no turning back,’ said Turnbull.

‘Bit dramatic,’ said Kelly. He bit into his bread and chewed noisily.

‘I’m serious, Three-amp,’ said Turnbull. ‘No one’s going to think any less of you if you don’t want to move forward.’

‘Not everyone can do it,’ agreed Parry.

‘You guys don’t have a problem with it, right?’ asked Shepherd. All the men around the table shook their heads. ‘Then I’m with you. But I’ve a question.’

‘Fire away,’ said Kelly.

‘There’s the four of you,’ said Shepherd. ‘Did you ask anyone else in the Serial?’

Coker and Kelly exchanged a look and they both sniggered. ‘KFC wanted to ask Pelican but we said no girlies,’ said Coker.

‘I thought she’d be up for it,’ said Kelly. ‘I still do.’

‘Pelican’s a great TSG officer, but what we do requires something extra,’ said Coker.

‘Balls?’ suggested Shepherd.

All the men laughed. Coker banged the table with the flat of his hand. ‘Got it in one,’ he said. He looked at the door. ‘Here’s the sergeant now.’

Shepherd turned to see Ross Mayhew walking towards them. He’d changed out of his CSO uniform and was wearing a black overcoat over a dark blue suit.

‘Sergeant?’ said Shepherd.

‘He was a sergeant in the army,’ said Kelly.

Mayhew sat down at the table. ‘I was promoted not long before I left,’ he said. ‘These guys started calling me that when they found out.’ He grinned at Kelly. ‘KFC here started it, I think.’

‘Beer?’ asked Kelly.

‘Bottle of Corona,’ said Mayhew. ‘And tell them to forget the lime – there’s no bloody flies down here.’

Kelly went over to the bar. Mayhew leaned over the table. ‘So, what were you guys talking about?’ he said.

‘I was asking who else was on board,’ said Shepherd. ‘They were telling me that Pelican didn’t have the balls for it.’

Mayhew chuckled. ‘That’s funny. She’s got balls but she doesn’t have what it takes to do what we do.’

‘But I do?’

Mayhew nodded. ‘I’m a pretty good judge of character,’ he said. ‘And we only take someone on when we’re one hundred per cent sure of them.’

‘What about Nipple?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Graduate entry, fast-tracked to stardom,’ said Mayhew. ‘He’ll be a chief constable one day, maybe even running the Met. He’s not going to risk that, even if it means doing what’s right.’

Kelly returned with a bottle of Corona. He gave it to Mayhew and sat down again.

‘Plus we weren’t too sure about him when he joined nine months ago,’ said Coker.

‘Why was that?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Seemed a strange posting for a graduate entrant,’ said Turnbull. ‘And he’d done a year with the rubber heels. We thought he might have been put in to check up on us.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Kelly. ‘For a while back there we were calling him Triffid.’

‘Triffid?’ repeated Shepherd.

‘Yeah, because we thought he was a dangerous plant.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘And Foggy’s too straight as well?’ he asked Mayhew.

‘Foggy’s the salt of the earth and a bloody good copper,’ said Mayhew. ‘But he’s not right for what we do. So mum’s the word when he’s around. We don’t talk about this with outsiders, ever.’

‘Like
Fight Club
?’ said Shepherd.

‘What?’ said Mayhew.

Kelly laughed. ‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘The first rule of Fight Club is you never talk about Fight Club. The Brad Pitt movie. Yeah, it’s the same. Because if anyone talks, we’re screwed.’

‘No one’s going to talk,’ said Mayhew. ‘Because we’re all in this together, and we all believe in what we’re doing.’

‘Like the five musketeers,’ said Turnbull.

‘Six,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m in, remember?’

‘Have you done something like this before?’ asked Turnbull.

‘Like what, Colgate?’

‘Like taking the law into your own hands?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘I got heavy with a drug-dealer in my last job. In Hereford.’

‘Any repercussions?’ asked Parry.

‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ said Shepherd. He leaned forward. ‘How far do you guys go?’

‘As far as we want,’ said Kelly. ‘As far as we bloody well want.’

‘No limits?’

Kelly reached for more bread. ‘We do what we have to do,’ he said. ‘And it’s working. Just look at the crime stats for our area. Housebreaking down, street muggings down, drive-by shootings down. All major crime down.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ said Shepherd.

‘We get results,’ said Mayhew. ‘We do what we have to do and it works. And before long there’ll be others following our example.’

‘You’re not planning on going public, are you?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Of course not,’ said Mayhew. ‘It has to be done on the QT. But we can recruit slowly, spread the philosophy throughout the Met, then on to other forces. We can show that it works, that a few good men can take back the streets.’

Shepherd nodded appreciatively. ‘Sounds like a plan.’

‘It is,’ said Mayhew. ‘And it’s a plan that’ll work. And tonight you show us what you can do.’

‘Tonight?’ said Shepherd.

‘Strike while the iron’s hot.’

Shepherd nodded slowly. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What’s the story?’

‘Two guys in Queen’s Park,’ said Mayhew. ‘Paul Hanratty and Mike Trelawny. Pavement artists. Done at least a dozen banks and building societies over the past couple of years. They shot a pensioner in the legs, blinded a cashier with ammonia, kicked a manager in the nuts. Nasty bastards.’

‘And never charged?’

‘Never been caught in the act,’ said Mayhew. ‘Loads of CCTV and eye-witness reports but they wear masks and they’re careful with the old forensics. They steal a motor the day before and torch it afterwards.’

‘So how do we know they’re the ones?’

‘Because they like to throw their money around when they’re flush,’ said Mayhew. ‘Casinos, top restaurants, high-class hookers.’

‘I’ve never understood how a hooker can be high class,’ said Kelly. ‘Hookers sell their pussies, which means high class doesn’t come into it.’

Mayhew glowered at him. ‘Let’s stay focused,’ he said.

Kelly shoved more bread into his mouth. The waiter reappeared with two plates of ham. He put them on the table and Kelly grabbed a couple of slices.

Mayhew waited until the waiter had left before continuing. ‘Anyway, these guys have boasted about doing jobs in the past, so there’s no doubt it’s them. The Flying Squad have turned them over a couple of times and in January they staked them out for a week, waiting for them to do a Nationwide branch in Acton. Never happened.’ Mayhew sat back in his chair. ‘You ask me, they’re getting intel from someone at the Yard. Maybe even the Sweeney itself. The Yard leaks like a sieve, these days.’

The waiter came back with bowls of garlic mushrooms, chicken in red wine,
patatas bravas
and a large tortilla. Kelly was the first to help himself.

Mayhew sipped his wine. ‘So, if the Sweeney can’t bring these guys down, it’s up to us.’

‘What have you got in mind?’ asked Shepherd.

‘We stop them,’ said Mayhew. ‘We explain the error of their ways and we show them that we’re serious.’

‘How exactly?’ asked Shepherd.

‘By beating the crap out of them,’ said Kelly.

‘We hurt them,’ said Mayhew, quietly. ‘We hurt them so bad that they stop shooting pensioners.’

Shepherd nodded slowly. ‘Okay,’ he said.

‘You’re up for it?’ said Mayhew.

‘Yeah, I’m up for it,’ said Shepherd.

Mayhew smiled and raised his bottle of Corona. ‘Good man,’ he said. ‘Let’s eat, and then we go.’

A Chinese nurse took Jimmy Sharpe from Reception and opened the door to Gary Dawson’s private room for him. ‘Visitor for you, Sergeant Dawson,’ she said brightly.

Dawson smiled when he saw Sharpe. ‘Brian, what are you doing here?’