Rough Justice (9 page)

‘Yeah, at least they let women run MI5, which is more than SOCA does,’ said Sharpe.

‘Is that the plan, Charlie?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Director General one day?’

Button smiled. ‘That’s a long way off, Spider,’ she said.

Shepherd leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. ‘Do you know who your successor is going to be?’

‘They haven’t told me yet,’ she said. ‘As soon as I know, you’ll know.’ She sipped her tea. ‘I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t say anything for a day or two. I want to tell everyone in the unit personally, rather than having them hear second-hand.’

Shepherd and Sharpe nodded.

‘Hopefully we’ll have tied this operation up before I go,’ said Button.

‘And if we don’t?’ said Shepherd.

‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,’ said Button.

The barman put the Jameson’s and soda in front of Shepherd and gave Sharpe his pint of lager. ‘A rat deserting the sinking ship,’ said Sharpe. ‘I knew we couldn’t trust her.’

‘SOCA isn’t exactly a sinking ship,’ said Shepherd. The two men went to a corner table. They were in the pub around the corner from the office where Button had briefed them.

Sharpe tossed his sheepskin jacket over the back of a chair and sat down on a bench seat. ‘Let’s face it, Spider, SOCA’s successes are few and far between,’ he said. ‘It was set up to bust organised crime and what are we doing? Investigating plod. Why aren’t we going after the real criminals? We know who they are, and we know what they’re doing.’

‘Knowing and proving are different things,’ said Shepherd, sinking into a chair opposite Sharpe’s bench.

‘It’s because SOCA’s run by bean-counters,’ said Sharpe. ‘They work out what an investigation is going to cost, and it just costs too much to go after the big boys because they’re so well protected. You and I know half a dozen guys in Amsterdam who are responsible for a quarter of the drugs coming into this country, but do we go after them? Do we hell. They send us after bank robbers and small-time drug-dealers and now they want us to investigate cops. Why? Because they’re easy options, that’s why. I think Button’s doing the right thing, jumping ship now. She can see which way the wind’s blowing. I tell you, I’m thinking about going back to the Met.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘At least I’d be going up against real villains. This going up against cops really pisses me off. Professional Standards is supposed to investigate cops, not us. You heard me tell her. But did she listen?’

‘She’s between a rock and a hard place,’ said Shepherd. ‘If the Met commissioner asks the Home Secretary for SOCA’s help, she can hardly say no.’

‘No, she can’t, because it might put the brakes on her meteoric rise to the top.’

‘You’re a cynical bastard,’ said Shepherd.

‘And you cut her too much slack because you want to get into her pants.’

Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. ‘Screw you, Razor.’

‘I’m just saying – you’ve always had a thing for her, have done from day one. Which means you let her get away with a lot.’ Shepherd opened his mouth to reply, but Sharpe held up a hand to silence him. ‘Don’t deny it because I saw the look on your face when she said she was leaving.’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘There’s no talking to you sometimes.’ He sipped his whiskey.

‘Because you know I’m right,’ said Sharpe.

‘She’s not leaving because she’s unhappy with SOCA – we were always just a stepping-stone. She needed to do a few years at the sharp end before going any further up the MI5 ladder.’

‘She told you that?’

‘It was obvious,’ said Shepherd. ‘Once a spy, always a spy. We were just a temporary attachment.’

‘She used us,’ said Sharpe. He raised his glass to Shepherd. ‘She used us all.’

‘No one stays in the same job for ever,’ said Shepherd. ‘You were walking a beat in Strathclyde, then you moved to the Met, now you’re with SOCA. I was in the army, then the cops, now I’m . . .’ He grinned. ‘Now I’m a civil servant with powers of arrest,’ he said. ‘Sod it, Razor, let’s both go back to the Met.’

Sharpe frowned. ‘Now it’s my turn to ask, are you serious?’

Shepherd sighed. ‘Maybe it’s time for a move. I’m not sure that I want to break in a new boss.’

Sharpe leaned over and clinked his glass against Shepherd’s. ‘I’m going to hold you to this,’ he said.

‘Let’s see who we get,’ said Shepherd.

‘I bet it’ll be another woman,’ said Sharpe. ‘Probably black and disabled to boot so that they can tick all the boxes.’

Despite himself, Shepherd smiled. ‘You’re impossible,’ he said.

‘No, I’m a cynical bastard,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s the job that’s impossible.’

The train journey from Paddington to Hereford was almost three hours, which gave Shepherd plenty of time to study the file that Charlotte Button had given him. The TSG had five bases around London. 1TSG, or Area One, was at Paddington Green police station in Harrow Road, the most secure police station in the UK where terrorism suspects were usually held and interrogated before being taken south of the river to Belmarsh prison. The van that had been seen near to the dead paedophile was one of the Mercedes Sprinters based at Paddington Green. The other four TSG bases were at Finchley, Chadwell Heath, Catford and Clapham.

The organisational structure was the same at all of the bases, though the Paddington Green group included trained firearms officers. As Button had said, the units were based around the vans. Each van had a sergeant and seven constables. Three vans formed an operational Serial, headed by an inspector, so a Serial was made up of an inspector, three sergeants and eighteen constables. There were five Serials at each base with senior officers taking the total establishment of the TSG up to 720 across the capital.

Assuming that the problem was at a relatively low level, that meant everyone from inspector down at Paddington Green was a suspect, a total of 132 men. Shepherd smiled to himself. And women, of course. The TSG was an equal-opportunity employer.

The TSG as a whole was headed by a commander, with a superintendent below him. Each of the five bases was run by a chief inspector, and under each chief inspector was an inspector in charge of operations and another five inspectors each running a Serial of three teams. The teams’ Mercedes Sprinters were specially modified, their windscreens covered with mesh shields.

Button had included the TSG’s handbook in the file and Shepherd speed-read it as the train powered towards Hereford. The TSG had three main functions: to secure the capital against terrorism, to react to violent situations that arose anywhere in London, and to help reduce crime by supporting the local police when needed.

Since the al-Qaeda attacks on the Twin Towers in New York, the TSG had been trained to deal with the aftermath of terrorist incidents in London, and the unit was equipped to deal with chemical, biological, radiological and nuclear attacks. So far as day-to-day policing was concerned, TSG officers could be used on patrols and surveillance, and were also available for undercover operations. Each Serial also took it in turns to stand as the Commissioner’s Reserve, available to be sent anywhere within the capital to deal with riots, brawls or football hooligans.

In the file there was a printout of the TSG staff at Paddington Green with head-and-shoulders photographs and a brief description of their career to date. Shepherd effortlessly committed the information to memory. His memory had been virtually photographic for as long as he could remember.

The inspector in charge of the Serial that Shepherd was joining was Phillip Smith, a university graduate who was being fast-tracked through the ranks. He had joined straight from Oxford with a degree in Economics and had been promoted to sergeant before he was twenty-five. He had become an inspector at twenty-seven and had already done two years with the TSG. Under Smith there were three sergeants. Michael Keane was one. He had been with the TSG for six years and prior to that had been a traffic cop. Tony Drury had just turned thirty and had moved from CO19 shortly after being promoted. Roy Fogg was in his mid-thirties and in the TSG for five years. He was in charge of the team that Shepherd would be joining. Before the TSG he’d walked a beat in Battersea and had two Commissioner’s Commendations for bravery. Fogg’s team included Carolyn Castle, a twenty-eight-year-old constable who had recently been transferred to the TSG from a Sapphire team in Croydon, investigating rapes and looking after rape victims. Richard Parry was a West Indian who had worked for a Safer Neighbourhoods Team in Haringey and had a Commissioner’s Commendation for bravery: he had disarmed, single-handed, two muggers who had just robbed a pensioner. Nick Coker was twenty-six, had joined the police straight from school and had been with the TSG for two years. He had receding hair, cut short, and a nose that looked as if it had been punched a few more times than was good for it.

According to the file, officers were generally assigned to the TSG for five years, but could stay on for longer if they wanted. Angus Turnbull, the driver of Fogg’s van, was one of the long-timers and had been with the TSG for nine years. He was in his late thirties and had the look of a male model with jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes and a boyish smile. Darren Simmons was a relative newcomer and had only been with the unit for nine months. Like Smith, he had been placed on the Met’s graduate-entry scheme, which meant he would be fast-tracked to sergeant three years after joining and inspector two years after that. The final member of the team was Barry Kelly, who had spent four years with the British Transport Police, based at King’s Cross station, before switching to the Met. Kelly was a redhead with a sprinkling of freckles across his nose.

A page was devoted to the equipment that Shepherd would be expected to use as a member of the TSG. The officers weren’t routinely armed, though specially trained firearms officers were based at Paddington Green and authorised to carry Glocks and MP5 carbines. The rank- and-file officers were equipped with the force’s standard Monadnock batons and CS sprays but were also allowed to carry and use Tasers. In riot situations they wore fireproof overalls, visored helmets, elbow and shin pads, and held acrylic riot shields. Jimmy Sharpe hadn’t been far wrong when he’d referred to them as the heavy mob.

About half an hour before the train was due to arrive at Hereford, Shepherd’s mobile rang. It was Major Gannon. ‘The funeral’s on Friday, in Sussex,’ said the Major. ‘They’ll bury him in the churchyard near where my brother lives in Rotherfield. Two o’clock.’

‘I’ll be there, boss. Do you want me to spread the word?’

‘Just the guys who knew Tommy,’ said the Major. ‘My brother doesn’t want to make a big thing of it. And he’s made it clear that there are to be no uniforms. Tommy’s regiment aren’t happy but they’ll respect his wishes, obviously.’

‘Your brother and his wife, how are they holding up?’ asked Shepherd.

‘My brother’s a tough nut, always has been, but Grace has taken it really badly.’

‘I’m sorry, boss. If there’s anything you need . . .’

‘Everything’s being taken care of, but thanks.’ The Major ended the call and Shepherd phoned Katra to tell her that he was on his way home. ‘Is Liam asleep?’ he asked.

‘He was in bed by nine. He wanted Lady to sleep in his bedroom – I hope that’s okay.’

‘Katra, I said not to.’

‘I know, but Liam said he was lonely with you away and they both gave me puppy-dog eyes.’

‘Liam’s pulling your strings,’ said Shepherd. ‘I guess it won’t do any harm, but make sure that she’s sleeping on the floor, I don’t want her on the bed.’

‘I’ll make sure,’ promised Katra. ‘I’ve got an
obara
in the oven for you.’

Shepherd smiled.
Obara
was a traditional Slovenian stew, one of Katra’s specialities. ‘Not dormouse, I hope,’ he said.

‘That was a joke,’ said Katra. ‘I only told Liam that because he was asking about my grandparents.’

‘And your grandmother cooked dormouse
obara
. That’s what you said.’

‘They were poor,’ said Katra, ‘and my grandfather always said it tasted delicious. Like chicken.’

‘Clearly a man who loved his wife,’ said Shepherd. ‘Whatever sort of
obara
it is, I’m sure it’ll be delicious, too.’

‘It’s beef,’ she said.

‘Great.’

‘Really, beef. Good beef, from Waitrose.’

Shepherd laughed and switched off the phone. He picked up Button’s file again. He was finishing the last page just as the train pulled into Hereford station. He climbed into a waiting minicab and ten minutes later he was home. Katra already had a whiskey and soda waiting for him, the ice barely melted. He sipped it gratefully and sat down at the kitchen table. Katra put on oven gloves and carefully took out a green Le Creuset pot. She carried it to the table and spooned a generous helping of stew onto his plate. ‘It’s beef,’ she said, before he could say anything.

‘So you said.’ He sniffed it. ‘Lovely.’

Katra sat down opposite him and watched him eat. ‘Good trip?’ she asked.

‘Rushed as usual,’ he said. ‘I’ll be working in London starting next week, probably be there for a few weeks.’

‘Liam will be disappointed,’ she said.

‘There’s not much I can do about that,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s the job.’

‘He was hoping you’d be able to watch him play football. The school team plays every Saturday.’

‘I can watch this week for sure,’ said Shepherd, ‘and I’ll try to get back next weekend. ‘How’s Lady?’

Katra grinned. ‘Behaving herself,’ she said. ‘But she knows that you’re the head of the house. As soon as you were out of the door she was up on the sofa.’

‘You kicked her off, I hope.’

Katra laughed. ‘Liam did. Then he took her into the garden for an hour’s training before supper.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Time I was in bed,’ she said.

‘You don’t have to stay up for me. I’ll load the dishwasher.’