Rough Justice (20 page)

‘Thanks for your support, Sarge,’ said Kelly.

Shepherd looked over at Parry. ‘And Carpets?’

‘Because when he walks he looks like he’s carrying a roll of carpet under each arm,’ said Simmons.

Parry’s mobile phone rang and he answered it. He listened for a few seconds, then cursed. ‘No, I don’t have a bloody Alsatian puppy!’ he shouted, and ended the call.

Kelly, Turnbull and Simmons began to bark and he flashed them the finger. ‘Bastards,’ he said.

‘What’s the problem?’ asked Shepherd.

‘One of these bastards set me up,’ said Parry, ‘and when I find out who it was I’ll have their balls.’

‘Lets me off, then,’ said Castle.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Coker.

‘I left my warrant card in the canteen and someone swiped it and photocopied it,’ said Parry.

‘And that leads to Alsatians how?’ asked Shepherd.

‘If you want to put a classified ad into
The
Job
, you have to send a copy of your warrant card,’ explained Parry. ‘Whoever photocopied mine put an ad in saying that I’m in K9 and that I’ve got Alsatian pups free to good homes. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing.’

Parry’s phone rang again. ‘Fuck off!’ he screamed into it. Kelly, Turnbull and Simmons began to bark again.

According to the file that Shepherd had read, the Metropolitan Police Specialist Training Centre on the east side of Gravesend was a sprawling £55 million development off Mark Lane, close to the Thames Estuary. It was opened in 2003 with the aim of teaching the capital’s police officers the finer points of public-order policing and the use of firearms. It was next to the National Sea Training College and every member of the TSG went over for a day’s training every five weeks.

There wasn’t much to see from the road, just a wire fence, a lot of parked cars and a featureless residential block. They drove onto the site, parked the van and hurried to the main block. Fogg led them to a classroom on the second floor, where an instructor from the Met’s CO12 branch had already started the briefing. Two dozen TSG officers were sitting on chairs in a semicircle facing the screen.

‘Area One, last on the scene as usual,’ someone shouted.

The instructor, a sergeant in his thirties, looked up from his PowerPoint presentation, which was being projected onto a large screen. Fogg apologised for being late as his team found places to sit.

‘No problem, Foggy,’ said the instructor. ‘You missed a video presentation of various stadium disturbances and I was just about to explain what we’ll be doing out in the practice stadium after lunch. With the Olympics coming up, we’ve got to get everyone up to speed on the various potential threats. We’re going to start off with extracting drunks, then we’ll move on to organised demonstrations, and we’ll finish off with a suicide bomber.’

‘Going out with a bang?’ asked Kelly.

‘To be honest, the suicide bomber’s the easiest of the lot,’ said the instructor. ‘We all hang back and send in CO19 to put six bullets in the bastard’s head.’ He tapped on the keyboard, and a schematic of an athletics stadium flashed onto the screen. ‘Right, eyes down for a full house,’ he said. ‘Let’s start with the basics.’

Shepherd’s buttocks were aching by the time the instructor had finished his presentation. It had been a long time since he had sat on a hard wooden chair and been lectured to. Kelly clapped him on the shoulder as they walked along a corridor towards the canteen. ‘Bet you didn’t expect to be back in school on your first day, did you?’ he asked.

‘Hopefully the practical will be more fun than the theory,’ said Shepherd.

Fogg caught up with them. ‘You all right, Terry? Thought you were dozing off in there.’

‘Sorry, Sarge,’ said Shepherd. ‘Most of that was pretty straightforward.’

‘Yeah, but it’s got to be done,’ said Fogg. ‘And we’ve got to get it right. The whole world’s going to be watching the Olympics so we’re going to have to be on our best behaviour.’

‘Even if it’s a suicide bomber?’

‘With any luck they’ll be caught before they get anywhere near a stadium,’ said Fogg. ‘Much more likely we’ll see the Tibet sympathisers kicking off when China competes, and with all the TV cameras on us we don’t want to be getting out the Tasers.’

They picked up trays and joined the queue for food. ‘Did the inspector mention the secret shopper that phoned in last week?’ asked Fogg.

Shepherd frowned, confused. ‘Secret what?’

‘Someone from Professional Standards or the Anti-Racism Unit pretending to be you.’

‘I’m sorry, what are you talking about, Sarge?’

Parry and Castle joined the queue. As he put down his tray, Parry’s mobile rang and he answered. After a few seconds he began cursing and switched it off. He pointed at Kelly. ‘If I find out it was you that put the advert in
The
Job
, I’ll swing for you, I really will.’

‘Wasn’t me, Carpets,’ said Kelly. ‘I think it’s an outrageous way to treat a colleague.’

Fogg grinned at Shepherd. ‘Don’t leave your warrant card around anywhere,’ he warned. ‘Keep it in your pocket.’

‘Gotcha, Sarge,’ said Shepherd. ‘What were you saying about the secret shopper?’

Fogg shrugged. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘It happens all the time. Someone rang up, said they were starting next week and wanted to know where was a good place to live. Colgate answered the phone and he’s no fool so it worked out all right. He spotted it right away. He said that anywhere around Bayswater or Paddington or Kilburn was okay, or anywhere on the Circle or Bakerloo line.’

‘So?’

‘So then the secret shopper asks what Bayswater’s like, whether or not it’s a bit ethnic because he doesn’t want trouble with the neighbours.’

‘You’re not serious?’

‘As a heart-attack,’ said Fogg. ‘The Met’s been proactive on the racism front for a few years now. I guess you didn’t have it with West Mercia, but it’s a bloody nightmare here. Colgate was in a no-win situation. If he gives any indication that Bayswater’s multicultural mix is anything but a positive thing, then he’s screwed. If he suggests a white middle-class area, he’s screwed. If he doesn’t report the caller for racism, he’s also screwed. But if he does report it, he gets labelled as a stool-pigeon for ever more.’

‘So either way, he’s screwed.’

‘Pretty much.’ They reached the front of the queue. Fogg ordered fish, chips and baked beans. Shepherd said he would have the same. Behind him, Kelly ordered two steak and kidney pies and double chips.

‘So what did he do?’ Shepherd asked Fogg, as they walked together to a table.

‘He said that the line was breaking up and put the phone down. Told everyone else not to answer the phones for the next hour. That pretty much sorted it.’ Fogg laughed. ‘Those bastards in their ivory towers haven’t a clue what real policing is about.’

Shepherd spent the afternoon in a mock-stadium in the training centre, running through all the various scenarios that had been outlined in the classroom. It was tiring and he was exhausted by the time the session was over. They had to wear the full protective riot gear: the helmet, with visor, was stifling and the fireproof overalls kept in most of his body heat, which meant he was sweating constantly.

When the CO12 instructor announced that they were done for the day, a cheer went up from the entire team. Shepherd took off his helmet and grinned at Fogg. ‘You think we’ll be doing it for real in 2012, Sarge?’

‘They wouldn’t be making us do this if they didn’t think it was odds-on,’ said Fogg. ‘That was my first thought when they announced that London was going to host the Olympics. I mean, didn’t the powers-that-be realise we’re setting the capital up as the ultimate target?’

‘I guess they didn’t think it through.’

‘As usual,’ said Fogg. ‘They forget we’re not China – we can barely keep track of who comes in and out, never mind what they’re doing while they’re here. The Chinese threw all the dissidents in prison for the duration of the Olympics and didn’t allow anyone in that they thought might be a threat. We can’t do that.’

‘So what do you think will happen, Sarge?’

‘I think we’ll have demonstrations, for sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a spectacular. I’d bet you anything you want here and now that, as we speak, there’s dozens of Muslim groups planning all sorts of mischief, from suicide bombers to anthrax attacks to dirty bombs. And it just needs one of them to be lucky. We can train all we want but our expertise is all after the event. We just have to hope that MI5 and Special Branch do their job properly, because if they don’t it’s going to end in tears.’

‘You’re a bit of a pessimist, then, Sarge,’ said Shepherd.

‘How can you do this job and not be?’ said Fogg. ‘It’s not as if we see the best in people, is it?’ Shepherd watched him walk away. He knew what the sergeant meant. It was difficult to work in any branch of law enforcement without becoming cynical.

Kelly and Coker came up behind him, removing their helmets. ‘Bet you haven’t got anything like this in Wales,’ said Kelly.

‘Hereford isn’t in Wales,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s not really England, though, is it?’ said Kelly. He winked at Coker. ‘We could call him Taff. What do you think?’

‘Yeah, or Taffy,’ said Coker.

‘I give up,’ said Shepherd. ‘Call me what the hell you want.’

Kelly grinned. ‘He’s getting upset, Lurpak.’

‘I’m not getting upset,’ said Shepherd.

‘Do you want a quick tour, Taff?’ asked Coker.

Shepherd winced.

‘He doesn’t like being called Taff, does he?’ said Coker.

‘It’s the Welsh in him,’ said Kelly. ‘I still think we should go for Sheepshagger.’

‘I’ll take the tour,’ said Shepherd. ‘Anything to shut you up.’

Kelly and Coker took Shepherd down a road lined on one side with breezeblock house frontages. On the other there was a mock-up of a council multi-storey building with common walkways. ‘This is where we practise public-order stuff,’ said Kelly. He pointed at the multi-storey. ‘The flats there are kitted out for real with furniture, TVs, the works. There’s an angry-man suite, all lined with padding, so that we can practise dealing with nutters.’

‘That’d be your role, yeah?’ asked Shepherd.

‘We take it in turns,’ said Kelly. ‘It’s quite therapeutic – you put the protective gear on and get stuck in.’

‘We get to throw petrol bombs and wooden blocks at each other,’ said Coker. ‘And we get paid for it.’

They took him down an alley that led to a mock-up of an Underground station, complete with two carriages. ‘This is where we practise shooting innocent members of the public,’ said Coker.

‘Subtle,’ said Shepherd.

Kelly and Coker walked him around the mock town, pointing out the various buildings and locations, then headed for the car park. As they walked together towards their van, Kelly spotted another grey Mercedes van parked near the gates. ‘Here’s something you won’t have seen before, Terry,’ said Kelly. ‘Official bloody secret, this is.’

It was a regular grey Sprinter, the same as the ones that the TSG drove around in, but there were no POLICE markings on the outside. Kelly tried the side door and grinned when he realised it wasn’t locked. ‘Have a look – see if you can guess what it is?’ He opened the door.

Shepherd climbed in and looked around. There were fewer seats than there had been in the van he’d driven in to the centre, and a plastic curtain divided off the rear of the vehicle. He pulled it back. Instead of the racks where the TSG stored their gear, there was a metal gurney, a shower attachment and a large metal barrel with a hazardous-waste symbol on it.

Shepherd turned to see Coker and Kelly at the door, grinning at him.

‘Well?’ said Kelly.

‘Portable shower?’

‘It’s the Queen’s decontamination bus,’ Kelly said. ‘Whenever she’s out in public, this bus is within a hundred yards of her. On board are two firearms officers with MP5s, a paramedic and two of our CBRN guys. If anyone throws a liquid or powder anywhere near Her Majesty, our two guys go rushing over to her with a stretcher and bring her onto the bus. As the bus is driven to the nearest medical facility, our guys cut off her clothing and douse her with water while the paramedic does the triage.’

‘No way,’ said Shepherd.

‘God’s truth,’ said Kelly. ‘Her Majesty’s been briefed on what’ll happen and she’s apparently okay with it. There’s another bus designated for the prime minister.’

‘That’s amazing,’ said Shepherd, climbing out.

‘You know what’s amazing?’ said Kelly, slamming the door shut. ‘That we live in a country where something like this is necessary. That’s what’s amazing.’ He patted Shepherd on the back. ‘Come on, let’s hit the road. We don’t get overtime for training.’

Shepherd arrived home at just after eight o’clock in the evening. He parked his bike at the rear of the house and let himself in at the front. As he was making himself a cup of coffee, his mobile phone rang. It was Button. ‘Not got me under observation, have you?’ he asked. ‘I’ve only just walked in.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘We’ve got cameras in all the light fittings.’

Shepherd looked up at the fluorescent light in the ceiling and heard her chuckle. ‘I bet I made you look,’ she said.

‘You did,’ he said.

‘Just checking to see that all went well,’ she said.

‘No problems,’ he said. ‘It was a training day so it gave me the chance to settle in.’

‘Okay. Well, keep your head down,’ she said. ‘Call me if anything happens but I guess it’ll take a while.’

‘How’s Razor getting on?’

‘Loving it, apparently,’ she said. ‘He’s already Dawson’s new best friend. You take care now.’

‘I will,’ said Shepherd, and ended the call. He took his coffee through to the sitting room and sat on the sofa. He switched on the television, then phoned Liam’s mobile. His son sounded distracted when he answered. ‘What are you doing?’ asked Shepherd.