Rough Justice (34 page)

Liam nodded but he still looked fearful. Shepherd put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, Liam, let’s get you ready for the football match.’ He shook hands with the two detectives. Hollis’s hand was firm and strong, but Cooper’s felt like a dead fish, limp and lifeless. ‘You guys have my mobile-phone number. Give me a call if you need anything else.’

‘We will, Mr Shepherd,’ said Hollis. He ushered Shepherd and Liam down the corridor and opened the door to Reception. ‘Really, we are grateful to you for coming in, and for bringing this to our attention. I’m sorry if it got a bit heated in there. My colleague can sometimes be a little over-enthusiastic.’

‘No problem,’ said Shepherd.

Hollis smiled down at Liam. ‘And don’t worry, Liam, we’ll take care of your phone and I’ll make sure you get it back as soon as possible.’

‘Thank you,’ said Liam, quietly.

Shepherd and Liam went outside and climbed into the CRV. Liam sat in silence until Shepherd pulled up outside their house. ‘They were horrible, weren’t they?’ he said, in a small voice.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Shepherd. ‘They weren’t very helpful. The detective sergeant wasn’t bad but that DC was behaving like an idiot.’

‘It was like they were blaming me. And I didn’t do anything wrong, not really.’

‘I know, Liam. They were just doing their job.’

‘It didn’t feel like that, Dad. They made it feel like you and me were criminals. And we’re not.’ He looked at Shepherd. ‘Why didn’t you tell them that you were an undercover policeman?’

‘Because I’m not a policeman, not really,’ said Shepherd.

‘But you were before you joined SOCA.’

‘That’s right, but now I’m a civil servant, not a policeman.’

‘But you should have told them that you worked under cover, that you catch some of the biggest criminals in the country.’

‘It’s not as easy as that, Liam.’

‘But you go after real villains, Dad, and they’re just . . .’

‘Just what?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘No, tell me.’

Liam sighed. ‘They’re not important, Dad, and you are. And yet they were really horrible to you. You should have told them.’

‘Keeping a low profile is part of my job,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s best that people don’t know that I work under cover. You’re one of very few people who know what I do.’ He winked at Liam. ‘Come on, let’s get you ready for football. Later I’ll get you a new phone.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Sure. I told the detectives that they could have yours, so the least I can do is to get you a new one.’

‘Can I have an iPhone? Please?’

‘Liam . . .’

‘Dad, the iPhone is so cool. It’s the coolest phone ever.’

‘Let me think about it,’ said Shepherd, climbing out of the CRV.

‘Does that mean yes?’

‘It means I’ll think about it,’ said Shepherd.

It wasn’t until his third week with the TSG that Shepherd got his nickname. He had arrived early on Wednesday morning and parked his bike in the Paddington Green car park. Kelly and Coker were already in the team room. ‘Hey, Easy Rider, how’s it going?’ asked Kelly.

‘Please don’t tell me that’s my nickname,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s a work in progress,’ said Coker. ‘But we like the bike theme.’

Castle and Simmons walked into the room. ‘I’ve just seen Foggy,’ said Castle. ‘We’re in Harlesden today – the borough wants to do something about street robberies so it’s a day of stop-and-search.’

‘There’s an easy way of cutting down Harlesden’s street crime,’ said Kelly. ‘Most of the muggings and car-jackings are down to the same six faces. Let’s just pay them a visit.’

‘You know that’s not gonna happen any time soon,’ said Castle. ‘Until then, we just drive around and fly the flag.’

‘Wanna game of snooker today?’ asked Coker. ‘Make it more interesting?’

‘Snooker?’ asked Shepherd. ‘How does that work?’

‘You’ve never played snooker?’ said Kelly. ‘Great fun. Traffic do it all the time. First you stop a red car or a guy wearing red. That’s one point. Then you go for a black car or black clothing. That’s seven points. Or six if you get a pink, five for blue and so on. Then you go for another red. We try to get a hundred and forty-seven in a shift.’

‘The perfect break,’ said Castle.

‘You’re joking, right?’ said Shepherd. ‘This is part of the newbie initiation, right? You get me stopping red cars all day?’

‘He’s sharp,’ Castle said to Coker.

‘As a knife,’ said Kelly.

Fogg appeared at the door. ‘Briefing room in ten,’ he said. ‘Harlesden today.’

‘We know, Skip,’ said Kelly.

They spent the morning driving around the main streets of Harlesden. Simmons was driving, Coker was sitting in the operator’s seat and Shepherd had taken Coker’s place in the bingo seat.

Shepherd called out numbers of vehicles that he thought were suspicious. For the first couple of hours he worried about being accused of racial profiling so deliberately tried to find white or Asian drivers to check on rather than black but he soon realised it wasn’t possible. Black drivers made up the majority and the simple fact was that their vehicles had the most issues that merited a stop-and-search. During the morning they found several small amounts of marijuana, a glove box full of crack pipes, and a carrier bag containing four thousand pounds that the driver claimed to have won at a betting shop and even had a receipt to back up his story. They seized one car that had no insurance, mainly because the driver had made a point of screaming abuse at Fogg.

They stopped at Harlesden police station for lunch and, again, Shepherd noticed looks of resentment from the local police. The TSG team sat at their own table and most of the locals studiously avoided eye-contact. Fogg gave them forty minutes to eat and then they piled back into the van. Within five minutes Shepherd spotted the driver of a red Polo hide a cigarette as they went by. He called out the registration number and the registered keeper of the car was a known drug-dealer. They did a stop-and-search and found a small amount of cannabis that merited a caution and nothing else. The driver was a middle-aged white man with a shaved head and the words LOVE and HATE tattooed across his knuckles. Despite his Neanderthal looks he was polite to the point of deference and called them all sir, even Castle.

Five minutes later Shepherd saw a black Series Seven BMW stop at the traffic-lights ahead of them. He scanned the number plate without thinking but realised immediately that it was one of the numbers on the borough’s intelligence briefing notes they’d received that morning.

Coker was in the operator’s seat, next to Simmons. ‘Hey, Lurpak, the BMW up ahead, it’s red-flagged,’ said Shepherd.

‘You’re just trying to pot the black, aren’t you?’ said Kelly.

‘I’m serious – it’s on the intel sheet,’ said Shepherd. He read out the registration number and Coker tapped it into the MDT. The vehicle’s data appeared on the screen as Fogg flipped through the briefing notes. The BMW was showing as uninsured.

‘You’ve got a good memory,’ said Fogg, tapping the sheet. ‘Registered owner is Anthony Lambie, a.k.a. Crazy Boy. Skipped his last court appearance. Usually rides with Ryan Roberts, a.k.a. Drive By.’

‘They put a lot of effort into their nicknames, don’t they?’ said Turnbull.

‘There’s three in the car, Skip,’ said Coker. ‘Three black males.’

‘Pull them over, Nipple,’ said Fogg, slipping his notes under his seat. ‘Everybody outside on this one.’

Simmons edged the van forward. As the lights turned green and the BMW pulled away, he switched lanes and drove up behind it. Coker hit the siren and Simmons flashed the lights. ‘They’d better not run because we’ll never catch a Series Seven,’ he said.

‘We’d have trouble catching a number-seven bus with you driving,’ said Castle.

The BMW indicated left and pulled in at the side of the road. The two men in the front were talking or arguing.

‘No insurance,’ said Coker.

‘Let’s do it,’ said Fogg. ‘And be careful.’

Parry pulled open the side door and jumped out as Coker piled out of the front passenger door. Coker headed for the driver’s side of the BMW while Parry walked quickly along the pavement, his arms swinging either side of his barrel chest.

Castle exited next and she hurried after Coker but stopped at the rear so that she could watch the passenger in the back of the BMW. Kelly moved up behind Parry so that he could watch the front passenger but also had the man in the back in sight.

Shepherd climbed out of the van, followed by Turnbull and Fogg. The sergeant held back so that he could see what was going on. Shepherd saw Simmons lean forward to switch on the video camera that covered the front of the van. Shepherd nodded at Turnbull and walked around to the front of the BMW.

The driver wound down the window. He was a big West Indian with a gold ingot hanging from a thick chain around his neck and a large diamond set into the lobe of each ear. ‘What seems to be the problem, Officer?’ he drawled.

‘Step out of the vehicle, please, sir,’ said Coker.

‘Do you want to see my licence?’ said the man, reaching into his trouser pocket.

‘Keep your hands where I can see them and step out of the vehicle, please, sir,’ said Coker, with a harder edge to his voice.

‘Okay, okay,’ said the man. He opened the door and grunted as he climbed out. He looked over at Parry and nodded in acknowledgement of the policeman’s bulk. Parry nodded back, his face like stone. ‘So, what’s the problem?’ asked the man.

‘Driving licence and insurance,’ said Coker, holding out his hand.

The man took out a Gucci wallet and found his licence. He gave it to Coker. The rear passenger climbed out of the car. Kelly took him by the arm and led him away from the vehicle. He asked the man for his name. It was Ryan Roberts. ‘What’s occurring?’ asked Roberts.

‘Just wait until we’ve had time to question the driver,’ said Kelly. ‘Then we’ll decide what’s occurring.’

There was a bus stop on the other side of the road and half a dozen passengers watched with undisguised curiosity. Cars were slowing as if passing the scene of an accident, and while pedestrians on their side of the road gave the police a wide berth, they still watched what was going on as if it was an episode of their favourite soap.

‘Anthony Lambie?’ said Coker.

‘That’s what the licence says.’

‘Insurance?’

‘It’s at home.’

‘Yeah, well, my computer tells me a different story, Mr Lambie. It tells me that this vehicle isn’t insured.’

‘Computers make mistakes,’ said Lambie.

Coker waved him towards the pavement. ‘Step away from the traffic, Mr Lambie, while we just check that you’re not carrying anything you shouldn’t be carrying.’

‘This is BS,’ said Lambie. ‘You stopped me because I’m a black man in an expensive car.’

‘No,’ said Coker. ‘We stopped you because you’re a black man in an expensive car without insurance. Now, please, onto the pavement. I’d hate to see you knocked over by a passing bus.’

Lambie walked away from the car onto the pavement with Coker. Castle followed close behind and Shepherd and Turnbull moved to take up position next to Coker. ‘This is BS,’ repeated Lambie.

The front passenger got out of the car and Parry took him to the side and began patting him down.

Fogg walked over, holding the intelligence briefing. ‘You were supposed to appear at Harrow Magistrates Court two weeks ago,’ he said to Lambie.

‘I was at a funeral. My brief’s handled it.’

‘Not according to the information we’ve got,’ said Fogg.

‘Yeah, well, your information’s wrong,’ said Lambie. ‘Probably came from the same computer that told you I’ve got no insurance. My brief’s got it sorted. I’m in court again next week. And it’s a bullshit motoring offence, a fine at the most.’

‘You knocked a kid off his bike.’

‘Fool drove in front of me,’ said Lambie. ‘Cost me two grand to get the paintwork sorted.’

‘My heart bleeds,’ said Fogg. He nodded at Castle. ‘Put the cuffs on him, we’re taking him in.’

Castle took her Speedcuffs from their holster and stepped towards Lambie. ‘I don’t want no bitch touching me,’ he said. ‘I’m a Muslim.’

‘She’s only going to cuff you and pat you down,’ said Fogg.

‘She ain’t touching me,’ said Lambie.

‘You don’t have a choice,’ said Fogg. Castle took another step towards Lambie, holding out the cuffs.

‘Fuck that!’ shouted Lambie. ‘Ain’t no female pig putting her hands on me.’

Shepherd moved to stand next to Castle. ‘Don’t give us a hard time, sir,’ he said. ‘Just put your hands behind your back and let us do our job.’

Lambie lunged forward and hit Castle on the chest with both hands, pushing her back. She lost her balance, glared at him and moved forward again. Lambie raised his hands to hit her again, but Shepherd stepped forward and hit him on the side of the chin with a powerful uppercut. Lambie’s legs folded and he slumped to the pavement.

‘Bloody hell, Terry,’ said Fogg.

‘Glass jaw,’ said Turnbull.

‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall,’ said Castle.

‘You hit him,’ shouted Roberts, pointing at Lambie, who was lying on his back, his eyes shut, breathing heavily through his nose. ‘You can’t do that – you can’t go around hitting people.’

‘We’re the TSG, mate,’ said Kelly. ‘That’s what we do. Now, stop jumping about or you’ll get the same.’

Fogg flashed Kelly a warning look. ‘It was necessary force to prevent him continuing a physical attack on our officer,’ he said. He nodded at Castle. ‘Cuff him and put him on the bus,’ he said.

Castle knelt down, rolled Lambie onto his front and put on the handcuffs. Lambie started to groan. Castle and Turnbull hauled him to his feet and dragged him towards the van.

‘Right,’ said Fogg, putting his hands on his hips. ‘We’re going to pat down the two of you, then we’re going to search your vehicle. If you give me any problems, any lip, if you even so much as look at me wrong, you’re going back to the station. Are we clear?’