Rough Justice (13 page)

He smiled and nodded. ‘You know what, Mohammed? That felt good. There really is something to grandstanding. But I think I’ve said pretty much everything I want to say.’

Sweat was pouring down al-Najafi’s face and his whole body was trembling.

‘This is for Debbie McElroy,’ Fluorescent Jacket said, staring at al-Najafi’s face. ‘This is for the little girl that you killed, that you ran over and left to die under the wheels of your car.’

He put his foot up against the top of the barrel and grunted as he pushed. It scraped across the concrete floor, then tipped over. For a second or two, al-Najafi scrabbled to keep his balance but the barrel fell and the chain snapped around his neck. The barrel crashed to the floor as al-Najafi’s legs kicked and his body bucked. A wet stain spread around his groin.

Fluorescent Jacket didn’t stay to watch al-Najafi die: he turned and walked out of the building.

As he climbed into the van, he found Gerry McElroy slumped forward in his seat, his head in his hands. ‘Are you okay there, Mr McElroy?’ he asked.

‘Is it done?’ McElroy asked.

‘It’s done.’

McElroy nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly, his voice little more than a whisper.

On Friday Shepherd got up at four o’clock in the morning and drove to Gatwick Airport to pick up Martin O’Brien, who was flying over from Dublin. O’Brien was one of Shepherd’s oldest friends, a former Irish Ranger who now ran his own security company. They stopped off for breakfast at a truckers’ café, then drove east to Rotherfield, about six miles south-west of Tunbridge Wells.

The church where Tommy Gannon’s funeral was due to be held was St Denys, built of sandstone that had weathered over the centuries, with a towering spire and arched stained-glass windows. Half a dozen young men with short haircuts, wearing cheap suits and well-polished shoes, were standing at the gate, smoking and talking quietly.

‘Hi, lads,’ said Shepherd, as he climbed out of his BMW X3.

The men looked at him. None of them knew him but they all recognised a former soldier when they saw one. ‘Sir,’ muttered a couple.

‘No need for the “sir”, lads, I was in Civvy Street long before you joined up.’ O’Brien got out and Shepherd locked the car.

‘Were you in the Sass with Tommy’s uncle?’ asked one, a lanky lad with acne across his forehead.

Like most of the men who served with the Regiment, Shepherd generally didn’t admit to having been in the SAS, but this was different. These guys had served with Tommy Gannon and had made the effort to come to his funeral. ‘Yeah,’ he said.

The men visibly stood to attention and there was new respect in their eyes. Shepherd and O’Brien shook hands with them all. ‘You guys are on your way to Afghanistan, right?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Yes, sir,’ said the lanky soldier, running a hand through his unruly hair. ‘We were supposed to be out this week but they let us stay back to come here. We’re on a flight on Monday.’

‘You be careful out there,’ said Shepherd.

‘You’ve been, sir?’ asked a slightly overweight teenager with greasy brown hair.

Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah, a few years back. It wasn’t pleasant then and I don’t think it’s much better now. Just watch each other’s backs and you’ll be fine.’

‘We should be in Northern Ireland, tracking down the bastards that killed Tommy, not shooting ragheads in the sandbox,’ said the overweight teenager.

‘Yours not to reason why,’ said Shepherd.

‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘Who are the enemy? The Afghans never did anything to us, not even the Taliban. It’s the bloody IRA, they’re the enemy. They’re the ones we should be fighting.’

‘The cops will be on the case,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, well, we can all sleep easy in our beds knowing that.’ The teenager shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I just . . .’ He shook his head.

Shepherd put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Hey, I understand,’ he said. ‘But they won’t get away with it. You’ve got to think about the job in hand, and that’s Afghanistan. When you’re over there you’ve got to be totally in the zone because you lose concentration for one second and you can be in deep shit.’

‘That’s the truth,’ said the lanky soldier. He took a drag on his cigarette, cupping it in his hand as if he was doing it on the sly. ‘What’s the story with the uniforms, sir? We were just told we weren’t to wear them.’

Shepherd turned to the church. Major Gannon was standing at the entrance with his brother. They were both big men and clearly brothers, with the same big chins and piercing eyes, but while the Major had been toughened by years in the SAS, two decades’ working in the City had softened Henry Gannon, added inches to his waistline and thinned his hair. He wore black-framed spectacles and had a thick gold ring on his wedding finger. They were both wearing black overcoats over dark suits.

‘Tommy’s dad over there wasn’t too happy at his son being career army,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re respecting his wishes.’

‘Tommy was a great soldier – his dad should be proud of him.’

‘He is,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s complicated.’

He beckoned O’Brien and the two of them walked through the gate towards the church. ‘You been here before?’ asked O’Brien.

‘Henry’s daughter was married here a couple of years back,’ said Shepherd.

‘Nice church.’

‘More than a thousand years old,’ said Shepherd. ‘Sort of puts things in perspective.’ He gestured at the steeple. ‘The first steeple was put up in the fifteenth century, but the storms of 1987 blew it down. They used a helicopter to put that one up.’

‘Your trick memory is a thing of beauty,’ said O’Brien. ‘You don’t forget anything, do you?’

‘You’re telling me that I’m a mine of useless information, aren’t you?’

‘You’re too sensitive,’ said O’Brien.

‘You’re not the first person to have remarked on that,’ said Shepherd.

They reached the Gannons and shook hands with both men. ‘Spider, Martin, thanks for coming,’ said the Major.

‘I’m sorry about your loss,’ said Shepherd to Henry Gannon. The words meant nothing, but they had to be said. He knew how he’d feel if anything ever happened to Liam.

‘I remember the away-day Al organised for my bank,’ Henry said. ‘A day with the SAS. I think he took a particular delight in terrorising men who earn a million quid a year.’

‘Martin O’Brien,’ said O’Brien. ‘I met your boy a couple of times. He was a good lad, he’ll be missed.’

Henry nodded. ‘Al tells me you’re based in Dublin, these days. Thanks for coming over.’

‘Least I could do,’ said O’Brien. ‘Tommy was a nice guy, and a great soldier. You should be proud of him.’

Shepherd saw Henry’s jaw tense at the word ‘soldier’, but he forced a smile. ‘We’ll all miss him,’ he said.

The Major gestured at the door. ‘Sit anywhere, lads, but the first two rows are for family.’

Shepherd and O’Brien went into the church and sat in a pew close to the back. There were more than a hundred people and a buzz of whispered conversations. The coffin was to the left of a gleaming lectern, topped by two wreaths. A few minutes after they had taken their seats, two men in dark suits walked in. They were in their early thirties, a couple of inches taller than Shepherd with broad shoulders and wavy brown hair. Other than their choice of footwear, they were identical. Jack Bradford was wearing gleaming black loafers while his twin brother Billy had on black Nike training shoes.

They grinned when they saw Shepherd and O’Brien, and sat down in the same pew.

‘Long time no see,’ said Shepherd. ‘Where are you guys these days? Still in Iraq?’

‘Most of the time, but we’re back in the UK for the next few weeks, interviewing and hiring,’ said Jack. ‘There’s more work than ever, what with the troops pulling out.’

‘But every man and his dog is out there so rates are coming down,’ added Billy.

‘We’ve got some good clients, though, so we’re doing okay,’ said Jack. ‘You still with SOCA?’

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd.

‘What does that pay?’ asked Billy.

‘We don’t do it for the money,’ said Shepherd.

The Bradford brothers laughed. A couple of mourners in the front pews looked around. The brothers quietened and waved an apology.

‘I’m serious,’ said Shepherd. ‘I want to stay in the UK to be near my boy, and there’s a pension. Regular holidays.’

‘And overtime?’ asked Billy.

Shepherd grinned. ‘Yeah, lots of overtime.’

‘What about you, Martin?’ asked Jack. ‘What are you up to?’

O’Brien lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s Secret Squirrel,’ he said. ‘I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.’

Jack chuckled under his breath. ‘Still got your sense of humour,’ he said. ‘Did you ever do that desert marathon thing?’

‘Had to cry off – got snowed under at work. Next year, maybe.’

The congregation fell silent as the priest walked to the altar. Shepherd settled into his seat. He didn’t like funerals, but he knew that part of life was saying goodbye to the dead.

Ronnie Duncan stretched out his legs and used his remote to flick through the channels on the flat-screen television. ‘Why can’t we get Sky Plus?’ he asked.

His two minders treated the question as rhetorical. Neither had joined the Metropolitan Police to babysit a convicted child-killer. ‘I had more channels in prison,’ moaned Duncan. ‘Where’s the sport? I want to watch the football.’

‘Two more days and you’ll be out of here,’ said the senior of his minders, a sergeant in his forties. He had taken off his tunic and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Paul Prentice had been a policeman for almost twenty years and had accepted that he would never go any higher in the Met. He had also grown to accept that more often than not he’d end up doing unpleasant jobs, and jobs didn’t come much more unpleasant than looking after a scumbag like Ronnie Duncan.

‘Won’t be soon enough for me, I can tell you,’ said Duncan. ‘You ever been to Toronto?’ He scratched his spreading beer gut.

‘Never been to Canada, never wanted to go,’ said the sergeant.

‘What about you, John?’ asked Duncan.

John Flowers shook his head. He was in his late twenties, a trainee detective in CID, and he’d been given the task of protecting Duncan because he’d messed up an arson investigation. He hated having to be in the same room as the man but he had to take his punishment if he was to have any hope of continuing his career with CID.

‘How about pizza tonight?’ said Duncan. ‘Domino’s?’

‘We had pizza last night,’ said the sergeant.

‘I like pizza, and my lawyer said I can order what I want,’ said Duncan. ‘I’m the one whose life’s under threat. I’m the one in the witness-protection scheme.’

‘You’re not a witness, as it happens,’ said the sergeant. ‘You’re getting a new identity because there are plenty of people out there who’d happily see you dead for what you did.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Duncan. ‘But I’m the one who’s having to start again in Canada.’

‘I don’t see why that’s such a hardship,’ said Flowers. ‘You get a new identity, you get a place to live and the Canadians are going to find you a job.’

‘You think I want to leave England? This is my home, mate. I’m only going because my life’s in danger if I stay here because all the papers published my picture and that.’

‘You did kill a child,’ said the sergeant, quietly.

‘And I admitted that and I pleaded guilty and I served my time,’ said Duncan. ‘Got all my remission for good behaviour, never put a foot wrong while I was inside.’

‘Well done you,’ said the sergeant, sourly.

‘What’s your problem?’

The sergeant shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Duncan sat up. ‘No, come on, if there’s something on your mind, spit it out.’

‘I’m just here to babysit you until you’re on the plane. It doesn’t matter what I think.’

‘I served my time. I put my hand up to what I did and I did my porridge.’

‘You killed a five-year-old boy,’ said the sergeant. ‘You picked him up and you threw him against a wall and broke his neck.’

‘I didn’t mean to kill him. I lost my temper.’

‘Yeah, and little Timmy lost his life. And you tried to get his mother to lie about what happened.’

‘Yeah, well, she didn’t lie, did she? And I got sent down.’

‘You served six years,’ said the sergeant. ‘For killing a child.’

The case had been on the front pages of all the national newspapers. Duncan had been living with Timmy Murphy’s mother. Both were alcoholics and drug addicts and regularly smoked crack while the little boy was in the house. The mother had been unconscious when little Timmy had gone into the bedroom to ask Duncan for something to eat. Seconds later he was dead. Duncan had claimed that he was out of his head on drugs and alcohol when he killed the little boy, but he had been sober enough to carry the child to the stairs and stage a fall, and to convince the mother to lie to the police and tell them that little Timmy had tripped. The mother had backed up Duncan’s story at first but it hadn’t taken the detectives on the case long to get the truth out of her. She’d ended up with a two-year suspended sentence and, after pleading guilty to manslaughter, Duncan was given twelve years. The boy’s father had been in court: when he’d heard the sentence he had stood up and screamed that he’d kill Duncan when he got out. He was a member of a north London drug-dealing family and his three brothers had been equally vocal about what they wanted to do to Duncan. The threats had continued throughout Duncan’s time in prison and he was badly beaten up twice before applying to be kept in segregation.

Duncan had been smuggled out of prison two weeks before his official release date and taken to the safe-house. The Canadian government had agreed to take him, and the British government had agreed to pay for his new identity and relocation expenses. As soon as the Canadians came up with the passport, Duncan would be escorted out of the country. In all, his relocation would cost the British taxpayer in excess of three hundred thousand pounds.