Hot Blood (23 page)

Shepherd’s minicab was waiting outside, and half an hour later he was sitting in Stockmann’s kitchen with a mug of coffee. When he’d told her he wanted to talk about Jimmy Sharpe she’d at first refused to let him into her house, but Shepherd had begged for ten minutes of her time.

‘My report’s done and dusted,’ she said, stirring her coffee. ‘There’s nothing more I can do.’

‘Jimmy Sharpe’s a good cop,’ said Shepherd, ‘one of the best I’ve ever worked with.’

‘I’m not disputing that,’ she said.

‘But you’ve said he’s racist.’

Stockmann frowned. ‘Who said I did?’

‘He did. Charlie’s told him to leave the unit.’

Stockmann stirred her coffee thoughtfully. ‘I hardly think she’s done that on the basis of my evaluation,’ she said.

‘That’s the way Razor tells it,’ said Shepherd. ‘Did you say he was racist?’

‘I said he uses racist language and that could be an indication of underlying racism.’

‘It’s just the way he talks,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know that most of your work has been with MI5, but there’s a world of a difference between the security services and what the cops have to face on the streets.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ said Stockmann.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be patronising, but let me run a few things by you. I’ve gone undercover against big-time cannabis and crack dealers. Now, over the years I’ve been a cop, I’ve never even seen a cannabis dealer with a gun. Cannabis dealing and guns don’t go together. On the other hand, I’ve never seen a crack dealer without a gun and more often than not they come with a complete arsenal. And your average crack dealer only has to think he’s been looked at wrong for him to start shooting. You get the difference?’

‘Yes – though you’re bordering on patronising now. Look, I see where you’re heading. Cannabis dealers are generally white, crack dealers are black. So when you treat them differently it’s because of their profession, not their colour. I understand that. And I understand that street muggers are generally black and serial killers are generally white. But that doesn’t excuse your colleague’s attitude.’

‘He uses antiquated phraseology, I admit.’

Stockmann chuckled. ‘He calls Arabs “ragheads” and Pakistanis “Pakis”. That’s not antiquated, that’s offensive.’

‘He’s not racist,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can unequivocally promise you that Razor is not racist.’

‘Then perhaps you might explain to me what your definition of racist is?’

‘Is this about me, now, or him?’ asked Shepherd, cautiously.

‘We’re talking about him,’ said Stockmann. ‘I’ve already given you a clean bill of health.’

‘Okay. My definition of racism would be treating people differently on the basis of race. Razor doesn’t treat people differently because of their colour. He treats good people with respect and bad people with distrust. Doesn’t matter what colour they are. Now, in these politically correct days, that’s actually not the way to do things. As cops we’re supposed to bend over backwards to be sympathetic towards minorities. In my experience they get cut more slack than the majority. Razor doesn’t see life that way. If you treat him with respect, he’ll treat you the same way. Doesn’t matter who or what you are.’

‘And his language doesn’t bother you?’

‘I find it annoying more than anything. And sometimes he plays on it. But I don’t think his use of language is a good enough reason to take him off the unit.’

‘I’m not the one doing that. It’s Charlotte Button’s decision.’

‘Based on your recommendation.’

‘I make observations rather than recommendations,’ said Stockmann.

‘And your observation is that he’s racist?’

‘That he expresses racist tendencies,’ corrected Stockmann.

‘Razor is a cop,’ said Shepherd, ‘an old-school policeman who spent years pounding the beat. His language is anachronistic at times, but he is the most honest and trustworthy cop I’ve ever met. If he saw anyone in trouble, no matter what race or creed they were, he’d help.’

‘Is his use of racist language common among officers?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘And is it something you approve of?’

‘You said this wasn’t about me,’ said Shepherd.

‘It isn’t. I’m trying to ascertain how you guys think.’

‘Look, it’s all very well saying that everyone deserves to be treated the same, but the real world isn’t like that. People conform to stereotypes. I could stand with you in Oxford Street and pick out the muggers for you, not based on their race but on their attitude and the way they dress. Muggers are predators, and I can spot that. The fact that most muggers are black is incidental. I can also spot the pickpockets, the pimps and the drug dealers. And I can pick out the guys who have been inside. Yes, of course it’s environment, not race, that determines criminality but if I’m kicking down the door of a crack house I’m going to be more nervous than if I’m knocking on the door of a mansion in Mayfair. Does that mean I’m off the unit, too?’

Stockmann smiled. ‘Of course not.’

‘You know, I’m not allowed to use the expression “nitty-gritty” in any report I write. Do you know why that is?’

Stockmann shook her head.

‘Because “nitty-gritty” was the detritus at the bottom of slave ships – the shit, old food, skin cells and all the rest of the stuff that accumulated during the voyages. I’m not allowed to use the phrase in case it causes offence – to whom? To a crack dealer who’s causing misery and death on the streets, who’s put three bullets in a rival dealer and who’s terrorised his neighbourhood? I work undercover against those guys, and you should hear the racial slurs they use about cops. That’s what we mean by racial attacks, these days. It’s not about getting physical, or even about applying mental pressure, it’s about use of English. It’s ridiculous, Caroline. It’s nonsense. And if you start acting like the thought police there isn’t going to be a cop worth his salt left on the force.’

Stockmann wrapped her hands round her mug. ‘Why did you come to me?’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you go to Charlotte?’

‘Because if I went to her, I’d be going above your head, and I didn’t want to do that. It would put her in a bad position. If she agreed with me she’d have to overrule you. This way you can say you’ve reassessed your assessment.’

‘Reassessed my assessment?’ she said, smiling.

‘You know what I mean,’ said Shepherd. He glanced at his wristwatch. He was running late. ‘Look, I know my coming here is unethical but I wanted to plead Razor’s case in person.’

‘Man to man?’

Shepherd laughed, despite the seriousness of the situation. ‘Person to person,’ he said. ‘Please, just think about what I’ve said. I can guarantee one thing. If Razor stays on the unit I will personally give him an attitude adjustment.’ He stood up. ‘Thanks for the coffee, and for breaking the rules for me.’

‘Your boyish charm got you over the threshold,’ she said. ‘Seriously, we’re all on the same team here. My function is purely to help you guys, and girls, do the job to the best of your ability. Let me sleep on it.’

She showed him out and Shepherd hurried back to his waiting minicab.

Wafeeq stripped the Kalashnikov down into its component parts and began to clean and oil them. Kamil sat opposite, watching him work. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ asked Kamil.

‘Afghanistan,’ said Wafeeq. ‘You can strip a gun, can’t you?’

Kamil shook his head.

‘A gun is a tool,’ said Wafeeq. ‘It has to be looked after if it’s to function properly.’

They were sitting in the kitchen. Rahman and his younger brother Azeem were downstairs, outside the door that led to the room where the infidel was held. Abdul-Nasir was up in the front bedroom that overlooked the road and Sulaymaan was in the main room, sleeping. Wafeeq had known all the men for at least a decade. He never worked with anyone he didn’t know and trust. He had been taught well and he had been taught by the best.

‘You met him, didn’t you? When you were in Afghanistan?’

Wafeeq’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who told you that?’

Kamil shrugged. ‘People talk.’

‘And people who talk die,’ said Wafeeq.

‘It was nothing,’ said Kamil. ‘Rahman said that you had met, that’s all.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Wafeeq. ‘Before nine/eleven. Before everything.’

‘What was he like?’

‘He is a great man,’ said Wafeeq. ‘A great man and a great Muslim. He has given up a lot to be where he is.’

‘I would give anything to meet him,’ said Kamil.

‘It will not happen,’ said Wafeeq. ‘He can meet no one now. He can talk to no one. The infidels are watching and waiting.’ He glanced at the ceiling. ‘They have satellites searching for him, they monitor all telephone calls, listening for his voice. They have a bounty on his head.’

Kamil stood up and stretched. ‘I shall take Colin some food,’ he said.

‘You should not use his name,’ said Wafeeq.

‘It means nothing.’

‘It means you think of him as human,’ said Wafeeq. ‘He is not human. He is an infidel. He is here to trade on the suffering of Muslims and he deserves to die.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with making his last days comfortable,’ said Kamil.

‘You are soft, Kamil.’

Kamil sat down again and watched as Wafeeq reassembled the AK-47. ‘You know that’s not true,’ he said. ‘I have killed many people. You know that.’

‘It is not how many you kill, my friend,’ said Wafeeq. ‘It is the way you do it.’ He grinned. ‘But you are learning.’

The Major was waiting for Shepherd at the entrance to the departure terminal. ‘Hell’s bells, Spider, you’re cutting it close,’ he said.

‘Sorry, boss,’ said Shepherd.

‘The rest of the guys have already gone through. Get your skates on.’

The Major headed for the departure gates as Shepherd hurried to the check-in. He had only hand luggage and a business-class ticket so he was soon boarding the plane. They were all sitting separately on the Emirates Boeing 777. Muller flew frequently and was upgraded to first class. The Major and Shepherd sat on opposite sides of the forward section in business class, Armstrong, O’Brien and Shortt behind them. When they arrived in Dubai, after an eight-hour flight, a dark-skinned man with a thick moustache and a tan safari suit was waiting for them, holding up a card with Muller’s name on it. Muller introduced him to Gannon and Shepherd. ‘This is Halim,’ said Muller. ‘He’ll get us through Immigration. Give him your passports.’

The Major and Shepherd did as he had said. Ahead they could see long queues in front of bored immigration officials, many of whom were women in black headscarves.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll be fast-tracked,’ said Muller. He waved for Armstrong, O’Brien and Shortt to join them, then they followed Halim to a much shorter line. Five minutes later they were waiting for their bags.

Halim took them through Customs, then outside the terminal building. He asked them to wait and hurried off to the car park. A group of Arab men walked by wearing gleaming white
dishdasha
s with white
ghutra
headdresses held in place with black ropes. They were pushing trolleys loaded with Louis Vuitton suitcases and Harrods carrier-bags. Shepherd had seen them go to the first-class cabin of the plane. They had boarded in jeans and designer jackets but as the jet had begun its descent into Dubai they had hurried to the lavatories to change.

‘They’re locals, right?’ Shepherd asked Muller.

‘Could be,’ said Muller. ‘Or they might be from Jordan. The Saudis generally have red and white
ghutra
s. And Saudi men insist that their women wear the full burkhas so that they’re covered from head to foot in black.’

‘Seems a bit cruel, that,’ said O’Brien. ‘White would reflect the sun, wouldn’t it? Black absorbs it.’

Muller chuckled. ‘The men get to wear white,’ he said. ‘It’s a man’s world out here.’

‘But the women can work, right?’ said Shepherd. ‘There were women in Immigration.’

‘Sure. They can work, drive cars, wear pretty much what they want – even bikinis on the beaches. At times you can forget you’re in an Islamic country.’

Two white Toyota Land Cruisers pulled up. Halim was at the wheel of the first, and a man who looked like his younger brother was driving the second. Halim parked, then got out to open the rear door. ‘Spider and I’ll take the first one with John, you guys take the other,’ said the Major.

O’Brien, Armstrong and Shortt carried their luggage to the second vehicle while Halim helped Shepherd load his own and the Major’s bags. There were already two metal suitcases there, slightly bigger than the one the Major usually carried.

‘Can we run by the house first?’ the Major asked Muller.

‘Sure,’ said Muller. ‘It’s not on the way but at this time of night there’s hardly any traffic.’

The Major told Armstrong, O’Brien and Shortt to go straight to the hotel, then he and Shepherd got into the back of the SUV while Muller climbed into the front. As Halim drove away from the airport, the Major flashed O’Brien a thumbs-up.

Shepherd sighed and ran his hands over his face. The business-class seat had been comfortable enough but several small children close by had spent most of the flight bickering and squabbling so he had barely slept.

‘You okay?’ asked the Major.

‘I’m fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘We’ll do a quick recce now, then John can brief us at the hotel.’ The Major checked his watch. ‘It’s two a.m. so we can sleep after the briefing, then hit the house tonight. When’s nightfall, John?’

‘Between seven and eight,’ said Muller.

The SUV powered down a modern road towards a cluster of futuristic tower blocks in the distance, glass and steel towers that glinted in the moonlight. Closer by, huge construction sites sprouted from the fawn-coloured earth. Everywhere that Shepherd looked buildings were going up and roads being widened. ‘It’s like one massive building site,’ he said.