Rough Justice (12 page)

‘Is that a word?’ he asked.

‘I gather,’ said Stockmann. ‘So you were pointing your gun at . . .?’

‘Grimshaw, his name was. Lex Grimshaw.’

‘So you had your gun pointed at Grimshaw while the would-be rapist . . .’

‘Maloney,’ said Shepherd.

‘While Maloney had his gun pointed at you. Not a pleasant situation to be in.’

‘I’m never comfortable when it’s two against one,’ said Shepherd.

‘And it was unavoidable?’

Shepherd frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Was there anything you could have done to avoid getting into that situation?’

‘You think I was being reckless?’

‘It was two armed men against one.’

‘I had a shotgun.’

‘So size is important?’

Shepherd chuckled. ‘I think so, in this case, yes.’

‘You took a big risk, Dan. It paid off and you walked away, but it could have gone terribly wrong. Yet you seem to be more angry at the police officer who accidentally shot you than the career criminal who threatened to kill you.’

‘I’m not sure it was an accident,’ said Shepherd. ‘The cop was trigger-happy – he fired without giving me the chance to comply.’

‘When you thought that Maloney might pull the trigger, were you scared?’

‘Not scared, no.’

‘So describe how it felt.’

‘Is that what this is about? My feelings?’

‘It’s about the situation you were in and how you reacted to it. It gives me an insight into how you deal with these stressful situations.’

‘I’ve been shot before,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s no big thing.’

Stockmann smiled. ‘We both know that’s not true, Dan,’ she said. ‘There’s no need to play the tough guy with me. I’ve spoken to a lot of guys, and women, who’ve been shot over the years and it is a big thing.’

Shepherd sighed. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that whenever anyone starts probing too deep my defences go up.’

‘It happens with everybody, nothing to be ashamed of. There are times when your defence mechanisms can save your life. But, like I said, I’m on your side.’

‘I wasn’t scared. I was apprehensive. But no more so than a chess player who isn’t quite sure what his opponent is going to do next. Or a poker player who has a good hand but isn’t certain how good.’

‘It was that cerebral?’

‘My heart was pounding and the adrenalin was pumping but, yeah, my mind was taking it calmly enough. He had options, so did I.’

‘You called his bluff, to use your poker analogy?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘I wasn’t bluffing.’

‘You would have shot Grimshaw, even if it had meant that Maloney would shoot you?’

‘For sure. Caroline – Maloney was going to rape a young girl. I couldn’t stand by and let that happen.’ He paused. ‘Do you think I put myself in harm’s way for the fun of it?’

‘You’re over-thinking what’s going on here, Dan,’ she said. ‘We’re chatting, I’m just trying to get a feel for your state of mind. But it’s interesting that you would think that.’

‘I don’t think that. I just got the feeling that was the way your questions were going.’ He forced himself to relax, or at least to appear relaxed. ‘I was in a no-win situation, Caroline. I couldn’t let Maloney attack the girl, and I couldn’t shoot them first. I fired into the ceiling for the shock value.’

‘Plus, of course, you knew that the cavalry was on its way.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘I’d sent Charlie a text message saying we were going in, and they had a GPS fix on my mobile, but we were in the middle of nowhere so I wasn’t sure when they’d get there.’ His hand moved up to touch the plaster on his forehead but he fought the impulse and picked up his whiskey instead. ‘Anyway, all’s well that ends well, right?’

‘Exactly,’ said the psychologist.

‘So I’m sane? Fit for work?’

‘As always.’

Shepherd sipped his whiskey. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘I can’t promise you an answer, but fire away.’

‘You assess all the SOCA operatives, right?’

‘Not just me,’ she said, ‘but I do my fair share.’

‘Do you ever fail anyone?’

Stockmann laughed. ‘You make me sound like a schoolteacher,’ she said.

‘But it is a pass or fail, isn’t it? I’m either fit for work or I’m not.’

‘It’s not as clear cut as that. Part of what I do is to spot trends, and hopefully nip any negative ones in the bud before they become a problem.’

‘But there comes a point when there is a problem and you have to have them removed from duty?’

Stockmann tapped her fingers on her notebook. ‘If an operative isn’t following advice and if he or she is no longer fit to carry out the role he or she has been assigned, then, yes, they might be offered an alternative posting.’

‘And that happens?’

‘Sometimes.’

Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. ‘And what sort of problems are we talking about?’

‘Stress, mainly,’ said Stockmann. ‘But it’s the manifestation of stress that causes the problems. We’ve spoken about this before. You’re a runner and that’s one way of dealing with the stress you face.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘By running away from my problems, you mean?’

‘By exercising. That’s a healthy response to stress. Others deal with it by drinking too much or by taking drugs. Some don’t deal with it at all. I’d say you have one of the healthier approaches. You don’t need me to tell you how stressful your job is, Dan. You lie and befriend people only to betray them. You’re working in an environment where one wrong word can be literally fatal. Very few people are geared up to deal with that sort of stress for long periods, yet you’ve been working under cover pretty much since you left the SAS, which was – what? Nine years ago?’

‘Going on for that, yes.’

‘Not everyone deals with it as well as you do,’ said Stockmann. ‘Most would move on from undercover work after five years or so. Not many go beyond ten.’

‘It’s not the easiest of jobs,’ agreed Shepherd. ‘Long spells away from home, not being able to tell your family what you’re doing, having to remember who you are and who you’re not.’

‘A lot of undercover operatives end up separated or divorced,’ agreed Stockmann. ‘They’re not the easiest people to live with.’

‘Liam would probably agree with you on that,’ said Shepherd.

‘It can’t be easy being a single parent,’ she said, closing her notebook.

Shepherd smiled. ‘You know, it’s probably easier being a single parent than a husband. My wife was always nagging me to spend more time at home. That’s the reason I left the SAS when I did. Neither of us realised it’d be out of the frying-pan and into the fire. I don’t think Sue would have been happy with all the hours I’m working now.’

‘Liam’s doing well at school?’

‘Really well.’

‘He seems to have coped well with his mum’s death. It can’t have been easy for either of you.’

‘We’re getting through it,’ said Shepherd. ‘We talk about her a lot. That helps.’

‘How does Liam handle your absences?’

‘He’s generally okay about it.’

‘Was that why you got the dog?’

Shepherd sat back in his seat. ‘You’re good,’ he said. ‘You don’t let anything get by, do you?’

‘You mentioned that you’d got a dog, and if you feel guilty . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Elementary, my dear Watson.’

‘I guess there might have been an element of guilt involved,’ admitted Shepherd. ‘It’s certainly true that he gets more than his fair share of presents whenever I get back.’

‘He’s, what, twelve now?’

‘Going on thirteen.’ Shepherd shook his head. ‘I can’t believe he’ll be a teenager. The years just fly by.’

‘Children have that effect on you,’ said Stockmann. ‘But he’s a good kid?’

‘The best,’ said Shepherd. ‘Doesn’t seem to have any bad habits, he’s doing well at school, enjoys sport . . . hasn’t really put a foot wrong.’ He smiled. ‘I have to nag him to tidy his room, but that’s par for the course, I gather. So, yes, he’s a good kid.’

‘Anything else I should know about?’

‘Everything’s fine,’ he said. ‘Fine and dandy.’

Fluorescent Jacket walked into the warehouse. He grinned at al-Najafi. ‘Don’t you always hate that bit in the movies when the villain has the hero in his power and then he spends ages telling the hero how clever he is, and he spends so much time talking that the hero gets away?’ he said. ‘Monologuing, they call it, I think. Or grandstanding. But that’s not what’s happening here.’ He took out a pack of Rothmans, put a cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a cheap disposable lighter. He waited until he’d blown smoke up at the roof before speaking again. ‘Mind you, I’m the hero in this and you’re the villain, so maybe a bit of monologuing or grandstanding is allowed. Either way, you’re going to have to listen to what I have to say because it’s not very often that I get to talk to one of the bad guys and tell them what I really think of them.’ He walked slowly around the barrel. The Iraqi tried to speak but the duct tape around his mouth muffled the sound to a dull growl. His eyes were wide and pleading and he was close to tears.

‘When we arrest someone, these days, it’s all covered by PACE, the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, which means you get a lawyer and can just keep saying, “No comment”, if that’s what you want, and the interview will probably be recorded and there’s a whole raft of regulations that we have to follow. Then, if it gets to court, a CPS solicitor will present the case and, again, he’s bound by all sorts of rules, whereas you can lie all you want, and keep denying that you did what you did right up until the moment that a jury decides you’re guilty. Then you can suddenly change your mind and say you’re really sorry and throw yourself on the mercy of the judge. At no point are we the police allowed to give our view. We’re the so-called guardians of law and order but we’re muzzled, pretty much. Or castrated.’

Fluorescent Jacket took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘Thing is, Mohammed, you’d never have been treated that well back in Iraq, would you? The cops would put your balls in a vice or a cattle prod up your arse, then shove you in a dark hole and throw away the key, wouldn’t they? Especially with you being a Kurd.’ He smiled without warmth. ‘Except we both know that you’re not a Kurd, don’t we? You were one of Saddam’s élite troops, weren’t you? You probably gassed the odd Kurdish village for sport, and I’m damn sure that you shot a few. But a story like that’s not going to get you asylum, is it? So you spin the old victim story and you get an Amnesty International lawyer on your case and the next thing you know you’re being fast-tracked to British citizenship.’

He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke at the Iraqi.

‘But that wasn’t good enough for you, was it? You started driving around in a second-hand car, moonlighting as a minicab driver even though you weren’t supposed to be working – and despite the fact that you didn’t have a licence or insurance. Got caught, too, didn’t you, and got a slap on the wrist from the local magistrate? I don’t understand that, Mohammed, I really don’t. You ran a red light and hit another car and put the driver in hospital and you didn’t do a day in prison. Do you remember that teacher in Dubai or Saudi or wherever it was? They had a class mascot, a teddy bear, and the teacher asked the kids what they should name it. They decided on Mohammed – your name, right? Most popular name with Arabs so that’s what they called the bear. Then one of the parents complains and the teacher’s banged up in jail for blasphemy or whatever, then deported. She went to prison for naming a bear – but you, you come to our country and break God knows how many of our laws, and we do nothing. Why is that? Are we a soft touch, like they say?’

He smoked his cigarette as he walked around the barrel. Al-Najafi was struggling to keep the chain from strangling him.

‘Then what do you do? You carry on driving your minicab, still without any tax or insurance or a driving licence, while the asylum bandwagon rolls on, the taxpayer paying all your legal bills. I never understand that, Mohammed – why my country allows scumbags like you to become citizens. But despite all we’ve done for you, you decide to take a short-cut that involves driving over a pavement and you run down ten-year-old Debbie McElroy. You don’t kill her, mind. You stop while she’s under the wheels and you hear her screams and you see the blood, and what do you do? Do you help her? Do you call for an ambulance like a good citizen? No, Mohammed, you run away. You run away and leave her to die. The coroner reckons it took her a good five minutes to bleed to death. Five minutes, Mohammed. She was probably begging for her mum and dad to help her. But they weren’t there, were they? So she died alone, under the wheels of your car. And then what did you do? You ran home and when the cops came around you lied. You lied, Mohammed. Not you, you weren’t there, your car was stolen, even though yours were the only prints on the wheel and there were two witnesses saw you hit Debbie. Still pleading not guilty, aren’t you, still hoping that the British legal system will give you a break? And then what happens? Your high-powered brief stands up in court and says that you shouldn’t be held on remand because that would jeopardise your asylum appeal, so the judge says you should get bail. And then what do you? You go back to driving your minicab.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t get it, Mohammed. I don’t understand my country any more.’

He stepped forward and stubbed out what was left of the cigarette on the barrel, then put the butt in his coat pocket.

‘It ends here, Mohammed. We’ve had enough, my friends and I, so it ends here.’

Al-Najafi tried to talk. The duct tape pulsed in and out but it muffled his words.

‘The system’s failed and it’s beyond fixing now. The courts, the criminal justice system, the whole bloody shebang is weighted towards the criminal, towards scumbags like you. But we’re taking back the power, Mohammed, my friends and I. We’re showing the way, we’re showing what can be done, and before long we’ll turn the tide. We really will.’