Rough Justice (15 page)

The father took the first swing, slamming his crowbar against Duncan’s leg. The kneecap cracked and Duncan screamed. The father’s brothers took turns in hitting him, battering his legs and arms.

The policemen stood and watched as the beating continued. After a while Duncan stopped screaming. He curled up into a foetal ball with his hands covering his face as the blows continued to rain down. Eventually the brothers stopped. They stood looking down at Duncan’s broken body. They were all breathing heavily, their overalls flecked with blood. They looked at the father and, one by one, they nodded at him.

He held his crowbar with both hands, his eyes wide and staring, his lips drawn back in a savage snarl. He looked at the policemen. They were standing with their arms folded, watching to see what he would do next. He could see his reflection in their visors. He looked down at Duncan, the bastard who had killed his son. He raised the crowbar above his head and brought it crashing down on Duncan’s skull. Blood and brain matter splattered across the concrete floor.

Shepherd drove Martin O’Brien back to Gatwick to catch his flight to Dublin. They arrived at the airport a good two hours before the Aer Lingus flight was due to leave so Shepherd parked his BMW X3 in the short-term car park and they went for a coffee in the departures area. O’Brien commandeered a table while Shepherd went to the self-service counter.

‘Thanks for leaving me alone with the Major when you did,’ said Shepherd, carrying over two coffees. ‘Back there at the pub.’

‘I figured someone had to find out what he was going to do, and you’re the best man for the job, being a cop and all.’

‘I’m a civil servant now, remember,’ said Shepherd. ‘SOCA employees aren’t cops. We’re not even agents. In fact, no one’s sure what we are. When we introduce ourselves we normally say we work for the Home Office.’

‘I thought you were supposed to be the British FBI.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s not worked out that way,’ said Shepherd. ‘Most of the time we’re treated like CSOs.’

‘CSO?’

‘Community Support Officers. The wannabe cops who tell you not to drop litter.’

O’Brien chuckled. ‘So how did you know I was leaving you alone?’

‘Because you gave up smoking two years ago, you daft sod.’

‘Did it work?’

‘Yeah, it worked.’

‘Well,’ said O’Brien, ‘I’m not so daft, then. So, what’s he going to do?’

‘What do you think?’

‘What we all think,’ said O’Brien.

‘Then you’d be right,’ said Shepherd.

‘When?’

‘He was all for going over with guns blazing there and then, but I think I’ve managed to persuade him to hold off for a while.’

O’Brien sighed and folded his arms. ‘You can see it from his point of view,’ he said. ‘The Northern Irish cops won’t be able to do anything. They were bugger-all use during the Troubles and even less effective now.’

‘You’re preaching to the converted, Martin.’

‘Do you think the spooks will do anything?’

‘I think they’ll collate very large files and spend an awful lot of money on surveillance, but in terms of taking action, I don’t think they’ll do a bloody thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘The army will increase security at the barracks in the North and I doubt that squaddies will be allowed to pop into their local Chinese again, but other than that, I think they’re just going to leave it up to the PSNI. They don’t want troops back on the streets, that’s for sure.’

‘So the bastards will get away with it?’

‘For the moment,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’ll be treated like a regular murder inquiry. It’ll be investigated by detectives – they’ll take statements, they’ll look at what forensics they have, and if and when they can make a case, they’ll prosecute.’

‘So there’ll be no stopping him, then?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘He said he wouldn’t go right over, but he won’t wait for ever. He wants revenge, and no one’s going to talk him out of it.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Do I think he’s doing the right thing?’ Shepherd shrugged. ‘Who knows? If a member of my family was murdered . . . I just don’t know.’

‘I’m with the boss,’ said O’Brien. ‘Someone hurts your family, you lash out. You don’t wait for the cops to sort it.’

‘Maybe,’ said Shepherd.

‘You’ve gone soft,’ said O’Brien, and Shepherd could tell that he was only half joking.

‘I’m in the law-enforcement business, Martin. I can’t choose which laws I uphold.’

‘This isn’t about breaking the speed limit, is it? It’s about a couple of Irish gangsters letting rip with Kalashnikovs in a Chinese restaurant. I tell you, Spider, if it had been my nephew they’d killed I wouldn’t think twice.’

‘I’m not arguing with you,’ said Shepherd. ‘And I’ve not gone soft. Trust me on that.’

O’Brien grinned. ‘That struck home, did it?’

‘Just because I work for SOCA doesn’t mean I don’t put friends and family first. I’ll do what has to be done.’

‘You’re going with him?’

‘I don’t see that I’ve any choice, Martin. I owe him.’

‘We all do,’ said O’Brien. ‘You can count me in.’

‘Too many cooks.’

‘Fuck the cooks,’ said O’Brien. ‘You’re not doing it without me.’

‘Martin . . .’

O’Brien pointed a finger at Shepherd’s face. ‘I’m in,’ he said, ‘and that’s the end of it. And Jack and Billy will want to be part of it, too.’

‘Okay,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m serious, Spider,’ said O’Brien. ‘Don’t even think about flying solo on this.’

‘I won’t,’ said Shepherd.

O’Brien looked at the departures screen. ‘I should go,’ he said. ‘Just about time for a full cavity search. I ask you, do I look like an al-Qaeda terrorist?’

‘Everyone has to be treated the same,’ said Shepherd. ‘Racial profiling is a big no-no, these days.’

‘It’s bloody madness,’ said O’Brien. He grabbed his holdall and stood up. ‘I knew it wasn’t over, the Irish thing,’ he said. ‘When they announced the first ceasefire, I didn’t think it would last. And when they started power sharing and the Belfast Agreement, I knew it was only a matter of time before the killings started again. Do you know when it’ll be over, Spider?’ Shepherd shook his head. ‘When hell freezes over,’ said O’Brien. ‘That’s when.’

Shepherd had plenty of time to think on the drive back to Hereford. What the Major wanted to do was wrong, legally and morally, but at the same time Shepherd knew that killing the Fox brothers was the right thing to do. It wasn’t about politics, or law, or morality, it was something that had to be done, like putting down a mad dog. By their actions the Foxes had shown they had no respect for the law or for human life. They had behaved like rabid animals, and that was the way they deserved to be treated. Shepherd had killed before: he’d killed in combat and he’d killed in the line of duty, and once he’d killed a man who was trying to kill Charlotte Button, but he’d never before sat down and planned the assassination of another human being. It would be a first for him, and it wasn’t something he would do lightly.

Shepherd knew that, whether he helped him or not, the Major would kill the Fox brothers. But the Major was a soldier, and getting away with murder required a familiarity with forensic techniques and police procedure. Shepherd could help, and he would. He’d do whatever was necessary to make sure that the Major got his revenge, even if it meant pulling the trigger himself. He’d met Tommy Gannon and liked him, and no man deserved to be mown down in a hail of bullets for no other reason than that he fought for his country.

As Shepherd reached the outskirts of Hereford, his mobile rang. It was Charlotte Button. ‘You’re driving,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you back.’

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’m on hands-free.’ He pulled up at a red light. ‘And I’m stuck at traffic-lights.’

‘You’re all set for Monday?’

‘All good,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll be seeing Jenny on Sunday at the house she’s fixed up for me and I’ll spend the night there so I can be at Paddington Green first thing Monday morning.’

‘And you’re fully up to speed on TSG procedure?’

‘It’s all pretty basic stuff,’ said Shepherd.

‘There’s a couple of things you need to be aware of,’ said Button. ‘A child-killer was snatched from police custody today. Guy by the name of Ronnie Duncan. It’s almost certainly the work of our vigilante cops. He was in a safe-house in Hounslow prior to being sent to Canada.’

Shepherd frowned. ‘We’re sending our murderers to Canada, these days, are we, instead of prison?’

‘He’d served his sentence, and the Canadians were giving him a new identity. He was due to fly out the day after tomorrow. He was being held in a safe-house and someone broke him out.’

‘Not that safe, then,’ said Shepherd, drily.

‘It’s not funny, Spider.’

‘Why do you think it was the TSG vigilantes?’

‘Only someone within the Met would have known where he was being kept,’ said Button. ‘He’d been taken out of prison early and kept well away from his old haunts. It had to be an inside job.’

‘But no sign of a body?’

‘Not yet,’ said Button. ‘And there’s been another killing that might be down to them, an Iraqi asylum seeker by the name of Mohammed Hussein al-Najafi. He was found hanging in an abandoned warehouse.’

‘But not suicide?’

‘It was made to look like he’d killed himself but there were traces of adhesive around his mouth so he was gagged at some point. He’d killed a schoolgirl in a hit-and-run.’

‘I remember the case – it was in the papers.’ The red light went to green and Shepherd started driving again.

‘Well, so far his death hasn’t been picked up by the press,’ said Button, ‘but I’ve no doubt it will be. We’re going to push out the line that he killed himself because he was overcome by grief, but the real story is that someone killed him and it was professionally done.’

‘There’s no direct link between these two cases and the TSG, though?’

‘They fit the profile,’ said Button. ‘And if it is them, they’re upping their strike rate. It’s as if they’re gaining confidence.’

‘Because they’re getting away with it?’

‘Exactly. Hopefully that’ll lead to overconfidence.’

‘And we’ll put them behind bars and the capital’s criminals will be able to sleep soundly in their beds once more.’

‘Your cynicism’s showing,’ said Button.

‘I just think there are better uses of SOCA resources than hunting down guys who seem to be doing a pretty good job of cutting the capital’s crime rate.’

‘Ronnie Duncan was a drug addict and alcoholic rather than a career criminal.’

‘He killed a child, you said, and as part of his punishment he was going to get a new life in Canada. Forgive me if I don’t shed any tears if the vigilantes have done what our criminal justice system should have done in the first place.’

‘I hope you’re in a better mood on Monday, that’s all I can say.’

Shepherd sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I was at a funeral this afternoon.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You should have said. Someone close?’

Shepherd cursed under his breath. He didn’t want to tell Button that it had been the Major’s nephew, but neither did he want to lie to his boss. ‘Army buddy,’ he said. ‘I’ll be fine on Monday, Charlie, firing on all cylinders. How’s Razor?’

‘He’s got a meet with a Met undercover operative who can get him close to Dawson, the TSG sergeant.’

‘How’s that going to work?’

‘The cop’s been infiltrating various football gangs over the past year and as part of that investigation he’s attended a few England First meetings. He came across Gary Dawson and has spoken to him once. He’s going to introduce Razor and leave him to it.’

‘Anything else on Dawson other than his England First membership?’

‘Nothing known,’ said Button.

‘You know I’m not going into the same Serial as Dawson?’

‘There wasn’t a vacancy,’ said Button. ‘And, besides, Dawson’s Serial didn’t have access to the van that was seen near where the paedophile was found.’

‘So Dawson could be a red herring?’

‘Or there could be cops from several Serials involved,’ said Button. ‘I’ll see you during the week, see how things are progressing.’

‘Any news yet of when you’ll be leaving?’

‘Still up in the air,’ said Button. ‘As soon as I know, you’ll know, I promise.’ She ended the call.

Five minutes later he pulled up outside his house. The CRV that Katra used was in the driveway. Shepherd parked. He heard Liam’s voice from the back garden so he walked around the side of the house. His son was there with Lady. He looked up when he saw Shepherd. ‘Dad!’ he shouted, and Lady barked. Boy and dog ran across the lawn. Liam hugged his father while the beagle jumped up and yelped.

‘I’ve only been gone a day,’ said Shepherd. ‘I said I’d be back this evening.’

‘Yeah, but I thought you’d be working.’

‘Nothing would keep me from watching you play football tomorrow,’ said Shepherd.

‘Really? You’ll come to the game?’

‘Wild horses wouldn’t keep me from it,’ said Shepherd. ‘Why don’t you get the football and see if you can get any past me?’

‘A pound a goal?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Ten pence,’ he said. ‘I think I’m being hustled.’

Jimmy Sharpe bought a pint of lager at the bar and took it over to a corner table. Various items of Millwall FC memorabilia were displayed on the walls, including a signed first-team shirt and a shield with the club’s lion emblem and motto beneath it. ‘We Fear No Foe Where E’er We Go’. It was supposed to apply to the club’s players but it was equally applicable to the Millwall fans, who had a fearsome reputation the length and breadth of the country.

Most of the pub’s clientele looked as if they’d walked off the remand wing of a Category A prison – shaved heads, tattooed arms, branded sportswear and gleaming white training shoes. There was a good sprinkling of Millwall shirts, along with thick gold chains and sovereign rings. Sharpe had dressed to blend in, with new Nikes, Adidas tracksuit bottoms and a Lacoste polo shirt. An Asian woman smiled at him, revealing a gold tooth at the front of her mouth, and held open a holdall to show him the dozens of DVDs inside. ‘Five for twenty pounds,’ she said. She took out a handful and he flicked through them.