Rough Justice (21 page)

‘Teaching Lady to roll over.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a trick.’

‘How about teaching her to tidy your room?’

‘Dad . . .’

‘Or cut the grass?’

‘You know that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?’ said Liam.

‘I heard that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Have you done your homework?’

‘Most of it.’

‘Make sure it’s all done. What did Katra cook for tea?’

‘Cheesy scrambled eggs.’

‘That’s what you have for breakfast.’

‘I just felt like it again.’

‘Vegetables?’

‘Do chips count?’

‘Just about.’

‘So, yeah, I had vegetables. Lady, stay!’

‘She’s not sleeping on your bed at night, is she?’ asked Shepherd.

‘No,’ said Liam.

‘I should tell you that I’ve got this phone hooked up to the latest police lie detector and a red light flashed when you said that.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Flashed again.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Another red light.’

‘Dad, stop it . . . It’s not funny.’

‘Okay, but don’t let her sleep in your room, it’s not healthy,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll be back in Hereford on Friday night. Tell Katra I called and that everything’s okay.’

‘I will,’ said Liam.

‘Good night,’ said Shepherd. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too, Dad.’

Shepherd ended the call. He plumped up a cushion and swung his legs up onto the sofa. They ached from all the running he’d done and his left arm was sore from carrying the full-length shield. He hadn’t realised how tired he was until he’d taken the weight off his feet, and within seconds he was fast asleep.

Tuesday was Shepherd’s first day on the job proper. He gave himself plenty of time to park the bike and walk to the police station, and he arrived half an hour before his shift was due to start. When he went into the team room, only Carolyn Castle was there. ‘Do you sleep here?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I was lucky with the traffic,’ she said, looking up from the magazine she was reading.

‘Where do you park?’

She grinned. ‘I don’t have to,’ she said. ‘My boyfriend drives. Parking’s his problem.’

‘Is he in the job?’

‘I’d never date a cop,’ she said. ‘He’s a doctor at St Mary’s. What about you?’

‘Yeah, I’d never date a cop either. Though Colgate’s quite the cutie.’

‘Who’s a cutie?’ asked a voice at the door. It was Turnbull.

‘You,’ said Castle.

‘I was joking,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m flattered,’ said Turnbull.

‘I was definitely joking,’ said Shepherd.

Coker and Kelly appeared behind Turnbull. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Terry fancies me,’ said Turnbull.

‘Great! We haven’t had a gay on the bus for years,’ said Kelly. ‘Helps with our diversity quota. We’ve got Carpets, Pelican and now Gaylord. That’s all our bases covered.’

‘I am not answering to Gaylord,’ said Shepherd.

Turnbull punched him on the shoulder. ‘Not so bloody cute now, am I?’ he said. ‘Who wants coffee?’ There was a kettle, jars of Maxwell House and Coffee Mate, and a tray of mugs on a table by the door. Turnbull switched on the kettle and spooned coffee into the mugs.

Coker and Kelly dropped on the sofa next to Castle. ‘Did you get laid last night, Pelican?’ asked Kelly, patting her knee.

‘Three times,’ she said, smiling sweetly and removing his hand. ‘Which I’m guessing is three times more than you, right?’

Fogg stuck his head around the door. ‘Bring your coffees into the briefing room,’ he said. ‘Two sugars in mine.’

By the time the team had filed in, Fogg was already standing at a podium on which a laptop was hooked up to a projector. ‘Nothing special today,’ he said. ‘The borough commander wants us in the Wembley area where they’ve seen a rise in street robberies, mainly schoolkids being relieved of their mobiles. We’ve got descriptions but as usual they’re not much help – young, black, BMX bikes, baseball caps. The descriptions vary from witness to witness but we’re pretty sure it’s the same gang. Up to six or seven at a time. So, eyes peeled for a group of young black males acting suspiciously.’

Kelly laughed and Fogg flashed him a withering look. ‘Sorry, Skip.’

Fogg held up a bundle of printed sheets. ‘I’ve got an intel briefing here on vehicles we need to look out for, and a few addresses that we need to swing by. But most of the shift we’ll be flying the flag, showing the good people of Wembley that the police are in control.’

They took their mugs back to the team room and headed out to the van. Turnbull was driving again and everyone sat in the seats they’d had the previous day.

They drove north to Wembley and spent the shift driving around the suburb. Turnbull mainly drove where he pleased, though occasionally Fogg would suggest that he visited a particular street or shopping centre. From his place in the bingo seat, Coker called out the registration numbers of any vehicles he felt were suspicious, and Kelly would enter them into the mobile data terminal on the dashboard. Up would come information on the vehicle, whether or not it was stolen, if its tax and insurance were in order, who the registered keeper was and whether he was of interest to the police. The information was also shown on a screen on the bulkhead behind the operator so that everyone on the van could see it. The terminal also had access to the Police National Computer and several other government databases.

If the MDT showed that there was anything wrong with the vehicle or the driver, they would pull it over. If the driver was alone, just two officers would get out and talk to him or her. Sometimes a simple conversation would be the end of it. The MDT wasn’t always accurate and sometimes showed a car as not being taxed or insured when it was, and the information on the PNC wasn’t always up to date. But if the information was valid or if the officers noticed anything untoward, the driver and any passengers would be asked to get out and would be questioned and searched, ideally in full public view. A search was as much about demonstrating a police presence as catching villains. More often than not it produced nothing more serious than a small amount of cannabis, in which case a verbal warning would be given, but if a serious quantity of drugs or a weapon was found, the person would be arrested and taken to the nearest police station to be charged and processed.

The final part of a search was the completion of a Form 5090, the fifty-ninety. It explained why the person had been stopped and who had stopped them, where the search had taken place and what, if anything, had been found. The form also contained the details of the person being searched, including their name, address, date of birth and description, their clothing and details of their vehicle. All the information was entered into the PNC at the end of the shift, and a copy was given to the person being searched. The form also outlined a complaints procedure whereby anyone who felt that they had been treated unfairly could contact a senior officer at the local police station, the Police Complaints Commission, the Citizens Advice Bureau or the Metropolitan Police Authority. From what Shepherd saw on his first day, almost everyone stopped felt that they had been treated unfairly but none would bother to make a complaint.

Each officer had a pad of fifty-nineties and there were extra supplies in the van. There was no quota to be achieved, but Headquarters could use them to monitor the officers’ performance.

Most of the stop-and-searches involved vehicles, but Parry kept a wary eye out for suspicious pedestrians when he wasn’t dealing with calls on his mobile about the non-existent Alsatian puppies. The reasons for a stop-and-search were spelled out on the fifty-ninety. Strictly speaking, the police could only stop someone if they had reasonable grounds to suspect that they were carrying stolen goods, a knife, burglary equipment, guns, controlled drugs, or they looked as if they might be terrorists. The power came from four Acts of Parliament – Police and Criminal Evidence, 1984; Misuse of Drugs, 1971; Firearms 1968; and Terrorism, 2000. But the truth of the matter was that the TSG stopped anyone they felt was acting suspiciously either behind the wheel of a car or on the pavements. A driver who visibly tensed or hid his roll-up, or who made a sudden turn when he saw the police van in his rear-view mirror, would have his details run through the MDT. Pedestrians who suddenly looked away, glared with undisguised hostility or tried to hide something behind their backs warranted a second look.

Shepherd was surprised by how easily people gave themselves away. Most people just ignored the van or, if they made accidental eye-contact, would smile or nod. If they were driving they would slow down and move to the side to allow the van to pass. But those with something to hide behaved in a completely different manner, either by tensing up, making a sudden turn or hunching over the steering-wheel as if they were trying to make themselves invisible – after only a few hours Shepherd could spot the signs for himself.

A lot of the people they stopped had been stopped before, and well over half had criminal convictions, usually drugs-related. Most accepted the stop-and-search with grim resignation, knowing that the quicker they complied, the sooner it would be over. Occasionally someone who had been stopped would argue that their rights were being infringed, but the officers had heard it all before and would listen patiently, usually with their arms folded and a look of bored indifference on their faces until the complainant had run out of steam.

The team wore their game faces whenever they left the van. In the van they laughed and joked and teased each other, but as soon as they moved outside their faces hardened and everything about their body language suggested they weren’t to be messed around. They always put on their hats as they got out, and while they were polite when they spoke to the public, they always stood with their legs firmly apart, backs ramrod straight, and maintained a rigid eye-contact with whoever they were addressing. There was no doubting their alpha-male status and generally they were treated accordingly. Castle was no different, and while she was several inches shorter than the men and her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, she had no problem in asserting her authority. Shepherd noticed that her voice changed whenever she was carrying out a search: it dropped an octave and her accent became more of a south-London drawl.

At just after one o’clock Fogg told Turnbull to drive to Wembley police station in Harrow Road. They parked on double yellow lines and went inside to the canteen. Shepherd followed Kelly to the line for food. Kelly ordered double cod and chips, Shepherd asked for ham and eggs and chips. They carried their trays over to the table where Simmons had already started eating. He had brought a salad from home, layers of lettuce, tomato, cucumber and asparagus, with what looked like smoked salmon on the top.

‘You make that yourself?’ asked Shepherd, as he sat down opposite him.

‘His mum does it for him,’ said Kelly, reaching across for a bottle of HP sauce.

Fogg sat down with a plate of pie and chips. ‘She takes good care of him – does his laundry, combs his hair . . .’

‘Hey, I’ve got a good deal going there,’ said Simmons. ‘My mum’s a great cook, my room’s en-suite, and she’s got a massive LCD TV that she never watches. Why would I want to move out?’

‘Sex?’ said Turnbull, sitting down at the table. He had a Tupperware container filled with sandwiches.

‘I have sex,’ said Simmons.

‘I meant regular sex,’ said Turnbull. ‘Between a man and a woman. Ideally not a relative.’

‘I do all right,’ said Simmons, spearing a tomato slice with his fork.

‘Who’s talking about sex?’ said Coker, as he and Parry joined them. They had both chosen lasagne and chips.

‘No one,’ said Simmons.

‘Nipple not getting any?’

‘I’m getting plenty,’ said Simmons, his face reddening. ‘I just don’t shout about it.’

‘What about you, Terry?’ asked Parry. ‘You married?’

‘Nah,’ said Shepherd.

‘Divorced? Separated? Living in sin?’

‘None of the above,’ said Shepherd.

‘Girlfriend?’ asked Coker.

‘Like Darren, I do okay.’

Kelly snorted. ‘Nipple doesn’t do okay,’ he said. ‘He’s still a virgin.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Simmons.

‘Who’s a virgin?’ said Castle, joining the table and sitting next to Fogg.

‘Guess,’ said Parry.

‘Nipple?’

‘Got it in one,’ said Coker. Simmons leaned over and stabbed his fork into Coker’s chips. ‘Help yourself,’ said Coker.

As they sat and ate Shepherd saw several local police officers come in. They lined up for food and looked over at the TSG’s table. For a brief moment Shepherd saw the same expression on their faces that he’d noticed in the faces on the streets, as if they resented the TSG being there. He’d seen it when he was in the SAS and had worked in close proximity with regular soldiers. The SAS were an élite, and while the average squaddies respected the skills of the SAS troopers there was always an air of resentment when they were around. The fact that the TSG were in their police station was an unspoken admission that they weren’t up to the job, that crime had reached an unsatisfactory level and that only the TSG could bring it under control.

Fogg and his team seemed unaware of the reaction they were causing as they tucked into their food. They joked and teased each other incessantly, but it was always good-natured and done with affection. Again, it reminded Shepherd of his days in the SAS. There was no more professional a soldier than a member of the Special Air Service, but when they were between tasks there would be endless banter and mindless horseplay. It was an easy familiarity that had grown out of trust and respect and Shepherd knew that he was privileged to have been so readily accepted by the TSG team. He tried not to think about the fact that everything he had told them about himself had been a lie and that his ultimate aim was to find out who the bad apples were and put them behind bars.