Rough Justice (32 page)

Shepherd sipped his drink. It had been a mistake letting Coker see him on phone, but it was a mistake he could turn to his advantage if he played his cards right. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said. ‘Involves a case I was working before I transferred to the Met.’

Kelly and Coker leaned towards Shepherd as he lowered his voice. ‘Paedophile, nasty piece of work who’d already done six years for molesting a girl over in Ireland. He moved into our patch and was working in one of the local libraries. Wasn’t on the Sex Offenders Register because he was done in Ireland, not the UK.’ He could see that he had their full attention. ‘Anyway, he starts hanging around one of the local primary schools.’ A look of disgust flashed across Kelly’s face. ‘Yeah, he liked them really young. He was clever, though, and never too obvious. He managed to get invited into one of the schools so that he could talk about the library. Had a little act he did with a sock puppet. Had the kids eating out of his hand. You don’t have to be an Einstein to work out what his MO was. He got them laughing at his puppet, got close to the ones he was attracted to, made sure they visited the library with their parents. Then he set up a reading group on Saturday mornings so that parents could drop their kids off while they went shopping.’

‘Bastard,’ said Coker.

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd, swirling his drink around his glass. ‘He assaulted two little girls before anyone knew what was happening. One of them started having nightmares, bed-wetting, all the signs. We had a really good female detective and she spent hours with the girls and got the full story from them. We arrested the guy and he was charged but he was clever. Guess he’d used his time inside to hone his craft – you know? Our technical boys went right through his computer and there was nothing. Same with his mobile phone. Nothing in his flat. Not a magazine, not a photograph, nothing. There was no DNA evidence, he didn’t take any souvenirs.’

‘So it was all down to the witnesses,’ said Coker.

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘CID had him in for questioning for hours. He got himself a legal-aid brief and he just sat there with a smirk on his face and wouldn’t say anything. Not a thing.’

‘How were you involved, Terry? You weren’t CID?’

‘I was there at the arrest, and I helped with the house search.’

‘And there was nothing there?’ said Kelly.

‘Like I said, he was clever. We reckoned he must have had a safety-deposit box or a lock-up somewhere but we never found it. We had nothing, just the word of the girls he’d abused. And that call was to tell me that the second one had just decided not to give evidence.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Coker.

‘The first girl, she was eight, her parents took her away. The mother was Australian and she said she couldn’t stand to live in the UK after what happened. They left a month or so ago. Now the second girl has just pulled out – her parents don’t want to put her through a court case.’ Shepherd shrugged. ‘You can understand why, can’t you? She’s nine. How can anyone expect her to sit in a witness box and talk about the scumbag who assaulted her when he’s sitting across from her, smirking and licking his lips?’ Shepherd shuddered. ‘I wish I could get five minutes alone with him.’

‘Yeah?’ asked Kelly. ‘What would you do?’

Shepherd sneered. ‘What do you think?’

‘You tell me, Terry.’

‘I’d kick the shit out of him,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’d show him what happens to scumbags who abuse children.’

‘And then what?’ asked Kelly. ‘You get sent down for assault, and he’d get thousands in compensation.’

‘At least I’d feel better,’ said Shepherd. He finished his drink and banged his empty glass on the table. ‘My round,’ he said. ‘What’s everyone having?’

Barry Kelly gave Shepherd a lift back to Kilburn in his car, a three-year-old Renault. ‘What you said, back there in the bar, about giving that paedophile a seeing-to, were you serious?’ he asked as they pulled up at a red traffic-light.

‘Maybe,’ Shepherd said.

‘Not just the booze talking?’

‘I’m not drunk, Barry. But you can’t go around beating people up, even if they are scumbag paedophiles.’

‘Why not?’

Shepherd looked across at him. ‘Why not? Because we’re cops, that’s why not.

‘But you don’t want him to get away scot-free, right?’

‘Of course not.’

‘So you think CID will get him?’ The traffic-lights turned to green and Kelly drove off.

‘I’m guessing not,’ said Shepherd. ‘There was no physical evidence and no confession, so without the victims giving testimony I don’t see what they can do.’

‘You know what you should have done, Terry? Right at the start?’

‘What?’

‘When you went in on that initial search, you should have taken something with you.’

Shepherd frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What’s the reason he’s going to walk? Lack of physical evidence. So you should have provided some.’

‘Forensics, you mean?’

‘Not necessarily, but forensics would have done. I was thinking some kiddie porn, on a thumb-drive. Or a file of pictures. Hand them to him, get his prints on them. Sometimes you’ve got to be creative.’

‘Are you serious?’

Kelly smiled. ‘Maybe.’

‘Would you do that? Get creative to get a conviction?’

Kelly indicated and overtook a bus. ‘Maybe,’ he repeated.

‘Maybe?’

Kelly’s smile widened. ‘Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the booze talking.’

Shepherd spent most of Friday driving around north London, though in the late afternoon the Serial was called off patrol to help find witnesses to a shooting in Harlesden. No one was injured, but more than a dozen shots were fired between two rival gangs. Shepherd and the rest of the team were told to canvass a block of flats that overlooked the children’s playground where the shoot-out had taken place. They paired off and knocked on every door, asking if the occupants had seen or heard anything. Half the doors they knocked on remained closed, even when they were sure that someone was at home. Of those who did answer, not one person could remember seeing or hearing anything. It was par for the course, said Fogg. The residents knew that if they offered themselves up as witnesses, they risked being in the firing line themselves next time.

Charlotte Button had asked for a meeting in the Praed Street safe-house before Shepherd left for Hereford. He got there a little after seven o’clock. Jimmy Sharpe was studying some new photographs that she had fixed to the whiteboard. Shepherd joined him. The additions were police mugshots of two middle-aged white men.

‘Two Romanians. They’re in ICU,’ said Button, behind them. ‘They’ve been castrated.’ Sharpe shuddered. ‘Names are Victor Mironescu and Lucian Popescu. Well known to the police as traffickers and pimps, but on a big scale. They’ve been bringing in girls from Central Europe for years and working them in walk-ups. Lately they’d moved into Internet escort agencies. A few girls who’ve escaped from their clutches have alleged rapes and beatings but the police have never managed to make a case against them.’

‘It’s the judgment of Solomon again,’ said Sharpe.

‘Sorry?’ said Button.

‘They were rapists, they got castrated. If there’s a better case of the punishment fitting the crime, I’d like to know what it is.’

‘It would be nice if there was a trial and evidence somewhere in the process, though,’ said Button.

‘You said the cops couldn’t make a case,’ said Sharpe. ‘Probably because the girls were too scared to give evidence.’ He leaned forward. ‘Look, if you were to ask the average man in the street what should be done with rapists and kiddy-fiddlers, ninety-nine per cent would opt for castration. It’s the perfect punishment. It hurts, it’s a permanent reminder, and it stops you repeating the offence.’

‘Actually, Razor,’ said Shepherd, ‘and I don’t know why I know this, but castration doesn’t do away with the erection, just the sperm.’ He shrugged at Button. ‘Sorry.’

‘I’m sure Razor would prefer the death penalty because then there’s no chance of repeat offending,’ she said.

‘I’m not crying any spilt milk over two Romanian pimps and rapists who lose their nuts,’ said Razor. ‘I just hope they used a rusty knife.’

‘They’re not going to die?’ Shepherd asked Button.

‘Question is, will they want to live without their knackers?’ sniggered Sharpe.

‘They’ll live,’ said Button. ‘Between you and me, the Met’s Clubs and Vice Unit cracked open a bottle of champagne last night.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Someone else was celebrating, too. A battered women’s refuge in Harlesden found a holdall next to their back door this morning. It contained a shade under forty thousand pounds.’

Shepherd raised his eyebrows. ‘Wow,’ he said.

‘Exactly,’ said Button. ‘Wow.’

‘But there’s no proof that the money came from the Romanians, is there?’

Button smiled. ‘Actually, there is,’ she said. ‘One of the vans that you put a transponder on was in Chelsea last night, which is where Popescu lives. It then drove to St John’s Wood, which is where Mironescu lives.’ She sat back and waited until she was sure that she had their undivided attention. ‘It then drove to Harlesden, not far from the women’s refuge. And from there to Paddington Green.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Open and shut, then.’

‘Not necessarily,’ she said.

‘Come on, Charlie. CCTV should show when the van left Paddington Green, and when it was returned.’

‘As soon as we ask for the CCTV footage, they’ll know we’re on to them,’ said Button. ‘But if we get the CCTV footage, what do we have? Shots of a van leaving the station and returning.’

‘With the transponder showing where they went in between,’ said Shepherd. ‘Like I said, open and shut.’

‘Circumstantial,’ said Button. ‘And we won’t know who was on board the van. Remember, Popescu and Mironescu are unlikely to say anything, and they’ve never left forensics behind before so I doubt they will have this time. They’re cops so there’s no way they’ll break under questioning, so that doesn’t leave us with much.’

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘The plan is the same as it’s always been – you have to get closer to them. Ideally get them to take you along.’

‘Terrific,’ said Shepherd.

‘Or find out who the next victim is and we can mount a surveillance operation,’ she said.

‘That might be easier,’ said Shepherd.

‘Keep your ear to the ground, see what gets them riled up,’ said Button. ‘If you can get a hint as to who they’d like to see taken out of commission, we can take it from there.’ She drank some more tea. ‘What are you doing over the weekend?’

‘I’m heading straight back to Hereford after this,’ said Shepherd. ‘Liam’s got a football match.’

‘You should think about boarding-school,’ said Button. ‘They really enjoy it when they get to their teens.’

‘I spend hardly enough time with him as it is,’ said Shepherd. ‘And I like hanging out with him. I figure it won’t be long before he doesn’t want me cheering on the sidelines so I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.’

‘What about you, Razor?’

‘My new best friend Gary Dawson is taking me to a fund-raiser in south London,’ said Sharpe.

‘I’d have thought that after his last brush with the TSG he’d have given it a miss,’ said Shepherd.

‘It doesn’t seem to have put him off,’ said Sharpe. ‘He rang me, asked if I wanted to go. I don’t think he’s trying to draw me into anything. Hardly ever talks about his work, or mine.’

‘So what do you guys talk about?’ asked Button.

‘This and that. Politics, sport. Guy stuff. But he’s certainly not asking me to do any favours on the SOCA front. I think I’m wasting my time.’

‘Do we still think that Dawson is one of the vigilantes? I hardly ever see him talking to anyone in the Serial,’ said Shepherd. ‘He nods to Fogg but that’s as far as I see him go.’

‘He might be careful,’ said Button.

‘Or he might just be a cop who happens to have right-wing political views,’ said Shepherd.

‘Right-wing racist views,’ said Button. ‘And that’s not compatible with his job as a police officer.’

Shepherd stood up. ‘You know, I never thought I’d be working for the thought police when I signed up for SOCA,’ he said. ‘Are we done? I’ve got a train to catch.’

Shepherd woke up early on Saturday morning and went for a ten-mile run with his brick-filled rucksack. Liam was having breakfast with Katra when he got back. ‘Don’t you eat anything other than cheesy scrambled eggs?’ he asked.

‘It’s the breakfast of champions,’ said Liam.

Shepherd took a bottle of Evian from the fridge. ‘I’m going to shower, and then we’ve got to go and see the police about that video.’

‘Dad . . .’ Liam moaned. ‘Do we have to?’

‘Yes, we do,’ said Shepherd.

‘Can we take Lady?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Shepherd. He ruffled Liam’s hair. ‘It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’

‘I’m not in trouble, am I?’

‘I told you already that you’re not. Stop worrying.’ Shepherd went upstairs, showered, and put on a white shirt, dark blue tie and a grey suit.

Liam laughed when he walked back into the kitchen. ‘It’s like you’re dressed for a job interview.’

‘Yeah, well, it won’t hurt to look respectable. The police often go by appearances. They shouldn’t, but they do.’ He adjusted his tie.

‘You look very nice,’ said Katra. ‘Like a businessman.’

Shepherd grinned and picked up the keys to the CRV. ‘We won’t be long,’ he said.

‘And afterwards you’ll come to the football match?’

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. He could see that his son was nervous, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. ‘There’s no need to worry, Liam. Really. We’re just going to have a chat with them, that’s all.’

Shepherd drove to Hereford police station and parked on the street close by. He walked with Liam into the main entrance, went up to the reception desk and told the middle-aged female sergeant behind the desk that he was there to see DS James Hollis. She asked them to sit on the orange plastic chairs below a line of posters warning of the dangers of drugs, rabid dogs and knives. Shepherd smiled to himself as he sat down. Terry Halligan had spent two years working at Hereford police station but this was the first time he had actually been inside.