Rough Justice (46 page)

‘You’re not going to charge me for having impure thoughts, are you?’ asked Shepherd.

Hollis pulled a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘I’m sorry about what happened back there,’ he said. He glanced over his shoulder as if he was worried about being overheard. ‘Cooper is a bit . . . Well, let’s just say he’s graduate entry and destined for bigger and better things. He wants to make commander by the time he’s forty and he talks about one day running the Met.’ He took off his spectacles and began polishing them with a handkerchief. ‘Thing is, he’ll probably end up doing it. He’s a box-ticker, knows exactly what boxes to tick to move up, and he never puts a foot wrong. He goes by the book, and won’t deviate from it for anything. And that whole PC thing, he means it. When he was in uniform they called him PCPC and behind his back now we call him PCDC. It’s not going to have the same ring when he gets promoted, but within a year he’ll be a DS for sure.’

‘So?’ said Shepherd, gently pushing the car door closed.

‘So he’s a difficult guy to work with,’ said Hollis, putting his glasses back on. ‘He pulled me up in an interview last month because I said “nitty gritty”. And he did it during a recorded interview so it’s on the record.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘I get it,’ he said.

‘You know about “nitty gritty”, then? Because I didn’t.’

‘It’s what they used to call the detritus at the bottom of slave ships,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s now considered offensive to use it with black suspects.’

‘Well, you’re better informed than I was,’ said Hollis. ‘We were interviewing two black teenagers about a few street robberies. Nothing major, they’d been stealing mobiles off schoolkids. The sort of thing that in the old days would have been sorted with a clip around the ear and a few harsh words. Nowadays, of course, it’s all PACE and solicitors and social-worker reports. I told the lads that we wanted to get down to the “nitty gritty” and before I know it PCDC is lecturing me on racist remarks. The two suspects loved it, of course. It’s no wonder they don’t respect the police, the way we act.’ He used the handkerchief to mop his brow. ‘Anyway, long story short, I just wanted to tip you the wink. Cooper is a master at covering his own arse and if any file on Talovic, or whatever his name is, goes across his desk, he’ll tell all about the DNA test you did. He might even be putting it in the report now for all I know, along with a note that he had to pull you up on your racist remarks.’

‘He’s an Albanian,’ said Shepherd.

Hollis held up his hands. ‘I’m not arguing with you, but PCDC will see things his own peculiar way and there’s nothing you or I will be able to do to change that. I’m just saying that if you want to do anything about Talovic, I’d recommend that you give our station a body swerve. Try the Border Agency, maybe, and get him on his immigration status. Or, better still, see if you can get your mob on the case. Get a SOCA file started and leave out all the family stuff. Or find some way of getting the Albanians involved directly. Get them to approach the Home Office.’

Shepherd nodded. He could see that the detective was only trying to help. ‘Okay, thanks.’

Hollis took out his cigarettes and lit one. He offered the pack to Shepherd but he shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t smoke either, but it helps the stress,’ said Hollis. ‘PCDC would report me if he ever saw me having a fag inside.’ He chuckled. ‘And he’d report me for using the word “fag” as well, probably.’

‘Can’t be easy,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s a brave new world, that’s for sure,’ said Hollis. ‘It’s certainly not why I signed up to be a cop, but the likes of PCDC relish it. Ducks to water.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette.

‘What’s happening about the boy, Peter?’ said Shepherd.

‘Gone to ground,’ Hollis said. ‘Hasn’t been at the school since we went around to the house. Father says he’s gone somewhere with his mother but can’t or won’t say where they’ve gone.’

‘So what happens?’

Hollis shrugged. ‘We wait. Try again in a week or so. It’s not as if we can force the father to give up his son.’

‘You’ve looked for relatives?’

‘We ran his surname but didn’t get any matches. Of course, now we know why.’ He blew smoke up at the sky. ‘You didn’t say what you did with SOCA.’

‘I’m in a low-profile unit,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m Hereford born and bred, so I’ve got a feeling for the guys who are with the Regiment. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I get the feeling you’re former SAS, right?’

‘You’ve got a good eye,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s the way you carry yourself,’ said Hollis. ‘And the way you kept yourself in hand when PCDC was handing you all that crap.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘Yeah, it wasn’t easy.’

‘You should try dealing with it on a daily basis,’ said Hollis. ‘It’d do your head in.’ He took another long drag on his cigarette. ‘Look, it’s none of my business, but if I were you I’d sort this out yourself. The law just isn’t geared up for handling situations like you’re in. You want my advice, get a few of your Regiment mates and go around and show him the error of his ways.’ He smiled. ‘Just don’t forget to wear your balaclavas.’

Shepherd watched the detective walk away, then took out his mobile phone. He tapped out Jack Bradford’s number. His friend answered almost immediately. ‘Jack, can you and Billy do me a favour?’ he asked.

‘Name it.’

‘I’ve got a problem in Hereford and I could do with a couple of friendly faces watching my back. If you and Billy could be around for a few days, it’d make me feel a hell of a lot easier.’

‘We’ll be there tonight – is that soon enough?’

‘I’m around over the weekend so tomorrow night will be fine.’

‘Do we need anything?’

Shepherd knew he meant guns but was being careful on an open line. ‘I don’t think so, Jack. Just your good selves.’

Jack Bradford was as good as his word: he and Billy had arrived in Hereford just before midnight on Sunday. Shepherd had slipped out of the house and briefed them on the problems he was having with Lekstakaj. He gave them the man’s address and asked them to keep an eye on him and on his own house until the following weekend. He explained that he didn’t want Katra or Liam worried, so while they were to keep the house under surveillance they were also to keep a low profile.

On Monday morning he left his motorbike at home and caught the Tube to Edgware Road, opposite the Paddington Green police station. Before he went inside the building he tapped out a number on his mobile. Kenny Mansfield answered. He sounded flustered, as if he was in the middle of something that required all his attention. ‘Yeah, what? Mansfield here, who’s that?’

‘Kenny, it’s Dan Shepherd. SOCA. We met last year for the briefing on criminals in Pattaya.’

‘Sure, Dan. Look, can I call you back in about five minutes?’

‘No sweat. Talk to you later.’

There was a Costa coffee shop along the road so Shepherd went in and ordered a mocha from a pretty Polish girl. Just as she finished sprinkling chocolate on top, his mobile rang. It was Mansfield. There was the hum of traffic in the background. ‘Sorry about that, Dan – I had a DS breathing over my shoulder.’

‘Are you busy?’

‘To be honest, I’ve just popped out for a fag, so you’ve my undivided attention for the next five minutes or so. How did the Thailand thing go, by the way?’

‘Not as expected, but I was happy enough with the result,’ said Shepherd. ‘Look, I need a favour, Kenny. Can you put together a briefing on Albanian criminal activity for me?’

‘Not a problem,’ said Mansfield. ‘I gave a couple of lectures on Balkan gangs at Hendon last year. What is it you need to know?’

‘Who’s doing what, and what we’re doing about them. Just to get me up to speed.’

‘Have you got an active case?’

‘It’s a grey area,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can I pop around this evening? About seven thirty?’

‘Sure, I’m usually in the office until nine,’ said Mansfield. ‘Are you bringing your Scottish mate with you?’

‘Razor? No, he’s got other fish to fry. Cheers, Kenny, catch you later. Oh, one more thing, when I pop around I’ll be Terry Halligan. It’ll make things easier.’

Mansfield laughed. ‘I don’t know how you can keep track of who you are,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t it give you a headache, slipping in and out of legends?’

‘Yeah – sometimes even I’m not sure who I’m supposed to be,’ said Shepherd. He ended the call and crossed the road to the station.

The team were heading for a drink in the Hilton Hotel after their shift finished but Shepherd told them he had a plumber coming around to the house to deal with a leaking toilet. He caught a Bakerloo line Tube train from Edgware Road to Charing Cross, then spent ten minutes moving between platforms checking that he wasn’t being followed before catching a westbound Circle line train to St James’s Park. After leaving the station he spent another fifteen minutes walking around the park before crossing the road and going into New Scotland Yard, under the watchful eyes of two uniformed officers in bulletproof vests cradling MP5 assault rifles. He showed his warrant card to a uniformed sergeant. ‘Terry Halligan,’ he said. ‘Here to see Kenneth Mansfield. He’s expecting me.’

The sergeant tapped Shepherd’s name into a computer, then nodded at a row of seats and asked him to wait. He picked up a phone and a few minutes later Kenny Mansfield appeared in the lift lobby and waved for Shepherd to join him. He was just under thirty, tall and thin and wearing a cheap suit that barely covered his wrists and ankles. ‘Nice to see you again, Terry,’ said Mansfield. He smiled at Shepherd, revealing teeth that had yellowed from years of smoking. Shepherd placed his wallet, phone and keys in a plastic tray and stepped through an airport-style metal detector. Mansfield waited until he had retrieved his belongings before shaking his hand and leading him to the lifts. ‘Do you want a coffee?’ he asked. ‘I know you don’t like meeting us cops out in public so the best I can offer is the canteen dishwater.’

‘Yeah, let’s give it a go,’ said Shepherd.

They got into the lift and the doors closed. ‘This is probably a stupid question, but Dan is your real name, isn’t it? Or was that SOCA thing a legend too?’

‘Dan Shepherd it is, but I’m under cover as Halligan so it was easier to show his warrant card at the door.’

‘Impersonating a police officer,’ said Mansfield. ‘You know you can get into trouble for that?’

Shepherd chuckled. ‘How’s the family?’ he asked. ‘Last time we met you had a kid on the way.’

‘She’s six months old and as bright as a button,’ said Mansfield. He took out his wallet and pulled out two laminated photographs, one of a beaming baby, the other of a pretty brunette holding her. ‘Her name’s Emily.’

‘Nice,’ said Shepherd, looking at the pictures. ‘I guess you’re not getting much sleep.’

‘Nah, she’s brilliant,’ said Mansfield. ‘Sleeps through the night mostly, hardly ever cries – she’s the perfect baby.’

Shepherd gave him back the pictures. They arrived at the fourth floor and Mansfield led the way to the canteen, which hadn’t changed since the last time Shepherd had visited. The walls were painted a drab orange and most of the tables were occupied by overweight office workers who looked as if a brisk walk would kill them.

‘Grab a seat,’ said Mansfield. ‘How do you take it?’

‘Black and no sugar, thanks,’ said Shepherd. He sat down by the bombproof windows overlooking Victoria Street and watched the traffic crawl by until Mansfield returned with their coffees in chipped white mugs.

‘So, you wanted intel on our Albanian friends,’ said Mansfield, sitting down opposite Shepherd. ‘They’re not the brightest of criminals, so it’s mostly violence-led,’ he continued. ‘The Romanians have some pretty hi-tech ATM and credit-card frauds going but the Albanians prefer a sawn-off shotgun and a kick in the nuts. They started in London with armed robbery, prostitution, people-trafficking, and extorting money from their own people. They’re nasty pieces of work, generally. It’s that old truism that the men with the least to lose have the least to fear. Albania is one of the poorest countries in the world. Throw one of them into Pentonville prison and he’d think you’ve put him in a five-star hotel.’

Shepherd sipped his coffee. It was bitter and tasted instant. ‘Drugs?’

Mansfield nodded. ‘Once they had money streams coming in from hookers and extortion, like all villains looking to grow they moved into drugs, mainly bringing them overland from Central Europe. Any opposition and they shoot first and ask questions later. You think the Yardies are bad, these Albanians kill without blinking an eye. Have you got an operation planned? Because if you have you’re gonna have to watch your back, Dan.’

‘It’s early stages,’ said Shepherd.

‘They tend to bring drugs, guns and girls in by the same route, often packed into the back of containers. The girls are forced to work, beaten and raped until they can’t fight back. Once they’ve broken the girls, they start to use them as mules, bringing drugs in internally. Swallowing them and suchlike.’

‘This is mainly a London problem, right?’

Mansfield shook his head. ‘Most of them are in London because that’s where the money is, but we’ve got ethnic Albanian gangs operating right across the country, as high up as Glasgow and Edinburgh, as far west as Cardiff. We’re watching gangs in Liverpool, Telford, Lancaster, Manchester, even sunny Brighton.’

‘What about Hereford?’

Mansfield frowned. ‘Never heard of anything in Hereford,’ he said. ‘That’s where the SAS is based, isn’t it? Not likely to be a hotbed of crime, I’d have thought.’

‘And what are we doing about it?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Are there ongoing investigations?’

‘Nothing specifically targeting Albanians,’ said Mansfield. ‘They’ll get pulled in as part of a Drugs Squad bust or a Clubs and Vice investigation. To be honest, if anyone’s worried about the Albanians here it’s the Albanians back in Albania. They know there’s a problem. Their chief of police has been pressing the Home Office to send back a hundred criminals, more than three-quarters of them murderers convicted in their absence. Most of them got into the UK pretending to be Kosovan refugees.’