Rough Justice (55 page)

‘Just wanted to drop by and say hail to the hero.’

The nurse checked the dressing around Dawson’s neck. ‘Try not to talk too much,’ she said, then left them alone in the room.

Dawson waved at the armchair next to the bed. ‘Take the weight off your feet.’

Sharpe looked around the room as he sat down. There was a decent-sized LCD television on one wall, complete with a DVD player, a side table with a range of soft drinks and a view over a garden. It was better than a lot of hotel rooms Sharpe had stayed in. ‘They’re looking after you all right,’ he said.

‘How did you know I was here?’ asked Dawson.

‘Friends in low places,’ said Sharpe. ‘I was going to bring you fruit but then I figured you wouldn’t be eating for a while, having been stabbed in the throat and all.’

‘Yeah, it’ll be a week or so before I can chew,’ said Dawson. ‘No solids until then.’

‘Sounds like you were lucky,’ said Sharpe. ‘The nurse outside said the knife missed your larynx and most of the major blood vessels.’

‘Could have been worse,’ agreed Dawson.

Sharpe nodded thoughtfully, but didn’t say anything.

‘Something on your mind, Brian?’ said Dawson, eventually.

Sharpe sighed and folded his arms. ‘Yeah, I’m afraid so,’ he said.

‘Better out than in, as they say,’ said Dawson. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘My name’s not Brian Parker,’ said Sharpe, quietly.

‘Okay,’ said Dawson, hesitantly.

‘I shouldn’t be here, Gary. And I sure as hell shouldn’t be having this conversation with you.’

‘We’re not having a conversation yet,’ said Dawson. ‘Spit it out, whatever it is.’

‘You’re a mate, Gary. I mean that.’

‘You’re a mate too.’ Dawson smiled. ‘I hope you’re not going to tell me you’re gay,’ he said, ‘because I’ve got a wife and two kids.’

Sharpe laughed, then shook his head. ‘It’s worse than that,’ he said.

Dawson frowned, and then he swore under his breath. ‘You’re with Professional Standards,’ he said.

‘No, I’m with SOCA, that much is true. But, yeah, I’m doing Professional Standards’ dirty work.’

Dawson closed his eyes. ‘Shit,’ he said.

‘They’ve been on to you for months, Gary,’ said Sharpe. ‘They got hold of a phone number on a membership list.’

Dawson opened his eyes again. ‘You were spying on me.’

‘I like to think of it as gathering intelligence but, yeah, pretty much.’

‘And that’s why you’re here, to arrest me?’

‘I’m SOCA,’ said Sharpe, ‘we don’t arrest people.’

‘So why did you come?’

‘Like I said, to say hail to the hero.’

‘Thanks. Now fuck off and die.’

‘Gary . . .’

‘Don’t bloody “Gary” me. You lied to me, you set me up and now you’re going to screw me over.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Lenny – is he in this too? Lenny Brennan? Is he working for you?’

‘Brennan’s just a guy I met at the England First meeting,’ said Sharpe. ‘He doesn’t know me from Adam.’

‘Small mercies,’ said Dawson.

‘Look, the reason I’m here . . .’ Sharpe sighed mournfully. ‘You have to know they have everything they need to sack you, Gary. You’ll lose your job, your pension, the works.’

‘I’d figured that out already,’ said Dawson, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

‘My reports are already with SOCA and they’ll be sent to the Met. There’s nothing I can do about that. And you know that membership of an organisation like England First is grounds for instant dismissal.’

‘I’m not a racist,’ said Dawson, quickly.

‘I know you’re not,’ said Sharpe. ‘But whether you are or not has nothing to do with what’s going to happen. Membership alone means you’re out. There’s nothing you can do to change that. But there is something you can do. You can get your resignation in first. Medical reasons. That wound in your throat is enough reason for you to be invalided out, and even if it isn’t, you can get a doctor to sign you off on stress or PTSD or whatever they want to call it. If you quit on medical grounds, they can’t then sack you. Your pension is safe and you leave covered in glory.’

‘I was going to quit anyway,’ said Dawson. ‘The job’s not what it was.’

‘Can’t say I blame you,’ said Sharpe. ‘But you’re going to have to do it quickly, Gary. Strike while the iron’s hot. At the moment you’re a hero, so if you quit now they won’t dare do anything to queer your pitch.’

Dawson nodded. ‘I get it,’ he said.

Sharpe stood up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘You were just doing your job,’ said Dawson. ‘You can tell me one thing, though.’

‘Sure.’

‘Who are you really?’

Sharpe smiled. ‘Jimmy,’ he said.

Dawson held out his hand. ‘Thanks for letting me know where I stand, Jimmy,’ he said.

Sharpe shook it. ‘No problem,’ he said.

‘Now fuck off and leave me in peace.’

Shepherd was in the prisoner seat and Richard Parry was in his regular spot, sitting by the door, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Turnbull was driving and Coker was in the front passenger seat.

Mayhew was sitting directly in front of Shepherd, and Kelly was on his left. It was dark outside and starting to rain. Turnbull switched on the wipers and they whispered as they flicked across the windscreen.

‘So where are we going?’ Shepherd asked Mayhew. He had no way of knowing if Button or Singh were listening in, but he had to assume that they were and give them as much information as he could. They would know where he was from the tracking device on the van and the GPS in his phone but they wouldn’t know where he was going. If Mayhew was going to tackle two professional armed robbers he and his men would probably have guns themselves, which meant that Button would need to send in an armed-response unit.

‘Queen’s Park,’ said Mayhew. ‘We’ll pick Hanratty up first and then grab Trelawny.’

‘They’re going to be armed, right?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ said Mayhew. ‘They’re pros so they’re not likely to have guns in their homes.’

‘But we’ve got it covered if they are,’ said Coker. He bent down and pulled a carrier bag from under the seat in front of him. He opened it and showed Shepherd the barrel of a sawn-off shotgun.

‘Tell me that’s not a sawn-off,’ said Shepherd, for the benefit of anyone listening.

‘Picked it up on a raid a few months back,’ said Coker. ‘Totally clean, totally untraceable.’

‘But not loaded, right?’

‘Oh, it’s loaded,’ said Coker, putting the gun back under the seat.

‘And what’s the plan?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Where do we take them?’

‘I’ve got a warehouse fixed up,’ said Mayhew. ‘Been empty for ages. There’s a few other businesses nearby but they’ll be closed this time of night. Bare minimum of security so we won’t be disturbed.’

‘How do you get that sorted?’ asked Shepherd.

‘No one pays any attention to a CSO doing his rounds,’ said Mayhew. ‘I get to check premises, look at locks and alarms, and no one gives a toss.’

Shepherd folded his arms. He really wanted an address but he didn’t see how he could ask for that without drawing attention to himself. He forced himself to relax, stretching out his legs and sighing. ‘I tell you, you could have chosen a quieter day.’

‘I heard you guys had a run-in with a mad woman.’

‘She wasn’t mad, she was just under pressure,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t think she knew what she was doing.’

‘She damn near killed Gary – the bitch deserves to rot in hell for that,’ said Mayhew.

‘Gary’s not on your crew, is he?’ asked Shepherd.

Mayhew shook his head. ‘Straight as an arrow,’ he said. ‘Funny thing is, he’s as disillusioned as we all are, but he won’t cross the line. Keeps saying that we need a political solution but he’s so wrong. The politicians we’ve got aren’t going to solve anything – they’re too busy feathering their own nests.’

‘Did you try to convert him?’

‘It doesn’t work like that, Terry,’ said Mayhew. ‘It’s not about converting people to our cause. It’s about finding like-minded individuals who’ve already seen the light.’

‘That’s how we knew you’d be on side,’ said Coker. ‘You saw me take the gun and you didn’t say anything. You crossed the line yourself. No one made you do it.’

‘That’s true.’ Shepherd looked out of the window. They were driving through Kilburn, not far from his rented house. He nodded at Mayhew. ‘So when did you cross the line, Ross? Here or in Afghanistan?’

Mayhew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m guessing you spent some time planning this,’ said Shepherd. ‘Or did it just come to you when you started working as a CSO?’

‘The situation in Afghanistan isn’t that different from what we’ve got in London,’ said Mayhew. ‘The vast majority of the Afghans just want to get on with their lives. They want to work, get married, raise their kids, have a bit of fun now and again. That’s all anyone wants, right? But a hardcore percentage don’t want that. They want to cause mayhem and destruction, they want to kill and maim – and for why? For money. And for power. They want to have power over others. They say it’s about religion but it’s not. It’s about power.’

‘But London’s not a war zone,’ said Shepherd.

‘Isn’t it?’ said Mayhew. ‘You’ve got more guns out there than ever before, a murder rate well above New York’s, you’ve got areas where the police just won’t go unless they’re mob-handed, you’ve got people living in fear of gangs, you’ve got children being stabbed to death in the streets. That’s pretty close to the definition of a war zone in my book, Terry.’

‘I can’t argue with that, Ross,’ said Shepherd. Actually he could, but Shepherd wasn’t looking for an argument: he was looking for Mayhew to hang himself. Every word being said in the van was being transmitted by the bug in Shepherd’s mobile phone and recorded by Amar Singh or one of his people. ‘At least in Afghanistan you get the chance to shoot back,’ said Shepherd.

‘You know that’s not the way it works,’ said Mayhew. ‘The troops out there are hampered by the same sort of stupid rules and regulations as the cops here. The Taliban plant IEDs, they use children and women as suicide bombers, they ambush our guys, then they throw away their guns and hold up their hands and say that, no, they’re just civilians, they’re innocent. And then when we want to question them to get the truth, we’re told that we can’t be too rough with them, we can’t do this, we can’t do that, they’ve got human rights et cetera, et cetera. It’s a bloody nonsense. They want soldiers out there fighting for whatever it is we’re fighting for, but they want them doing it with one hand tied behind their backs. The Taliban think we’re weak. They laugh at the way they can run rings around us, and they laugh at the way we treat our prisoners. You know what the Taliban do with their prisoners? They hack off their heads with a blunt knife, that’s what they do. And yet we treat their people according to the Geneva Convention.’

‘Madness,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, madness,’ agreed Mayhew.

‘Is that why you left? You’d had enough?’

Mayhew’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re asking a lot of questions, Terry.’

Shepherd put up his hands. ‘Sorry, just curious,’ he said. ‘I was out there, I hear what you’re saying. There were times when I wished I could just let rip with my weapon. You’d be looking at guys in the street and you’d know, you’d just know, that the night before they were shelling us with mortars, but you couldn’t do anything.’

‘They fight like cowards, not like men,’ said Mayhew. ‘I told my captain – I said that regular soldiering won’t work against scum like the Taliban. They don’t fight like soldiers so they don’t deserve to be treated like soldiers.’

‘There’s a lot of squaddies that’d agree with you there,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s only the politicians and the armchair generals who think there’s honour in war, these days. You do what you have to do, right?’

‘Yeah, but my captain didn’t see it that way. Put me on report, said I was a loose cannon.’ He shrugged. ‘I’d rather be a loose cannon than shipped back on a stretcher with my legs blown off.’ He tapped on Turnbull’s shoulder. ‘Park up here, Colgate,’ he said.

Turnbull brought the van to a stop. ‘KFC, you and Carpets bring Hanratty to us. Nice and easy, you know the drill. We just need him down at the station for an ID parade.’

Parry opened the door and he and Kelly headed down the street.

‘I think it’s a damn shame they didn’t let you join the Met,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, you and me both,’ said Mayhew.

‘The Met’s got quotas to fill,’ said Turnbull, twisting round in the driver’s seat. ‘Women, ethnic minorities, Muslims.’

‘And my face doesn’t fit,’ said Mayhew.

‘There’s got to be more to it than that,’ said Shepherd. ‘They need guys like you with military training. You’d be perfect for the TSG.’ He scratched his chin. ‘The army probably screwed you over.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Mayhew.

‘Maybe the psych report stuffed you,’ said Shepherd. ‘Maybe they gave you a shit reference. The loose-cannon thing.’ He grinned. ‘You didn’t get heavy with civilians, did you?’

‘Only if they asked for it,’ said Mayhew. ‘That’s the thing with the ragheads. They sling mortars and set booby-traps, then wander around in their man dresses pretending to be civilians. They don’t fight fair. Anyway, me and a few of the guys got fed up with the way things were going so we took care of half a dozen ragheads that we knew were Ansar al-Islam.’

‘Ansar al-Islam?’ said Shepherd.

‘An offshoot of al-Qaeda,’ said Mayhew. ‘Vehemently anti-women. They were burning down beauty salons, throwing acid in the faces of women who didn’t wear full burkhas, murdering women who talked to men they didn’t know. We knew who they were but our officers said we were to leave them alone. Said it was politics and nothing to do with our mission. Morons.’

‘But you took care of them anyway?’