Rough Justice Part 49

'Where's the sergeant?' asked Shepherd, nodding at the untouched gla.s.s.

'On his way,' said Kelly, picking up another chunk of bread. The waiter returned with menus. Kelly ordered half a dozen tapas and another bottle of Rioja.

'So you're okay with this, Three-amp?' asked Turnbull, when the waiter had gone.

'Okay with what?' said Shepherd.

Turnbull looked at Kelly. 'He's okay,' said Kelly.

'I'm okay,' said Shepherd.

'You'd better be, because there's no turning back,' said Turnbull.

'Bit dramatic,' said Kelly. He bit into his bread and chewed noisily.

'I'm serious, Three-amp,' said Turnbull. 'No one's going to think any less of you if you don't want to move forward.'

'Not everyone can do it,' agreed Parry.

'You guys don't have a problem with it, right?' asked Shepherd. All the men around the table shook their heads. 'Then I'm with you. But I've a question.'

'Fire away,' said Kelly.

'There's the four of you,' said Shepherd. 'Did you ask anyone else in the Serial?'

c.o.ker and Kelly exchanged a look and they both sn.i.g.g.e.red. 'KFC wanted to ask Pelican but we said no girlies,' said c.o.ker.

'I thought she'd be up for it,' said Kelly. 'I still do.'

'Pelican's a great TSG officer, but what we do requires something extra,' said c.o.ker.

'b.a.l.l.s?' suggested Shepherd.

All the men laughed. c.o.ker banged the table with the flat of his hand. 'Got it in one,' he said. He looked at the door. 'Here's the sergeant now.'

Shepherd turned to see Ross Mayhew walking towards them. He'd changed out of his CSO uniform and was wearing a black overcoat over a dark blue suit.

'Sergeant?' said Shepherd.

'He was a sergeant in the army,' said Kelly.

Mayhew sat down at the table. 'I was promoted not long before I left,' he said. 'These guys started calling me that when they found out.' He grinned at Kelly. 'KFC here started it, I think.'

'Beer?' asked Kelly.

'Bottle of Corona,' said Mayhew. 'And tell them to forget the lime there's no b.l.o.o.d.y flies down here.'

Kelly went over to the bar. Mayhew leaned over the table. 'So, what were you guys talking about?' he said.

'I was asking who else was on board,' said Shepherd. 'They were telling me that Pelican didn't have the b.a.l.l.s for it.'

Mayhew chuckled. 'That's funny. She's got b.a.l.l.s but she doesn't have what it takes to do what we do.'

'But I do?'

Mayhew nodded. 'I'm a pretty good judge of character,' he said. 'And we only take someone on when we're one hundred per cent sure of them.'

'What about Nipple?' asked Shepherd.

'Graduate entry, fast-tracked to stardom,' said Mayhew. 'He'll be a chief constable one day, maybe even running the Met. He's not going to risk that, even if it means doing what's right.'

Kelly returned with a bottle of Corona. He gave it to Mayhew and sat down again.

'Plus we weren't too sure about him when he joined nine months ago,' said c.o.ker.

'Why was that?' asked Shepherd.

'Seemed a strange posting for a graduate entrant,' said Turnbull. 'And he'd done a year with the rubber heels. We thought he might have been put in to check up on us.'

'Yeah,' agreed Kelly. 'For a while back there we were calling him Triffid.'

'Triffid?' repeated Shepherd.

'Yeah, because we thought he was a dangerous plant.'

Shepherd laughed. 'And Foggy's too straight as well?' he asked Mayhew.

'Foggy's the salt of the earth and a b.l.o.o.d.y good copper,' said Mayhew. 'But he's not right for what we do. So mum's the word when he's around. We don't talk about this with outsiders, ever.'

'Like Fight Club Fight Club?' said Shepherd.

'What?' said Mayhew.

Kelly laughed. 'He's right,' he said. 'The first rule of Fight Club is you never talk about Fight Club. The Brad Pitt movie. Yeah, it's the same. Because if anyone talks, we're screwed.'

'No one's going to talk,' said Mayhew. 'Because we're all in this together, and we all believe in what we're doing.'

'Like the five musketeers,' said Turnbull.

'Six,' said Shepherd. 'I'm in, remember?'

'Have you done something like this before?' asked Turnbull.

'Like what, Colgate?'

'Like taking the law into your own hands?'

Shepherd shrugged. 'I got heavy with a drug-dealer in my last job. In Hereford.'

'Any repercussions?' asked Parry.

'I'm here now, aren't I?' said Shepherd. He leaned forward. 'How far do you guys go?'

'As far as we want,' said Kelly. 'As far as we b.l.o.o.d.y well want.'

'No limits?'

Kelly reached for more bread. 'We do what we have to do,' he said. 'And it's working. Just look at the crime stats for our area. Housebreaking down, street muggings down, drive-by shootings down. All major crime down.'

'Can't argue with that,' said Shepherd.

'We get results,' said Mayhew. 'We do what we have to do and it works. And before long there'll be others following our example.'

'You're not planning on going public, are you?' asked Shepherd.

'Of course not,' said Mayhew. 'It has to be done on the QT. But we can recruit slowly, spread the philosophy throughout the Met, then on to other forces. We can show that it works, that a few good men can take back the streets.'

Shepherd nodded appreciatively. 'Sounds like a plan.'

'It is,' said Mayhew. 'And it's a plan that'll work. And tonight you show us what you can do.'

'Tonight?' said Shepherd.

'Strike while the iron's hot.'

Shepherd nodded slowly. 'Okay,' he said. 'What's the story?'

'Two guys in Queen's Park,' said Mayhew. 'Paul Hanratty and Mike Trelawny. Pavement artists. Done at least a dozen banks and building societies over the past couple of years. They shot a pensioner in the legs, blinded a cas.h.i.+er with ammonia, kicked a manager in the nuts. Nasty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.'

'And never charged?'

'Never been caught in the act,' said Mayhew. 'Loads of CCTV and eye-witness reports but they wear masks and they're careful with the old forensics. They steal a motor the day before and torch it afterwards.'

'So how do we know they're the ones?'

'Because they like to throw their money around when they're flush,' said Mayhew. 'Casinos, top restaurants, high-cla.s.s hookers.'

'I've never understood how a hooker can be high cla.s.s,' said Kelly. 'Hookers sell their p.u.s.s.ies, which means high cla.s.s doesn't come into it.'

Mayhew glowered at him. 'Let's stay focused,' he said.

Kelly shoved more bread into his mouth. The waiter reappeared with two plates of ham. He put them on the table and Kelly grabbed a couple of slices.

Mayhew waited until the waiter had left before continuing. 'Anyway, these guys have boasted about doing jobs in the past, so there's no doubt it's them. The Flying Squad have turned them over a couple of times and in January they staked them out for a week, waiting for them to do a Nationwide branch in Acton. Never happened.' Mayhew sat back in his chair. 'You ask me, they're getting intel from someone at the Yard. Maybe even the Sweeney itself. The Yard leaks like a sieve, these days.'

The waiter came back with bowls of garlic mushrooms, chicken in red wine, patatas bravas patatas bravas and a large tortilla. Kelly was the first to help himself. and a large tortilla. Kelly was the first to help himself.

Mayhew sipped his wine. 'So, if the Sweeney can't bring these guys down, it's up to us.'

'What have you got in mind?' asked Shepherd.

'We stop them,' said Mayhew. 'We explain the error of their ways and we show them that we're serious.'

'How exactly?' asked Shepherd.

'By beating the c.r.a.p out of them,' said Kelly.

'We hurt them,' said Mayhew, quietly. 'We hurt them so bad that they stop shooting pensioners.'

Shepherd nodded slowly. 'Okay,' he said.

'You're up for it?' said Mayhew.

'Yeah, I'm up for it,' said Shepherd.

Mayhew smiled and raised his bottle of Corona. 'Good man,' he said. 'Let's eat, and then we go.'

A Chinese nurse took Jimmy Sharpe from Reception and opened the door to Gary Dawson's private room for him. 'Visitor for you, Sergeant Dawson,' she said brightly.

Dawson smiled when he saw Sharpe. 'Brian, what are you doing here?'

'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.