Rough Justice

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

Copyright © Stephen Leather 2010

The right of Stephen Leather to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Epub ISBN 978 1 848 94678 1

Book ISBN 978 0 340 92494 5

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

An Hachette UK Company

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

For Tracey

CONTENTS

T
here were three men in the black Humvee, tall, lanky Jamaicans with diamond earrings, chunky gold chains around their necks and diamond-studded Rolex watches on their wrists. They were all wearing expensive leather jackets, Armani jeans and limited-edition Nike trainers, and had dreadlocks hanging halfway down their backs. The driver was Carlton Richie: he had just turned thirty and was taking his friends to an illegal drinking den in Willesden, north-west London. Sitting next to him was Glenford Barrow, the youngest member of the crew. Barrow’s nickname was Shotty because of his predilection for resolving disputes with a sawn-off shotgun. In the back seat was Kemar Davis, the biggest of the three men. He tipped the scales at a little over a hundred and twenty kilos and it was all solid muscle.

Davis looked at his watch. ‘Are we there yet, man? I need a piss.’

‘How old are you – six?’ asked Richie. ‘Why didn’t you go before you got into the car?’

‘I didn’t want to go when I got into the car,’ said Davis. ‘Now I do. And if you don’t get me there soon I’ll be pissing all over the back of your seat.’

‘Like fuck you will,’ said Richie.

They stopped arguing when they heard the blip of a siren being switched on and off and saw flashing lights. ‘Fuck,’ said Richie, looking in his rear-view mirror. ‘Five-O.’

Davis twisted around in his seat and looked through the back windscreen. Behind them was a grey police van with fluorescent stripes along the sides. ‘Pork in a can,’ he said. ‘What the fuck do they want? We didn’t do nuffink.’

‘Is anyone carrying?’ asked Richie, pulling over to the kerb. They were in a side-street about half a mile from their destination. His two companions shook their heads. ‘What about the boot – anything in there?’

‘Nuffink,’ said Davis.

‘And no one’s got any gear?’

More shaking heads.

Richie parked the car and sat with his hands on the steering-wheel. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just chill,’ he said. ‘We’re carrying nothing, we’ve done nothing, they’ve got nothing.’

‘Fucking Babylon pigs,’ spat Davis.

‘Chill,’ repeated Richie. ‘They just wanna give the black man a hard time, that’s all. Ten minutes, we’ll be on our way. Keep your hands where they can see them – don’t give them no excuse.’

They sat where they were as two uniformed police officers carrying flashlights walked from the van, one either side of the Humvee. The policeman on Richie’s side of the car tapped on the window with the base of his flashlight and motioned for him to wind it down. Richie did as he was told and smiled up at him, showing a single gold canine among his pristine white teeth. ‘Good evening, Officer,’ he said. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘Driving licence,’ said the policeman. He was about Richie’s age, with a sallow complexion and a small white scar across his chin. He was wearing a fluorescent jacket over his uniform and a peaked cap.

Richie moved his hand slowly down to his jeans and took out his wallet. ‘I wasn’t speeding, was I?’ he asked.

The policeman said nothing and continued to stare impassively at him. Richie slid out his licence and handed it over. The officer studied it, then shone his flashlight into Richie’s face. ‘Name?’

‘It’s on the licence, innit?’

‘Name,’ repeated the policeman.

The second bent down and shone his flashlight through the passenger window, playing the beam over Barrow’s chest and arms.

‘Carlton Richie,’ said Richie.

‘Date of birth?’

Richie took a deep breath, sighed, then recited his birth date in a bored voice.

‘Get out of the vehicle, please,’ said the policeman.

‘What’s the problem?’ asked Richie.

‘Just get out of the car or I’ll drag you out.’ He shone his torch into Richie’s eyes.

‘I haven’t done anything,’ protested Richie, putting his hand up to shade them.

‘Get out of the car,’ repeated the policeman.

Richie sighed again and opened the door. The officer stepped back as he climbed out, glaring. ‘This is wrong,’ he said.

The policeman sneered at him, then grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, spun him around and slammed him against the car. He kicked Richie’s legs apart. ‘Keep your hands on the car,’ he said. He went through Richie’s pockets, pulling out his wallet and mobile phone and placing them on the roof. ‘I ain’t carrying nuffink,’ said Richie.

The second policeman opened the passenger door. ‘You, out!’ he snapped at Barrow. Barrow did as he was told and placed his hands on the roof of the car.

‘This is bullshit, man,’ said Richie.

The policeman slammed the flashlight against the back of Richie’s neck. ‘When I want you to talk I’ll tell you,’ he hissed.

‘You are in so much fucking shit,’ said Richie. ‘I know my rights and you’re trampling all over them.’

‘Fuck your rights.’

‘You can’t say that.’ Richie turned to face the officer. ‘You can’t say that to me. I’ve got me rights. Me human rights.’

‘I can say what I want,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s a free country. And it’s my free country. You see, we know who are you, and we know what you’ve done.’

‘What?’ said Richie.

‘Your name’s Orane Williams, and you’re wanted for three murders in St Catherine, back in Jamaica.’

‘Like fuck.’

‘Yeah, just like fuck. You’re a big wheel in the Clansman Massive. Drugs, extortion, prostitution.’ The policeman pointed his flashlight at the man in the back seat. ‘And the big man there, he’s Leonardo Sachell but the Clansman crew call him Da Vinci.’

‘So?’ said Richie.

‘So you’re a murdering scumbag, and we’re fed up with you running amok in our country.’ He prodded Richie in the chest with the flashlight. ‘Our country, scumbag. You hear that? This is our country. And we’ve had enough.’

‘That’s assault,’ said Richie. ‘You’ve just assaulted me.’

The policeman prodded him again, harder this time.

Richie picked up his mobile phone. ‘I’m calling me lawyer,’ he said. ‘I’m allowed me phone call.’

The policeman smiled as Richie tapped out a number on his mobile. When he put the phone against his ear, the officer grabbed it, threw it to the ground and stamped on it.

Richie stared at the shattered pieces of metal and plastic, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I’m gonna report you to the Commission for Racial Equality, the Human Rights Commission, the Police Complaints Authority! I’m gonna—’

The policeman hit him across the face, splitting his lips and breaking two of his front teeth. Richie clasped a hand across his bleeding mouth, his eyes wide and fearful.

The side door of the police van opened and three officers climbed out. They were wearing riot gear – black overalls, boots and blue helmets with visors. ‘You’re not going to do anything, scumbag,’ said the first policeman.

‘You can’t do that!’ shouted Barrow. The second officer kicked him in the knee and he went down, howling.

Now Davis roared and kicked open the rear passenger door. He stormed out, his hands bunching into fists, his dreadlocks flailing behind him.

Two of the men in riot gear pulled blue and yellow Taser guns from nylon holsters on their thighs. They pointed them at Davis and fired. Twin barbed darts shot out from each gun, trailing fine wires behind them. All four hit Davis in the chest. He immediately went rigid, then fell to the ground, every muscle in his body in spasm.

‘Who are you going to report that to, arsehole?’ the officer asked. ‘The RSPCA?’

‘What do you want?’ asked Richie, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Do you want a piece? Is that it? Is this a shakedown? Because all you gotta do is ask. How much do you want?’ He prodded his broken teeth and winced.

The policeman grinned. ‘What have you got?’

Richie shrugged. ‘I could go a grand,’ he said. ‘A grand a week.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

‘You didn’t have to break me fucking teeth, man,’ said Richie. He rubbed his hand across his bleeding lips.

The officer’s grin widened. ‘That? That’s just the start,’ he said. He raised his flashlight and brought it crashing down on the side of Richie’s head.

Richie opened his eyes. His head was throbbing and he could taste blood in his mouth. He cleared his throat and spat. Bloody phlegm trickled down his nose and across his forehead. He realised he was hanging upside-down, his head a few inches above the floor and his dreadlocks dragging across the concrete. His hands were tied behind his back and when he strained to look up he saw that his ankles were chained to a girder in the roof. His chest hurt every time he breathed. He looked to his left and saw Barrow, also suspended upside-down. His eyes were closed, the left puffed up; the cheek was cut and bruised.

‘You awake there, Orane, or Carlton, or whatever you want to call yourself?’ It was the policeman who’d hit him with the flashlight.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ gasped Richie.

Something hard slammed into his chest and he felt a rib crack. He roared in pain and struggled but his wrists were tightly bound. He thrashed around and then gradually went still. The policeman walked in front of him, swinging a cricket bat. ‘Do you play cricket, Orane?’ he said.

Richie shook his head. His chest felt as if it was on fire.

A second policeman appeared behind the first. He was holding a crowbar. ‘What about you, Shotty?’ he said. ‘I’d put you down as a spin bowler.’ He smacked the crowbar against Barrow’s left knee, which cracked like a dry twig. Barrow screamed in pain and tears ran down his face as he thrashed from side to side.

‘What do you want?’ yelled Richie. ‘What the fuck do you want?’

He heard a footfall behind him and twisted around, trying to see who it was. The movement made him start to spin and his stomach lurched. He threw up. Vomit spewed over his dreadlocks and stung his eyes.

‘That’s fucking disgusting,’ snarled the policeman with the cricket bat. The three in riot gear fanned out behind him. Two were carrying large spanners and one was holding a broom handle – he was black, Richie realised.

‘Yeah, look at the mess he’s made,’ said the black officer. ‘Don’t they teach them Yardies any manners?’ He bent down and grinned at Richie. ‘What da problem, my man? You eat somefink you shouldn’t oughta have, huh?’ he said, in a mock Jamaican accent. He pushed the end of his broom handle between Richie’s teeth. ‘Why doncha chew on this, man?’

Richie gagged and tried to turn his head but the man pushed the broom handle harder. ‘What da problem, man? Doncha like to swallow?’