Authors: Stephen Leather

Rough Justice (16 page)

BOOK: Rough Justice

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‘Pirate movies, yeah?’ said Sharpe.

She nodded enthusiastically. ‘
Pirates of the Caribbean
,’ she said. ‘Johnny Depp.’ She rummaged around in the holdall, muttering to herself.

‘I meant . . . Never mind,’ said Sharpe. He pulled out a Hollywood blockbuster that hadn’t yet been released in the UK. ‘Is this a good copy?’

‘Perfect.’

‘Because I don’t want any of that camera-in-the-cinema crap with heads bobbing around.’

‘Copy perfect,’ said the woman.

‘Six for twenty quid?’

‘Okay,’ said the woman, flashing her gold tooth again.

Sharpe chose six movies and gave her twenty pounds. As she headed for a group of Millwall fans at the bar, a young man in a leather jacket walked over holding a pint of lager. He had MILL tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand and WALL on the left, his head was shaved and he was wearing red Doc Marten boots. He nodded at Sharpe and sat down. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘That seat’s taken,’ snapped Sharpe.

‘Yeah, by me,’ said the man.

‘What’s your fucking problem?’ growled Sharpe.

The man leaned forward. ‘You’re Brian Parker, right?’

That was the undercover name he was using. ‘Bloody hell, you’re Ray Henby?’

The man winked. ‘In the flesh.’ He swigged his pint.

‘How old are you?’

‘Why?’

‘Because you look like a bloody teenager, that’s why,’ said Sharpe.

‘I’m twenty-two,’ said Henby.

‘How long have you been in the Met?’

‘Joined two years ago. You’re not in Human Resources, are you? If I’d known this was a job interview I’d have brought my CV with me.’

Sharpe ignored the sarcasm. ‘I thought you had to do at least three years as a beat cop before they’d consider you for specialist ops.’

‘They made an exception with me. And a dozen or so others. We got pulled out of Hendon and put into the Football Intelligence Unit. They figured getting us in young was more important than having us walk around the streets in a pointy hat. Do I pass muster?’

Sharpe grinned. ‘Pass muster?’

‘Look, mate, I’m doing you a favour by bringing you in. I don’t know you, you don’t know me, but I’m the one whose balls will be on the line if anything goes wrong. I’ve spent months easing myself into England First and I don’t want all that work to be pissed away.’ He raised his glass. ‘Okay?’

Sharpe nodded. ‘No offence meant. I just wanted to know who I was going to be riding with, that’s all.’

‘Well, now you know, so can I start the briefing – or do you want to tell me what it was like pounding a beat in Ballykissangel?’

‘Glasgow,’ said Sharpe.

‘Wherever.’

‘And Ballykissangel is in Ireland. I’m Scottish.’

‘Ballykissangel is the figment of some screenwriter’s imagination,’ said Henby. ‘But I take your point. So, are you ready?’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘You know about England First, right?’

‘Offshoot of the old National Front. The British National Party became the political wing, the hard nuts split off into England First. Skinheads, racists, football hooligans, hang the Jews, send the Pakis back home.’

‘That’s it pretty much,’ said Henby. ‘The BNP puts up candidates for the various elections and provides the talking heads for TV and the press, but England First provides the storm-troopers when they need something heavy doing.’

‘I’ve read the police intel on the group, but there isn’t much in the media.’

Henby nodded. ‘They’re low profile. No slogans, the membership list is secret, so is their funding. I’ve been going to meetings for the past six months and I only know three of the top guys.’

‘What – it’s run the like the Masons, is it? Secret handshakes and that?’

Henby grinned. ‘No secret handshakes, but you have to be invited to join, and even if you do, you’ll only know the members of your cell. They’re using the IRA model, keeping lots of small groups with only one point of contact, so if you get a mole in a cell the mole can only damage the cell, not the organisation.’

‘How deep in are you?’

‘I’m not,’ said Henby. ‘My main function is to provide intel on the Millwall supporters, tip off our guys when there’s going to be trouble, identify troublemakers, help with CCTV identification. I’m on the periphery of England First, that’s all. My boss asked me to take a look at Gary Dawson when his mobile number came up on a membership list.’

‘Yeah, it seemed a bit tenuous, that,’ said Sharpe. ‘All they had was a phone number, right?’

‘Yeah, but you can understand why Dawson would be careful. The BNP is a political organisation but membership alone is reason enough to be thrown out of the Met. England First is a hardcore racist organisation. He’d lose everything.’

‘You’ve met him, yeah?’

‘Once I was given his details, I started looking out for him,’ said Henby. ‘I saw him a few times at various England First meetings, and one of my contacts introduced me but I didn’t get a chance to talk to him.’

Sharpe rubbed his chin. ‘I was hoping you could introduce me, get me up close and personal,’ he said.

‘Dawson’s twenty years or so older than me and he’s not into football, so there was no connection,’ said Henby. ‘If I’d tried to force it, it would have set alarm bells ringing. I couldn’t take the risk.’

‘Okay,’ said Sharpe, but there was no hiding his disappointment.

‘What I can do is take you to an England First meeting where Dawson will probably be,’ said Henby. ‘There’s one on Sunday night but I haven’t been told where it is yet. My contact will be there – he’s an okay guy and he knows Dawson. You’re all about the same age so you can hopefully take a walk down Memory Lane and forge your own links. I’ll introduce you and make myself scarce.’

‘What’s your contact’s name?’

‘Lenny Brennan – he’s a Millwall fan but he doesn’t get involved much in the hooligan side, these days. Did three years for GBH a while back and prison was a bit of a shock. He’s been on the straight and narrow since.’

‘Racist?’

‘Everyone at England First is racist one way or another,’ said Henby. ‘But I’d say that Brennan was more political than violent. He works for Westminster City Council, though, so he has to keep his membership a secret. Figured I might be able to use that as leverage at some point.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, he’s actually a nice guy.’

‘For a racist?’

‘If I was black or Asian I’ve no doubt he’d treat me differently, but I am what I am and he’s a good guy to me. Like a big brother, you know? I have to force myself to remember that I’m a cop and he’s one of the guys I’m investigating.’

Sharpe sipped his lager. ‘Can I offer you some advice, Ray?’

‘Knock yourself out,’ said Henby.

‘If I sound patronising tell me, but you’re hellish young to be working under cover. I’ve been doing it for more than ten years and I find it stressful – it’s the toughest thing in the world to live a life pretending to be someone else.’

Henby frowned. ‘So?’

‘So I wouldn’t do it for too long. I’ve seen young guys working under cover go off the rails. Drugs, booze, hookers. It fucks with your psyche, and one of the first signs is when you start to empathise with the guys you’re investigating. If I were you I’d start looking for a move back into regular policing.’

Henby nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said.

Sharpe grinned.

‘You do sound patronising,’ continued Henby. ‘I’m not an amateur. I know what I’m doing.’

Sharpe’s grin vanished. ‘No offence,’ he said. ‘I just . . .’ He put up a hand. ‘Sorry, forget it.’

‘It’s okay,’ said Henby.

‘I shouldn’t be offering anyone advice,’ said Sharpe. He raised his pint. ‘It’s not as if I’m without vices of my own.’

‘Ten years under cover?’

‘Yeah, pretty much.’

‘Had a few hairy moments?’

‘More than my fair share,’ Sharpe said. ‘Especially since I moved to SOCA. Bigger villains. Most of the time, anyway.’

‘And this empathy thing, it happens to you?’

‘It happens to everybody, sooner or later. That’s one of the reasons we have the six-monthly psychological evaluations.’

‘The what?’ said Henby.

‘The chats with the unit psychologist. We had them when we were with the Met and SOCA does them too.’ He leaned forward. ‘Are you saying you don’t?’

‘I’m not with an undercover unit, I’m attached to Football Intelligence.’

‘That’s not right,’ said Sharpe. ‘Do you have a handler?’

‘I report to a chief inspector. I call him whenever I’ve got anything. And he calls me if there’s something he needs doing, like checking up on Dawson.’

‘And what about back-up?’

‘I’ve not needed it so far,’ Henby said. ‘I’m in an intelligence role, basically.’

‘Bloody hell, lad,’ said Sharpe. ‘You need to get your act together. You can’t do undercover work by the seat of your pants.’

‘It’s been okay so far,’ said Henby. ‘Did you work under cover with the Met before you joined SOCA?’

‘It was a police undercover unit, but we were available to any force in the country,’ said Sharpe. He smiled. ‘Back in the day when they were forces and not services. Then we got swallowed up by SOCA.’

‘And part of your brief is to investigate cops?’

Sharpe drank his lager and wiped his mouth. ‘I’m not happy about it either,’ he said. ‘But we don’t get to pick and choose our cases.’

‘I’m being treated a bit like a mushroom on this,’ said Henby. ‘My governor tells me he wants me to get you close to Dawson, but he doesn’t say why.’

‘Need to know,’ said Sharpe.

‘And I don’t?’

‘We’re in the same boat, Ray,’ said Sharpe. ‘What happens to Dawson is nothing to do with me. My boss tells me nothing. All I know is that Dawson’s a cop and my boss wants to know what he’s up to.’

‘With a view to getting him sacked?’

‘Maybe,’ said Sharpe. ‘Or maybe turning him. Maybe see if he’s giving them intel, access to the PNC, that sort of bollocks.’

‘So he might be prosecuted?’

Sharpe shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know, Ray, honest. I’m on a very low rung of the totem pole.’

‘I don’t think totem poles have rungs, but I get your drift,’ said Henby. ‘Just do me a favour and give me a heads-up if you decide to pull him in.’

‘It won’t be my decision, but sure, I’ll call you if I hear anything.’

‘Dawson won’t know you’re under cover, will he? Because if he connects me to you then I’ll be in the shit.’

‘We don’t work that way, Ray,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’ll be long gone before he gets a tug and we don’t give evidence in court.’

Henby raised his glass. ‘I’ll hold you to that, Brian,’ he said.

Sharpe clinked his glass against Henby’s. ‘You know that Brian Parker’s my cover name, right?’

‘They just said I was to meet a Brian Parker from SOCA.’

‘Okay, well, here’s the scoop. Brian Parker works for SOCA, in admin. A desk job. Divorced, two kids he never sees, alimony payments he can barely meet. I won’t tell Dawson that I work for SOCA but it won’t take much digging for him to find out. If I can convince him that I’m of the same political persuasion, he might figure that I’ll be a good source of intel for his England First mates.’

‘Isn’t that acting as an
agent provocateur
?’ Henby grinned. ‘Pardon my French.’

‘I won’t be entrapping him,’ said Sharpe. ‘He’ll see what’s on offer and it’s up to him to make the approach. One step at a time. Now, what’s our back story?’

Henby frowned. ‘Back story?’

‘How did we meet? How do you know me? What’s our connection?’

Henby exhaled through pursed lips. ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’

‘You’ve got to have the back story prepared,’ said Sharpe. ‘If someone asks and you stand there scratching your balls they’ll smell a rat.’

‘Football?’

‘I’m a Rangers fan and you support Millwall. How would that have happened?’

Henby looked crestfallen and Sharpe chuckled at the younger man’s obvious discomfort. ‘Tell you what, the old betting shop is a safe bet. Where do you live?’

‘Clerkenwell.’

‘You bet the horses?’

Henby shook his head.

‘Okay, so you went in to bet on a game. There’s plenty of bookies in Clerkenwell, you can be vague about that. I was in putting money on the horses and I gave you a sure thing. A twelve to one shot at Newton Abbot. I convinced you to put a bet on and you gambled twenty quid and won two hundred and forty. That’s the sort of thing to forge a friendship, right?’

‘Name of the horse?’

‘Say it was Missie something. You’re not a horse nut so why would you remember? I’ve given you a few other tips since and we’ve had a few drinks in the pub.’

‘Which pub?’

‘What’s your local in Clerkenwell?’

‘The White Hart. And the Slug and Lettuce.’

‘Okay, both of them, and here. But we’re mainly betting-shop buddies. During one of our pub chats I passed a racist comment or two so you asked me if I wanted to come along to an England First meeting.’

Henby nodded. ‘Sounds good.’

‘If in doubt, keep it vague,’ said Sharpe. ‘Most people have pretty crap memories, but if you tell a lie it can come back to haunt you.’

‘Got it,’ said Henby. He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick you up outside the pub tomorrow. Anything else before I head off?’

‘Just one more question?’

‘Fire away.’

Sharpe jerked a thumb at Henby’s hands. ‘The tattoos? They real?’

Henby held up his right hand and bunched it into a fist. He grinned at the blue letters on his knuckles. ‘Yeah. Of course.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Sharpe. ‘Talk about deep cover.’

‘They’ll come off,’ said Henby. ‘The new inks don’t go too deep, a couple of laser treatments and they’ll be gone.’

BOOK: Rough Justice

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