‘So have they checked us out, do you think? To make sure we haven’t got any right-wing sympathies.’
‘Clearly not,’ said Shepherd, ‘or they wouldn’t be letting you loose on their precious operation.’
‘I resent that remark,’ said Sharpe. He grinned. ‘Anyway, I’m a changed man, haven’t you heard? I’ve been on all the diversity courses going and passed with flying colours. I fully understand the role that the police service of the twenty-first century has in maintaining productive and respectful relationships with the various ethnic components of the community.’ He laughed. ‘Load of bollocks.’ He was about to say more when Hargrove’s black Vauxhall Vectra appeared at the end of the road.
‘Here we go,’ said Shepherd.
‘I thought he’d have a driver,’ said Sharpe.
‘I think the days of drivers for senior officers are long gone,’ said Shepherd.
The car pulled up next to them. Shepherd climbed into the front while Sharpe got into the back. Hargrove was wearing a dark-blue suit and had put the jacket on a hanger on the hook at the rear passenger side. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said.
Shepherd gave Hargrove his coffee and he slotted it into a cup-holder before putting the car into gear and pulling away from the kerb. The drive from London to Birmingham took just under two hours, during which time Hargrove briefed them on the West Midlands operation, which had been codenamed Excalibur. The Major Investigations Unit had targeted a dozen right-wing activists in Birmingham, most of whom were members of the English Defence League. The investigation had begun in 2010 and had initially been little more than low-level intelligence gathering. But following the countrywide riots and looting the activists had started talking about arming themselves. Several had already acquired handguns but at least two of the men under investigation were now looking to buy more serious weaponry. According to the undercover cop that Hargrove had in place, they wanted AK-47s.
‘Why would anyone want an AK-47?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Birmingham is right up there with London and Manchester when it comes to guns on the streets,’ said Hargrove. ‘Most of the illegal guns are in the hands of gang members and there are already plenty of AK-47s, Uzis and Ingrams knocking around.’
‘So what do you think’s going on? Are these guys planning to take on the gangs, is that it?’
‘Our man doesn’t know why they want the guns. Self-protection, maybe. Could be they just want to pose for pictures on their Facebook pages. Hopefully when we throw you into the mix we’ll be able to find out what their intentions are.’
They turned off the A41 and arrived at Lloyd House, the headquarters of West Midlands Police. Hargrove’s car had been approved for secure parking and they went through a rear door from the car park and along a corridor to a main reception area, where Hargrove showed his warrant card. Ten minutes later they were in a fourth-floor meeting room drinking watery coffee with a uniformed superintendent and a plainclothes sergeant in a grey suit that appeared to be two sizes too large for him. They made uncomfortable small talk while they waited for the undercover officer to arrive. The superintendent, Richard Warner, was in his early fifties, grey-haired and wearing thick-lensed spectacles.
They were halfway through the coffee, and the small talk had pretty much dried up, when the door to the meeting room opened. Jimmy Sharpe grinned and cursed under his breath when he recognised the new arrival. ‘Ray Fenby,’ he said. ‘Bloody hell, it’s a small world.’
He stood up and embraced the man. Fenby, in his early twenties, was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and camouflage cargo pants. His head was shaved and as he hugged Sharpe, Shepherd saw that he had MILL tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand and WALL on the left.
‘How’s it going, Razor?’ said Fenby.
‘I didn’t realise you knew each other,’ said Hargrove.
‘We worked on a SOCA case two years ago,’ said Sharpe, releasing his grip on the younger man. ‘Just after he left school.’
Fenby chuckled and ran a hand over his shaved head. ‘I’m twenty-four,’ he said.
Sharpe grabbed him by the back of the neck and gave him a good-natured shake. ‘He was wearing his school blazer the first time we met.’
‘We were in a pub,’ said Fenby. ‘And the way I remember it, you didn’t even buy a round.’ Fenby glanced shamefacedly at the uniformed superintendent. ‘Sorry, sir.’
The superintendent smiled amiably. ‘Take a seat, Ray,’ he said. Fenby shook hands with Shepherd and introduced himself.
‘Ray was one of a group of officers in training who were pulled out of Hendon and seconded to the Football Intelligence Unit,’ Hargrove explained to Shepherd. ‘We’ve drafted him into the Covert Operations Group and he’s been part of Operation Excalibur from the start.’ Hargrove smiled at the uniformed superintendent. ‘Over to you, Superintendent.’
Superintendent Warner nodded and reached for an open laptop that was connected to a projector. He launched a PowerPoint presentation and clicked on the first slide. Two surveillance photographs filled the screen. ‘Simon Kettering and Paul Thompson. They were big wheels in the EDL, especially on the fundraising side. They’re not your usual right-wing extremist thug. They wear suits, they drive nice cars, they’re well spoken, they have no criminal records. In fact if it wasn’t for Ray here they wouldn’t even be on our radar. They always maintained a low profile when they were with the EDL but they now appear to be heading up their own splinter group. And before anyone asks, it doesn’t seem to have a name. It’s just a group of like-minded people who get together from time to time. Ray has spent some time penetrating this group, and it looks as if he has been accepted. And last week he came to us with the news that two of the men want to buy weapons. Serious weapons. They have been talking about AK-47s and Uzis.’
He tapped the keypad and another picture flashed on to the screen. Kettering and Thompson sitting outside a wine bar with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. Both men were smoking large cigars.
‘To any outside observer the two of them seem to be nothing more than a couple of yuppies.’
He clicked the mouse several times and they looked at a succession of photographs, mostly taken with a long lens. Kettering getting into a Porsche. Thompson getting out of a Mini Cooper. The two of them at a football match, shouting and punching the air.
‘But there is a darker side to them,’ said the superintendent. He clicked the mouse again and a photograph that had been taken from CCTV footage popped up. It was grey and grainy, almost as if it had been taken in thick fog. It showed two men in suits kicking a man on the ground. ‘We are fairly sure that this is the two of them attacking an Asian teenager three months ago. The CPS say the footage we have isn’t good enough for a positive identification but they were heard boasting about the attack.’
Another click of the mouse brought up a montage of sixteen photographs of young men — all of them white and aged between twenty and forty. More than half had shaved heads.
‘We have identified these sixteen men as being close to Kettering and Thompson. Between them they have more than fifty convictions for assault, racial abuse and threatening behaviour, mainly against members of the Asian community. Most have been photographed at BNP and EDL demonstrations and are regular posters on anti-Islamic and anti-Asian internet forums. I should make it clear at this point that neither Kettering nor Thompson has ever been charged or convicted of any offence and so we don’t have fingerprints or DNA on file. We think that’s because they’re smarter than the average right-wing thug.’
He clicked the mouse for a final time. The logo of West Midlands Police filled the screen along with the motto, ‘Serving our communities, protecting them from harm.’
Sharpe put a hand up to scratch his cheek as he attempted to suppress a grin and Shepherd turned away so that he didn’t have eye contact because he was sure that Sharpe was about to wink at him. Shepherd knew that Sharpe had nothing but contempt for cops who thought that
their job was to serve. In Sharpe’s view, the police were there to catch criminals and everything else should be left to Social Services.
‘So as of today we have a total of eighteen suspects under investigation here in the West Midlands. As regards the sixteen faces I showed you, the CPS is satisfied that we have enough evidence to charge them with conspiracy to commit various illegal acts, including assault and arson. But we don’t have anything yet to pin on Kettering and Thompson and until we do I’m reluctant to charge anybody. Once we start making arrests they’re going to realise that we’ve had a man on the inside so the investigation will have to come to an end. So we need to make sure that we have enough to convict Kettering and Thompson.’ He smiled at Hargrove. ‘Which is hopefully where your team comes in.’
Hargrove nodded. ‘Happy to help,’ he said.
‘On several occasions Kettering and Thompson have talked about buying a high-powered weapon and if we can get them in possession then we can put them behind bars for a few years at least. And once we have them in custody we hope to turn one of their friends and get evidence of their involvement in the racial attack.’ The superintendent gestured at Fenby. ‘Ray has let them know that he has contacts in London who have access to guns. Kettering and Thompson have expressed interest but want a good look at any weapons on offer. But let the man himself do the talking.’ He nodded at Fenby.
The undercover officer cleared his throat nervously. ‘They want big stuff, AK-47s, and they keep talking about the guns that the armed cops use, the Heckler amp; Koch MP5.’
‘And have they said what they want to do with the weapons?’ asked Hargrove.
‘They keep their cards close to their chest,’ said Fenby. ‘Kettering and Thompson are tight. They might even be partners, in a sexual sense. They’re not overtly gay and I’ve seen them with girls but there’s something weird about the two of them when they’re together. They finish each other’s sentences; they mimic each other’s body language.’ He shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s weird. It’s taken me months to get close to them but they’re still cagey when I’m around. Those faces you saw represent most of the group that they hang around with, but there’s a lot of coming and going. I’m in pretty tight with three guys I met through football but they’re not much closer to Kettering and Thompson than I am. They seem to keep everyone at a distance.’
‘How did Kettering and Thompson come to know that you had arms-dealer connections?’ asked Hargrove.
‘The guys I was hanging with started talking about guns. They wanted to know how to get their hands on some and I thought they meant handguns so I began to tell them a few stories about south London, how you could go into a pub and buy a gun for a century, and their ears pricked up. A couple of days later I was in a club and Kettering pulls me to one side and asks me if I know anyone who can supply guns and I took it from there.’
‘And where do you stand at the moment?’
‘I’ve said I know a couple of guys in London and that I’ll see if I can get some prices.’
‘You’re okay with that?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Might be safer if you make us friends of friends, that way you don’t have to know our shoe sizes and dates of birth.’
‘I don’t think they’ll go with complete outsiders,’ said Fenby. ‘I’ll have to vouch for you personally.’
‘They’ll trust you with this?’ asked Shepherd.
Fenby shrugged again. ‘They’ve no reason to doubt me. I’ve proved myself often enough.’
The superintendent tapped a pen on the table and flashed Fenby a warning look.
Fenby looked pained. ‘You know what it’s like undercover. I’m one of the lads. We talk the same language, walk the same walk. I haven’t put a foot wrong so far.’
‘The problem is that we don’t have a large undercover squad,’ said the superintendent. ‘And those that we do have are more used to drugs work than weapons.’
Hargrove nodded. ‘I think we can put something together,’ he said.
‘That’s good to hear,’ said the superintendent. ‘How do we move it forward?’
‘We need to arrange a meeting, through Ray here. Put Kettering and Thompson together with Jimmy and Dan. Get them to spell out what they want.’
‘And you’ll have the guns?’
‘Not at the first meeting,’ said Hargrove. ‘Arms dealers are like drug dealers; they’re not comfortable selling to people they don’t know. You might be able to buy a cheap handgun from a stranger in Brixton, but the big stuff is too sensitive. No dealer would sell guns on the first meeting. And any sale would be done in very controlled circumstances.’
‘Can we do that here? In Birmingham?’
Hargrove wrinkled his nose. ‘Any dealer worth his salt is going to expect the buyer to come to him. At least in the first instance. If we appear too keen it’s going to look suspicious.’
‘So London?’
‘Home turf, yes. For the initial meeting. We’ll get a sense of what they want and decide how to run it.’
‘And what about surveillance?’
‘For the first meeting I’d suggest a totally hands-off approach. Everyone tends to be on edge.’
The superintendent nodded but didn’t look happy. ‘You’re the expert,’ he said. ‘Obviously we’ll follow your lead.’
‘We’ll give you a full report of what happens in London and we’ll arrange for the sale to take place up here,’ said Hargrove. He looked at his wristwatch. ‘Before we head back, I’d like Dan and Jimmy here to be given full access to the investigation files that you have.’
‘I can’t let you take anything out of the building,’ said the superintendent quickly. ‘We’ve kept all our files off the mainframe. Everything is either on paper under lock and key, or on two laptops.’ He tapped his computer. ‘This is one. They’re under lock and key too and never leave the building.’
‘That’s not a problem.’ Hargrove nodded at Shepherd. ‘Dan has a photographic memory so he won’t even have to take notes.’
‘Useful skill,’ said the superintendent.
‘It’s stood me in good stead so far,’ said Shepherd.
Hargrove, Shepherd and Sharpe reached the outskirts of London at nine o’clock in the evening. Hargrove dropped them in Hampstead High Street, not far from the Starbucks where he’d picked them up. Shepherd and Sharpe waved as Hargrove drove away.
‘Like the good old days,’ said Sharpe.
‘What do you mean, us standing out in the cold while he drives off in a warm car?’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Sharpe, punching him on the shoulder. ‘We were a bloody good team.’ He looked around. ‘Is there a half-decent pub near here?’
‘I quite like Ye Olde White Bear.’
‘Do ye now?’ laughed Sharpe. ‘Then lead on, McDuff.’
Shepherd took him towards the Heath and into the pub. Sharpe pulled out his wallet and bought a pint of lager for himself and a Jameson’s, ice and soda for Shepherd. A football game was playing on an overhead screen.
‘So what’s it like, being at the Met?’ asked Shepherd after they had clinked glasses.
Sharpe pulled a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘The whole multicultural-community bollocks gets on my nerves, but at least with Hargrove I get to do real police work and put some real villains behind bars. You know what he’s like; he protects you from the shit that comes running downhill.’ He sipped his lager. ‘That whole SOCA nonsense — bloody waste of time from the get-go.’
‘No arguments here,’ said Shepherd.
‘They should have left us with the Met instead of forcing us to work with Customs officers and tax inspectors. Whoever thought that was a good idea should be put up against a wall and shot. SOCA turned into the worst sort of bureaucracy and didn’t put away a single high-profile villain. And what did it cost? Billions? All of it money down the drain.’
‘Water under the bridge now, Razor.’
‘Maybe, but one of the reasons that the cops are so u
nder-resourced is because so much was put into SOCA. Like the bloody NHS: too many chiefs and not enough Indians.’ He took another drink of lager. ‘What about Five? What’s it like there?’
‘Can’t tell you, Razor. Official Secrets Act and all that.’
‘Screw you.’
Shepherd grinned. ‘It’s okay. It’s not as bureaucratic as SOCA and money never seems to be an issue.’
‘And the lovely Charlotte?’
‘She’s a good boss, Razor, no matter what you think.’
Sharpe put down his glass and raised his hands in surrender. ‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘Put your bloody hands down, you idiot. Charlie’s like Hargrove — she takes any flak that’s flying about.’
‘And tells you the bare minimum.’
‘It’s the Security Service, Razor. Most of what goes on is on a need-to-know basis.’
‘Yeah? Well, I like to know exactly why I’m putting my balls on the line. I can’t abide all that secret squirrel stuff.’ He picked up his glass again.
‘Yeah, maybe I’m not totally in the loop but the money makes up for that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do you want to talk pay grades? You went back into the Met as a DS?’
‘Detective Inspector,’ said Sharpe, squaring his shoulders. ‘Hargrove pushed through a promotion.’
‘Yeah, well, DIs don’t get overtime, and trust me, I’m paid a shedload more than you.’
Sharpe chuckled. ‘Next round’s on you, then.’ He drained his glass and banged it down on the counter. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’ Shepherd ordered another round of drinks as Sharpe looked around the pub. ‘So what’s with you and Hampstead?’ he said. ‘Full of TV producers and poncy writers and lesbians, isn’t it?’
‘Part of my legend,’ said Shepherd. ‘And just in case we bump into anyone who knows me, I’m John Whitehill and I’m a freelance journalist.’
False Friends ss-9 Page 7
