False Friends (9 page)

‘Birmingham is right up there with London and Manchester when it comes to guns on the streets,’ said Hargrove. ‘Most of the il egal 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.

Hopeful y when we throw you into the mix we’l 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 smal 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 smal 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 hel , it’s a smal 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 pul ed out of Hendon and seconded to the Footbal Intel igence 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 surveil ance photographs fil ed the screen. ‘Simon Kettering and Paul Thompson. They were big wheels in the EDL, especial y on the fundraising side. They’re not your usual right-wing extremist thug. They wear suits, they drive nice cars, they’re wel 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 footbal 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 – al 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 fil ed 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 il egal 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 wil 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 hopeful y 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 & 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 stil 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 footbal 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 tel 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 pul s 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’l 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’l go with complete outsiders,’ said Fenby. ‘I’l have to vouch for you personal y.’

‘They’l 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 spel out what they want.’

‘And you’l have the guns?’

‘Not at the first meeting,’ said Hargrove. ‘Arms dealers are like drug dealers; they’re not comfortable sel ing 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 sel guns on the first meeting. And any sale would be done in very control ed 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’l get a sense of what they want and decide how to run it.’

‘And what about surveil ance?’

‘For the first meeting I’d suggest a total y 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’l fol ow your lead.’

‘We’l give you a ful report of what happens in London and we’l 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 ful 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 al 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 skil ,’ 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 pul ed out his wal et and bought a pint of lager for himself and a Jameson’s, ice and soda for Shepherd. A footbal game was playing on an overhead screen.

‘So what’s it like, being at the Met?’ asked Shepherd after they had clinked glasses.

Sharpe pul ed a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘The whole multicultural-community bol ocks gets on my nerves, but at least with Hargrove I get to do real police work and put some real vil ains behind bars. You know what he’s like; he protects you from the shit that comes running downhil .’ 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 wal and shot. SOCA turned into the worst sort of bureaucracy and didn’t put away a single high-profile vil ain. And what did it cost? Bil ions? Al of it money down the drain.’

‘Water under the bridge now, Razor.’

‘Maybe, but one of the reasons that the cops are so under-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?’