‘I remember,’ said Shepherd.
‘We don’t need much in the way of a legend,’ said Hargrove. ‘You’ll be brought in as a London arms dealer through the contact we already have in place. I thought we might pull in your teammate Jimmy Sharpe.’
‘Razor? He’s working for you?’
‘Joined my team three months ago,’ said Hargrove. ‘Since he left SOCA he’s been rattling around the Met and no one really knew what to do with him. They offered him a retirement package but he turned that down and then they sent him to me.’
‘He’s a good operator,’ said Shepherd.
‘One of the best. It’s just that he’s old school and the world has changed.’ He drained his glass.
‘You’re prospering,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m management so it’s easier for me. I follow the rules, see which way the political wind is blowing and go with it, and I make sure that all my boxes are ticked. If I don’t screw up I could go up another rung before retirement, maybe two. That’ll do me, Spider. I already have my cottage in Norfolk and my flat near Lords and a Cordon Bleu cook to wait on me hand and foot, so all’s right with the world.’
‘It’ll be good to work with Razor again.’
‘Well, he’s the perfect fit for this job. The guy we have in place is young but experienced. He’s involved in the long-term penetration of right-wing groups. To be honest, he’s been undercover too long and wants out so he can probably appear in court to give evidence, which gives us a huge advantage.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’ll put you together with Razor and we’ll see what we can put together by way of samples. Then the inside man can fix up a meeting with the buyers and we’ll take it from there.’ Hargrove grinned. ‘It’s good to be working with you again, Spider. The old team back in harness.’
Shepherd grinned back. ‘I was just thinking exactly the same thing,’ he said. He held up his empty glass. ‘One for the road?’
Hargrove looked at his watch. ‘Would love to but I have to get back. The wife is doing something special with duck tonight.’ He stood and picked up his coat. ‘I’ll be heading up to Birmingham in a couple of days and it’d be handy if you could come with me. Bit of a briefing with the locals and it’ll give you a chance to have a sit-down with Razor.’
A young man in a leather jacket smiled at Hargrove and raised his martini glass.
Hargrove smiled and nodded, then he patted Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘Next time I’ll let you suggest the venue.’
‘I still don’t see why Mohammed can’t come to the mountain,’ said Sharpe as he walked out of Starbucks and onto Hampstead High Street. It was Friday morning and the sky overhead was threatening rain.
‘Now what are you moaning about?’ said Shepherd.
They were both carrying coffees. Hargrove had sent Shepherd a text saying that he was on his way and Shepherd was holding two coffees, a regular for himself and a latte for the chief superintendent.
‘Why are we having to schlep up to Birmingham?’ said Sharpe. ‘There’re three of us; why can’t the undercover guy come down to London?’
‘To be honest, I don’t want to be going into New Scotland Yard unless I have to,’ said Shepherd. ‘And Hargrove said that the West Midland cops don’t want any of their intel leaving their office.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ said Sharpe. He sipped his coffee and looked at his wristwatch, a cheap Casio. ‘What are they saying? They don’t trust the Met?’
‘It’s that whole right-wing thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s not unknown for cops to be supportive of organisations like the BNP and EDL. From what Hargrove was saying, it looks as if they’re not even putting their intel on to the computer.’
‘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.