‘It’s theft,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re taking something that doesn’t belong to you and that’s against the law.’ He chuckled. ‘Hell, Lex, my boy knew the difference between right and wrong when he was four years old.’
‘Because you taught him,’ said Harper. ‘But if I had kids, I’d be giving them a different definition of right and wrong.’
‘And what about drugs?’ said Shepherd.
Harper turned to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’d tell your kids that drugs are a good thing, right?’
‘I’d tell them what I believe, that drugs are no more dangerous than alcohol or cars.’
‘Cars?’
‘More people die in car accidents every year than they do from drug overdoses. Yet you don’t hear anyone saying we should ban cars. Alcohol causes way, way more damage than drugs. Yet you can buy it in supermarkets. So you tell me why drugs are singled out they way they are. Your rich banker can sit on a cellar with a thousand bottles of wine and all’s well with the world. But you get caught with half an ounce of cocaine and you’re banged up. Our hospitals are full of people dying from alcohol abuse, and half of all the people in jail have alcohol problems.’
‘There are plenty of people behind bars because of drugs.’
‘You see, that’s where you’re wrong, mate,’ said Harper. ‘They’re in prison because the powers that be have decided that drugs are illegal. So you get sent to prison for possession of drugs or for selling them. If drugs were legal, none of those people would be in prison.’
‘See, that’s not true,’ said Shepherd. ‘Look at all the violent crimes caused by drugs.’
Harper shook his head. ‘It’s not the drugs that cause the crime, it’s the drugs trade. It’s because drugs are illegal that the trade is controlled by gangsters. They shoot each other over turf wars and get violent with anyone who owes them money. But it’s not the drugs that make people violent. You can’t say that about alcohol. Drunks punch and knife each other every day of the week. Hospital A&E departments are full of people affected by alcohol, and like I said, most car crashes involve booze. But people on drugs generally don’t drive and generally don’t fight each other. You smoke some dope and you chill, you pop a few tabs of ecstasy and you love your neighbour, you don’t want to punch him in the face. Even coke is about enjoying yourself. Mate, if drugs were legalised tomorrow the world would be a much happier and safer place.’ He took another pull on his cigarette, blew smoke through the window, and then held the still-smouldering butt under Shepherd’s nose. ‘And what about these?’ he asked. ‘Biggest self-administered killers on the planet, cigarettes. And no sign of them being made illegal.’ He flicked ash out of the window. ‘It’s Prohibition, mate. Pure and simple. And one day that’s how it’ll be seen.’
‘You think so?’
Harper nodded. ‘I’m sure so. People want drugs, and eventually they’ll get a government that gives them what they want. That’s how democracy works, right?’
Shepherd chuckled. ‘I have to say I don’t think I know how democracy works these days,’ he said. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Do you want me to drop you in Bayswater?. I’m guessing you don’t want to go back on the tube, what with your thing about CCTV.’
‘Anywhere near Queensway’ll be fine,’ said Harper.
Shepherd put the car into gear and edged into the traffic. ‘What Jock was saying, about souvenired weapons, it’s not a bad idea.’
Harper frowned. ‘I told you, I can get whatever we need here. Untraceable and no comebacks.’
‘I believe you. But maybe traceable is what we need.’ He braked to allow a black cab to perform a tight U-turn in front of them. ‘Khan is from Afghanistan. If we use guns from Afghanistan and they do get traced, the Afghan connection would muddy the waters, wouldn’t it.’
‘Using SAS guns would muddy the waters? You’ll need to explain that to me.’
The black cab tooted its horn and continued on its way. Shepherd accelerated, heading west. ‘Not SAS guns, you plonker. Taliban weapons, if we can get any. I’m sure lots of the guys brought guns over and have them tucked away. And with the clampdown on illegally held guns at the moment, they’d probably be happy enough to get rid of them.’
‘Do you know anyone?’
‘I think I might know someone who has a little something tucked away for a rainy day, yes.’
Shepherd parked his X5 next to a meter and fed it with a couple of one-pound coins. He took out his mobile phone as he walked towards the entrance of the park and tapped out Amar Singh’s number. He explained what he wanted – a GPS tracking device that he could leave on a car for a few days.
‘Not a problem, Spider. Can you drop by today, I’ll have one waiting for you.’
Shepherd looked at his watch. It was just after three and he’d almost certainly get stuck in rush-hour traffic. ‘Can you wait for me, if I try to get there before six?’
‘I’m on a late one tonight so no rush,’ said Singh. ‘We’re working on CCTV links to a lock-up in Bradford that’s got some very interesting stuff in it.’
Shepherd stood to the side to allow two large women with a golden retriever and a liver-and-white cocker spaniel exit the park. It was a sunny day but there was a chill in the air and he was wearing an overcoat over his suit.
The park was in North London, edged with trees and overlooked by a terrace of Edwardian brick mansion blocks. To the right was a line of tennis courts and to the far left, behind a building housing showers and changing rooms, was a running track and an outdoor gym. There was a children’s playground beyond the running track but most of the park was given over to a huge field where dogs could be exercised and where during the summer weekends pub teams played cricket. Around the field ran a tarmac path with wooden benches every fifty yards or so.
A middle-aged man in a camouflage-pattern T-shirt and baggy khaki cargo pants was shouting at a group of eight women, who were all attempting to do push-ups with varying degrees of success. One of the women, rolls of fat outlined by a too-tight lilac jumpsuit, was merely lying face down and moaning. The man went over to stand by her and shouted for her to put some effort into it. The woman grunted in pain and managed one press-up before collapsing back into the grass. The man bent down, patted her on the shoulder and whispered what Shepherd assumed were words of encouragement before standing up and shouting again.
As Shepherd watched the man put the women through a series of star jumps, sit-ups and jogging, all the time shouting at them like an ill-tempered sergeant major, he couldn’t help but smile. It had been several years since Shepherd had seen Jim ‘Jimbo’ Shortt, but the man had barely changed. Like most former SAS he was wiry and toned rather than muscle-bound, and had the sort of face that could easily be lost in a crowd. His only distinguishing feature was his sweeping Mexican-style moustache, now starting to show touches of grey. As Shortt shouted at the women to lie flat on their backs he looked over at Shepherd. The two men locked eyes and Shortt gave him a small nod of recognition. Shepherd grinned and went to sit down on a bench.
Shortt spent the next half an hour putting the women through their paces, never pushing them so hard that they gave up, but never letting them off easily, and by the time the session had finished the women were all exhausted and drenched with sweat. The large woman in the lilac jumpsuit grabbed Shortt and gave him a hug and a kiss on both cheeks before heading over to the changing rooms.
Shortt jogged over to where Shepherd was sitting and Shepherd stood up to greet him. ‘Fuck me, Spider Shepherd,’ said Shortt. ‘What brings you to my neck of the woods?’