Rough Justice Part 42

'It's the way you carry yourself,' said Hollis. 'And the way you kept yourself in hand when PCDC was handing you all that c.r.a.p.'

Shepherd grinned. 'Yeah, it wasn't easy.'

'You should try dealing with it on a daily basis,' said Hollis. 'It'd do your head in.' He took another long drag on his cigarette. 'Look, it's none of my business, but if I were you I'd sort this out yourself. The law just isn't geared up for handling situations like you're in. You want my advice, get a few of your Regiment mates and go around and show him the error of his ways.' He smiled. 'Just don't forget to wear your balaclavas.'

Shepherd watched the detective walk away, then took out his mobile phone. He tapped out Jack Bradford's number. His friend answered almost immediately. 'Jack, can you and Billy do me a favour?' he asked.

'Name it.'

'I've got a problem in Hereford and I could do with a couple of friendly faces watching my back. If you and Billy could be around for a few days, it'd make me feel a h.e.l.l of a lot easier.'

'We'll be there tonight is that soon enough?'

'I'm around over the weekend so tomorrow night will be fine.'

'Do we need anything?'

Shepherd knew he meant guns but was being careful on an open line. 'I don't think so, Jack. Just your good selves.'

Jack Bradford was as good as his word: he and Billy had arrived in Hereford just before midnight on Sunday. Shepherd had slipped out of the house and briefed them on the problems he was having with Lekstakaj. He gave them the man's address and asked them to keep an eye on him and on his own house until the following weekend. He explained that he didn't want Katra or Liam worried, so while they were to keep the house under surveillance they were also to keep a low profile.

On Monday morning he left his motorbike at home and caught the Tube to Edgware Road, opposite the Paddington Green police station. Before he went inside the building he tapped out a number on his mobile. Kenny Mansfield answered. He sounded fl.u.s.tered, as if he was in the middle of something that required all his attention. 'Yeah, what? Mansfield here, who's that?'

'Kenny, it's Dan Shepherd. SOCA. We met last year for the briefing on criminals in Pattaya.'

'Sure, Dan. Look, can I call you back in about five minutes?'

'No sweat. Talk to you later.'

There was a Costa coffee shop along the road so Shepherd went in and ordered a mocha from a pretty Polish girl. Just as she finished sprinkling chocolate on top, his mobile rang. It was Mansfield. There was the hum of traffic in the background. 'Sorry about that, Dan I had a DS breathing over my shoulder.'

'Are you busy?'

'To be honest, I've just popped out for a f.a.g, so you've my undivided attention for the next five minutes or so. How did the Thailand thing go, by the way?'

'Not as expected, but I was happy enough with the result,' said Shepherd. 'Look, I need a favour, Kenny. Can you put together a briefing on Albanian criminal activity for me?'

'Not a problem,' said Mansfield. 'I gave a couple of lectures on Balkan gangs at Hendon last year. What is it you need to know?'

'Who's doing what, and what we're doing about them. Just to get me up to speed.'

'Have you got an active case?'

'It's a grey area,' said Shepherd. 'Can I pop around this evening? About seven thirty?'

'Sure, I'm usually in the office until nine,' said Mansfield. 'Are you bringing your Scottish mate with you?'

'Razor? No, he's got other fish to fry. Cheers, Kenny, catch you later. Oh, one more thing, when I pop around I'll be Terry Halligan. It'll make things easier.'

Mansfield laughed. 'I don't know how you can keep track of who you are,' he said. 'Doesn't it give you a headache, slipping in and out of legends?'

'Yeah sometimes even I'm not sure who I'm supposed to be,' said Shepherd. He ended the call and crossed the road to the station.

The team were heading for a drink in the Hilton Hotel after their shift finished but Shepherd told them he had a plumber coming around to the house to deal with a leaking toilet. He caught a Bakerloo line Tube train from Edgware Road to Charing Cross, then spent ten minutes moving between platforms checking that he wasn't being followed before catching a westbound Circle line train to St James's Park. After leaving the station he spent another fifteen minutes walking around the park before crossing the road and going into New Scotland Yard, under the watchful eyes of two uniformed officers in bulletproof vests cradling MP5 a.s.sault rifles. He showed his warrant card to a uniformed sergeant. 'Terry Halligan,' he said. 'Here to see Kenneth Mansfield. He's expecting me.'

The sergeant tapped Shepherd's name into a computer, then nodded at a row of seats and asked him to wait. He picked up a phone and a few minutes later Kenny Mansfield appeared in the lift lobby and waved for Shepherd to join him. He was just under thirty, tall and thin and wearing a cheap suit that barely covered his wrists and ankles. 'Nice to see you again, Terry,' said Mansfield. He smiled at Shepherd, revealing teeth that had yellowed from years of smoking. Shepherd placed his wallet, phone and keys in a plastic tray and stepped through an airport-style metal detector. Mansfield waited until he had retrieved his belongings before shaking his hand and leading him to the lifts. 'Do you want a coffee?' he asked. 'I know you don't like meeting us cops out in public so the best I can offer is the canteen dishwater.'

'Yeah, let's give it a go,' said Shepherd.

They got into the lift and the doors closed. 'This is probably a stupid question, but Dan is your real name, isn't it? Or was that SOCA thing a legend too?'

'Dan Shepherd it is, but I'm under cover as Halligan so it was easier to show his warrant card at the door.'

'Impersonating a police officer,' said Mansfield. 'You know you can get into trouble for that?'

Shepherd chuckled. 'How's the family?' he asked. 'Last time we met you had a kid on the way.'

'She's six months old and as bright as a b.u.t.ton,' said Mansfield. He took out his wallet and pulled out two laminated photographs, one of a beaming baby, the other of a pretty brunette holding her. 'Her name's Emily.'

'Nice,' said Shepherd, looking at the pictures. 'I guess you're not getting much sleep.'

'Nah, she's brilliant,' said Mansfield. 'Sleeps through the night mostly, hardly ever cries she's the perfect baby.'

Shepherd gave him back the pictures. They arrived at the fourth floor and Mansfield led the way to the canteen, which hadn't changed since the last time Shepherd had visited. The walls were painted a drab orange and most of the tables were occupied by overweight office workers who looked as if a brisk walk would kill them.

'Grab a seat,' said Mansfield. 'How do you take it?'

'Black and no sugar, thanks,' said Shepherd. He sat down by the bombproof windows overlooking Victoria Street and watched the traffic crawl by until Mansfield returned with their coffees in chipped white mugs.

'So, you wanted intel on our Albanian friends,' said Mansfield, sitting down opposite Shepherd. 'They're not the brightest of criminals, so it's mostly violence-led,' he continued. 'The Romanians have some pretty hi-tech ATM and credit-card frauds going but the Albanians prefer a sawn-off shotgun and a kick in the nuts. They started in London with armed robbery, prost.i.tution, people-trafficking, and extorting money from their own people. They're nasty pieces of work, generally. It's that old truism that the men with the least to lose have the least to fear. Albania is one of the poorest countries in the world. Throw one of them into Pentonville prison and he'd think you've put him in a five-star hotel.'

Shepherd sipped his coffee. It was bitter and tasted instant. 'Drugs?'

Mansfield nodded. 'Once they had money streams coming in from hookers and extortion, like all villains looking to grow they moved into drugs, mainly bringing them overland from Central Europe. Any opposition and they shoot first and ask questions later. You think the Yardies are bad, these Albanians kill without blinking an eye. Have you got an operation planned? Because if you have you're gonna have to watch your back, Dan.'

'It's early stages,' said Shepherd.

'They tend to bring drugs, guns and girls in by the same route, often packed into the back of containers. The girls are forced to work, beaten and raped until they can't fight back. Once they've broken the girls, they start to use them as mules, bringing drugs in internally. Swallowing them and suchlike.'

'This is mainly a London problem, right?'

Mansfield shook his head. 'Most of them are in London because that's where the money is, but we've got ethnic Albanian gangs operating right across the country, as high up as Glasgow and Edinburgh, as far west as Cardiff. We're watching gangs in Liverpool, Telford, Lancaster, Manchester, even sunny Brighton.'

'What about Hereford?'

Mansfield frowned. 'Never heard of anything in Hereford,' he said. 'That's where the SAS is based, isn't it? Not likely to be a hotbed of crime, I'd have thought.'

'And what are we doing about it?' asked Shepherd. 'Are there ongoing investigations?'

'Nothing specifically targeting Albanians,' said Mansfield. 'They'll get pulled in as part of a Drugs Squad bust or a Clubs and Vice investigation. To be honest, if anyone's worried about the Albanians here it's the Albanians back in Albania. They know there's a problem. Their chief of police has been pressing the Home Office to send back a hundred criminals, more than three-quarters of them murderers convicted in their absence. Most of them got into the UK pretending to be Kosovan refugees.'

'So what's the hold-up?' asked Shepherd. 'If the Albanians can identify them, why don't we just ship them back to Albania?'

'They fight like h.e.l.l not to be sent back,' said Mansfield. 'They'll claim that they'll suffer human-rights abuses if they get sent back, or that their trials were rigged in their absence and that they weren't allowed to give their side. Albania's legal system doesn't have the best reputation and it wasn't long ago that they had the death penalty.'

'Even if they're convicted murderers, we don't send them back?'

'Especially murderers,' Mansfield said. 'They can claim that they were caught up in the whole Yugoslavian thing and as a result got post-traumatic stress disorder so that if they did kill it was down to the PTSD. And then they claim that they won't be able to get the proper medical care back in Albania. There's loophole after loophole in the extradition laws and there's a whole legal-aid industry geared up to exploit them.'

'It's no wonder this country's in the mess it is.' Shepherd sighed.

'A lot of them marry as soon as they get here and once they've got British citizenship it gets very murky,' Mansfield continued. 'The 1988 Human Rights Act gives them protection because their family life would be disrupted. And once it goes all the way through the courts, which would take years, it's still down to the Home Secretary to make the final decision. And if the guy can get enough friendly faces waving placards to say what an a.s.set he is to the UK and if enough people pet.i.tion their MPs, he can make a political decision and allow him to stay.'

Shepherd pulled a face. 'So there's nothing we can do to make sure that someone gets sent back?'

'We can start the ball rolling,' said Mansfield. 'We can put a case together and pa.s.s it on to the CPS, but then it's out of our hands. If the CPS decide to prosecute, they wouldn't be looking for extradition, they'd just be looking for a conviction in a UK court. The judge might give a recommendation that the guy be considered for deportation after he'd served his sentence, but he'd have to do his time in a UK jail first. And, like I said, it's not definite that he would be deported.'

'What if the Albanians applied for extradition?'

'Then they'd be dealing with the Home Office, and you know what a shower they are. They're even worse than the CPS couldn't organise a p.i.s.s-up in a brewery.' Mansfield sat back in his chair and fiddled with a red disposable cigarette lighter. 'Why don't you tell me what this is about, Dan?'

'What do you mean?'

Mansfield smiled. 'The Met has its fair share of morons, but they don't put them in Intelligence, generally,' he said. 'The clue's right there in the name. Intelligence. If you need help, just tell me what you want. I know you're one of the good guys, Dan, so unless it means me losing my pension then I'm at your service.'

'Like I said when I phoned you, Kenny, it's a grey area.'

'Grey's my favourite colour.'

Shepherd sipped his coffee and grimaced. It really did taste foul. He put down his mug and looked at the young intelligence officer. He instinctively trusted Mansfield, and had done the first time they'd met. And Mansfield was right: he was n.o.body's fool. 'There's a man in Hereford wanted by the Albanians for rape and murder. He got British citizenship by marriage. Now he's making my life difficult.'

'Difficult in what way?'

'He's thrown a brick through my window, killed my dog, and now he's threatening my kid.'

'Because?'

'Over nothing. His son Bluetoothed a video to my son of a boy being a.s.saulted. I told the school, the school called in the local cops and this guy has taken it into his head that I can get the whole thing stopped. Which I almost certainly can't. I've tried reasoning with him but he just keeps on crowding me and I'm pretty sure that if I don't do something he's going to cause me a lot of grief.'

'You've spoken to the local cops about him?'

'They were as much use as the proverbial chocolate teapot,' said Shepherd. 'I need to know everything there is about this guy so that I can do something about him.'

'What information have you got?' asked Mansfield.

'The name he's using is Jorgji Talovic and he claims to be a Bosnian. But I ran a DNA sample through the Europol database. He's Albanian, his name's Imer Lekstakaj and there are outstanding warrants for rape and murder.'

'So I'm guessing you'd like a look at those warrants,' said Mansfield.

'You read my mind, Kenny. I was going to go all around the houses with you, but you're right, I should have just asked you straight out. I'm sorry.'

'No sweat,' said Mansfield. He stood up. 'Let's take a wander upstairs and see what we can dig up,' he said.

They left the canteen and took the lift to Mansfield's office, a windowless box that was filled with stacks of reports, reference books and magazines, most of them dotted with bright yellow Post-it notes. 'Whatever happened to the paperless office?' asked Shepherd.

'Went the same way as "peace in our time", I think,' said Mansfield. 'Pretty much everything that goes across my desk has to be stamped and signed so emails just don't cut it. Mind you, the number of times our system crashes means I just don't trust anything I can't hold in my hand.' He cleared a pile of files off a chrome and leather chair and waved for Shepherd to sit down while he went behind his desk. Two computer terminals stood on it, along with more stacks of paper and three wire in-trays stacked high with internal memos. 'I've told them that when I die they're just to lay me down here and set fire to the office, Viking-style,' he said.

'They wouldn't do that,' said Shepherd. 'It'd contravene too many health-and-safety regulations.'

Mansfield chuckled as he dropped down onto his leather executive-style chair. 'Spell the Albanian name for me,' he said.

Shepherd did so and Mansfield tapped the keyboard of the terminal on his left.

'You won't get into trouble for this?' asked Shepherd.

'I've got pretty much free run of the Europol databases, and our investigations are so wide-ranging our fingerprints are everywhere,' said Mansfield. 'But all I'm doing here is checking the Europol arrest-warrant list and that's widely available.' He sat back. 'I can't let you take a hard copy, but I seem to remember that your memory is close to photographic, right?'

'It's never let me down yet,' said Shepherd.

Mansfield pushed back his chair and stood up. 'Look, I'm gasping for a f.a.g. Why don't you make yourself at home while I hit the pavements?'

Shepherd moved over to Mansfield's side of the desk and sat down in his chair. There was a Europol file on the screen. 'Cheers, Kenny. I owe you.'

'Always useful to have a mate in SOCA who owes you a favour,' said Mansfield. 'You do fix parking tickets, right?'

Shepherd laughed. 'Yeah, I wish.'

Mansfield gestured at the monitor. 'It's pretty self-explanatory,' he said. 'Anything sensitive is pa.s.sword protected so you can't get into trouble.' He took a pack of Rothmans and his lighter from his pocket. 'I'll be back in ten.'

Mansfield left the office as Shepherd began to read the file on the screen. At the top left there was a police photograph, a head-and-shoulders shot, face on, and two side shots, with a full set of fingerprints. Lekstakaj had served time in prison twice, once as a teenager for rape and again as a twenty-five-year-old, for attempted murder. He had pleaded guilty to knifing a man in the chest during an argument over a parking s.p.a.ce and served just six years.

In 1996 Lekstakaj had raped a twelve-year-old Muslim girl, Elira Halil. Steve Renshaw had already given Shepherd the bare details of the rape and a.s.sault, but the file had the full Albanian police report and an English translation. And there were photographs of the girl's face, showing the deep cuts Lekstakaj had inflicted with a Stanley knife. Shepherd grimaced as he studied the photographs. Only a psychopath could have inflicted those injuries on a young girl. She had told her father who had attacked her, and rather than going to the police, the father had confronted Lekstakaj at his home. Lekstakaj had produced a gun and shot the man in the chest, then fled his small village in the foothills of Mount Korab. He had moved to the Albanian capital, Tirana, where he had worked as a labourer and part-time enforcer for a local money-launderer for almost two years. Then he had pulled a teenage girl into an alley and raped her savagely. Her name was Zamira Lazami and she had been on her way home from school. This time Lekstakaj made sure the girl wasn't able to identify him. He strangled her and stabbed her with a hunting knife.

The police found the knife in a storm drain and matched the fingerprints on it to Lekstakaj, but despite an extensive manhunt he was never found and the police a.s.sumed he had left the country.

Lekstakaj had no family, and had apparently never married or had children. There was a report from a prison psychiatrist detailing his mental instability and his tendency to be violent. According to the psychiatrist, Lekstakaj's rapes were merely an expression of his anger rather than for any s.e.xual gratification; he would always be a danger to society. At no point had he ever expressed remorse for his actions and, according to the psychiatrist, he was a textbook sociopath.

Shepherd scrolled back up the screen and looked at the police photograph. Lekstakaj was staring at the camera with a total lack of interest. There was no emotion at all: his face was a blank mask and his eyes were lifeless. There were more wrinkles now, and the man had less hair, but other than that he hadn't changed. Shepherd knew now that he wouldn't be able to talk any sense into Lekstakaj. He was a brutish, murderous thug and he would keep battering away at Shepherd until he got what he wanted. Or until he was stopped.

He went back through the police report, then reached a section that had been compiled by the Albanian police's Europol liaison officer. There was an appeal for information concerning the whereabouts of Lekstakaj, with the officer's email address and phone number.

He scrolled back up and read through the details of the rape and murder of the schoolgirl. It was a senseless a.s.sault, vicious and cruel, the work of a crazed animal rather than a human being. The girl's mother was dead, and she had been living with her father, Aleksander Lazami. Shepherd frowned as he realised that there was a Europol reference number next to the father's name. He used the mouse to click on it but nothing happened. He studied the screen and spotted a search b.u.t.ton in the top left-hand corner. He cut and pasted the reference number into the search facility and hit enter.

He sat back as the screen changed. Aleksander Lazami was also on the Albanian police's 'Most Wanted' list and an extradition warrant had already been served against him. As Shepherd read the details, he smiled slowly. 'What a b.l.o.o.d.y small world,' he muttered to himself. The Albanians had tracked Lazami down he had changed his name to Jovan Bashich and was now living in north London. The file on Lazami had a photograph but no fingerprints as he had never been arrested in Albania, but there were details of a trial that had been held in his absence where he had been found guilty of extortion and fraud. It had taken place a year after his daughter was murdered. According to the prosecution statement, Lazami was believed to have bribed his way out of the country and crossed the border into Kosovo and from there travelled to England where he had claimed political asylum and was eventually granted British citizenship. The Albanians had applied to have him extradited and the case was now working its way through the appeals system. There were also charges of possessing a consignment of AK-47s and attempted murder awaiting him if he was ever returned to Albania.

Mansfield appeared at the door to the office. 'Everything okay, Dan?' he asked.

Shepherd grinned. 'Couldn't be better,' he said.