ROUGH JUSTICE.
by Stephen Leather.
There were three men in the black Humvee, tall, lanky Jamaicans with diamond earrings, chunky gold chains around their necks and diamond-studded Rolex watches on their wrists. They were all wearing expensive leather jackets, Armani jeans and limited-edition Nike trainers, and had dreadlocks hanging halfway down their backs. The driver was Carlton Richie: he had just turned thirty and was taking his friends to an illegal drinking den in Willesden, north-west London. Sitting next to him was Glenford Barrow, the youngest member of the crew. Barrow"s nickname was Shotty because of his predilection for resolving disputes with a sawn-off shotgun. In the back seat was Kemar Davis, the biggest of the three men. He tipped the scales at a little over a hundred and twenty kilos and it was all solid muscle.
Davis looked at his watch. "Are we there yet, man? I need a p.i.s.s."
"How old are you six?" asked Richie. "Why didn"t you go before you got into the car?"
"I didn"t want to go when I got into the car," said Davis. "Now I do. And if you don"t get me there soon I"ll be p.i.s.sing all over the back of your seat."
"Like f.u.c.k you will," said Richie.
They stopped arguing when they heard the blip of a siren being switched on and off and saw flashing lights. "f.u.c.k," said Richie, looking in his rear-view mirror. "Five-O."
Davis twisted around in his seat and looked through the back windscreen. Behind them was a grey police van with fluorescent stripes along the sides. "Pork in a can," he said. "What the f.u.c.k do they want? We didn"t do nuffink."
"Is anyone carrying?" asked Richie, pulling over to the kerb. They were in a side-street about half a mile from their destination. His two companions shook their heads. "What about the boot anything in there?"
"Nuffink," said Davis.
"And no one"s got any gear?"
More shaking heads.
Richie parked the car and sat with his hands on the steering-wheel. He shrugged his shoulders. "Just chill," he said. "We"re carrying nothing, we"ve done nothing, they"ve got nothing."
"f.u.c.king Babylon pigs," spat Davis.
"Chill," repeated Richie. "They just wanna give the black man a hard time, that"s all. Ten minutes, we"ll be on our way. Keep your hands where they can see them don"t give them no excuse."
They sat where they were as two uniformed police officers carrying flashlights walked from the van, one either side of the Humvee. The policeman on Richie"s side of the car tapped on the window with the base of his flashlight and motioned for him to wind it down. Richie did as he was told and smiled up at him, showing a single gold canine among his pristine white teeth. "Good evening, Officer," he said. "Is there a problem?"
"Driving licence," said the policeman. He was about Richie"s age, with a sallow complexion and a small white scar across his chin. He was wearing a fluorescent jacket over his uniform and a peaked cap.
Richie moved his hand slowly down to his jeans and took out his wallet. "I wasn"t speeding, was I?" he asked.
The policeman said nothing and continued to stare impa.s.sively at him. Richie slid out his licence and handed it over. The officer studied it, then shone his flashlight into Richie"s face. "Name?"
"It"s on the licence, innit?"
"Name," repeated the policeman.
The second bent down and shone his flashlight through the pa.s.senger window, playing the beam over Barrow"s chest and arms.
"Carlton Richie," said Richie.
"Date of birth?"
Richie took a deep breath, sighed, then recited his birth date in a bored voice.
"Get out of the vehicle, please," said the policeman.
"What"s the problem?" asked Richie.
"Just get out of the car or I"ll drag you out." He shone his torch into Richie"s eyes.
"I haven"t done anything," protested Richie, putting his hand up to shade them.
"Get out of the car," repeated the policeman.
Richie sighed again and opened the door. The officer stepped back as he climbed out, glaring. "This is wrong," he said.
The policeman sneered at him, then grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, spun him around and slammed him against the car. He kicked Richie"s legs apart. "Keep your hands on the car," he said. He went through Richie"s pockets, pulling out his wallet and mobile phone and placing them on the roof. "I ain"t carrying nuffink," said Richie.
The second policeman opened the pa.s.senger door. "You, out!" he snapped at Barrow. Barrow did as he was told and placed his hands on the roof of the car.
"This is bulls.h.i.t, man," said Richie.
The policeman slammed the flashlight against the back of Richie"s neck. "When I want you to talk I"ll tell you," he hissed.
"You are in so much f.u.c.king s.h.i.t," said Richie. "I know my rights and you"re trampling all over them."
"f.u.c.k your rights."
"You can"t say that." Richie turned to face the officer. "You can"t say that to me. I"ve got me rights. Me human rights."
"I can say what I want," said the policeman. "It"s a free country. And it"s my free country. You see, we know who are you, and we know what you"ve done."
"What?" said Richie.
"Your name"s Orane Williams, and you"re wanted for three murders in St Catherine, back in Jamaica."
"Like f.u.c.k."
"Yeah, just like f.u.c.k. You"re a big wheel in the Clansman Ma.s.sive. Drugs, extortion, prost.i.tution." The policeman pointed his flashlight at the man in the back seat. "And the big man there, he"s Leonardo Sach.e.l.l but the Clansman crew call him Da Vinci."
"So?" said Richie.
"So you"re a murdering sc.u.mbag, and we"re fed up with you running amok in our country." He prodded Richie in the chest with the flashlight. "Our country, sc.u.mbag. You hear that? This is our country. And we"ve had enough."
"That"s a.s.sault," said Richie. "You"ve just a.s.saulted me."
The policeman prodded him again, harder this time.
Richie picked up his mobile phone. "I"m calling me lawyer," he said. "I"m allowed me phone call."
The policeman smiled as Richie tapped out a number on his mobile. When he put the phone against his ear, the officer grabbed it, threw it to the ground and stamped on it.
Richie stared at the shattered pieces of metal and plastic, shaking his head in disbelief. "I"m gonna report you to the Commission for Racial Equality, the Human Rights Commission, the Police Complaints Authority! I"m gonna-"
The policeman hit him across the face, splitting his lips and breaking two of his front teeth. Richie clasped a hand across his bleeding mouth, his eyes wide and fearful.
The side door of the police van opened and three officers climbed out. They were wearing riot gear black overalls, boots and blue helmets with visors. "You"re not going to do anything, sc.u.mbag," said the first policeman.
"You can"t do that!" shouted Barrow. The second officer kicked him in the knee and he went down, howling.
Now Davis roared and kicked open the rear pa.s.senger door. He stormed out, his hands bunching into fists, his dreadlocks flailing behind him.
Two of the men in riot gear pulled blue and yellow Taser guns from nylon holsters on their thighs. They pointed them at Davis and fired. Twin barbed darts shot out from each gun, trailing fine wires behind them. All four hit Davis in the chest. He immediately went rigid, then fell to the ground, every muscle in his body in spasm.
"Who are you going to report that to, a.r.s.ehole?" the officer asked. "The RSPCA?"
"What do you want?" asked Richie, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Do you want a piece? Is that it? Is this a shakedown? Because all you gotta do is ask. How much do you want?" He prodded his broken teeth and winced.
The policeman grinned. "What have you got?"
Richie shrugged. "I could go a grand," he said. "A grand a week."
"Sounds like a plan."
"You didn"t have to break me f.u.c.king teeth, man," said Richie. He rubbed his hand across his bleeding lips.
The officer"s grin widened. "That? That"s just the start," he said. He raised his flashlight and brought it crashing down on the side of Richie"s head.
Richie opened his eyes. His head was throbbing and he could taste blood in his mouth. He cleared his throat and spat. b.l.o.o.d.y phlegm trickled down his nose and across his forehead. He realised he was hanging upside-down, his head a few inches above the floor and his dreadlocks dragging across the concrete. His hands were tied behind his back and when he strained to look up he saw that his ankles were chained to a girder in the roof. His chest hurt every time he breathed. He looked to his left and saw Barrow, also suspended upside-down. His eyes were closed, the left puffed up; the cheek was cut and bruised.
"You awake there, Orane, or Carlton, or whatever you want to call yourself?" It was the policeman who"d hit him with the flashlight.
"What the f.u.c.k do you want?" gasped Richie.
Something hard slammed into his chest and he felt a rib crack. He roared in pain and struggled but his wrists were tightly bound. He thrashed around and then gradually went still. The policeman walked in front of him, swinging a cricket bat. "Do you play cricket, Orane?" he said.
Richie shook his head. His chest felt as if it was on fire.
A second policeman appeared behind the first. He was holding a crowbar. "What about you, Shotty?" he said. "I"d put you down as a spin bowler." He smacked the crowbar against Barrow"s left knee, which cracked like a dry twig. Barrow screamed in pain and tears ran down his face as he thrashed from side to side.
"What do you want?" yelled Richie. "What the f.u.c.k do you want?"
He heard a footfall behind him and twisted around, trying to see who it was. The movement made him start to spin and his stomach lurched. He threw up. Vomit spewed over his dreadlocks and stung his eyes.
"That"s f.u.c.king disgusting," snarled the policeman with the cricket bat. The three in riot gear fanned out behind him. Two were carrying large spanners and one was holding a broom handle he was black, Richie realised.
"Yeah, look at the mess he"s made," said the black officer. "Don"t they teach them Yardies any manners?" He bent down and grinned at Richie. "What da problem, my man? You eat somefink you shouldn"t oughta have, huh?" he said, in a mock Jamaican accent. He pushed the end of his broom handle between Richie"s teeth. "Why doncha chew on this, man?"
Richie gagged and tried to turn his head but the man pushed the broom handle harder. "What da problem, man? Doncha like to swallow?"
The two men with spanners circled Davis. "He"s a big lad, isn"t he?" said one. He swung the spanner and slammed it into the man"s hip. Davis grunted and glared at him. "Hard as nails, aren"t you, Da Vinci?" He hit him again, harder this time. Davis kept his teeth clamped together and made no sound.
"Yeah, he"s a right hard b.a.s.t.a.r.d all right," said the policeman with the cricket bat. "Especially where little girls are concerned. Raped a thirteen-year-old in Kingston, he did." He walked over to where Davis was hanging. His head was almost touching the floor, his dreadlocks piled around him like a nest of snakes. "Raped her and then slashed her so that she"d never forget." He swung his cricket bat through the air. "You know what I"m gonna do, Da Vinci? I"m going to smash your b.a.l.l.s to a pulp." He patted the bat against Da Vinci"s groin. "Think about that for the next minute or two. I"m going to smack your b.a.l.l.s and your d.i.c.k so hard that you"ll never be able to have s.e.x again. Ever." He grinned. "I reckon your d.i.c.k"s going to look like a dinner plate by the time I"ve finished."
He walked around to stand in front of Richie again. Blood was trickling down Richie"s face, dripping through his dreadlocks and pooling on the concrete floor. "So, let me tell you how it"s going to be, Orane. Are you listening?"
Richie tried to speak but his mouth was filling with blood and he gagged. He spat out b.l.o.o.d.y phlegm. "Yeah, I hear you."
"My friends and I are going to beat the c.r.a.p out of you. We"re going to break a few bones and smash a few kneecaps and Da Vinci there is gonna lose the use of his gonads. When we"re finished we"re going to cut you down and then you can crawl to the local hospital and they can patch you up, courtesy of the good old National Health. That"s one of the great things about this country. We"ll treat any foreign sc.u.mbags because, deep down, we"re basically too nice for our own good. And once they"ve patched you up, Orane, you and your two d.i.c.khead mates are going to get on the next Air Jamaica flight to Kingston. Do you understand what I"m saying?"
Richie looked up at the black officer. "You gonna let them treat a brother like this, man?" he asked.
Even through the visor, Richie could see the contempt in the man"s eyes. "You"re no brother of mine, sc.u.mbag," he said.
The officer with the cricket bat walloped Richie"s shins again. "Talk to me, not him," he said. "Now, do you understand what I"ve said to you or do you want me to run through it again?"
Richie closed his eyes. "I hear you," he said.
"Because, my sc.u.mbag friend, if you"re still in this country next week, me and my mates are gonna pick you up again, and we won"t be as gentle with you. In fact, my little sc.u.mbag friend, we"ll kill you. We"ll kill you stone dead." He smacked the cricket bat against Richie"s left ankle. Richie screamed in agony. "And if you ever tell anyone what happened, we"ll kill you. Do you understand that?"
Richie nodded. The officer hit his ankle again, harder this time, and the pain was so agonising that Richie almost pa.s.sed out. "I can"t hear you, Orane."
"I understand!" howled Richie.
"Believe me, we"ll do it," he said. "Because what you"ve got to remember, my little sc.u.mbag friend, is that we are the police and we can do what we f.u.c.king want." He rested the cricket bat on his shoulder and grinned at the two men with spanners. "Let"s get started," he said. "I"m taking the girlfriend out for dinner tonight."
Langford Manor had been built on the blood of slaves. Every stone and slate, every window frame, every feature in the five reception rooms and two dozen bedrooms had been chosen personally by the Honourable Jeremy Langford, one of the most successful slave-traders ever to operate out of the port of Bristol. He was born in 1759, the same year as the slavery abolitionist William Wilberforce. But while Wilberforce had devoted his life to ending the vile trade, Langford had made a fortune from it. By the time the Society for the Abolition of the Slave Trade was founded in 1787, Langford"s ships were transporting hundreds of thousands of slaves from West Africa to the sugar plantations of the West Indies. He had begun designing Langford Manor when he was in his teens and building work had started when he was just short of his twenty-fifth birthday. It had taken three years to complete.
In 1806, a year before the British Parliament abolished the transatlantic slave trade, Langford sold his shipping line and used some of the money to purchase several thousand acres around the house he had built. The rest he invested wisely and spent the remainder of his life following country pursuits and sitting as a local magistrate. He died in 1833, just days after the Abolition of Slavery Act was pa.s.sed, lying in his four-poster in the master bedroom of Langford Manor, surrounded by his wife, five children and twenty-three grandchildren.
Not that the four men in the dark blue Transit van cared about the history of Langford Manor or the man who had commissioned it. All they cared about were the works of art hanging on its walls, which were conservatively valued at close to fifteen million pounds, and the contents of a small safe in the master bedroom.
The man driving the van was a stocky Scotsman with a greying moustache and slicked-back hair. Like his three companions, he was wearing dark clothing and black leather gloves. "Are we going or what?" he growled. His name was Carrick Thompson and he tapped his fingers on the steering-wheel as he stared at the house in the distance.
"We"ll go when I say we go," said the man in the front seat. He took the binoculars away from his face and stared at Thompson with cold blue eyes. "Have you got somewhere you"d rather be?" His name was Alex Grimshaw, but everyone called him Lex.
Thompson stared impa.s.sively back at him. "I"m just saying time"s a-pa.s.sing, that"s all."
"Time"s a-pa.s.sing because there"s still a light on in the library, which means that someone"s still up, and if there"s someone still up then they"re probably going to pick up the Batphone if we go charging in, so let"s just wait until whoever it is pops up to bed, okay?" Grimshaw sneered at Thompson. "I"ve spent three months casing this place. We"re not going to blow it just because you"ve got a short attention span."
"Forget I spoke," mumbled Thompson.
Grimshaw put the binoculars back to his eyes and scrutinised the house. They were parked about half a mile away, on a hill that overlooked Langford Manor. From where they were sitting they had a clear view of the front of the house and, at the main entrance, the lodge, which was occupied by an elderly gamekeeper and his wife. As usual they had gone to bed before nine o"clock. There were three cars parked in front of the manor: a Bentley, a Land Rover and a Ford Focus. Grimshaw knew that the present owner of the house owned all three. The Bentley was for show, the Land Rover for driving over the estate, and the Ford Focus was the vehicle of choice for the wife when she visited the local supermarket. Tobias Rawstorne had bought Langford Manor five years earlier and spent more than two million pounds on improvements, including a state-of-the-art security system. One of the men who had helped fit the burglar alarm and CCTV system was married to a good friend of Grimshaw"s and for ten thousand pounds in cash had been more than happy to provide the information necessary to gain trouble-free access to the premises.
Grimshaw scanned the road leading towards the main gate. A white Transit van was parked in a lay-by about a hundred yards away from the lodge. Its lights were off. Grimshaw cursed and pulled out his mobile phone. He tapped out a number, then barked, "Turn your b.l.o.o.d.y lights on, Matt," he said. "Anyone who drives by is gonna wonder why three grown men are sitting by the side of the road in the dark." The lights of the white Transit van flicked on. Grimshaw swore and ended the call.