'Yes, sir, sorry.'

'The bus is waiting for you so get a move on.' Smith waved him away with a languid hand.

A uniformed sergeant holding a clipboard appeared in the doorway and grinned at Shepherd. 'Ah, the late Terry Halligan, I presume.' He held out his hand. 'Roy Fogg, Sarge or Skip on the bus, Foggy in the pub. Welcome aboard.' The sergeant looked older than he had appeared in the picture Shepherd had seen, and he was a few kilos heavier. He was Shepherd's height with a rapidly receding hairline and deep worry lines across his forehead.

Shepherd shook his hand. 'Yeah, sorry I was late, Sarge. I had to find somewhere to park my bike.'

'Parking's a nightmare here,' said Fogg. He smiled at the inspector. 'Can I take him now, sir?'

'You'll be in Sergeant Fogg's bus,' Smith said to Shepherd. 'You'd better get a move on.'

'Yes, sir,' said Shepherd. He followed Fogg out of the inspector's office and closed the door behind him.

'What sort of bike have you got?' asked Fogg.

'A BMW HP2 Sport.'

'Nice,' said Fogg. 'I've got a Ducati Streetfighter. Where did you park?'

Shepherd pulled a face. 'Miles away. Hyde Park Corner.'

'Let me have a word with Robin Potter. He's a sergeant with Traffic and a bike nut. He's tight with the PC in Admin who a.s.signs parking s.p.a.ces and he arranged for me to park in the bike area. You might have to let him borrow it now and again.'

'It'd be worth it.'

'Probably won't be able to do it until tomorrow. Okay, let's get you your gear and then get on the bus. The team's in the canteen. I'll introduce you first. They're a good bunch.' Fogg ignored the lifts and took Shepherd up the stairs and through double doors into the canteen. A group of community support officers were sitting at a table close to the doors, tucking into fried breakfasts. One looked up. 'Newbie's arrived, huh?' he asked the sergeant.

'How's it going, Ross?' said Fogg, ignoring the man's question. He walked by the table towards some officers wearing long-sleeved shirts and black ties, sitting with cups of coffee and tea in front of them. One spotted him and said something, and they all turned to look at Shepherd.

'Right, lads, listen up,' said Fogg. 'This is the man we've been waiting for. Terry Halligan. From sheep-s.h.a.gging country, but don't hold that against him.'

Shepherd raised his hand in greeting. 'Hi, guys,' he said. Then he realised that one of the officers at the table was female. 'And lady.' He had recognised her from b.u.t.ton's file: Carolyn Castle.

One of the men laughed. 'Watch it, Pelican, he's got a hard-on for you already.'

'The comedian there is Lurpak,' said Fogg. 'Known to his mother as Nick.'

He stood up and shook Shepherd's hand. 'Welcome aboard,' he said. 'Nick c.o.ker.'

Fogg continued the introductions. 'The more feminine side of our team is represented by...' He started to point at Castle, but then jabbed a finger at another man. 'KFC over there, Barry Kelly.'

Kelly laughed. His hair seemed a brighter shade of red than it had been in his file picture, and the freckles across his nose were more p.r.o.nounced.

'Before anyone gives me a c.r.a.p introduction, I'm Carolyn Castle,' said the female officer. When she shook Shepherd's hand, her grip was as firm as a man's. 'Though these b.u.g.g.e.rs insist on calling me Pelican.' She was prettier than she'd appeared in the photograph, blonde hair tied up at the back and amused green eyes.

'The big man is Carpets,' said Fogg. 'Richard Parry.'

Parry was a huge West Indian with ma.s.sive forearms and a shaved head. His hand was about twice the size of Shepherd's but he didn't squeeze hard. 'Good to meet you,' he growled.

The man next to Parry introduced himself. 'Darren Simmons,' he said. He was the youngest of the group, with a cleft chin. 'Glad I'm not the newbie any more,' he said.

'Known to us as Nipple,' said Kelly, 'because, to be honest, he can be a bit of a t.i.t.'

Fogg nodded at the last member of the group. 'This is Angus Turnbull, a.k.a. Colgate. He's our driver today.'

Turnbull grinned, revealing perfect gleaming white teeth. 'Glad to have you aboard,' he said.

'I'll get Terry sorted with his kit,' said Fogg. 'On the bus in fifteen, right?'

Fogg took Shepherd back down to the first floor and showed him the team room where they could relax when they weren't working and then a large briefing room. Then he led him along a corridor to a room lined with lockers. 'Take this one,' he said, pointing. 'I've put a kitbag there. Overalls, pads, gloves, everything's in it. The only thing I haven't got is boots. You've got them, right?'

Shepherd held up his backpack. 'Sorted,' he said.

'Dump your gear and let's go, then.'

Shepherd put his motorcycle helmet into the locker and stripped off his motorcycle leathers. He sat down, took off his motorcycle boots and put them in the bottom of the locker, then pulled on his work boots.

'Let's go we've got to be at Gravesend by eleven,' said Fogg.

Shepherd picked up the black kitbag, which had METROPOLITAN POLICE SERVICE along the side in white letters, then followed the sergeant along a corridor, down the stairs and through a set of double doors to the underground car park where a grey Mercedes van with empty parking s.p.a.ces either side of it was waiting. Above the front windscreen there was a black wire mesh shield that could be pulled down when needed. 'That's our bus,' said Fogg. 'You stow your gear and I'll chase up the team.'

Shepherd climbed into the van. There were eight seats and, behind them, racks on either side that were already filled with kitbags. At the back there was a row of long riot shields. Shepherd pushed his kitbag onto the rack on the left, then sat down by the side door. A hand sanitiser was fitted to the bulkhead. A rack above the seats opposite contained bags of forms, police tape and a first-aid kit.

An unmarked police car drove slowly by, heading for the exit. The driver nodded at Shepherd, who nodded back.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, the newbie's nabbed the jump seat,' said a voice. It was Kelly, heading towards the van while he munched a ham roll. Behind him were Castle and Turnbull.

'That's where Carpets sits,' said Castle. 'He always likes to be first off the bus.'

'Right,' said Shepherd. He stood up there was at least a couple of inches of s.p.a.ce above his head and went to sit down at the rear on the driver's side.

'Whoa, Lurpak always has the bingo seat,' said Kelly.

'Bingo?' said Shepherd.

'Boxed In, Not Getting Out,' said Castle. She dropped onto the seat directly behind the driver. 'Or b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, I'm Not Getting Out,' she added. 'Depends who you ask. Lurpak likes it because it gives him a good view of traffic.'

'Why don't you just tell me where to park my a.r.s.e?' Shepherd said to Kelly.

'Take the prisoner seat,' said Kelly, pointing to a single seat behind Castle. 'That's always free until we haul in a slag.'

Turnbull climbed into the driver's seat and Kelly opened the front pa.s.senger door. As he got in, Fogg hurried across the car park with Parry, c.o.ker and Simmons. They filed onto the van. Simmons sat next to Castle, c.o.ker walked to the back and sat in the bingo seat while Fogg went to the back on the pa.s.senger side. Parry sat by the door and grunted as he pulled it shut. 'Are we there yet?' asked c.o.ker.

The rest of the team groaned. It was obviously a standard joke. Turnbull started the engine and Kelly switched on the radios. The van edged forwards, heading for the exit. 'How did you find the inspector?' asked Kelly, looking over his shoulder.

'He was in his office,' said Shepherd, 'so it was easy. Just opened the door and he was there.'

Castle laughed. 'He got you there, KFC,' she said.

'Hey, Terry, did you have a nickname at West Mercia?' asked c.o.ker.

'Yeah, but I'm not telling you what it was,' said Shepherd.

'That bad?'

'I'm just not saying,' said Shepherd, folding his arms.

'Defensive,' said Parry.

'We could call him that,' said c.o.ker. 'Defensive.'

'Nah,' said Castle. 'Too obvious. Let's see how he gets on today before we name him.' She twisted in her seat and winked at Shepherd. 'Everyone gets a nickname,' she said.

'How did you get yours?' Shepherd asked.

The men laughed. 'Dictionary definition of a pelican,' said Kelly. 'A bird with a big mouth.'

'Shall I tell him why we call you KFC?' Castle asked Kelly.

Kelly laughed. 'Do I care?'

Castle grinned at Shepherd. 'He used to be called Chicken because of his small c.o.c.k,' she said.

'That's not true,' said Kelly. 'I happen to be fond of fast food, that's all.'

Fogg shook his head. 'I'm afraid not, KFC,' he said. 'It's your tiny c.o.c.k.'

'Thanks for your support, Sarge,' said Kelly.

Shepherd looked over at Parry. 'And Carpets?'

'Because when he walks he looks like he's carrying a roll of carpet under each arm,' said Simmons.

Parry's mobile phone rang and he answered it. He listened for a few seconds, then cursed. 'No, I don't have a b.l.o.o.d.y Alsatian puppy!' he shouted, and ended the call.

Kelly, Turnbull and Simmons began to bark and he flashed them the finger. 'b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,' he said.

'What's the problem?' asked Shepherd.

'One of these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds set me up,' said Parry, 'and when I find out who it was I'll have their b.a.l.l.s.'

'Lets me off, then,' said Castle.

'Not necessarily,' said c.o.ker.

'I left my warrant card in the canteen and someone swiped it and photocopied it,' said Parry.

'And that leads to Alsatians how?' asked Shepherd.

'If you want to put a cla.s.sified ad into The The Job Job, you have to send a copy of your warrant card,' explained Parry. 'Whoever photocopied mine put an ad in saying that I'm in K9 and that I've got Alsatian pups free to good homes. My phone hasn't stopped ringing.'

Parry's phone rang again. 'f.u.c.k off!' he screamed into it. Kelly, Turnbull and Simmons began to bark again.

According to the file that Shepherd had read, the Metropolitan Police Specialist Training Centre on the east side of Gravesend was a sprawling 55 million development off Mark Lane, close to the Thames Estuary. It was opened in 2003 with the aim of teaching the capital's police officers the finer points of public-order policing and the use of firearms. It was next to the National Sea Training College and every member of the TSG went over for a day's training every five weeks.

There wasn't much to see from the road, just a wire fence, a lot of parked cars and a featureless residential block. They drove onto the site, parked the van and hurried to the main block. Fogg led them to a cla.s.sroom on the second floor, where an instructor from the Met's CO12 branch had already started the briefing. Two dozen TSG officers were sitting on chairs in a semicircle facing the screen.

'Area One, last on the scene as usual,' someone shouted.

The instructor, a sergeant in his thirties, looked up from his PowerPoint presentation, which was being projected onto a large screen. Fogg apologised for being late as his team found places to sit.

'No problem, Foggy,' said the instructor. 'You missed a video presentation of various stadium disturbances and I was just about to explain what we'll be doing out in the practice stadium after lunch. With the Olympics coming up, we've got to get everyone up to speed on the various potential threats. We're going to start off with extracting drunks, then we'll move on to organised demonstrations, and we'll finish off with a suicide bomber.'

'Going out with a bang?' asked Kelly.

'To be honest, the suicide bomber's the easiest of the lot,' said the instructor. 'We all hang back and send in CO19 to put six bullets in the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's head.' He tapped on the keyboard, and a schematic of an athletics stadium flashed onto the screen. 'Right, eyes down for a full house,' he said. 'Let's start with the basics.'

Shepherd's b.u.t.tocks were aching by the time the instructor had finished his presentation. It had been a long time since he had sat on a hard wooden chair and been lectured to. Kelly clapped him on the shoulder as they walked along a corridor towards the canteen. 'Bet you didn't expect to be back in school on your first day, did you?' he asked.

'Hopefully the practical will be more fun than the theory,' said Shepherd.

Fogg caught up with them. 'You all right, Terry? Thought you were dozing off in there.'

'Sorry, Sarge,' said Shepherd. 'Most of that was pretty straightforward.'

'Yeah, but it's got to be done,' said Fogg. 'And we've got to get it right. The whole world's going to be watching the Olympics so we're going to have to be on our best behaviour.'

'Even if it's a suicide bomber?'

'With any luck they'll be caught before they get anywhere near a stadium,' said Fogg. 'Much more likely we'll see the Tibet sympathisers kicking off when China competes, and with all the TV cameras on us we don't want to be getting out the Tasers.'

They picked up trays and joined the queue for food. 'Did the inspector mention the secret shopper that phoned in last week?' asked Fogg.

Shepherd frowned, confused. 'Secret what?'

'Someone from Professional Standards or the Anti-Racism Unit pretending to be you.'

'I'm sorry, what are you talking about, Sarge?'

Parry and Castle joined the queue. As he put down his tray, Parry's mobile rang and he answered. After a few seconds he began cursing and switched it off. He pointed at Kelly. 'If I find out it was you that put the advert in The The Job Job, I'll swing for you, I really will.'

'Wasn't me, Carpets,' said Kelly. 'I think it's an outrageous way to treat a colleague.'

Fogg grinned at Shepherd. 'Don't leave your warrant card around anywhere,' he warned. 'Keep it in your pocket.'

'Gotcha, Sarge,' said Shepherd. 'What were you saying about the secret shopper?'

Fogg shrugged. 'Nothing to worry about,' he said. 'It happens all the time. Someone rang up, said they were starting next week and wanted to know where was a good place to live. Colgate answered the phone and he's no fool so it worked out all right. He spotted it right away. He said that anywhere around Bayswater or Paddington or Kilburn was okay, or anywhere on the Circle or Bakerloo line.'