'Great! We haven't had a gay on the bus for years,' said Kelly. 'Helps with our diversity quota. We've got Carpets, Pelican and now g.a.y.l.o.r.d. That's all our bases covered.'

'I am not answering to g.a.y.l.o.r.d,' said Shepherd.

Turnbull punched him on the shoulder. 'Not so b.l.o.o.d.y cute now, am I?' he said. 'Who wants coffee?' There was a kettle, jars of Maxwell House and Coffee Mate, and a tray of mugs on a table by the door. Turnbull switched on the kettle and spooned coffee into the mugs.

c.o.ker and Kelly dropped on the sofa next to Castle. 'Did you get laid last night, Pelican?' asked Kelly, patting her knee.

'Three times,' she said, smiling sweetly and removing his hand. 'Which I'm guessing is three times more than you, right?'

Fogg stuck his head around the door. 'Bring your coffees into the briefing room,' he said. 'Two sugars in mine.'

By the time the team had filed in, Fogg was already standing at a podium on which a laptop was hooked up to a projector. 'Nothing special today,' he said. 'The borough commander wants us in the Wembley area where they've seen a rise in street robberies, mainly schoolkids being relieved of their mobiles. We've got descriptions but as usual they're not much help young, black, BMX bikes, baseball caps. The descriptions vary from witness to witness but we're pretty sure it's the same gang. Up to six or seven at a time. So, eyes peeled for a group of young black males acting suspiciously.'

Kelly laughed and Fogg flashed him a withering look. 'Sorry, Skip.'

Fogg held up a bundle of printed sheets. 'I've got an intel briefing here on vehicles we need to look out for, and a few addresses that we need to swing by. But most of the shift we'll be flying the flag, showing the good people of Wembley that the police are in control.'

They took their mugs back to the team room and headed out to the van. Turnbull was driving again and everyone sat in the seats they'd had the previous day.

They drove north to Wembley and spent the shift driving around the suburb. Turnbull mainly drove where he pleased, though occasionally Fogg would suggest that he visited a particular street or shopping centre. From his place in the bingo seat, c.o.ker called out the registration numbers of any vehicles he felt were suspicious, and Kelly would enter them into the mobile data terminal on the dashboard. Up would come information on the vehicle, whether or not it was stolen, if its tax and insurance were in order, who the registered keeper was and whether he was of interest to the police. The information was also shown on a screen on the bulkhead behind the operator so that everyone on the van could see it. The terminal also had access to the Police National Computer and several other government databases.

If the MDT showed that there was anything wrong with the vehicle or the driver, they would pull it over. If the driver was alone, just two officers would get out and talk to him or her. Sometimes a simple conversation would be the end of it. The MDT wasn't always accurate and sometimes showed a car as not being taxed or insured when it was, and the information on the PNC wasn't always up to date. But if the information was valid or if the officers noticed anything untoward, the driver and any pa.s.sengers would be asked to get out and would be questioned and searched, ideally in full public view. A search was as much about demonstrating a police presence as catching villains. More often than not it produced nothing more serious than a small amount of cannabis, in which case a verbal warning would be given, but if a serious quant.i.ty of drugs or a weapon was found, the person would be arrested and taken to the nearest police station to be charged and processed.

The final part of a search was the completion of a Form 5090, the fifty-ninety. It explained why the person had been stopped and who had stopped them, where the search had taken place and what, if anything, had been found. The form also contained the details of the person being searched, including their name, address, date of birth and description, their clothing and details of their vehicle. All the information was entered into the PNC at the end of the shift, and a copy was given to the person being searched. The form also outlined a complaints procedure whereby anyone who felt that they had been treated unfairly could contact a senior officer at the local police station, the Police Complaints Commission, the Citizens Advice Bureau or the Metropolitan Police Authority. From what Shepherd saw on his first day, almost everyone stopped felt that they had been treated unfairly but none would bother to make a complaint.

Each officer had a pad of fifty-nineties and there were extra supplies in the van. There was no quota to be achieved, but Headquarters could use them to monitor the officers' performance.

Most of the stop-and-searches involved vehicles, but Parry kept a wary eye out for suspicious pedestrians when he wasn't dealing with calls on his mobile about the non-existent Alsatian puppies. The reasons for a stop-and-search were spelled out on the fifty-ninety. Strictly speaking, the police could only stop someone if they had reasonable grounds to suspect that they were carrying stolen goods, a knife, burglary equipment, guns, controlled drugs, or they looked as if they might be terrorists. The power came from four Acts of Parliament Police and Criminal Evidence, 1984; Misuse of Drugs, 1971; Firearms 1968; and Terrorism, 2000. But the truth of the matter was that the TSG stopped anyone they felt was acting suspiciously either behind the wheel of a car or on the pavements. A driver who visibly tensed or hid his roll-up, or who made a sudden turn when he saw the police van in his rear-view mirror, would have his details run through the MDT. Pedestrians who suddenly looked away, glared with undisguised hostility or tried to hide something behind their backs warranted a second look.

Shepherd was surprised by how easily people gave themselves away. Most people just ignored the van or, if they made accidental eye-contact, would smile or nod. If they were driving they would slow down and move to the side to allow the van to pa.s.s. But those with something to hide behaved in a completely different manner, either by tensing up, making a sudden turn or hunching over the steering-wheel as if they were trying to make themselves invisible after only a few hours Shepherd could spot the signs for himself.

A lot of the people they stopped had been stopped before, and well over half had criminal convictions, usually drugs-related. Most accepted the stop-and-search with grim resignation, knowing that the quicker they complied, the sooner it would be over. Occasionally someone who had been stopped would argue that their rights were being infringed, but the officers had heard it all before and would listen patiently, usually with their arms folded and a look of bored indifference on their faces until the complainant had run out of steam.

The team wore their game faces whenever they left the van. In the van they laughed and joked and teased each other, but as soon as they moved outside their faces hardened and everything about their body language suggested they weren't to be messed around. They always put on their hats as they got out, and while they were polite when they spoke to the public, they always stood with their legs firmly apart, backs ramrod straight, and maintained a rigid eye-contact with whoever they were addressing. There was no doubting their alpha-male status and generally they were treated accordingly. Castle was no different, and while she was several inches shorter than the men and her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, she had no problem in a.s.serting her authority. Shepherd noticed that her voice changed whenever she was carrying out a search: it dropped an octave and her accent became more of a south-London drawl.

At just after one o'clock Fogg told Turnbull to drive to Wembley police station in Harrow Road. They parked on double yellow lines and went inside to the canteen. Shepherd followed Kelly to the line for food. Kelly ordered double cod and chips, Shepherd asked for ham and eggs and chips. They carried their trays over to the table where Simmons had already started eating. He had brought a salad from home, layers of lettuce, tomato, cuc.u.mber and asparagus, with what looked like smoked salmon on the top.

'You make that yourself?' asked Shepherd, as he sat down opposite him.

'His mum does it for him,' said Kelly, reaching across for a bottle of HP sauce.

Fogg sat down with a plate of pie and chips. 'She takes good care of him does his laundry, combs his hair...'

'Hey, I've got a good deal going there,' said Simmons. 'My mum's a great cook, my room's en-suite, and she's got a ma.s.sive LCD TV that she never watches. Why would I want to move out?'

's.e.x?' said Turnbull, sitting down at the table. He had a Tupperware container filled with sandwiches.

'I have s.e.x,' said Simmons.

'I meant regular s.e.x,' said Turnbull. 'Between a man and a woman. Ideally not a relative.'

'I do all right,' said Simmons, spearing a tomato slice with his fork.

'Who's talking about s.e.x?' said c.o.ker, as he and Parry joined them. They had both chosen lasagne and chips.

'No one,' said Simmons.

'Nipple not getting any?'

'I'm getting plenty,' said Simmons, his face reddening. 'I just don't shout about it.'

'What about you, Terry?' asked Parry. 'You married?'

'Nah,' said Shepherd.

'Divorced? Separated? Living in sin?'

'None of the above,' said Shepherd.

'Girlfriend?' asked c.o.ker.

'Like Darren, I do okay.'

Kelly snorted. 'Nipple doesn't do okay,' he said. 'He's still a virgin.'

'Yeah, right,' said Simmons.

'Who's a virgin?' said Castle, joining the table and sitting next to Fogg.

'Guess,' said Parry.

'Nipple?'

'Got it in one,' said c.o.ker. Simmons leaned over and stabbed his fork into c.o.ker's chips. 'Help yourself,' said c.o.ker.

As they sat and ate Shepherd saw several local police officers come in. They lined up for food and looked over at the TSG's table. For a brief moment Shepherd saw the same expression on their faces that he'd noticed in the faces on the streets, as if they resented the TSG being there. He'd seen it when he was in the SAS and had worked in close proximity with regular soldiers. The SAS were an elite, and while the average squaddies respected the skills of the SAS troopers there was always an air of resentment when they were around. The fact that the TSG were in their police station was an unspoken admission that they weren't up to the job, that crime had reached an unsatisfactory level and that only the TSG could bring it under control.

Fogg and his team seemed unaware of the reaction they were causing as they tucked into their food. They joked and teased each other incessantly, but it was always good-natured and done with affection. Again, it reminded Shepherd of his days in the SAS. There was no more professional a soldier than a member of the Special Air Service, but when they were between tasks there would be endless banter and mindless horseplay. It was an easy familiarity that had grown out of trust and respect and Shepherd knew that he was privileged to have been so readily accepted by the TSG team. He tried not to think about the fact that everything he had told them about himself had been a lie and that his ultimate aim was to find out who the bad apples were and put them behind bars.

They finished their meals, had a cup of coffee, then headed back to the van.

Half an hour after they had left the canteen, Castle spotted a group of black teenagers wearing baseball caps sitting on BMX bicycles outside a betting shop. 'Have a look at our two o'clock, Skip,' she said. 'Could be our most wanted.'

All heads turned to the right. There were six teenagers, all wearing expensive Nike trainers, dark blue New York Yankees baseball caps and gold necklaces. One was talking into a mobile.

'Let's give them a spin,' said Fogg. Turnbull pulled over to the side of the road. As Parry opened the side door, one of the teenagers saw the van, shouted something, and they scattered. Parry jumped out and ran towards them, closely followed by Simmons and Castle.

Parry managed to grab one of the boys by the scruff of his neck but the rest pedalled off. Simmons lashed out at the back wheel of a bike as it pa.s.sed him and the teenager lost control. The handlebars wobbled as if they had a life of their own but then the rider regained his balance and sped off. Simmons tore after him.

By the time Shepherd was out of the van the teenagers were all heading off in different directions, except for the one Parry had grabbed and now pushed up against the window of the betting shop. Shepherd saw one youth, tall and gangly, wearing a baggy black sweatshirt and a Nike backpack, pedalling against the traffic on the main road. He gave chase. The teenager kept glancing over his shoulder but when he saw Shepherd was on his tail he bent low over the handlebars and pedalled for all he was worth. After sprinting for a hundred yards Shepherd began to tire but he gritted his teeth and kept up the pace, his boots slapping on the pavement.

The teenager tried to cut across the oncoming traffic but a bus driver pounded on his horn and he swerved onto the crowded pavement instead to weave in and out of the afternoon shoppers, shouting and cursing. Shepherd's arms pumped back and forth and he could feel his lungs burning. He ran at least three times a week but he was a distance runner, not a sprinter, and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep up the pace for much longer. He didn't have the breath to shout, 'Stop, police!' but he doubted that the words would have any effect. The only way to stop the teenager was to catch him, and with every pa.s.sing second that was becoming increasingly unlikely.

Ahead of him Shepherd saw a man holding a wooden sign on the end of a pole, advertising a sale at a nearby sporting-goods store. He was wearing headphones, nodding to whatever tune he was listening to, and eating a slice of pizza with his free hand. As he reached the man, Shepherd grabbed the sign from him and threw it like a javelin. It spun through the air and clipped the back wheel of the bike. The edge of the sign caught in the spokes, the wheel locked and the bike skidded. It slammed into a phone box and the teenager went over the handlebars and hit the ground hard.

Shepherd reached the boy just as he was getting to his knees. He grabbed him by the arm and helped him up. 'Are you okay?'

The teenager nodded. His right hand was grazed and there was dirt along his sleeve but there was no real damage.

'Have you got any ID on you?' Shepherd asked.

The boy ignored him. He looked around, still shaken from the tumble he'd taken. The man who had been holding the sign walked up, still listening to music on his headphones. He picked up the sign, pulled a face as he examined it, and walked back to where he'd been standing.

'What's your name?' asked Shepherd.

'I don't have to tell you nuffink,' said the teenager.

'Have you got any ID?'

'I ain't got nuffink.'

'What's in the backpack?' asked Shepherd.

'Nuffink.'

'You won't mind me having a look, then, will you?'

'You need a warrant,' said the boy.

'You've been watching too much TV,' said Shepherd. 'The fact that you did a runner means I've got every reason to suspect that there's something in there you don't want me to see.' He turned the teenager around and unzipped the top of the backpack. Inside were half a dozen mobile phones and several wallets. Shepherd took out one of the phones and held it in front of the boy's face. 'This yours?'

'Yeah.'

Shepherd scrolled through the phone's address book. 'So if I phone Mum, it'll be your old lady, will it?'

'Yeah.'

Shepherd called the number. After a few seconds a woman answered. Shepherd told her who he was but before he could explain why he was calling the woman interrupted and said that her son had been mugged that morning by a group of youths who had stolen his phone after kicking him so badly that he was now in intensive care. Shepherd promised to call her back later. He dropped the phone into the backpack and zipped it up.

The teenager stared at the pavement and mumbled something about police hara.s.sment, but Shepherd was no longer interested in anything he had to say. He slapped handcuffs on the boy's wrists and marched him towards the van. 'What about my bike?' asked the teenager.

'You can come back and get it later,' said Shepherd.

'It'll get nicked.'

'Do you think?'

By the time he reached the team, Parry and Simmons had put the other lad in the van and had taken off his trainers and socks. He was wearing two pairs of socks and between them were dozens of small twists of foil, which Simmons was laying out on one of the seats.

Fogg grinned when he saw Shepherd walk up with his prisoner. 'Nice one, Terry,' he said. He gestured at the boy in the van. 'We've got cannabis and a fair amount of crack. He's coming in for dealing.'

'It's personal use, innit?' said the teenager, sulkily.

'Plus he doesn't want to tell us who is he is,' said Fogg.

'I don't have to tell you nuffink. I know my rights.'

'What about yours?' Fogg asked Shepherd.

'Doesn't want to tell me who he is, but he's got a bag full of stolen phones. I spoke to the mum of one of the victims and he was badly beaten up earlier today. He's in hospital, intensive care.'

'Someone gave me the phones. Dunno where he got them from,' said Shepherd's prisoner, still staring at the pavement.

'There's cash in the bag, too,' said Shepherd. 'And some wallets.'

'I found them,' said the teenager. 'I was gonna hand them in.' He looked at Fogg. 'He a.s.saulted me, he did,' he said, jerking his chin at Shepherd. 'Hit me with a sign, he did.'

'You should have stopped,' said Shepherd.

'You can't go around knocking people off their bikes,' said the boy. 'And that's another thing. He left me bike back there. It's gonna get nicked.'

'No problem,' said Fogg. 'Just take a receipt or proof of purchase to any police station. They'll get you sorted. Course, if you nicked the bike in the first place then it'd be a different story, wouldn't it?' He nodded at Shepherd. 'In the bus with him,' he said.

Shepherd helped the boy into the van and put him in the bingo seat. 'I want to call my lawyer,' he said.

'When you get to the station,' said Shepherd.

Parry and Simmons finished searching their prisoner, then told him to put his socks and trainers back on. The drugs went into a plastic evidence bag.

Shepherd sat opposite his prisoner, who stared sullenly out of the window, muttering to himself.

'Nice one, Terry,' said Castle, as she climbed in. 'You went after him like a bat out of h.e.l.l.'

'What about the others?'

'Lurpak had a go but the b.u.g.g.e.rs were just too quick. They'll be known to us, for sure we'll get them sooner or later.'

They drove the two teenagers to Wembley police station and went in through the rear entrance to the custody suite, where Fogg explained why the pair had been arrested and that they had refused to identify themselves. The custody officer smiled like a benevolent uncle and asked the two boys for their names and addresses. The smile didn't fade in the slightest when they told him to go screw himself. He sighed, tapped away on his computer, then asked Fogg if he'd take their prints through the automated Livescan inkless fingerprinting system. The pair were marched over to the machine where the fingers and palms of both hands were scanned and transferred to the IDENT1 database. Then they were propelled to a row of seats and told to sit down. In less than ten minutes IDENT1 had provided the names and addresses of both, along with a list of convictions for street robberies and possession of stolen goods.

The still-smiling custody officer finished completing the necessary doc.u.mentation, then told them they would be held in custody until a detective could be found to conduct a tape-recorded interview. The teenagers began to protest but two constables seized them by the arms and took them along to the cells, removed their expensive training shoes and locked them in.

Fogg looked at his watch. 'Let's call it a day,' he said. 'Traffic the way it is we'll get back to Paddington bang on the end of our shift.'

Denzel Holmes liked white girls. He didn't know why but, given the choice, he'd always go for a girl with white skin rather than a girl with skin as dark as his own. Getting white girls was easy because Holmes was a drug-dealer and Harlesden was full of white girls who'd do anything for crack or heroin. If a girl was white and pretty then Holmes was happy enough to give her a free sample or two, but as soon as she was hooked she had to do more than just smile sweetly if she wanted to score.

The girl lying next to him was twenty-one, three years older than him. She had long blonde hair, a cute a.r.s.e and the best b.r.e.a.s.t.s he'd seen in a long time. She was a student but since Holmes had introduced her to cocaine she had pretty much given up her studies. She'd said that her dad was a local magistrate, and he found that a turn-on. He'd met her at a club in Harlesden. She'd been there with her whiter-than-white friends, slumming it. He'd offered her a drink and she'd said she could buy her own. He'd offered her a line and given her two in the toilets along with his phone number. The next day she'd called him, asking if he had any more c.o.ke, and three days later she was in his bed, doing whatever he asked. Now he banged her two or three times a week but he was starting to get bored and he was planning to pa.s.s her on to his crew. After a few months with his boys she'd be ready to put to work on the streets.

She was snoring softly, her long blonde hair over the pillow. Holmes loved blonde hair, the longer the better. He liked the feel of it, the smell of it and the contrast between it and his almost black skin. He nudged her. 'Hey, b.i.t.c.h, get me a beer from the fridge.'