'We're not scared of no leftie sc.u.mbags!' shouted a skinhead, but Fogg had already turned his back on them and was jogging back to the inspector.

Shepherd scanned the faces of the England First supporters pushing to get out of the pub. Most were young and angry, eyes blazing with hatred, lips curled into snarls like dogs preparing to attack. A skinhead with a swastika tattooed across his neck spat at Shepherd and saliva splattered across his shield. Shepherd stared at the man, his face impa.s.sive. There was no point in taking it personally, he knew. The man wasn't angry with him, he was angry with the system. Maybe even the world. The saliva slid slowly down the Perspex screen.

More men were trying to get out of the pub, pushing those already outside against the shields. Shepherd's eyes narrowed as he saw someone he recognised. Gary Dawson. And, just behind him, Jimmy Sharpe.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' said Parry. Shepherd looked at him. He was staring at Dawson. 'You see that?' asked Parry.

'Yeah,' said Shepherd. 'What do we do?'

Parry looked over his shoulder. Fogg was talking to Inspector Smith by one of the vans. 'Skip!' shouted Parry. Fogg looked across. 'Over here, Skip!'

Fogg said something to the inspector, then jogged over to Parry. 'What's the problem?' he asked. The skinhead spat again and Fogg lowered his visor.

Parry didn't say anything but he jutted his chin towards the pub door. Fogg looked at the men crowding in the doorway and cursed when he saw Dawson. They had eye-contact for less than a second before Dawson looked away.

'What do we do, Skip?' asked Shepherd.

'If we start taking names he's screwed,' said Parry.

'I'm pretty sure that's what Smith intends,' said Fogg. 'He reckons there's a few in there with cases outstanding.'

'He's not undercover, is he?' said Shepherd, out of the side of his mouth, playing the naive newbie to the hilt.

'I b.l.o.o.d.y well hope so,' said Fogg. He looked over his shoulder to where the inspector was talking into his radio. 'Look, I'll distract Smithy. While I'm doing that let a few of them through. If there's repercussions, just say they breached the shields and you couldn't hold the bubble. It happens.'

'Yeah, it happens to idiots,' said Parry. 'Thanks, Skip.'

'I'll owe you one, Carpets,' said Fogg. He went over to Smith and started talking to him, moving his body so that the inspector's back was towards the pub. Parry glanced over his shoulder and nodded at Shepherd. They moved their shields apart and created a gap a couple of feet wide. The skinhead who had spat at Shepherd's shield pushed through, and when his companions saw that no one was stopping him, they followed. Parry and Shepherd widened the gap and a dozen more men rushed through it, including the three bodybuilders in bomber jackets. Dawson and Sharpe slipped by without a glimmer of recognition, and ran along the pavement. Shepherd and Parry forced their shields towards each other, trying to close the gap, but the men coming out were moving too quickly. A fist thumped into the side of Shepherd's helmet but it was a flailing limb rather than a deliberate punch. He grunted and shoved harder with the shield.

He heard shouts behind him. Three officers ran up, rammed their shields together and pushed up behind Parry and Shepherd. They moved aside, the shields slotted together and the gap was closed. The men trapped in the bubble screamed abuse and shook their fists but the shields held.

The inspector hurried over, his face hard. 'What happened?' he shouted.

'Sorry, sir, I slipped,' said Shepherd. 'My fault.'

'Get a grip, Terry. Now, keep those shields together and keep them up.'

'Yes, sir,' said Shepherd.

Fogg appeared behind the inspector. 'Okay, sir?'

'Just don't let anyone else through,' said Smith. He turned to Fogg. 'Keep an eye on them, Sergeant,' he said. 'We'll wait for the lefties to calm down and then we'll let this lot go. Explain to them we'll be walking them down the road that way and if they make any attempt to go any other way they'll be back in a bubble until the early hours.' He walked off, talking into his radio.

Fogg patted Shepherd on the shoulder. 'Nice one, Terry. Thanks.'

'Yeah, thanks for eating the s.h.i.t sandwich,' said Parry. 'I owe you one.'

Dawson jogged down a side-street, Sharpe following. They stopped behind a skip to catch their breath. 'What just happened, Gary?' asked Sharpe.

'What do you mean?' asked Dawson.

'You know what I mean,' said Sharpe. 'Back there. The cops let us go. Why did they do that?'

'They made a mistake,' said Dawson. 'They screwed up.'

Sharpe shook his head. 'Like f.u.c.k,' he said. 'They knew you, didn't they?'

'Just forget it,' said Dawson, walking away.

Sharpe hurried after him. 'What's the story, Gary?' he asked. 'Why won't you tell me?'

'There's nothing to tell,' said Dawson.

Sharpe reached for Dawson's shoulder and pulled him back. 'Are you with the lefties, is that it?'

'Don't be ridiculous,' said Dawson.

'What, then?'

'I'm a cop,' said Dawson. He glared at Sharpe. 'There are you happy now?'

'What under cover?'

Dawson laughed. 'No, just a cop. I'm with the TSG.' He looked down the alley. 'We can't talk here,' he said. 'Let's find a pub. I need a drink.'

They walked down the alley and turned into a main street. A few yards down they found a pub and went inside. Dawson ordered the drinks and carried them over to a table next to a bleeping fruit machine. He raised his gla.s.s. 'Cheers.'

Sharpe returned the salutation. 'You were joking about being with the heavy mob, right?'

'No. Been with the TSG for four years now. I'm a sergeant. I know those guys back there. That's why they let us go. Otherwise we could have been in the bubble all night.'

'Bubble?'

'That's what they call it when they hold you in one place. The media calls it kettling but to us it's always been the bubble.'

'You know what's funny?' asked Sharpe.

Dawson shook his head.

'We're sort of in the same line of business.' He took out his wallet and showed him his Brian Parker SOCA identification.

Dawson laughed. 'You're right, that is funny. I had no idea. You don't look like a cop.'

'I'm not. I'm a civil servant,' said Sharpe. 'No powers of arrest, no blues and twos, no uniform. I shuffle papers, fill out expense sheets and that's it.'

'Not very fulfilling, then?'

'Waste of b.l.o.o.d.y time, truth be told,' said Sharpe. 'I'm an accountant and that's as far as it goes.'

'What did you do before SOCA?'

'Inland Revenue,' said Sharpe. 'Fraud. That's pretty much what I do with SOCA but I have to say I put more guys behind bars when I was a taxman. SOCA just doesn't get the job done, you know.'

'Yeah, I heard it was for the chop,' said Dawson. 'Not fit for purpose, they say.'

'It's certainly not putting the bad guys away like it was supposed to,' said Sharpe. 'Not like your mob. At least you get to make arrests. Where are you based?'

'Paddington Green,' said Dawson.

'And you do the full bit with helmets and riot shields and batons?'

'Oh, yes,' said Dawson. 'Just like the guys back there at the pub.'

'Wish they'd give me a baton,' said Sharpe. 'There's a fair few heads I wouldn't mind cracking.' He wanted to give Dawson the chance to say something, anything, that suggested he, too, would relish the opportunity of righting a few wrongs, but Dawson just stared into his beer. 'You're taking a risk, aren't you, Gary? Going to England First meetings? Wouldn't you lose your job?'

Dawson shrugged. 'I'm not sure I care any more.'

'Why's that?'

Dawson shrugged again. 'I just hate what's happened to our country, Brian. I hate what we've become, and I hate the fact that no one seems to want to do anything about it.'

'I hear that,' said Sharpe.

'You know, my grandfather was born in the East End. He fought hand-to-hand against Mosley's Blackshirts. Had a scar on his chin from where he was. .h.i.t by a docker's hook. Cut him right through to the bone. The Battle of Cable Street, they called it. And look at me now, going to meetings to cheer the men who are Mosley's descendants.' He smiled ruefully. 'My grandfather would be spinning in his grave.'

'But they talk sense, right?'

'They're the only people who do, Brian. They're the only ones who care about our country and not themselves. See the way that Labour and the Conservatives were filling their boots with fake expenses, lying and cheating and stealing at the taxpayer's expense? They don't care about our country, they care about themselves. About feathering their own nests.' He took a long drink of his lager. 'People are fed up with being treated like third-cla.s.s citizens in their own country. They're sick of seeing relatives pushed to the back of the housing queue or having to wait for medical treatment while asylum seekers are fast-tracked for whatever they want. You know why the Left hate the BNP and England First so much? Because when they enter into debates with the likes of Simon Page or Nick Griffin they get trounced. They talk sense, and that's why they have to throw eggs at them and scream, "n.a.z.i sc.u.m," and accuse them of wanting a second Holocaust. That's not what they're about, Brian. They're talking a lot of sense.'

He sat back and folded his arms. 'It's the unfairness that gets me, Brian. Do you remember the anti-military march in Luton a while back? A load of Muslims got together to heckle the Royal Anglian Regiment when they got back from Iraq. Placards telling the squaddies to go to h.e.l.l, all that sort of stuff.'

'Yeah, I remember,' said Sharpe.

'Ten people were arrested,' said Dawson. 'But it wasn't the Muslims who were arrested, it was locals who'd gone there to support the army. One of them was arrested for throwing a pack of streaky bacon. I kid you not.'

Sharpe laughed. 'That's funny.'

'Yeah, it's funny, but at the same time it's not. Muslims can shout all sorts of s.h.i.t at our troops who've been risking their lives in Iraq, but throw a pack of bacon at the Muslims and you're arrested. And what happens when left-wing activists hurl eggs at Nick Griffin? The cops do nothing. Now, you tell me what's going on there. Throwing bacon at a Muslim is an arrestable offence, but throwing eggs at an MEP is okay?'

'Either way it sounds like a waste of a good breakfast to me,' said Sharpe.

'It's a serious point, Brian. We're all bending over to be politically correct while our country slides into anarchy. Someone has to stand up and fight for what's right.'

'Can't we do something about it?' asked Sharpe.

'Like what?'

'I don't know. Hit the bad guys where it hurts? Be more proactive?'

Dawson shook his head. 'It needs more than that. It needs political change. We need a party that can change the way our society operates.'

'And you think England First can do that?'

'I hope so,' said Dawson. He picked up his lager. 'Because if something isn't done soon, our country's finished.'

Shepherd and his team arrived back at Paddington Green just before midnight. It had taken the best part of three hours to disperse the protesters from the street outside the pub, and another hour to search and process the sixty-seven people who had attended the England First meeting. All were issued with Form 5090. No weapons or drugs were found during the searches but a quick look around the ground floor of the pub afterwards turned up three flick-knives, half a dozen bra.s.s knuckledusters and a considerable quant.i.ty of cannabis. 'Nice bit of overtime,' said Parry, as he climbed out of the van. 'Soon have my kitchen paid for. The wife's going to love me.'

'Carpets, Terry, KFC, can I have a quick word in the briefing room before you get changed?' said Fogg. Parry, Kelly and Shepherd followed him down the corridor. The sergeant waited until they were all inside and the door was closed before speaking. 'I just wanted to clear the air about what happened in Neasden,' he said. 'You all saw Gary Dawson where he shouldn't be. I'll have a word with him, obviously, but so far as we're concerned it never happened, right?'

The three men nodded. 'No problem, Skip,' said Kelly.

'Anyone else see him or just you three?'

'Just us, I think,' said Parry.

'Nipple? Pelican?'

'They were blindsided, Skip,' said Parry.

'Okay. Don't mention it to them but if they bring it up then let me know ASAP, okay?'

The three men nodded again. 'What do you think he was doing there, Sarge?' asked Shepherd. 'Just wrong place, wrong time?'

Fogg looked pained. 'Gary's a bit right-wing with his views, that's all,' he said. 'I was as surprised as you to see him there, though, and I'll make sure I explain the error of his ways to him. But we all know what would happen if Professional Standards found out, so mum's the word.'

Shepherd was at Paddington Green early on Friday morning. As he walked into the locker room, Fogg was taking off his motorcycle gear. Shepherd put his helmet in his locker. 'I just saw Robin Potter heading for the canteen,' said the sergeant. 'Let's swing by and ask him about your bike.'

'Thanks, Sarge,' said Shepherd. As soon as they had changed into their uniforms, they went along to the canteen. There was twenty minutes to go before their shift officially started so both men collected tea and bacon sandwiches. Shepherd paid, figuring it was the least he could do if Fogg would solve his parking problem. Potter was sitting with two other police motorcyclists, a plate of toast in front of him. He was wearing a bulky fluorescent jacket and his white full-face helmet was on the chair next to him. He was in his late thirties with a receding hairline and a sharp chin. Fogg sat down at the table and introduced Shepherd.

Potter shook his hand. 'Foggy says you've got a decent bike.'

'A BMW HP2 Sport.'

'Nice,' he said. 'I'm a big fan of the BMWs, but I'm more a cla.s.sic enthusiast. I've a couple of Vincents at home, a Black Shadow and a Rapide, and a couple of old Triumphs.'

'And he rides a bike all day for a living,' said Fogg. 'He'd sleep on one if he could. Can you help Terry with a parking s.p.a.ce, Robbo?'

Potter took out his notebook and pa.s.sed it to Shepherd. 'Write down your registration number and I'll talk to Frank in Admin. He'll get you put on the list. If there's a problem I'll call you but otherwise just tell the guy on the gate that Frank said it was okay. There are a dozen bikes over at the far end of the car park. Just pick a free s.p.a.ce.'

'Thanks,' said Shepherd.

'You were in West Mercia, Foggy said.'

'Yeah, for my sins,' said Shepherd. He sipped his tea.

'What brings you to the Big Smoke?'