Standing pushed the picture towards the detective. ‘And you don’t know who he is?’

  Kaiser shook his head. ‘They use the younger, good-looking guys to pull the girls in. They meet them outside school, coffee bars, McDonald’s, anywhere young girls hang out. They pay attention to them, flatter them, buy them meals, take them to the pictures, act like they’re loving, caring boyfriends. Once they’ve pulled them in they get them on drugs and hand them over to the older men.’

  ‘So why don’t the girls go to the police?’

  ‘Most are too ashamed. Usually at some point photographs will be taken and the girls can be blackmailed. If a girl does tell her parents or her social worker, the cops might get called and they might step in, but never in an organised way. A guy might get warned to leave a girl alone, but there won’t be any charges.’

  ‘Even if there are drugs involved?’

  The detective drained his pint. He pointed at his empty glass and Standing finished his own, waving for the barman to bring fresh drinks.

  The detective leaned closer to Standing and murmured, ‘Okay, here’s the thing. Your sister isn’t the only kid to have overdosed. We had three in the past year, before she died. Young girls, no real suspicious circumstances to speak of, just injecting too much heroin. It happens, right?’

  Standing didn’t reply.

  ‘But the three weren’t random. They were all involved with the same group of Asian guys. They were based around a discount shop in Kilburn. One of those places where everything costs a quid. These guys are scumbags.’

  The barman returned with their drinks. The two men fell silent until he had walked away.

  ‘So, we knew that the scumbags in the shop were seducing young girls. Young white girls. Grooming them. Then screwing them. We knew about the shop, and we knew that several of the men who visited it worked as minicab drivers based out of an office in Kilburn. We did a quick recce and found they had a back room with sofas and a big-screen TV, video games, all the stuff that kids like. They’d let girls hang out there, and we were pretty sure that’s where they were plying them with drink and drugs. So me and my DS put together a proposal to have the place under more intensive surveillance, maybe try to get a camera inside. But at the very least we could have eyes on the place and see who was coming and going. Once we’d identified the main players, we could move in. Hopefully pull in the dealers, too. I even offered to go under cover, take a job with the minicab firm, get to them from the inside. Me and my DS put forward a hell of a good case, but the inspector vetoed it.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Said there weren’t the resources available, and that there was a risk of allegations of racism. Cultural complications, he said. More trouble than it was worth.’

  ‘That’s what he said? More trouble than it was worth?’

  ‘Words to that effect,’ said Kaiser.

  ‘He was cutting them slack because they’re Asian?’

  ‘Happens all the time,’ said the detective. ‘Back when I was walking a beat a memo went around telling us not to discipline Asians or blacks for spitting in the street. We were told that it was a cultural thing. So we were to let them hawk and spit. I told my sergeant that was bollocks. I’m Asian and I don’t spit in the street. My mum would’ve given me a clip around the ear if she’d caught me spitting. Anyway, I was told to just follow the orders.’ He shrugged. ‘That was ten years ago, but it’s way worse now. Remember that nutter who stabbed the cop to death at the Houses of Parliament?’

  Standing nodded. ‘Sure. Rammed pedestrians with his car, then stormed the building with a knife.’

  ‘He killed one of ours, Matt. He knifed a brother officer to death. And what did the Met say a few hours later? They said they realised that the Muslim communities would be anxious about what had happened because of the past behaviour of right-wing extremists. They said they would work with them to put their fears at rest.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘The cop’s blood was still on the pavement and our bosses were worried about the feelings of the Muslim community. I’m a Muslim, right, but it’s not skinheads I’m worried about. It’s the thought of bearded nutters with knives killing cops on the street that keeps me awake at night. But our bosses just don’t get that. Politically correct gone mad, like they say.’

  Standing could see that the detective was breathing heavily and trying to calm himself. He recognised the signs and knew exactly how Kaiser felt. Anger had to be controlled because lashing out didn’t solve anything.

  Eventually the detective forced a smile. ‘So, anyway, my inspector said if girls were choosing to hang out at the store, and no one was forcing them, it was down to them. They might be making bad choices, but that’s what people do, isn’t it?’ He sipped his drink. ‘Long story short, the inspector killed the investigation. Killed it stone dead.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘But here’s the funny thing. About a week later that back room was turned into a storage space. Filled with stock. They got rid of the sofas and the TV, and the girls stopped going around. Same guys running the shop, but they just stopped having girls there.’

  Standing frowned. ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘No idea, but you wonder if someone warned them off, right?’

  ‘The inspector?’

  ‘Who the fuck knows?’

  ‘So they’ve stopped the grooming?’

  The detective shook his head. ‘They just moved to the minicab office. They use a room there, second floor.’

  ‘Is that where they took Lexi?’

  ‘That I don’t know. But the place in the pound shop was closed six months ago.’

  ‘You were told to drop it. Why didn’t you?’

  Kaiser laughed. ‘Do you always do as you’re told?’

  ‘Good point,’ said Standing.

  ‘My daughter’s eight, and it scares me shitless that these scumbags might still be around when she’s a teenager. What these bastards are doing, it’s evil. They choose their victims carefully. Usually girls from broken homes, abusive parents. Poverty. They pay attention to them. Give then presents, make them feel special. It’s grooming. It’s what paedophiles do. They choose the right victim, then persuade them, slowly and carefully, until they get them to do what they want them to do.’ He shuddered. ‘It’s fucking evil.’ He sighed. ‘But, like I said, no one’s going to do anything.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Standing. ‘This inspector, the one who killed the investigation. What’s his name?’

  ‘I doubt he’ll talk to you.’

  Standing grinned. ‘I can be persuasive.’

  Shepherd woke to the sound of his mobile. Before he even opened his eyes he knew it was Willoughby-Brown. He groped for it and sat up.

  ‘You’ll like this,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘Your fingerprints have just been run through IDENT1.’ It was the UK’s national fingerprint database. Until 2005, fingerprints were taken with ink and paper, then converted into digital images stored on the National Automated Fingerprint Identification Service. That system was replaced by IDENT1, with fingerprints taken electronically by the Livescan system used in all police stations and the Lantern portable scanners that officers carried. The database contained more than seven million sets of fingerprints and IDENT1 was responsible for identifying more than a million and a half suspects every year.

  ‘Any idea who checked?’

  ‘It was done through Liverpool. St Anne Street police station. We have the name of the officer who ran it and he’s now under surveillance.’

  ‘So it’s Meyer getting it done, not Lisa?’

  ‘Looks that way. Any idea how they got the prints?’

  ‘I was on the boat all yesterday so I touched lots of things. Including several glasses. Plenty of opportunity to lift my prints. What about the NCA? Has Lisa filed anything?’

  ‘Funny you should ask. Yes. She’s said you’ve met with Meyer and given a description. She’s identified you as Jeff Taylor and says that Meyer is thinking about using you for one of his deliveries.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘Isn’t it? What will be even more interesting is what happens once they get the Rich Campbell legend. I’ll keep you updated.’

  Willoughby-Brown ended the call and Shepherd lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The fact that Lisa had filed a report on Jeff Taylor suggested she was still in operational mode. But she was very close to Meyer, far closer than undercover agents generally got to their targets. It was interesting, true, but it was also confusing. If Lisa had switched allegiances, why would she file information that could lead to Meyer’s arrest?

  There was a sign in the window of the Everything For A Pound shop that said the weekday opening hours were from nine in the morning until eight at night. By ten to eight there was only one customer, a woman in a burka who was spending an eternity choosing plates. Standing was across the road, watching her in the reflection of a betting-shop window. Eventually she carried half a dozen plates to the counter, where a middle-aged Pakistani wrapped each one in newspaper and placed them in a plastic bag. A younger man was tidying shelves. Standing had hoped that at least one of them would leave before closing time, but it seemed they were both going to be there until eight.

  Eventually the woman left with her purchases. Standing checked his watch. Five to eight. Time to move. He was wearing gloves, and a parka with a fur-lined hood. He hadn’t seen much in the way of CCTV in the street, and when he’d been in the shop earlier in the day there had been no cameras inside. He figured that in a shop where everything cost a pound, shoplifting probably wasn’t a problem.

  He kept his head down as he jogged across the road and pushed the door open. A bell dinged. The man behind the counter didn’t look up. The younger guy was a few feet away from him, arranging a display of glasses.

  Standing turned and flicked the ‘OPEN’ sign to ‘CLOSED’. There were two large bolts, top and bottom, and he slammed them home, then turned and walked purposefully towards the counter. The older man was staring at him, wide-eyed, but had frozen. That was what most people did when faced with a threatening situation. Soldiers could be trained to react but civilians were not: usually they stood rooted to the spot. Mouths would drop open, foreheads would frown, eyes would widen, but otherwise, bodies would go into self-preservation mode and that meant not moving.

  The younger man hadn’t noticed what Standing had done and was concentrating on the glassware. Standing walked quickly but he didn’t run. The man behind the counter opened his mouth to speak. Standing reached the counter, grabbed the man’s hair and slammed his head down, hard. Then he pushed him back so that he fell against the wall behind him.

  At the crash the younger man turned. Standing hit him in the solar plexus. The blow sent the man’s diaphragm into involuntary spasm, which meant he couldn’t breathe. Standing hit him a second time, and as his victim slumped to the floor, he grabbed the man behind the counter and dragged him along the floor to the storeroom. He pushed open the door, threw him inside, then went back for the other, who was now curled into a ball, gasping for air. Standing dragged him through the door and dropped him next to the older man.

  He took a roll of duct tape from his pocket and bound the wrists of both men behind their backs, then slapped tape over their mouths. He stood up. His breathing was slow and even, and he doubted that his pulse had broken eighty. Less than a minute had passed since he had walked in from the street.

  He went back into the shop and flicked three light switches on the wall by the cash register, plunging the place into darkness. There was a display of plastic-handled knives by the glassware. He selected a carving knife and took it back into the storeroom. The younger man was still having trouble breathing but the older man lay on his side glaring at Standing, blood trickling from his nose.

  Standing hadn’t been able to see inside the storeroom when he’d visited the shop, but it was fit for purpose. A door led out to the back, probably for deliveries, and it was locked. There were no windows, just racks of goods that were yet to be put on display. To the left was a small fridge with a kettle, mugs, coffee and tea.

  Standing flicked down the hood of his parka. It didn’t matter whether they saw his face. This would go one of two ways and neither involved the police. He stood over the older man. ‘I’m assuming you’re the boss, so I’m going to take that tape off your mouth and talk to you. If you’re not the boss and he is, then the first and only words out of your mouth are to tell me that. Do you understand?’

  The man nodded fearfully.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Standing. He bent down and ripped the duct tape off the man’s lips and threw it onto the floor. ‘Now, are you the boss?’

  ‘Yes. Look, take the money from the till – there isn’t much but just take it and—’

  Standing kicked him in the side, hard, bent down and patted the man’s trousers until he found his wallet. He took it out, removed the driving licence and studied the name. ‘Jafari. Your name’s Jafari?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Standing tossed the wallet onto the floor and slid the driving licence into the pocket of his parka. He continued to pat the man down and found his mobile in his back pocket. He pulled it out. ‘Right, here’s the thing. I’ve got what they call anger-management issues. That means I tend to fly off the handle. I act first and think second. Sometimes, when I’m really angry, I kill people. I’m not making that up. I have killed people. Do you believe me?’

  The man swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  Standing kicked him in the ribs. ‘Are you sure?’

  The man closed his eyes and groaned. ‘Yes. I believe you.’

  ‘Right. Because this isn’t going to end well if you lie to me. I already know the answer to most of the questions I’m going to ask you, and if you do lie to me I’m going to hurt you.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  Standing showed him the knife. ‘And by “hurt you” I mean cut off a finger. Or a toe. An ear, maybe. Or your dick.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said the man, louder this time.

  Standing took out the picture of the Asian man who’d been with Lexi and held it in front of his face. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I don’t know him,’ gasped the man.

  ‘See, I know that you do know him,’ said Standing, stamping on the man’s knee. ‘And I’m going to stay here until you give me his name.’

  ‘I don’t – I swear.’

  Standing kicked the man in the ribs and he yelped. ‘That’s just a tap. Next time it’ll be your kidney and you’ll be pissing blood for a week.’ He drew back his foot and the man curled up into a foetal ball. ‘Faisal,’ the man whimpered . ‘His name’s Faisal.’

  Standing kicked him again. ‘Now I know you’re lying. That’s not his name.’

  ‘It is. I swear.’

  Standing stuck the boot in again. ‘Don’t fuck with me,’ he said. ‘His name’s Frankie.’

  ‘They call him Frankie but his name’s Faisal. Faisal Khan.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Yes. I know him.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘I know his father. They go to my mosque.’

  ‘What’s the father’s name?’

  ‘Salman.’

  ‘Salman Khan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where do they live?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Standing kicked him in the back, and the man screamed. ‘I don’t know! Local, he’s local. I think in that tower block on the way back to Maida Vale. The council one. But I’m not sure.’

  Standing took the man’s phone out and looked at the screen. It was password protected. ‘What’s the password for your phone?’

  The man gave him a four-digit number and Standing tapped it in. He flicked through the address book. He found a number for Faisal but no text messages. The log had been cleared so there was no way of seeing when the two men had last spoken.

  ‘How else do you know Faisal?’ asked Standing.

  The man coughed. ‘What do you mean? I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘You meet him when you’re being a good Muslim, down at the mosque. What about when you’re being a bad Muslim and fucking underage girls?’

  ‘I don’t do that! Why do you say that? I have three daughters.’

  ‘You let him bring girls here, to this room. Didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but just to hang out. They played video games. It was like a club.’

  ‘A club? A fucking club? Do you think I’m stupid?’ He kicked him in the side.

  ‘They were just hanging out!’

  ‘They were bringing them here to fuck them!’

  ‘I didn’t know. I swear!’

  Standing kicked him, twice, then stopped. It was possible that he didn’t know what had been happening in the room. The man began to cry softly.

  ‘Why did you stop?’ asked Standing.

  The man sniffed. ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Why did you stop letting Faisal and his friends bring girls back here?’

  ‘They decided to stop coming, that’s all I know.’

  ‘Did somebody call you?’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘You’re sure? The cops didn’t call you and warn you off?’

  ‘No. They just stopped coming. And they stopped paying. So I turned it back into a storeroom.’

  Standing stood over the man as he went through his phone. He checked the photographs but there were just family shots. The man. A wife in a headscarf. Six children. Three boys. Three girls.

  ‘You know what Faisal was doing in here?’

  ‘Just playing around. Kids’ stuff. They had video games and comics.’

  ‘What about drugs?’

  ‘No! No drugs. Of course no drugs. Why would I allow drugs in my shop?’

  ‘Booze, then.’

  ‘Booze?’

  ‘Alcohol. Faisal was giving them alcohol.’

  ‘No. Not here. I am a good Muslim. I would never allow alcohol here.’

  ‘You thought they were just playing games?’

  ‘Faisal, he said he wanted somewhere to hang out. Said he’d pay me a hundred a week just to use the room. He brought in a couple of sofas and a TV. He said it was like a youth club.’

 

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