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Authors: Stephen Leather
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gave them a hell of a going over before they left the UK. Broken legs, fractured arms, smashed kneecaps, broken teeth, a ruptured spleen and other assorted injuries. The guy in the middle there lost both his testicles.’
‘I’ve heard of the Clansman Massive,’ said Shepherd. ‘Didn’t I read somewhere that raping an underage girl formed part of their initiation ceremony?’
‘You don’t want to believe everything you read,’ said Button. ‘But they’re hard bastards, that’s for sure. They were dealing drugs and running hookers in north London and are thought to be responsible for a number of shootings being investigated by Operation Trident. It’s not the first time – they got very busy in 2006 but when things got too hot they went back to Jamaica and returned with new identities.’ She stuck another surveillance photograph onto the whiteboard. This one showed Jamaican police officers surrounding the three injured men. ‘Someone tipped off the Jamaican cops. There were outstanding warrants against all of them and they’re now in custody. They’ll be sent down for a long, long time.’
‘Rum and Cokes all round,’ said Sharpe. ‘What’s SOCA’s interest?’
‘In the past year a dozen Yardies have returned to Jamaica in a similar state. Beaten to a pulp but not prepared to say a word to the police here.’
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ said Shepherd. ‘Someone’s giving them a taste of their own medicine. I doubt anyone’s shedding any tears for them.’
Button stuck a police photograph onto the whiteboard, a front view and two side views. It was a man in his fifties, rat-faced with a small moustache and thinning hair. ‘Oliver Barrett,’ she said. ‘Convicted paedophile, served eight years back in the nineties for assaulting two toddlers. He was murdered two months ago. His body was found under a railway arch in Kilburn.’ She stuck several scenes-of-crime photographs onto the board. ‘Strangled with a length of rope,’ she said.
‘A dead paedophile. Again, I don’t see why SOCA would be interested,’ said Shepherd.
‘Stick with me, Spider,’ said Button. ‘But I will tell you that a police van was seen driving away from the railway arch a couple of hours before the body was discovered.’ She put up another photograph. A black man with short hair and a jagged scar across his cheek stared sullenly at the camera. ‘Jake Fellows, known to his friends as Screwball.’ Button wrote the name and nickname on the whiteboard. ‘He was recently sent down for life for murdering a rival drug-dealer, and this is where it all gets very interesting.’
‘Another Yardie?’
Button shook her head. ‘British born,’ she said. ‘Jamaican mother, Geordie father. Brought up in Newcastle but moved down to London in the nineties. Nasty piece of work. Operation Trident had been looking at him for years until one day he was handed to them on a plate. Anonymous phone call that he had crack cocaine in his car. Drugs Squad picked him up and it was a good tip – he had half a kilo hidden in his spare tyre. But what was much more interesting was the Glock they found with the drugs. It had been used to kill another drug-dealer, guy by the name of Winston Cameron – Churchill to his friends. Cameron was shot twice in the head and the bullets were a match to the gun in Screwball’s car.’
‘Which he denied all knowledge of, presumably,’ said Sharpe.
‘Why, Razor, have you become psychic in your old age?’ said Button. ‘Screwball denied all knowledge of the drugs and the gun, but the forensic evidence and the gun did for him. Police had found an oil leak in the road opposite Cameron’s house, and it was a match to the oil in the sump of Screwball’s car. There were half a dozen cigarette butts on the pavement and the DNA on them was a match to Screwball’s.’
‘Bang to rights,’ said Sharpe.
‘The jury certainly thought so,’ said Button. ‘Took them less than an hour to
‘I’ve heard of the Clansman Massive,’ said Shepherd. ‘Didn’t I read somewhere that raping an underage girl formed part of their initiation ceremony?’
‘You don’t want to believe everything you read,’ said Button. ‘But they’re hard bastards, that’s for sure. They were dealing drugs and running hookers in north London and are thought to be responsible for a number of shootings being investigated by Operation Trident. It’s not the first time – they got very busy in 2006 but when things got too hot they went back to Jamaica and returned with new identities.’ She stuck another surveillance photograph onto the whiteboard. This one showed Jamaican police officers surrounding the three injured men. ‘Someone tipped off the Jamaican cops. There were outstanding warrants against all of them and they’re now in custody. They’ll be sent down for a long, long time.’
‘Rum and Cokes all round,’ said Sharpe. ‘What’s SOCA’s interest?’
‘In the past year a dozen Yardies have returned to Jamaica in a similar state. Beaten to a pulp but not prepared to say a word to the police here.’
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ said Shepherd. ‘Someone’s giving them a taste of their own medicine. I doubt anyone’s shedding any tears for them.’
Button stuck a police photograph onto the whiteboard, a front view and two side views. It was a man in his fifties, rat-faced with a small moustache and thinning hair. ‘Oliver Barrett,’ she said. ‘Convicted paedophile, served eight years back in the nineties for assaulting two toddlers. He was murdered two months ago. His body was found under a railway arch in Kilburn.’ She stuck several scenes-of-crime photographs onto the board. ‘Strangled with a length of rope,’ she said.
‘A dead paedophile. Again, I don’t see why SOCA would be interested,’ said Shepherd.
‘Stick with me, Spider,’ said Button. ‘But I will tell you that a police van was seen driving away from the railway arch a couple of hours before the body was discovered.’ She put up another photograph. A black man with short hair and a jagged scar across his cheek stared sullenly at the camera. ‘Jake Fellows, known to his friends as Screwball.’ Button wrote the name and nickname on the whiteboard. ‘He was recently sent down for life for murdering a rival drug-dealer, and this is where it all gets very interesting.’
‘Another Yardie?’
Button shook her head. ‘British born,’ she said. ‘Jamaican mother, Geordie father. Brought up in Newcastle but moved down to London in the nineties. Nasty piece of work. Operation Trident had been looking at him for years until one day he was handed to them on a plate. Anonymous phone call that he had crack cocaine in his car. Drugs Squad picked him up and it was a good tip – he had half a kilo hidden in his spare tyre. But what was much more interesting was the Glock they found with the drugs. It had been used to kill another drug-dealer, guy by the name of Winston Cameron – Churchill to his friends. Cameron was shot twice in the head and the bullets were a match to the gun in Screwball’s car.’
‘Which he denied all knowledge of, presumably,’ said Sharpe.
‘Why, Razor, have you become psychic in your old age?’ said Button. ‘Screwball denied all knowledge of the drugs and the gun, but the forensic evidence and the gun did for him. Police had found an oil leak in the road opposite Cameron’s house, and it was a match to the oil in the sump of Screwball’s car. There were half a dozen cigarette butts on the pavement and the DNA on them was a match to Screwball’s.’
‘Bang to rights,’ said Sharpe.
‘The jury certainly thought so,’ said Button. ‘Took them less than an hour to
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