‘Spider, you can see what a crock of shit this is, can’t you? It’s political correctness gone mad. In the old days, a white guy was an IC One, end of story. Now a white guy can be W One, white British, W Two, white Irish, or W Nine, White Other. Now, I’m on the trail of a white guy. Is he British, Irish or a bloody Kiwi? How do I know? I don’t, right? He’s just a white guy. So how do I call it in? W One, W Two or W Nine? And what happened to W Three, W Four, W Five and all the rest of the Ws?’
‘Fair point,’ said Shepherd, who was already bored with the conversation.
‘Am I supposed to ask him?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Shepherd.
‘And they’ve subdivided the Asians into A One Indian, A Two Pakistani, A Three Bangladeshi, and A Nine Asian Other. Now, I ask you, can you tell the difference between a Paki and a Bangladeshi?’
‘Razor, “Paki” is offensive,’ said Shepherd.
‘Screw that,’ snarled Sharpe. ‘Brit is short for British, Scot is short for Scottish, and Paki is short for Pakistani. The point is, how the hell are we meant to tell them apart? And what about the Ragheads? They’ve done away with the IC Six Arab classification but under the new codes there are no Arabs. They fall under O Nine, Any Other Ethnic Group. How stupid is that? The Ragheads are the biggest threat to the free world, and we don’t even have a classification for them. What are we going to say over the radio next time we’re on the trail of a Raghead suicide- bomber? That we’re following someone from Any Other Ethnic Group wearing an explosive vest?’
Shepherd had no answer for that because what Sharpe had said was absolutely correct. In their bid to be politically correct, the powers-that-be had done away with the Arab classification. Oriental had gone too, with the new definitions having room only for Chinese. Thais, Vietnamese and Koreans were lumped together under A Nine, Any Other Asian. It made no sense. The original classifications could be criticised as not specific enough, but at least the guys on surveillance knew who they were looking for. But the new classifications veered from being too specific to too vague. They were worse than useless.
‘Like I said, the world’s gone mad,’ said Sharpe, his voice loaded with bitterness.
‘You don’t have to use the new classifications on surveillance, you know that,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’re an admin thing, that’s all.’
‘It’s nonsense,’ said Sharpe. ‘What does it matter if a villain is Irish or Welsh? If he’s a Bangladeshi or an Indian?’
‘It helps the collation of statistics,’ said Shepherd.
‘Yeah, well, where’s the classification for Turks? They’re behind most of the drugs being brought into London. Where’s the classification for Jamaicans? They’re responsible for most of the gun crime. What about the Bosnians and their ATM frauds?’
‘You should write a memo,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m a dinosaur,’ said Sharpe. ‘They’re not going to pay me any attention.’
‘You’re a cop with almost thirty years’ experience,’ said Shepherd.
‘Which counts for nothing,’ said Sharpe. ‘They don’t care what we think. We’re just pawns in a bigger game.’
‘It’s not a game, Razor. None of this is.’ Shepherd’s mobile phone vibrated and he took it out. Charlotte Button. He pressed the green button. ‘Yeah?’ he said. He wasn’t being rude: it was standard procedure not to identify himself over the phone unless he was in character.
‘Would you be so kind as to tell your prehistoric colleague that we’re recording everything that’s being said.’
‘Ah, right,’ said Shepherd, and gave Sharpe a warning look. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘And tell him that we have more than enough already to put an end to his career. We’ll reset the recording as of now, but it’s my last warning.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ said Shepherd.
Button ended the call.
‘Tell me what?’ said Sharpe.
‘Enough of the racist stuff,’ said Shepherd, putting away his phone.
‘Me? Racist?’ said Sharpe, genuinely offended. ‘I had a Chinese last night and an Indian on Monday.’
‘I hope you’re talking food,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just remember we’re on tape.’
‘Message received and understood,’ said Sharpe, saluting Shepherd. He waved up at one of the hidden cameras in the roof. ‘Testing, testing, one, two, three.’
Sometimes Razor’s sense of humour could be infuriating, Shepherd thought. He heard a car engine outside. ‘Here they are,’ he said, and went to the metal door that led out to the car park. Ali was at the wheel of a five- year-old Ford Mondeo. Fazal had just climbed out of the front passenger seat. Hassan sat in the back, glaring. Shepherd stood in the doorway, arms folded, the hard man.
Ali climbed out of the car and waved at him. Shepherd looked pointedly at his watch. ‘Are you going to stand there all day, or are we going to get on with this?’ he said.
Ali hurried over with Fazal. Hassan stayed in the back of the car. Shepherd gestured at him. ‘Still mad about his camera, is he?’
‘It’s ruined,’ said Ali. ‘They said it would cost at least two hundred pounds to repair.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe next time he’ll be more careful where he points it. Is he staying in the car?’
‘If that’s okay.’
‘He can turn cartwheels round the car park so long as he doesn’t try to take my picture again.’ Shepherd held the door open for them, and they walked into the building. They stopped short when they saw that Sharpe was holding a metal detector.
‘What’s that?’ said Fazal.
‘It’s a thermostat,’ said Sharpe. ‘It stops things overheating. We know you’re not going to do anything silly but just hold up your arms and let me check you out.’
‘You don’t trust us,’ said Ali.
‘We don’t trust anybody,’ said Sharpe.
‘What about you?’ said Fazal. ‘How do we know you don’t have guns?’
Shepherd grinned. ‘Of course we’ve got guns,’ he said. ‘You’re here to buy guns, remember? Now, hold out your arms or piss off.’
Ali and Fazal glanced at each other nervously. Ali was sweating and wiped his brow with his sleeve.
‘Is there a problem, ladies?’ asked Sharpe.
Fazal reached into his jacket and took out a machete, the blade wrapped in newspaper. Sharpe took a step back, transferred the metal detector to his left hand, then pulled out an automatic with the right.
‘It’s okay – it’s okay!’ shouted Ali.
‘Put the knife down!’ shouted Sharpe, pointing the gun at Fazal’s chest.
Fazal bent down slowly and placed the machete on the floor. He reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a flick knife and put it next to the machete, then straightened up.
‘Knives?’ said Sharpe. He sneered at Fazal. ‘You bring knives to a gun deal? What was going through your tiny little mind? You were going to pull a knife and we hand over the guns ’cos we’re pissing ourselves?’
‘They’re for protection,’ said Ali. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a hunting knife in a nylon sheath. He dropped it on to the floor, then pulled a carving knife with a wooden handle from the back of his trousers, the blade in a cardboard sleeve. It clattered on to the concrete.
‘Against what? You think a knife is gonna stop me putting a bullet in your leg?’
‘Not against you,’ said Ali.
‘Against who, then?’ asked Shepherd.
‘You don’t know what it’s like for Muslims after seven/seven,’ said Ali. ‘It was rough before but we’re all marked men now. You can’t walk down the street without getting abuse and worse.’
‘And a knife stops the name-calling, does it?’ said Shepherd.
Ali pulled up his sweatshirt to reveal a half-inch-thick scar that ran from his left side to his navel. ‘Maybe not, but it’ll stop this happening again.’
Shepherd stared at the scar. It was a full ten inches long and, from the way it had healed, it had been a deep wound. ‘You were lucky,’ he said.
‘Lucky?’
