'Who is this?' asked Shepherd. He turned to the van but no one was paying him any attention.

'You know who I am. Have you told the police yet? Have you told them my son is nothing to do with the video?'

'Mr Talovic?' He kept walking away from the van, still holding his sandwich in his right hand and the phone in his left.

'Have you told them?'

'Did you burst the tyre on my car? Did you throw a brick through my window?'

'f.u.c.k you!'

'It was you, wasn't it?'

'You think a brick is something? I'll do worse than that I'll burn your house down, I'll do whatever I have to do until you tell the police to back off.'

Talovic began to swear effusively and Shepherd ended the call. Within seconds the phone was ringing again. Shepherd answered: 'Look, I know that you punctured the tyre of my car and I know that you threw a brick through my window, and if you do anything else I'll report you to the police.'

'I'm not scared of the police.'

'That's clearly not the case, Mr Talovic, because if you weren't scared of them, you'd be talking to them instead of threatening me. There's nothing I can say to them that will make them stop their investigation. They already know that your son filmed the attack. All he has to do is to tell the police everything he knows.'

'They will send my son to prison.'

'He's under age,' said Shepherd. 'And he didn't actually hurt the kid. It's not your son they want, it's the boys that were doing the attacking.'

'And if my son betrays them, what will they do to him?'

'He's not betraying anyone. He's just telling the truth.'

'Your son has to tell the police that he got the video from someone else.'

'I've already told you that he's not going to lie to the police. And if you do one more thing to my property or my family, I'll make sure that-'

'f.u.c.k you!' shouted Talovic, and the line went dead.

Shepherd cursed and phoned Katra. He asked her where she was and she said she was at the supermarket. He asked her to make sure that the burglar alarm was set at night, and that all the windows and doors were locked.

'Is something wrong, Dan?' she asked.

'The father of the boy who gave Liam the video has been calling me. I don't think he'll do anything but I need you to keep an eye out for him. If you see anybody hanging around the house, call me straight away.'

'Do you think he might do something?'

'He's just angry. I think he'll calm down eventually.'

'So it was him that threw the brick at the window?'

'I don't know... maybe.'

'Should I call the police?' Shepherd could hear the apprehension in her voice.

'Katra, it's okay. Just keep your eyes open, that's all. And when Liam's not at school make sure that he's in the house or the garden for the next few days. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about but it's better to be safe than sorry.'

Shepherd put his phone away and walked back to the van. 'Problem, Three-amp?' asked Kelly, as Shepherd climbed in.

'Nah, just someone trying to sell me a magazine subscription,' said Shepherd. 'Dunno how he got my number.'

'Not Amateur Asian Slappers Amateur Asian Slappers, is it?' said Kelly. 'My subscription for that's almost up.'

Shepherd faked a laugh. He continued to eat his sandwich but he couldn't taste anything: all he could think about was Talovic and his threats.

Jason Brownlee didn't hear the police van as it pulled up behind him, but he looked around as he heard the doors open. 'We want a word with you, Jason,' said a policeman, putting on his cap as he walked away from the Mercedes van. He was in his early thirties and wearing a fluorescent jacket over his uniform.

'I ain't done nuffink,' said Brownlee, keeping his hands in the pockets of his khaki cargo pants.

'If I had a penny for every time I've heard that,' said the policeman, amiably. 'Let's see your ID.'

'I don't have any,' said Brownlee.

A second policeman climbed out of the van. He was in his mid-twenties but already his hair was starting to grey and there were dark patches under his eyes as if he hadn't slept well the previous night. 'Not even a driving licence?' he said.

'I don't have a licence,' mumbled Brownlee. 'Failed my test, didn't I?'

'Doesn't stop you stealing cars, does it?' said the younger cop. 'Three TWOCs last year, right?'

'No comment,' said Brownlee. He had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his face and he kept his head down.

'Let's have a look at your wallet, Jason,' said Fluorescent Jacket.

Brownlee sniffed and handed it over. Fluorescent Jacket flicked through the thin wad of notes and pulled out a credit card. 'This isn't yours,' he said.

'Borrowed it from a friend,' said Brownlee.

'I just bet you did,' said the officer. He gave him the wallet back. 'Date of birth, Jason?'

Brownlee mumbled it.

'Get in, Jason.'

'Why? I ain't done nuffink,' said Brownlee, shoving his hands back into his pockets. 'You can't take me in if I ain't done nuffink.'

'You've been taken in enough times to know that's not true,' said Fluorescent Jacket, spinning Brownlee around. He pulled the man's hands from his pockets and handcuffed his wrists behind his back. Then the two policemen grabbed an arm each and marched him towards the van.

'I'm going to the doctor's,' said Brownlee. 'I'm on the sick.'

The policemen ignored his protests and took him to the rear doors. They opened them. There were two uniformed constables in the back of the van and they moved to the front to allow Brownlee inside. The second policeman followed him in and pulled the doors shut while Fluorescent Jacket opened the front pa.s.senger door and sat next to the driver.

'Why are you mob-handed?' asked Brownlee. 'Scared, yeah?'

'That's right,' said the officer on his right. 'Scared s.h.i.tless.'

The driver pulled away from the kerb. The officer on Brownlee's right pulled a black bag from under the seat in front of him. 'What's that?' asked Brownlee.

'Trick or treat,' said the officer. He grinned and pulled the bag down over Brownlee's head.

Brownlee began to protest but the officer on his right seized him by the throat with a gloved hand and hissed in his ear, 'Keep your mouth shut or I'll Taser you, sc.u.mbag.'

Brownlee went quiet. In his four-year career as a housebreaker and car-stealer he'd been arrested more than two dozen times, but he'd never been hooded. He wanted to ask them what was going on but he didn't think the Taser threat was an empty one.

The policemen started talking about the forthcoming LiverpoolFulham match, joking and swearing like a group of guys down at the pub, but they weren't regular guys, they were policemen, and Brownlee didn't understand why they had hooded him or why they had turned up mob-handed. The van he was in wasn't the sort of van they used to hoover up drunks on a Sat.u.r.day night they always had a cage in the back with two bench seats. The van they were using was full of seats, and it didn't make sense to use it to pick up one person. Being mob-handed didn't make sense either because Brownlee never carried a weapon, not even a knife. But nothing about what had happened made sense to him so he sat with his head down and waited for it to end. The van made a series of turns and he soon lost all track of where he was. He tried counting off the seconds but he gave up after two hundred.

The policemen continued to laugh and joke as if they were alone in the van, though at one point one of them tapped Brownlee on the shoulder and asked him if he could breathe. Brownlee swore at him and was rewarded with a slap to the back of his head.

Eventually the van came to a halt. He heard doors open and shut and then the sound of a metal gate being pulled back. The van moved forward again, edged over a b.u.mp and came to a halt. Brownlee's heart was racing and his face was bathed in sweat. He had no idea where they had brought him, but he was sure of one thing: they weren't in a police station.

He heard the side door slide open, then hands grabbed him and he was hauled out. He was half dragged, half carried across a concrete floor and thrust onto a chair. The hood was ripped off his head. Brownlee looked around, panting. He was in an empty industrial unit with bare brick walls and metal girders overhead. Bare fluorescent tubes lit the interior and at the far end was a large air-conditioning unit.

The cop who had handcuffed him appeared in front of him, holding a sledgehammer. He had taken off his fluorescent jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He grinned at Brownlee. 'So, let me tell you exactly what's going to happen, Jason,' he said. 'We are bringing your career to a halt, here and now.'

'What career?' said Brownlee, frowning. 'I don't have no career.' He heard a noise behind him and twisted around in his chair. The four other policemen were standing by the van, staring at him with hard eyes. Brownlee turned back to look at the cop in front of him.

'You're responsible for about ten per cent of all break-ins in the area where you live. Did you know that?' said the cop, swinging the sledgehammer. 'Do you have any idea how much paperwork you generate?'

Brownlee said nothing and stared at the floor.

'Every time you break into a house, two officers have to go around to talk to the victim, then we have to fill out a crime report and that's a dozen pages right there. Then we have to do a follow-up visit and liaise with Neighbourhood Watch and send a report to Crime Prevention and all because you'd rather thieve than work for a living. If we can stop you thieving, I reckon we could save ourselves over a thousand man-hours every year.' He let the handle of the sledgehammer slide through his fingers until the metal head hit the floor with a dull thud. 'Do you know what they do to thieves in Saudi Arabia?' asked the cop.

Brownlee shook his head.

'They cut off their hands,' said the cop. 'Not both, just one. Unless they carry on stealing in which case they lop off the other. But you know what, Jason? You hardly ever see a thief missing both hands. And you know why that is?'

'This is bulls.h.i.t!' shouted Brownlee.

'It's all about deterrence,' said the cop, ignoring his outburst. 'Chopping off a hand is a deterrent. A slap on the wrist by a well-meaning magistrate isn't. Which is why you've been running riot for the past four years, isn't it?'

Brownlee glared at the cop but didn't say anything.

'You see, what we can't understand is why the courts didn't put you behind bars years ago, Jason. You've been caught in the act, you've been caught with stolen goods, you've left footprints, fingerprints, and once you left a t.u.r.d in the middle of a bed, didn't you?'

'This is bulls.h.i.t,' repeated Brownlee, quieter this time.

'But what really p.i.s.sed us off was the old lady that you pushed down the stairs last month. She was in hospital for a month. A month, Jason.'

'I didn't push n.o.body,' said Brownlee.

'It was in your patch. You broke in through the patio window like you usually do, you cut the phone line and you unlocked the front door for a quick getaway. It had your MO all over it. You understand MO, right? Modus operandi Modus operandi. Your way of operating.'

Brownlee didn't respond.

'But she came home early, didn't she? Mrs Wilkinson, her name is. Alice Wilkinson. She was a primary-school teacher for almost forty years did you know that? Two children, but she outlived them both, and she has three grandkids in Australia. You couldn't meet a sweeter old lady. And what did you do? You pushed her downstairs, face first. Broke her jaw, fractured her arm.'

'I didn't do nuffink,' said Brownlee, though his voice lacked conviction.

'She'll be scarred for life, the doctors say. Not that she's much life left, but every time she looks into the mirror she's going to remember what you did to her.'

Brownlee shook his head, even though he knew there was no point in denying it.

'Her memory isn't what it used to be so she couldn't identify you. But it was you, Jason. Without a shadow of a doubt.'

He swung the sledgehammer, narrowly missing Brownlee's knee. Brownlee flinched and began to beg them to let him go.

'That's not going to happen,' said the cop, 'not until we've done what we're here to do.'

'Please don't,' whimpered Brownlee.

'Here's the thing,' said the cop. 'We thought about running you out of town, but then someone else will have to clean up your mess and that's just not fair. What we've got to do is to stop you reoffending.' He nodded at two cops who had moved to stand behind Brownlee. One of them bent down and undid the handcuffs. Brownlee jumped up, but before he could run the two men grabbed an arm each. 'We're not going to do what the Saudis do, but we are going to make sure that you can't use your right hand not for a while anyway.'

'You can't do this!'

'Yes, we can, Jason. And you're going to take it like a man. And when we've finished, we're going to drop you close to a hospital. Funnily enough, it'll be the hospital that treated Mrs Wilkinson. I suppose that's ironic, rather than funny, but you get my drift, right?'

The two policemen wrestled Brownlee to the ground. Another officer wrapped a piece of rope around the wrist above Brownlee's right hand and pulled it tight. A fourth grabbed his left arm and held it to his side.

'Please don't do it I won't rob again,' sobbed Brownlee. 'I won't steal I swear.'

'That's the plan, Jason,' said the cop, raising the sledgehammer above his head. 'But remember one thing, and remember it well. If you ever tell anybody what happened to you, we'll bring you back here and kill you. That's a promise.'

Brownlee screamed as the cop brought the sledgehammer down on his hand. The bones splintered, blood splattered across the concrete and he pa.s.sed out.

Friday was a relatively quiet day and Shepherd spent most of his shift sitting in the van around the corner from Trafalgar Square, where local-authority workers were demonstrating against plans to slash their pensions. Intelligence had suggested that a group of anarchists were planning to infiltrate the march but in the event it pa.s.sed off peacefully and by six o'clock in the evening there were only tourists in the square.

Shepherd drove his bike back to Kilburn, collected his BMW and headed back to Hereford. He was just leaving London when his phone rang and he took the call using hands-free. It was Charlotte b.u.t.ton.

'On your way home?' she asked.

'Yeah, Liam's got a football match tomorrow.'

'How is he?'

'Heading towards his teen years with a vengeance.'

'Still at the local school?'

'Yeah, he's fine there. Our au pair takes good care of him and his grandparents are just down the road.'

'There's a lot to be said for boarding,' said b.u.t.ton.

'Nah, I like hanging with him at weekends,' said Shepherd. 'He's at the fun age, you know? Old enough to have a decent conversation with but he still thinks I'm wonderful.'