Rough Justice by Stephen Leather

you wanted al-Najafi dead, that you wanted to do to him what he did to your daughter.’
    ‘That’s what this is about, is it?’ McElroy snarled. ‘That piece of shit comes to my country, drives around without a licence and without insurance, kills my little girl, gets out of prison on bail so that he can apply for asylum, and I get my nuts kicked for saying it’s not right. Fuck this country. Fuck England and fuck you.’ He pointed his finger at them. ‘Get the fuck out of my house or I swear to God I’ll kill you.’
    Fluorescent Jacket put up his hands, smiling. ‘Easy, Gerry,’ he said softly. ‘We’re not here to give you a hard time. We’re on your side. We’re here to help.’
    McElroy lowered his finger, frowning. ‘Help? How can you help me?’
    The policeman pointed at the armchair by the fireplace. ‘Sit down, Gerry, and I’ll explain.’
    The van came to a halt and McElroy felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘You can lift your head now, sir,’ said the policeman in the fluorescent jacket. ‘We’re here.’
    McElroy looked up. They had stopped in front of a metal-sided industrial unit. There was a for-rent sign on the front door. They had driven for almost thirty minutes and for most of that time McElroy had had his head down so he had no idea of where they were.
    Fluorescent Jacket opened the side door of the van, climbed out and waved for McElroy to follow him. He took a key from his coat pocket and used it to unlock the door. He pushed it open and nodded for McElroy to go through.
    The industrial unit was empty, stripped of whatever machinery it had once contained. There were oil stains on the wall and a metallic smell in the air. Mohammed Hussein al-Najafi was standing on an oil barrel in the centre of the building, his hands bound behind his back with duct tape. There was more tape around his mouth. He was standing as erect as he could to ease the pressure on his neck caused by a chain that ran over a metal girder in the roof. If he stood perfectly straight the chain was tight but he could still just about breathe. Al-Najafi was wearing dirty blue jeans and a blue and grey checked shirt with dark sweat patches under the arms. It was a cold day but he was sweating a lot, sweating like a man who knew that he was in a lot of trouble. He was in his early forties, his skin leathered from years in the hot sun, his hair black and glossy, flecked with dandruff.
    McElroy would never forget the Iraqi’s face. He had been to all three of his court appearances and had stared at the man, wishing he was dead, wishing he’d had a loaded gun in his hands. Al-Najafi had never once expressed remorse, never said he was sorry, never even admitted his guilt. He hadn’t spoken a single word in court: a solicitor in an expensive suit with a Louis Vuitton briefcase had done all the talking for him.
    ‘What’s happening?’ said McElroy. ‘Why’s he up there?’
    ‘Because we’re granting your wish, Mr McElroy,’ said Fluorescent Jacket. ‘This is the man who killed your little girl. Killed her and ran away. We know that the system has failed you. He’s out on bail now and that’s not fair and even if the courts do find him guilty then the most he’ll get is five years and that’s not enough. An eye for an eye, that’s what we believe in. And that’s what you want, too.’
    ‘But . . . how . . .’ McElroy was unable to believe what he was seeing or hearing. A sudden thought struck him: maybe it was a trap. Maybe the police were testing him. A second officer, a large West Indian with massive forearms and legs that looked as if they were bowing under the weight of his huge torso, walked into the unit.
    Fluorescent Jacket put a hand on McElroy’s shoulder. ‘We’re taking a risk letting you do this, Mr McElroy. But we think you deserve it.’
    ‘But you’re the police . . .’
    ‘It’s because we’re the police that we’re doing this,’ said the officer. ‘We’re sick of seeing scum