Rough Justice by Stephen Leather Page A

like him walk free. He killed your daughter and hasn’t even had the decency to admit what he did. He’s playing the system, Mr McElroy. First, he said it wasn’t him driving. Then, when the forensic evidence and witnesses showed he was lying, his defence team came up with a new strategy, that he was so traumatised by what had happened in Iraq that his first thought was to run. He might get away with it, too. It wouldn’t be the first time that a sympathetic jury let an asylum seeker get away with murder.’
    McElroy frowned. ‘Is that true?’
    ‘As true as I’m standing here,’ said the policeman. ‘The CPS is spitting feathers but there’s nothing they can do. This is England, and under English law he can put forward any defence he wants. He’ll say that he’s been having flashbacks to being tortured by the police in Iraq so his first thought when he hit your daughter was to run away. Then his brief will say that he’s stricken with grief but that it wasn’t really his fault and so on and so on.’
    ‘And he’ll get off?’
    ‘He might go down for dangerous driving, but if they make it careless driving he might not even go to prison.’
    ‘That’s . . .’ He shook his head, unable to find the right word.
    ‘Unfair? I’m afraid that’s the way it is, these days, Mr McElroy. The entire criminal justice system is slanted towards the criminals. And, make no mistake, that’s what this scumbag is. A criminal.’
    Fluorescent Jacket nodded at his colleague and the big policeman walked over to a metal crowbar that was leaning against one of the walls. He picked it up and gave it to Fluorescent Jacket, then headed towards the exit.
    ‘I’m going to leave you alone now,’ said the policeman. He handed the crowbar to McElroy. ‘Do whatever you want,’ he said. ‘We’ll clean up the mess.’
    McElroy stared at the crowbar. Then he looked up at al-Najafi. The Iraqi was struggling to stand on the tips of his toes to ease the pressure on his neck.
    ‘Are you okay, Mr McElroy?’
    McElroy nodded but didn’t say anything.
    ‘It’s justice, Mr McElroy,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s what you deserve.’
    The phone rang and Katra answered it. She waved the receiver at Shepherd. ‘Caroline Stockmann,’ she said.
    Shepherd grimaced. Stockmann was the undercover unit’s resident psychologist and he had already missed two appointments to see her.
    Katra saw his discomfort and put her hand over the receiver. ‘Shall I say you’re not here?’ she asked.
    ‘I’d better take it,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can’t avoid her for ever.’ He took the receiver. ‘Caroline, sorry I missed our last session,’ he said brightly. ‘I was away on a job.’
    ‘So I gather,’ said Stockmann.
    ‘I’m going to be in London on another operation, so we could do it next week,’ he said.
    ‘I thought we could do the Mohammed-mountain thing again,’ she said. ‘Remember that pub where we met last time I was in your neck of the woods?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Shepherd. It was just half a mile from his house.
    ‘I’m there now,’ she said. ‘Can you pop around?’
    ‘Are you stalking me, Caroline?’
    ‘Only in the nicest possible way,’ she said. ‘Your biannual is way overdue and if we leave it any longer the paperwork gets complicated.’
    ‘Give me fifteen minutes,’ said Shepherd.
    ‘No rush,’ said the psychologist. ‘They serve a very good pint here.’
    The policeman in the fluorescent jacket smoked a cigarette as he paced up and down alongside the police van. He looked at his watch. McElroy had been in the industrial unit for almost ten minutes.
    ‘Here he comes,’ said the driver. McElroy was walking out of the door, head down, hands at his side.
    The policeman stubbed out his cigarette on the ground and pocketed the butt. He knew better than to leave forensic evidence at the scene, even if they planned to dispose of the Iraqi’s body miles from it.
    As McElroy got closer, the policeman could see