About the Author

PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a Science teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab-skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.

Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said ‘he’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve’. Over twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.*

You can learn more about Paul’s writing at www.paulgitsham.com or www.facebook.com/dcijones

*This is a lie, just ask any of the pupils he has taught.

Also by Paul Gitsham, featuring DCI Warren Jones

The Last Straw

No Smoke Without Fire

Blood is Thicker than Water (A DCI Warren Jones novella)

Silent as the Grave

A Case Gone Cold (A DCI Warren Jones novella)

The Common Enemy

A Deadly Lesson (A DCI Warren Jones novella)

Forgive Me Father

At First Glance (A DCI Warren Jones novella)

The Common Enemy
PAUL GITSHAM

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2018

Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © 2018 September ISBN: 9780008301170

Version: 2019-11-11

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Paul Gitsham, Featuring Dci Warren Jones

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Saturday 19th July

Prologue

Sunday 20th July

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Monday 21st July

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Tuesday 22nd July

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Wednesday 23rd July

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Thursday 24th July

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Friday 25th July

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Saturday 26th July

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Sunday 27th July

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Monday 28th July

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Tuesday 29th July

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Wednesday 30th July

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Thursday 31st July

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Friday 1st August

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Saturday 2nd August

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Monday 11th August

Chapter 85

Acknowledgements

Read on

Dear Reader

Keep Reading

About the Publisher

To Cheryl – with me every step of the way!

Saturday 19th July

Prologue

Waste containers with sliding lids made the narrow alleyway even harder to navigate. Tommy Meegan bent over, hands on knees, breathing heavily. Behind him he could hear the sounds of fighting continuing. He smiled, baring his teeth, his blood singing from the adrenaline surging around his body.

It had gone better than he could have hoped for. He’d seen crews from the BBC, Sky News and ITN, all perfectly poised to capture the action when it finally kicked off.

Untucking his T-shirt, he bunched it up and used the front to wipe the sweat from his shaved head, leaving a red smear on the white of the St George’s flag. He reached up, wincing as his fingers found the cut above his temple. He hoped the TV cameras had caught that. He had no idea what it was that had actually struck him, just that it had come from the crowd of anti-fascists loosely corralled behind the cordon of under-prepared riot police.

Already he was planning the evening’s tweets and a press release for the website. A two-pronged strategy, he decided: they’d pin the attack on the Muslims and claim that the police hadn’t done enough to protect their right to free speech.

He touched his head again, another idea forming. The cut was still bleeding, but it was little more than a nick. He’d need to do something about that. If he was going to garner any sympathy on the evening news he’d need some real war wounds.

He squinted at his watch; he was actually a few minutes early. It had been touch and go with the timing after the police had kept them on the bus. He’d been worried that he’d get to the alleyway too late. Fortunately, the protestors had finally broken through the police line and the party members had scattered every which way.

He’d found himself running alongside Bellies Brandon and been concerned that he wouldn’t be able to find his way to his rendezvous unseen; his contact had made it very clear that he was to come alone. Fortunately, the fat bastard was so unfit Tommy had soon left him behind.

A whoop of sirens in the distance finally signalled the arrival of more riot police. Tommy smiled again. Assuming that all had gone to plan and everyone had done as they were told, all the party members should have left the scene long ago. The only fighting should be between the Muslim-lovers and the police. Even the left-wing, mainstream media couldn’t bury that.

The alleyway remained silent. He pulled the battered Nokia from his back pocket – no new messages. He’d made certain to empty the inbox; he didn’t want to make things too easy for the pigs if he got arrested.

The lack of any communications irritated him and worried him in equal measure. The promised reinforcements hadn’t transpired, meaning he’d had to scrap some of his speech. And what if his contact had changed their meeting point or the time of their rendezvous? He wished he had his smartphone with him so he could access his email or Facebook, but everyone knew that the little devices would betray you in a million different ways if they fell into the wrong hands. He’d have to trust that any changes to their plans would be sent the old-fashioned way, by text or phone call.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, the adrenaline had made it dry. As excited as he was about the meeting, he hoped it wouldn’t drag on. The beers on the coach that morning seemed a long time ago and he’d worked up a thirst. The landlord of The Feathers was an old mate, sympathetic to the cause. He’d treat them right until the bus arrived to take them home.

The sound of a boot scraping the tarmac behind him caused him to spin quickly, bringing his hand up into a boxer’s stance. He squinted at the newcomer.

‘Why are you dressed like that?’ Tommy asked. ‘What’s that in your hand?’

Sunday 20th July

Chapter 1

‘Tommy Meegan, leader of the British Allegiance Party, found stabbed in the alleyway between the Fry and Tuck chip shop and the Sparkles nail bar.’

DCI Warren Jones pointed to the mugshot glaring across the crowded briefing room. The face was that of a shaven-headed, middle-aged white man sporting a few days of dirty yellow stubble. The man’s file on the Police National Computer didn’t detail if the missing front tooth was a casualty of the same incident that that had left a three-inch scar on his cheek or the same fight that had re-shaped his nose. The headshot extended to shoulder level, showing the top of a Union flag tattoo poking out of his T-shirt.

The 8 a.m. briefing was even more crowded than usual, with many of the evening shift still in attendance. The update was the third that Warren had given in the past twelve hours. The snatched sleep between two and five had been supplemented by several cups of strong coffee, but his brain was starting to feel mushy.

He glanced at the front row, then wished he hadn’t. Ordinarily the only uniform visible in Middlesbury CID belonged to his immediate superior, Detective Superintendent John Grayson, and even he reserved his dress jacket and flat cap for formal events such as press conferences and visits by senior brass. Assistant Chief Constable Mohammed Naseem certainly qualified as senior brass, as did the two chief superintendents, tablet computers resting on their laps.

Warren took a sip of water and continued.

‘Mr Meegan spent thirty-nine years on this planet, with a total of eleven residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure for football hooliganism and racially aggravated assault. For the past three years he has been chief spokesperson for the British Allegiance Party. I’ll not go into too much background detail about that for the moment, I’ll leave that to Inspector Theodore Garfield of the Hate Crime Intelligence Unit.’

Warren switched slides, immediately noticing a small typo on the second line of the timeline. He cringed inside, hoping nobody else saw it – or if they did, that they were generous enough to see it in the context of almost twenty-four hours on shift.

‘These are the facts as we know them.

‘At midday yesterday morning a coach containing forty-three supporters of the British Allegiance Party, including Meegan, his younger brother, Jimmy, and other senior members, arrived in Middlesbury after setting out from Romford, Essex. As you are no doubt aware, they were due to hold a protest and march against the proposed Middlesbury Mosque and Community Centre, referred to by some as a “super mosque”.’

Warren switched briefly to a photograph of twenty or so men posing in front of a single-decker coach, like a touring pub football team. All were white, most with shaven heads, and they sported a remarkable collection of tattoos between them. All wore England football shirts or T-shirts with the stylised version of the Union flag that had been filling the rolling news channels for the past few hours. If nothing else, the British Allegiance Party had brand recognition now.

‘They tweeted this along with the hashtag #NoSuperMosque on several of their social media accounts.’ Warren used the laser pointer to circle a face in the centre. ‘There’s Tommy holding the banner with Jimmy, his brother next to him. These are the less camera-shy members; there are a similar number out of shot.’

He flicked back to the timeline. ‘They were met on arrival by riot control police and led to the agreed rally point. As I am sure you already know, their plans to march down Sparrow Hawk Road, where the current Middlesbury Islamic Centre is located, were blocked by the city council, so they agreed to a symbolic march to the council offices before holding a rally then dispersing. As I’m sure you also already know, the Islamic Centre caught fire yesterday afternoon at the same time that the BAP were holding their rally. I don’t believe in coincidences and so DI Sutton will be running a separate but linked investigation that he’ll brief you on after this one is concluded.’

Warren took another sip of water.

‘The demonstration was supposed to start at midday but was delayed after there were problems clearing the route of protestors.’ Warren moved on quickly. The blame game for what happened later had already started and he wanted nothing to do with it. As far as he was concerned Tommy Meegan’s murder, and the fire, were where the responsibility of CID started and ended.

‘Eventually they made it to the front of the council building where they set up their stall.’ Another photograph, this time the image was time-stamped and had the constabulary’s logo in the corner. ‘As you can see, a number of those present, including Tommy Meegan and his brother, addressed their supporters with loudhailers.’ Another photograph, taken at a wider angle, showed the gathering encircled by a ring of fluorescent-jacketed officers, arms linked against a much larger crowd of protestors.

‘As you know, there was a vigorous counter-protest held by a wide range of anti-fascist and anti-racism groups.’ Vigorous was an understatement. ‘Unfortunately, protestors managed to breach the police line and confronted the BAP supporters directly.’ The next photograph was taken from a helmet-mounted camera.

‘This is the last photo we currently have of Tommy Meegan before he disappeared and his body was found.’

The image was blurry, but showed the man brawling with a masked protestor. His face was split by a huge toothy grin and despite the cut on his forehead, it was obvious that the former football hooligan was loving every second of the confrontation. The time stamp read 14:36:11.

‘As you can imagine, the scene was pretty chaotic and it was some hours before order was restored. Eight BAP supporters and seventeen protestors were arrested at the scene, with the rest disappearing into the surrounding streets.

‘It looks as though there was some contingency planning on the part of the BAP as they eventually regrouped at The Feathers pub.’ The bar was a dive frequented by the sort of clientele that would welcome members of the BAP with open arms.

‘When did they realise Tommy Meegan was missing?’

As usual it was Detective Sergeant David Hutchinson who asked the first question.

‘Apparently his brother tried to ring him at about 4 p.m., but the phone went straight to voicemail. He wasn’t worried at first, he figured he was either in custody or taking cover somewhere. He and a couple of others rang him again between four and five and eventually assumed that he had been arrested. They already knew that at least some of their friends were in the back of a police van.’

‘So nobody raised the alarm?’

‘No, although I don’t think that’s too surprising. I doubt their first instinct would be to call the police. Besides which, they were enjoying the hospitality of The Feathers. They weren’t planning on going anywhere for a few hours.’

‘When was the body found?’

‘The switchboard received a call at 6.31 from the owner of the chip shop to the left of the alleyway. They’d closed for a few hours when the trouble kicked off and were putting the bins out prior to reopening when they found him.’

Warren changed slide to one showing a wide angle shot of a narrow gap between a fish and chip shop and a nail and hair bar. Large waste bins took up three quarters of the width, leaving barely enough room for a large man to squeeze past. Blue and white crime scene tape demarked the entrance. A large pool of dark red blood was clearly visible.

‘So we have a gap of almost four hours between the last known photograph of him and his body being discovered. Do we have a time of death yet?’ This time it was Detective Constable Gary Hastings who asked the question. The young officer was currently applying for promotion to sergeant and was no doubt desperate to ask a question in the presence of senior officers. Unfortunately, he was standing at the back and nobody bothered to turn around to see who had spoken.

‘I’m afraid the weather was so warm that his core temperature had yet to fall by a significant amount, DC Hastings. The pathologist may be a bit more helpful after the post-mortem is completed, but I doubt we’ll narrow the window of opportunity very much.’

Even if ACC Naseem didn’t know Hastings’ face, Warren could at least name-drop the young officer.

‘What about cause of death?’ asked DC Karen Hardwick.

‘Preliminary finding is stabbing; you can see how much blood was lost. He has some other superficial cuts and bruises that may have arisen during the riot. Again, the PM will tell us more.’

‘What about CCTV?’ DSI Grayson was the questioner now.

‘We’ve pulled the footage from all of the cameras on the high street and all the businesses in the vicinity, but, as you can see, there are significant blind spots.’

A simple, top-down line drawing of the alleyway and the surrounding street replaced the photograph. The locations of fixed cameras were marked, along with arcs showing their fields of view.

‘Unfortunately, there was only one camera covering the opening of the alleyway and none at the rear. Irritatingly that camera was broken a couple of days ago and hadn’t been repaired.’

ACC Naseem shifted slightly in his chair. ‘Premeditation?’

‘A good question, sir. It was taken out by a brick on Thursday night. Since there were no break-ins or crimes reported in the area, it was logged as petty vandalism and no one attended.’

‘I hope that oversight has been addressed, DCI Jones.’

Warren let the implied rebuke slide; pointing out that the unit’s strategic priorities placed low-level criminal damage well down the list would have been unwise, given that several of the people responsible for deciding those priorities were seated in the room.

‘Yes, sir. We’re looking at other cameras in the vicinity from that time period to see if we can identify the culprit.’

‘What is the status of the crime scene?’

‘The crime scene investigators are still there, doing a fingertip search for the murder weapon. We’ve blocked off most of the town centre because we aren’t sure what route Mr Meegan took to the alleyway. Sunday trading laws mean we have the area to ourselves for another couple of hours, but I’ll need authorisation to keep the area closed much longer.’

Naseem nodded to Grayson.

Warren clicked to the blank slide that signalled the end of the presentation.

‘It’s going to be a big investigation, people. We have a team from HQ down in Welwyn Garden City joining us later to boost our numbers. In addition, the fire that broke out at the Islamic Centre at about the same time has been confirmed as suspicious. It looks as if it might also be upgraded to homicide if two victims sheltering in the centre when it caught fire don’t pull through.’

‘How likely do you think it is that the fire was linked with Tommy Meegan’s murder?’ asked the Superintendent sitting to the left of ACC Naseem. ‘Could it have been tit-for-tat?’

‘Based on the timings, it looks as though a direct retaliation either way is unlikely, ma’am. However I believe that some sort of link is likely.’

‘Thank you, DCI Jones.’ Naseem stood up and turned to address the assembled officers.

‘As you all know, it takes a lot to get me out of my office.’ A few polite chuckles passed around the room. ‘Unfortunately, this is going to be a big deal. I think we can all agree that the death of Tommy Meegan is no great loss to humanity, but his murder is going to cause us significant problems going forwards. Middlesbury’s a small town, with pretty good community relations for the most part, but this could cause all manner of trouble. You don’t need me to tell you that what is likely to happen if it transpires that the fire at the Islamic Centre and the protest march are linked. You also don’t need me to tell you that yesterday’s counter-protest policing didn’t go to plan. Clearly, not enough resources were deployed. The decision was then made to reassign other resources, leaving the Islamic Centre vulnerable.

‘The press are all over us. We’ll be announcing a review in due course but in the meantime I want to make it absolutely clear that all communication with the media goes through the press office.’ He fixed the room with a glare. ‘Anybody caught going off-message with members of the fourth estate will be in my office explaining themselves. That includes social media. Keep your mouths shut and stick to posting pictures of kittens on Facebook.’

A mutter of assent rippled around the room. Warren hoped the rebuke would have effect, these days one ill-thought tweet could go viral and end a career.

With that, Naseem retook his seat and the next speaker stood up.

‘Morning, everybody, I’m Theo Garfield from Hertfordshire Constabulary’s Hate Crime Intelligence Unit. I liaise with the National Crime Agency and other groups such as the Football Intelligence Unit and the Social Media Intelligence Unit. I’m here to make sure that you have all the information you need about the late Mr Meegan and his band of merry men and to place some of yesterday afternoon’s events into context for you.’

Theo Garfield was a whip-thin man with a shaved head and dark olive complexion. His accent remained resolutely Merseyside, although it was clear that he had been living in the south for some years. He too was armed with a PowerPoint presentation, although his was a lot slicker than Warren’s.

‘As you are aware, Mr Meegan was the spokesperson for the British Allegiance Party, or BAP as it is commonly known; apparently all the good names were taken.’ Garfield smiled briefly. ‘They tried a couple of other three letter acronyms, but were threatened with legal action if they didn’t stop using them. Not that their current name is without its problems Allegiance is a difficult word to spell and so Unite Against Fascism have bought the web domain names with the most common misspellings and redirect lost visitors to their own site.’

Laughter rippled around the room.

‘BAP are a motley bunch. As always with these organisations, the hardcore wouldn’t fill more than a minibus, but they can muster a coachload for special occasions, and their numbers appear to be increasing. Pretty much everyone who turned up yesterday was already in our files. Almost everyone on that bus has at least one conviction for violent assault.’

The slide changed to a photograph of Tommy Meegan and his brother in a pub, arm-in-arm, wearing England football shirts and holding half-empty pint glasses aloft.

‘This was taken a few years ago, probably during the 2012 European Championships – we know it’s not this year’s World Cup because they are celebrating a win.’ This prompted more laughter. ‘The driving force behind the party are the two brothers, Tommy and younger brother Jimmy. Local boys, they went to school in Middlesbury before they moved down to Essex. This weekend was supposed to be a bit of a homecoming for them.

‘Tommy has multiple arrests for racially aggravated assault, but he’s an absolute charmer compared to Jimmy who has spent more time since his eighteenth birthday inside than out. Like father, like son. Football hooliganism, racially aggravated assault, beating up homosexuals… you name it, he’s been done for it and there’s almost certainly a whole lot more besides.’

The slide switched to a photograph of an older man. Even without the bent features of his two sons, the family resemblance was immediately clear. ‘Meet the late, unlamented Ray Meegan. A veteran of the Seventies’ and Eighties’ hooligan scene he also did time for armed robbery. In fact, he was wanted in connection with an attack on a post office when he dropped dead of a heart attack seven years ago.’

He smiled. ‘The family tried to talk down the far-right connections and play the victim when the local paper interviewed them after anti-fascist protestors gatecrashed the funeral, but a half-page photograph of the coffin in the background draped in swastika-shaped wreaths kind of scuppered that.’

Garfield was an engaging speaker and the team were enjoying the break from the typical dry presentations, however Warren got the impression that if he let him, the man would chatter on all day.

‘You said that we know who the hardcore of the party are?’

‘Yeah. The party has only existed in its current form for about five years and most of its founding members came from other organisations that we were tracking. Ideologically it is not a political party and is unashamedly racist. The far-right scene has been undergoing serious ructions in the past decade or so with many of the slightly more moderate believers joining quasi-political parties such as the BNP, the EDL or, more recently, UKIP.

‘BAP on the other hand claims to have no belief or faith in the democratic process and draws support from the real nasty end of the political spectrum, including former members of Combat 18 and the National Front. They are openly affiliated to some of the European neo-Nazi parties, such as the Austrian Freedom Party and populist anti-Islamist movements, such as Pegida.

‘Yesterday’s march was their biggest event to date. Apart from a few so-called “direct action” events, most of their presence is internet-based.’

Garfield switched slides. ‘They may be uneducated thugs for the most part, but somebody in the party has clearly been on a few social media training courses. Their website is pretty slick, but their main strength lies in their use of Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and the like.

‘The big social media firms remove some of their more racially charged and offensive posts, but for the most part they stick within the rules. Perhaps more insidious are their subtler campaigns. This is typical…’ He clicked to another slide, a picture of a homeless person and a banner urging viewers to ‘share if you think it’s a disgrace that former soldiers starve whilst immigrants get free housing’. Warren recognised the image from his own Facebook feed. He’d deleted it without sharing.

‘They have several dozen known accounts, some with openly provocative names such as “Keep Britain British” and others with more innocuous titles such as “Proud to be British”, sharing harmless patriotic fare. The First World War commemorations have been a real party for them, with lots of pictures of poppies and young Tommies. We’re expecting a major offensive in the run-up to Remembrance Sunday with attempts to hijack the poppy appeal.’

‘Why? Surely most of the people sharing these posts have no idea who’s behind them and would be appalled if they knew?’ The tone of the questioner, sat somewhere towards the back, suggested that they may be reconsidering some of the pages that they had personally liked or shared.

Garfield gave a shrug, ‘Nobody’s really sure. Some of it’s plainly propaganda and the number of shares – which is in the tens of thousands for some of these posts – probably helps them claim to be on the side of the “silent majority”. We think it might also be a form of market research, using the number of likes, shares and retweets as a means of gauging popularity for different causes. They might also get a bit of click-through revenue from people visiting their websites. As to its effectiveness in terms of active members, it’s hard to tell. They operate a lot of sock puppets – fake accounts – so it appears as if they have more supporters than they actually do.’

Warren cleared his throat slightly, he didn’t want to end up spending all morning discussing the far-right’s social media strategy.

Taking his cue, Garfield switched to the next slide.

‘On the opposite side of the argument to the BAP, we have the counter-protestors. It’s early days, but part of my team is also trying to identify as many of them as possible. Somebody killed Tommy Meegan and it’s as good a place to start as any. There were a lot more there than we expected, so we’ll have our work cut out for us.’

That was something of an understatement. From what Warren had gleaned so far, the number of BAP supporters was as predicted, but the counter-protest was significantly larger than anticipated. It had been sheer weight of numbers that had caused the lines to collapse and it was little more than good luck that more people hadn’t been injured or even killed.

‘We’re compiling a list and scrutinising CCTV for known faces, but we know that a lot of attendees were either concerned locals, or not known to us. We have a couple of super-recognisers helping us, but the seasoned veterans were wearing masks or had their faces and tattoos covered. Aside from the usual agitators there were also protestors from more mainstream leftist groups, people showing solidarity with the local Muslim community, and lots of students, none of whom are likely to be in our files.’

‘Any indicators from social media about who may have wanted to kill Meegan?’ asked Warren.

‘It’s hard to tell. BAP members, particularly the Meegans, get so many death threats posted on their blogs, Facebook pages and Twitter feeds they hardly bother to block them anymore. Where possible, we’re identifying and cross-referencing accounts with the list of attendees, but it’s slow going.’

Warren thanked him, feeling slightly dejected. The power of the internet had transformed policing in recent years, with many officers like Mags Richardson in his own unit becoming experts in its use. However, that power was also its downfall. The chances were good that buried amongst the vast amounts of data being collected were hints to the identity of Tommy Meegan’s killer. But finding those clues could take months or even years of sifting. Quite aside from the huge budget implications, Warren didn’t have months or years. The local and national media were already reporting a spike in inflammatory social media posts, from the far-right, the Muslim community and anti-racism campaigners. Even if Warren and his team had yet to find a direct link between the fire and the protest march and its aftermath, the public at large were already conflating the two events. Unless something was done soon Middlesbury was facing a bloodbath.

Chapter 2

After the briefing, Warren was summoned to DSI Grayson’s office. The privacy blinds were drawn on the door, so he had no idea who or what was awaiting him when he entered.

‘Sirs,’ Warren greeted the seated officers. There were no spare chairs, so Warren found himself standing like a naughty schoolboy.

‘Coffee?’

That was a good sign, the Assistant Chief Constable didn’t offer you some of John Grayson’s finest roast if you were in trouble.

‘That’d be lovely, sir.’

As one of the ACC’s assistants poured Warren a cup, he got down to business.

‘Let’s be blunt, Warren. Yesterday was a colossal cock-up on several levels, not least the murder of Tommy Meegan. We massively underestimated the number of counter-protestors and had to pull in reinforcements from across the region. The riot was bad enough, but a politically charged murder and an arson attack on a vulnerable target that we should have been protecting… we dropped the ball big-time.’

Warren stole a glance at DSI Grayson, who looked grim. The problem had landed squarely in his lap – which by extension meant Warren’s. The subtext was clear. Hertfordshire Constabulary was already looking foolish; now it was time to clean up the mess, and do it quickly. The grapevine was already buzzing with speculation that the officer in charge was likely to fall on her sword. Would the same be expected of Grayson – even Warren – if he failed to deliver?

‘Monitoring from the Social Media Intelligence Unit indicated tensions were already running high before the march, and now the far-right have gone ballistic,’ continued Naseem. ‘They’re already deciding how to capitalise on yesterday’s events. These buggers couldn’t decide on the colour of the sky normally, they hate each other almost as much as they hate non-whites and homosexuals, but yesterday’s killing is uniting them. The same goes for a lot of the anti-fascist organisations; we’re already seeing calls for mass protests if we don’t start making arrests over the Islamic Centre fire soon. More than a few keyboard warriors have said that what happened to Tommy Meegan was long overdue and have started naming other far-right activists as potential targets.’

The room settled into a leaden silence; eventually Garfield spoke up.

‘This time of year is full of significant dates for the far-right. They were originally planning on marching on the seventh of July, the anniversary of the London bombings. I guess they figured they could try and make a link between the proposed new mosque and Islamic extremism. We blocked that as too provocative. Then they tried to march on the first of August. Obviously we’re wise to that and said no.’

Warren evidently didn’t hide his ignorance fully.

‘The first of August, written 1/8 represents the initials of Adolph Hitler. It’s where Combat 18 get their name from.’

‘I see.’

‘So they suggested the next day. We almost let them have it, until we ran it through the computer – the eightieth anniversary of Hitler’s rise to Fuhrer. Finally, we settled on Saturday the nineteenth of July as comparatively harmless.’

‘OK.’

Warren didn’t quite see what they were so concerned about, surely the issue had been fixed?

‘The problem is that whilst we could stop a march through town on the grounds that it was likely to cause a breach of the peace, they’re already calling for his funeral to be held on August the first.’

‘Shit.’

‘Exactly. It’ll be a magnet for every right-winger in Europe. He’s already being eulogised as some sort of bloody martyr.’

‘Can we block the funeral?’

ACC Naseem snorted. ‘That’d be political dynamite. Can you imagine the reaction – “Police block grieving family’s funeral”? No, that’s a decision well above the pay grade of anyone in this room.’

‘Home Secretary?’ asked Grayson

‘You’d think, but we’re less than a year away from a general election, I wouldn’t bet on a speedy decision. Nevertheless, Mrs May has let it be known that she is following events closely.’

Warren’s head spun. He’d known the repercussions of the previous day’s murder were likely to be significant but he’d had no idea what was at stake. And he really wasn’t happy about the Home Secretary taking an interest. That sort of interest could end an officer’s career pretty quickly.

‘So where does that leave us?’

‘We need to know who was responsible for the murder as soon as possible to manage the fallout. If it was one of the protestors, it’ll be bad enough. If it turns out it was a member of the local Muslim community seizing an opportunity, the consequences don’t bear thinking about.’ He paused. ‘Without wanting to pre-empt DI Sutton’s briefing, are we treating the fire as arson?’

‘From witness reports, it’s looking that way.’

‘Great, that’s all we need.’

Naseem removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Warren watched him carefully over the top of his coffee cup.

At first glance it seemed strange that a small, first-response unit like Middlesbury would be taking the lead in such a politically sensitive operation, but it didn’t surprise him. Ostensibly, Middlesbury was most suited to coordinate investigations on its own turf; the CID unit’s intimate local knowledge made it ideal for dealing with crimes taking place at this end of the county, miles away from the Major Crime Unit’s headquarters in Welwyn Garden City. But there was more to it. Yet more cutbacks to the policing budget were making Middlesbury CID’s special status harder and harder to justify. A successful resolution to such a big, high-profile case would do wonders for the unit’s long-term future. The question was, were they being given an opportunity to prove themselves or handed enough rope to hang themselves?

Naseem’s face was unreadable. Beside him, Grayson looked similarly impassive, but his knuckles were slightly white as they gripped his coffee mug. Naseem turned to Grayson. ‘Blank cheque, John.’ His mouth twisted in disgust. ‘This needs sorting in the next ten days or we’re looking at the Brixton riots all over again.’

So there it was: make or break time for Middlesbury CID – and the career of John Grayson. Solve the murder quickly and efficiently and Grayson was one step closer to his next promotion; mess it up and it was the end of Middlesbury CID’s independence and perhaps John Grayson. And, quite possibly, Warren Jones.

Chapter 3

DI Tony Sutton dropped wearily into the comfy chair opposite Warren’s desk.

‘The fire at the Islamic Centre is almost certainly arson; I’ll be meeting the fire investigators later today.’

‘Is there a final casualty count?’

‘There were about thirty in the centre at the time, almost all women and children or older folk. They managed to get upstairs, where the fire service rescued them. A total of eight were treated for smoke inhalation, with two remaining in hospital. An eighty-nine-year-old woman already in poor health is in intensive care alongside a three-year-old boy.

‘Fortunately, lunchtime prayers had finished a couple of hours before and it wasn’t a Friday. Karen and I will be visiting the imam in charge later, but he’s already said that ironically they were in there because of the trouble brewing in town. The centre has invested heavily in security in recent years.’

‘Speaking of security, do we have any CCTV?’

Sutton smiled humourlessly. ‘It’s funny you should ask that. The CCTV at the front of the building wasn’t working.’

Warren sat up slightly straighter. ‘Really? Can I guess what happened?’

‘Be my guest.’

‘It was broken by a brick on Thursday evening.’

‘Half right, Wednesday evening.’

* * *

Tommy Meegan’s body had been found almost eighteen hours ago, but this was Warren’s first opportunity to visit the crime scene. Even in a small, specialist CID unit like Middlesbury, with its unique role as a first responder to local crimes, most of the legwork was performed by those with the rank of Inspector or below. Warren’s immediate superior, DSI Grayson, seemed to only leave his office to play golf or schmooze with the senior ranks at the force’s headquarters in Welwyn Garden City.

At Warren’s last appraisal, it had been suggested that he needed to practise delegating more. His wife, Susan, had certainly been pleased; Warren’s first few cases at Middlesbury had placed him – and his loved ones – directly in the firing line and she had questioned on more than one occasion why he needed to be so hands-on.

The problem was that Warren missed the excitement that came with solving a case. When he’d moved to Middlesbury three years previously, it had been to further his career. There were precious few DCI opportunities on the horizon in the West Midlands Police and the sudden vacancy at Middlesbury had seemed too good to be true. He’d applied and then accepted the post immediately.

The unit’s unusual position would provide Warren with a perfect mix of both smaller, community-style policing and management, with the safety net of a senior officer directly above him. A couple of years in that sort of environment and he would be ready to move on.

It hadn’t quite worked that way. Even assuming he hadn’t permanently blotted his copybook after the Delmarno case two years ago, he’d realised that he liked Middlesbury. His predecessor, Gavin Sheehy, had once described leading the unit as the best job he’d ever had. Warren had disagreed with Sheehy over much – but he was being won over on that score.

It had been made clear that solving the death of Tommy Meegan was to be Warren’s number one priority and he had interpreted that to mean ‘leave the office and get your hands dirty’.

But not literally. The body might have been removed, but the alleyway was still an active crime scene and Warren wasn’t getting a close look without appropriate precautions. The CSIs were still looking for trace evidence and so gloves and booties weren’t enough, particularly when TV camera crews with zoom lenses were in attendance. The last thing they needed was for some defence solicitor to claim evidence gathering procedures weren’t properly followed and use TV footage to demand that key exhibits be declared inadmissible.

The plastic-coated paper suits were far from ideal attire on a hot July day. The face mask trapped the heat from his breath and within moments he was licking sweat off his top lip. Suddenly his air-conditioned office seemed a lot more attractive…

Stepping out from the police van that he’d changed in, Warren glanced towards the gathered news crews. Thankfully, nobody seemed to have registered his presence. Warren was hardly a celebrity but a few of the local hacks would recognise him and he had no particular desire to have his face splashed all over the Middlesbury Reporter’s online edition, with the attendant excuse to rehash old stories from years ago. Perhaps the face mask had its uses after all.

‘DCI Jones, what brings you out here on such a fine day?’

As always, the jollity of Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison conflicted with the sombre nature of his job. But given what he saw on a daily basis, Warren figured it was probably a survival mechanism. Naturally, the burly Yorkshireman didn’t offer to shake his hand.

‘I’m here to make sure you aren’t cutting any corners, Andy.’

To Warren’s surprise, the man’s eyes – the only part of him visible above his mask – narrowed slightly.

‘It’s not us who’s cutting corners, sir.’

Warren paused before realising what the man was referring to.

‘DetectIt Forensic Services?’

‘I caught one of them using a box of out-of-date saline swabs to take blood samples from the patch next to the body.’

‘How can a saline swab be out-of-date?’

‘That’s exactly what he said. And of course he’s right, but any defence counsel worth his salt would move to have that evidence ruled inadmissible.’

Warren shuddered. ‘What happened?’

‘Fortunately, the victim bled like a stuck pig so there was plenty of blood to go around and the lad hadn’t started taking samples from some of the tiny specks we found further up the alleyway. I got him to fetch a fresh box and retake the swab.’

‘Shit.’ Warren lowered his voice. ‘Is this going to be a problem, Andy?’

The veteran CSI sighed. ‘At the scene I can keep an eye on the newbies and we’re whipping them into shape, but God only knows what happens when the samples go off to the lab. The Forensic Science Service might not have been perfect, but at least we knew who was doing the testing. Some of these new private companies didn’t even exist eighteen months ago. Their only qualification seems to be that they’re cheap.’

Warren felt a tightening in his gut. The thought that such a high-stakes case could be scuppered by a cut-rate CSI with a box of out-of-date swabs wasn’t worth contemplating.

‘Thanks for the heads up, Andy. In the meantime, talk me through what you’ve got.’

‘The victim was probably standing close to those bins when he was stabbed. There’s some spatter consistent with arterial spurt and from the blade when it was pulled out.’ He picked up a tablet computer with a removable plastic coating and started scrolling through images on its screen.

‘See this picture of that bin over there? The angle of the droplets suggests they were probably flicked off the tip of the blade when it was withdrawn. The droplets then continue in that direction—’ he pointed down the alleyway in the opposite direction to the shop front, where a series of numbered markers had been placed on the tarmac ‘—with a pattern consistent with dripping—’ he turned a half-circle on the spot, gesturing back towards the main road ‘—and our victim appears to have crawled in that direction, presumably away from his attacker. He didn’t get far; that big patch of blood behind that bin is where we found the body.’

The blood smears were no more than three metres in length and thick. Warren pictured the victim dragging himself away from the person who’d just stabbed him. Another few metres and he’d have been visible to passers-by in the high street. Could he have survived if somebody had found him and called for help? Without realising, he’d asked the question out loud.

‘That’s the sort of question that can only be answered by a pathologist, sir. But if I had to speculate… it’s doubtful. I think it’s a miracle he got as far as he did.’

Warren felt a brief flash of sympathy. Tommy Meegan had been a deeply unpleasant individual, but in those last few moments he was nothing more than a human being facing death – and probably terrified. Did he feel any remorse for the life he’d led? Warren shook off the feeling and turned to point back at the waste container with the blood spatter.

‘Is that where you think the murder weapon is?’

Harrison nodded. ‘We’ve finished sweeping the area around it for trace and we’re about to get in and start looking for it. Unfortunately, somebody from the nail bar dumped a load of rubbish in there shortly before the owners of the chippy discovered the victim behind their own bin. If the weapon was dumped in there it will be buried under half a ton of hair clippings and fake nails.’

Warren sighed.

‘Great, that screws the hair and fibre analysis.’

Visiting the scene probably hadn’t told him anything that he didn’t already know, and the high-resolution photographs that Harrison promised to send him would tell him far more than his eyes ever could, but it gave him a sense of what had taken place.

‘What about clothing?’

‘It was an arterial cut and he would have been pumping blood under high pressure, so I doubt the killer got away without at least some transfer. We’ll be looking for any discarded clothing. Failing that, find me a suspect and give me access to his laundry bin and shoe collection. We’ll find something.’

Chapter 4

Imam Danyal Mehmud’s eyes were bloodshot and the shaking of his hands attested to the adrenaline he was running on. Karen Hardwick and Tony Sutton were seated in the imam’s living room, two streets over from the remains of the community centre. The air in the street still smelled of smoke. The house was a two-bedroom affair with a modest front room whose walls were covered in a mixture of family pictures and framed scripture.

‘Is that the Frozen fan?’ Sutton nodded towards a picture of a smiling infant in a light summer dress. She hadn’t been smiling ten minutes ago when her father had switched the cartoon off and sent her upstairs so they could speak in peace.

‘Yes, that’s Fatima. If I hear “Let it Go” one more time… she’s obsessed.’

‘My niece is about the same age,’ said Hardwick. ‘At least choosing a birthday present was easy this year.’ She paused. ‘Is the little boy in the picture with her the other victim, Abbas?’ Both children were dark-haired, with light brown skin and faces smeared with ice cream.

‘Yes, they’re cousins. My sister’s little boy. They’re almost exactly the same age.’

‘So that means Mrs Fahmida must be your grandmother?’

Mehmud nodded sadly.

‘I’m very sorry, I had no idea.’

The man in front of them was in his late thirties, wearing a white dishdasha over his jeans and trainers. By all accounts he’d been awake for pretty much the entire past twenty-four hours, comforting his congregation and, Sutton now realised, dealing with his own shock and grief. He was clearly running on adrenaline and little else, given that he was still fasting during daylight hours to mark the Muslim holy month of Ramadan.

‘Have you heard anything more from the hospital?’ asked Hardwick.

Mehmud shrugged helplessly. ‘Nani is in intensive care. They aren’t very hopeful. Abbas is poorly but stable. We are praying for his recovery, inshallah.’

Mehmud stood up suddenly as if filled with an energy he didn’t know what to do with.

‘I haven’t told Fatima anything yet. I’ll wait to see what happens in the next twenty-four hours or so. If he… well, she’ll be devastated. My sister and I are very close and Fatima and Abbas are like brother and sister.’

‘I realise that it’s been a trying time but could you take me through what happened that day,’ asked Sutton after a respectful pause.

‘We knew all about the BAP march of course, but I’d tried to persuade people to keep their heads down and not get involved.’ Mehmud shrugged. ‘Not everyone listened. We found out that the BAP were due to arrive about midday. It was easy enough to find their plans on the internet. We’d spoken about it the day before at Friday prayers. We had a higher than usual attendance; there were some brothers and sisters that I didn’t recognise.’

‘People from outside Middlesbury?’ asked Hardwick.

‘I think so. Not many, but I got the feeling that they weren’t there by chance.’

‘You think they’d arrived specifically to join the counter-protest?’

‘Yes. I tried to counsel against it – the last thing we as a community need is to be involved in violence, especially with the planning hearing for the mosque and community centre coming soon.’

‘So what happened on Saturday?’

‘There was an informal gathering here after dawn prayers. Some of the more fiery members of the congregation wanted to take part in the protest marches. A few went off to join in, but most stuck around until midday prayers.’

‘What happened then?’

‘A few more went to the protest and about half went back to lock up their shops and businesses. In the end there were about thirty, mostly women and children, who chose to stay here. I decided to lead by example and stick around.’

‘Why did they stay?’ asked Hardwick.

‘They were scared. There were all sorts of rumours on the internet about Muslims being targeted on the street or having their houses vandalised. All nonsense, of course, but I decided that anybody who wanted to remain was welcome.’

He closed his eyes briefly. ‘They should have been safe here. We locked the doors and there was a police car outside.’ His voice cracked and his bottom lip started to tremble. ‘But they weren’t, were they? We were trapped like rats.’

‘Tell us what happened inside the centre.’

‘It was pretty tense. As the protests got more violent the BBC started to cover it and there was loads of activity on Twitter. We moved the older children upstairs with some toys and the rest of us stayed downstairs to watch the telly.’ His voice hardened, and for the first time an edge of anger crept into his tone. ‘We still thought we were safe. There was a police car up the street, and all of the action was happening in the town centre. Nobody told us the police car had…’ He stopped, unable to continue the sentence.

‘We haven’t been able to get inside the centre yet,’ said Sutton, ‘so you’ll have to help us with the layout. Where were you watching TV?’

‘In the kitchen area, out the back. As you enter through the front door there are shelves for footwear and some sinks for ablutions, straight on is the kitchen, to the left the musallah, the prayer hall.’

‘And where are the stairs?’

‘To the right of the entrance.’

‘And what do you have upstairs?’

‘There are several rooms. The largest is a function room, then there is a storeroom, some bathrooms and another couple of rooms that we use for wedding guests to get changed etc.’

‘Did you know everybody?’ asked Hardwick.

‘Yes, the visitors had all gone off to the march.’

‘Did you see anybody strange hanging around outside?’

‘There were a few brothers outside, but they left eventually.’

‘What do you mean by brothers?’ questioned Sutton.

‘Other Muslims.’

‘How did you know they were Muslims if you didn’t know them?’

Mehmud blinked. ‘Well, they were dressed in thawb with full beards and well, you know, they were Asian.’

Sutton decided to move on.

‘When did you realise the building was on fire?’

‘About two-thirty we heard breaking glass out the front. I told everyone to head into the musallah, since it doesn’t have any windows. However, as we went into the hallway, we saw that the area in front of the door was on fire. I told the women to go through the kitchen and leave through the back door, whilst me and the men ran to get the children.’

The man’s eyes took on a faraway cast.

‘The mats in front of the stairs were starting to catch, so I sent the rest of the men upstairs whilst I tried to put the blaze out with a fire extinguisher. And then my wife came back through to tell me that the back door wouldn’t open.’

He closed his eyes briefly and his voice dropped to a whisper.

‘I didn’t know what to do. We couldn’t stay downstairs and I couldn’t put the fire out. So I sent them all upstairs to join the others. We’d called the fire brigade and I figured they’d be able to rescue us from the top floor more easily.’ His voice broke slightly. ‘The smell was horrible. Some of the shoes had caught fire and there was thick black smoke everywhere. Nani couldn’t get up the stairs unaided though, she’s almost ninety, I had to carry her. By the time we got to the top floor she’d passed out and Abbas was having an asthma attack.’

He looked imploringly at Sutton. ‘Did I do the right thing? Perhaps I should have gone and tried to force the back door open instead. Then she could have got out. But if I’d done that, maybe we’d have ended up trapped downstairs.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Sutton softly, ‘but I do know that your quick thinking made a big difference. You bought everyone valuable minutes for the fire service to arrive.’

It was the best he could offer.

Mehmud smiled his thanks.

‘Before we go any further, do you have any thoughts about who might be responsible?’

For the first time since they’d arrived, the man’s politeness slipped.

‘Bloody obvious, isn’t it? A coach-load of fascists and Islamophobes turn up in the town centre and distract the police, then we get torched. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist.’

‘We’re keeping an open mind at the moment,’ said Sutton, cautiously.

Mehmud took a deep breath. ‘Of course, you’re right. I apologise.’

‘Have you had any other incidents recently?’ Hardwick took over.

Mehmud shrugged helplessly. ‘Some graffiti appeared a couple of nights ago. I didn’t have any paint to cover it up. Before that, nothing really. We get on pretty well with the neighbours. I know that some of my brothers and sisters have been insulted in the street, especially if they are wearing the veil, but Middlesbury is a lot better than some places. The community centre hasn’t been attacked in years, not since nine-eleven or the London bombings.’

Sutton looked at his notes. ‘Can you remember what night the graffiti appeared?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Wednesday night or Thursday morning, I think. We hosted a meal after sundown to celebrate breaking the day’s fast. I locked up about midnight and there was nothing on the wall then.’

The same night the CCTV cameras had been vandalised.

Chapter 5

Visiting the newly bereaved was something that Warren never found easy. Today promised to be even trickier than usual.

To the casual observer, Middlesbury was a quiet, prosperous market town, populated by well-to-do professionals attracted by its semi-rural location, close proximity to Cambridge and Stevenage, and trains that could get you to central London in less than an hour.

All that was true – the house prices certainly favoured the upper-middle classes – but you only had to scratch the surface of anywhere to see its true character. A closer look showed the town’s real inhabitants, its beating heart.

Just under half of Middlesbury’s inhabitants earned less than the median adult wage for the UK. The proportion of residents claiming out-of-work or disability benefits were broadly in line with the regional average and the number of households requiring housing benefit was typical for a town of its size. But as is often the case, such raw statistics obscured the real story.

Three-quarters of Middlesbury’s poorest households lived in a single area, known locally as the Chequers estate – the six tower blocks being named after Prime Ministers from the first half of the twentieth century.

The name was the grandest thing about Churchill Towers, the ten-storey block that Mary Meegan lived at the top of. Had it not been for the two uniformed officers standing conspicuously at the entrance to the building, Warren would have thought twice about leaving his car unattended in the only parking bay not occupied by either a police car or dumped furniture.

Warren peered up at the balconies jutting out of the side of the building. Some had washing on clothes horses, a few had pot plants. Most had people staring at him.

‘Fuck the pigs!’ spray-painted across the doors completed the montage.

‘Ever get the feeling we aren’t welcome here?’ muttered Gary Hastings as he joined Warren.

The call button for the lift remained unlit and it was only the loud clanking and whining from the mechanism that reassured Warren that the stairs wouldn’t be necessary. He almost wished he’d opted for the exercise when the elevator finally arrived. A potent smell of urine, stale beer and cigarette smoke – somebody had tried to burn the no smoking sticker – engulfed the two men as they climbed into the empty lift. Hastings beat him to the number ten button. Turning so that he could face the doors, Warren felt the soles of his shoes sticking to the linoleum flooring.

‘Do you think that’s dog?’ asked Hastings, his face an even sicklier colour under the harsh fluorescent lighting. Warren eyed the sticky brown mess at the edge of the lift. ‘I hope so.’

Apartment ten-fourteen was a dozen steps down the corridor. The uniformed police officer standing outside greeted Warren and Hastings politely, before ringing the doorbell and stepping to one side.

Warren didn’t know what to expect when the door opened into the two-bedroom flat that Mary Meegan, her husband and their two boys had lived in since the late Seventies. Before he’d arrived, Warren had been prepared for everything from Nazi memorabilia and a swastika carpet to snarling Rottweilers and St George’s flag wallpaper. Then upon arrival at the tower block he’d feared he’d be stepping into a dwelling from one of those dreadful ‘how clean is your home’ filler programmes that Channel Four seemed so fond of.

He wasn’t expecting tasteful floral-patterned wallpaper, deep, shag pile carpet and shelves of carefully chosen miniature porcelain figurines. The leather couch was plainly well used, but the polished wooden arms were evidence that the glass drinks coasters weren’t just because Mrs Meegan had visitors. The building around her might be filthy and neglected but she clearly had her standards.

Mary Meegan was a smoker – that much was evident from the thick crevices that lined her face and the staining of her teeth. Nevertheless, the room smelt of air-freshener and furniture polish. A faint breeze carried the smell of cigarette smoke from the open balcony, where Mrs Meegan no doubt partook of her habit and banished similarly addicted visitors.

Through the window, Warren could see the backs of two men seated at a metal table, flanked by large earthenware flower pots containing lovingly maintained bonsai trees. Both had shaven heads. Both of them, he’d want to speak to.

‘Mary, this is Detective Chief Inspector Jones.’ The Family Liaison Officer was a young man with sympathetic eyes.

Mary Meegan turned her head slowly, almost dreamily. The FLO flicked his eyes towards the breakfast counter, where a bottle of whisky sat, half empty.

‘Hello, Mrs Meegan. I’m DCI Jones and this is my colleague Detective Constable Hastings, we’re part of the team that are investigating the death of your son. We’re very sorry for your loss.’

‘Bollocks.’

The speaker had emerged from a doorway that Warren assumed led to the bathroom.

Even without seeing the mugshots that morning, it was clear that this was the brother of the murdered man. Dressed in a white England football shirt and black tracksuit bottoms, he did nothing to hide the tattoos crawling up the side of his neck and covering his sinewy forearms. He stepped forward and Warren caught the whiff of cigarettes and whisky on his breath. He forced himself not to recoil.

‘Jimmy Meegan, I presume?’

The man ignored him.

‘Why are you around here, harassing my mum? You should be out there on the streets arresting the bloke that killed my brother.’

It wasn’t exactly how Warren had planned to open the questioning, but he decided that since Meegan had brought it up, he may as well go with the flow.

‘That’s what we are intending to do. Perhaps you could help us with that. Do you have any suggestions about who may be responsible?’

Meegan stepped even closer.

‘Take your pick, there’s fucking hordes of them.’

Warren had to ask, but he already knew what the answer was going to be.

‘The fucking Pakis. The Muslims, the Sikhs, the Jews, the place is full of them. Half the bastards live in this building. Go out there and start arresting them, you’ll find who did it quick enough. Fingerprint them all and you’ll probably solve most of the unsolved crimes in town.’

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hastings trying to keep a blank face. The Family Liaison Officer looked bored; no doubt he’d been hearing this all morning. Unfortunately, Jimmy Meegan was only just getting started.

Warren had dealt with racists a lot over his career. You didn’t spend your early uniform years in such racially diverse cities as Coventry and Birmingham without encountering your fair share of bigots, from all communities. Sometimes it could be dealt with as a public order offence; a verbal warning about use of abusive and racially charged language would usually quieten most of the people he encountered. If that didn’t work, and especially if alcohol was involved, handcuffs and the back of a police van would at least remove them from the scene and ultimately make them the custody sergeant’s problem.

In circumstances such as this, the heavy-handed approach wasn’t really appropriate. Warren recognised that Jimmy Meegan was grieving the death of his big brother. Furthermore, the dilated pupils, reddening of the nostrils, and the obsessive scratching of his left forearm suggested that a presumptive cocaine test on the traces of powder on the man’s top lip would come back positive.

Warren chose his next words carefully, but before he could mouth them he was interrupted by an unexpected source.

‘I’ve told you not to use that language in this house.’

Mary Meegan’s voice was rough, but had the edge of one used to being obeyed. Jimmy Meegan’s eyes flicked towards his mother. For a moment he looked as though he was going to protest, before he shrugged and stalked across the room to one of the armchairs, where he grabbed a grey hoodie.

‘You know I’m right,’ he muttered. ‘Pigs don’t care about us. They don’t care who killed Tommy. We’re an endangered species in our own country.’ He sounded as if he was about to start again, but his mother silenced him with a glare.

‘Boys, we’re going to the pub.’

Ideally, Warren would have liked to interview them there and then, but he could see that Jimmy Meegan was not going to be any help and he decided he’d rather have him and his two cronies out of the way for the time being.

‘Jimmy, I’d like to talk to you later. Do you have a number I can contact you on?’

Warren tried to make his tone as conciliatory as possible.

‘He’ll be here,’ said Mary Meegan.

‘And what about you gentlemen? I’m sure you have plenty of information you’d like to share.’

The two men entering the apartment from the balcony obviously shopped at the same clothing outlet as Jimmy Meegan, and shared his tastes in hair styling and body art. But that was where the similarities ended. The first of the men was hugely obese, his enormous belly straining through the T-shirt. His florid, sweat-spotted face and wheezing made Warren mentally bump him to the top of the interview list, if only so they could speak to him before he dropped dead of a massive coronary. He walked past Warren and Hastings without even looking at them.

His companion was exactly the opposite, the man looked almost emaciated. A gold earring in his right earlobe matched his right incisor, which flashed as he sneered at Warren. ‘I’ll make sure my assistant contacts your office to compare diaries.’

Warren resisted the urge to respond in kind. It didn’t really matter if they refused to give their addresses, he recognised both men from the briefing notes he had read that morning. Harry ‘Bellies’ Brandon and Marcus ‘Goldie’ Davenport were well known and could easily be picked up for questioning back in Romford if necessary.

The police officers waited until the three thugs swaggered out the door, before turning back to Mary Meegan.

‘As I was saying, Mrs Meegan, I’m very sorry for your loss and I promise you that my colleagues and I are doing everything we can to catch your son’s killer.’

The older woman stared at the floor for a few moments without saying anything and Warren debated whether or not he needed to repeat himself. Perhaps a little louder – he’d just noticed the discreet hearing aid.

‘Sit down and take the weight off. Can I get you boys a cup of tea?’

She started to get up. Warren blinked in surprise; he hadn’t expected this. Before he could respond, the Family Liaison Officer spoke up.

‘I’ll get it, Mary.’

As the officer busied himself in the kitchen, Warren mentally changed tack. He’d been anticipating a hostile reception from Mrs Meegan – a woman who it was reported had experienced more than her fair share of run-ins with the police, albeit indirectly through her late husband and wayward sons. An offer of a sit down and a cup of tea was the last thing he’d expected.

‘You know, they aren’t bad boys. Not really.’ The old woman’s voice was gravelly and slightly wistful, but it had lost its dreamy quality. Warren detected no slurring and he suspected that whilst Mary Meegan may have had a glass of whisky to settle her nerves, most of the bottle had been consumed by her visitors.

She indicated towards a picture on the wall. ‘It was him that made them the way they are.’ The photograph of Ray Meegan enjoyed a prominent place above the three-bar electric fire. On the mantelpiece, flanked by yet more porcelain statuettes, a colour wedding photograph showed far younger versions of the man in the portrait and somebody immediately recognisable as Mary Meegan. Whilst Ray Meegan was never what you would call handsome, something that his lank moustache and purple velvet suit hardly helped, Mary Meegan had been a real head-turner back then. Even her thick-rimmed NHS glasses could do little to hide her pretty features; in the same way that the large bouquet of flowers barely concealed her large bump. A shotgun wedding, it would seem.

‘I knew he liked a drink with the boys when he went to the football on a Saturday, but it wasn’t until he was arrested that I realised the truth, silly bastard.’ She shook her head. ‘The first time, it was for knocking a policeman’s helmet off. He thought it was all a bit of a laugh. A night in the cells and that was it.’

She sighed. ‘Or so I thought. The next time he got arrested, it was more serious. He glassed someone in the pub. He claimed it was self-defence. He and his mates were celebrating a win when the losers attacked them.’

Now her expression turned to derision. ‘I took his word, if you can believe that?

‘I went to court expecting him to get off, but the prosecution produced a dozen witnesses, some of them supporting his own team, who claimed that Ray and his mates started the fight. That they’d spotted the two lads on their own and started calling them names. One of the lads was Asian and he reckoned Ray called him a “Paki” and told him to go home. Nobody else heard that, so the magistrate dropped the racially aggravated bit, but he still got six weeks for assault.’

Warren had only skimmed the file on Ray Meegan, since he was more interested in his son, but his gut told him that Mary Meegan had things to say worth listening to.

‘When he came out, he claimed he was done with the football and the violence, but it didn’t last. He used to be a taxi driver, but the council were tightening the rules and didn’t think he was suitable. He drove minicabs for a while, but there were too many foreigners prepared to work for peanuts and he couldn’t earn enough to put food on the table.’

Warren could see where the story was going now.

‘I guess it colours your view of folks when you think they’re out there taking your job. It certainly did for my Ray.’

She sniffed. ‘By the time the boys were at secondary school a load of immigrants had turned up to work on the building sites. My Ray kept on applying – he was a big bloke and not scared of a hard day’s work – but they turned him down. Reckoned he was too expensive. The Asians would do it cheaper.’

She sniffed again. ‘At least that’s what he said. I reckon it was because he had a criminal record. Besides, these young lads were half his age and twice as fit. Still, he blamed it all on the Indians or the Pakistanis. He used to talk about it all the time at the dinner table. I told him not to use the P word in front of the boys, but he ignored me.

‘And then he started taking the boys to the football. I didn’t want him to, but he promised me he’d keep away from any trouble and said that he wouldn’t be a real dad if he didn’t take the boys to the footie. For some of his mates Saturday at the match followed by the chippie was the only time they spent with their kids. I was just glad that we weren’t like that.’

She paused again, taking a mouthful of her tea, grimacing at the cold temperature.

‘Let me get you a top-up, Mrs Meegan,’ interjected Hastings.

She smiled at him and handed him her teacup, which he carried back to the kitchen.

‘Do you think their father’s employment situation helped form the boys’ political views?’ Warren asked carefully.

Mary Meegan laughed throatily. ‘By “forming their political views”, do you mean “is that why they are nasty racists?”’ She answered her own question. ‘’Course it is. I believed Ray when he said he was keeping the boys away from any trouble at the football, but you tell me where the hell a nine-year-old learns to throw a banana at the TV when a black player comes on the pitch? I threatened to tan Tommy’s backside if he ever used that language again, but Ray laughed and said it was just a bit of fun.’

Mary Meegan slumped into her seat, as if the wind had been let out of her, and for the first time Warren saw the pain in her eyes.

‘Mrs Meegan, do you have any idea who might have attacked your son?’

Warren wasn’t expecting any great insights, but Mary Meegan was a lot more clued-in than she might at first seem.

‘It’s like Jimmy said – take your pick. They think I’m a fool, that I don’t know what they get up to. Until today they’d never really made the news and I don’t think they had any idea how much I know about them.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I don’t exactly bring it up over Sunday lunch – not that I ever see them for Sunday lunch these days.’ The smile disappeared and her bottom lip trembled. ‘I just want my boys with me. The way it used to be.’

She cleared her throat loudly and fished a handkerchief from out of her sleeve. Warren picked up his own teacup and joined Hastings and the Family Liaison Officer in the kitchenette. Mary Meegan was a proud woman and would want a few moments to compose herself. By the time they returned a minute later, it was as if nothing had happened. She took the fresh cup of tea from Hastings with a grateful smile.

She pointed at the laptop on the dining table.

‘They think I just use that for online shopping. It was an old one that Tommy gave me. But there’s a silver surfer club at the library. One of the boys that helps out upgraded it. Now I can use it for looking at Facebook and surfing the web.’ Her face darkened. ‘I’m not an idiot. I know exactly what they’re involved in. I even follow them on Twitter. I see what people post on there. The language they use… the threats…’ Again, her bottom lip trembled. ‘They used to try and hide it from me – still scared of their old mum,’ she barked. ‘But by the time they’d both been to prison it was obvious. They started showing off their tattoos, horrible things.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s as if they want to be unemployed. They’re supposed to be painters and decorators, but who’d let someone looking like that into their house?’

‘So they aren’t working?’

‘Not really. Tommy moved down to Romford about five years ago, the last time he was released. He said it was to set up as a decorator – he completed a City and Guilds in prison – as a mate had some work on. But I’m not daft. That part of Essex is full of right-wingers. Jimmy joined him three years ago when he got out and they were supposed to set up a business together.’

‘But they didn’t?’

‘I think they tried, but they can’t get any work. Of course, they blame the immigrants. They reckon there are too many Poles down there.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe they’re right. But who would you rather invite into your house? A nice young Polish fellow who turns up on time with a smile, or some scruffy English bloke who turns up late covered in tattoos with a mouthful of foul language?’

‘And so they hooked up with the local far-right?’

‘Yeah, although they never use that term. They call themselves “patriots”.’

‘Before today, when was the last time you saw your sons?’

Again, her bottom lip trembled. ‘It’s been a while. Months.’

‘So they don’t visit Middlesbury very often?’

She shrugged. ‘I think they still have friends up here. Tommy used to see a girl over in Attlee Place, but they split up ages ago.’ The ghost of a smile passed across her face. ‘She’s seeing a black fella now – got a lovely little boy. I thought it best not to say anything.’

Warren returned the smile. Despite everything, he was warming to Mary Meegan, and he felt more than a little sorry for her. It wasn’t hard to imagine the life she’d found herself trapped in. A man like Ray Meegan couldn’t have been easy to live with. Had she been the victim of domestic abuse? He doubted she’d admit it even now. And she’d had two boys with the man; boys that she loved and feared in equal measures. Boys that she’d tried in vain to steer away from the life their father had chosen.

It was easy to blame the parents in such circumstances, but was that always fair? Not for the first time, Warren found himself wondering what he’d do in her place. He doubted Ray Meegan was the sort of man who’d let her run off with his kids, and he couldn’t imagine Mary Meegan leaving without them. Having children seemed the easiest decision in the world, but was it always the right choice?

Suddenly, she grabbed Warren’s hand.

‘Please find the man who killed my boy. I know he wasn’t a nice man, but he didn’t deserve that. And now he’s gone I’m afraid of what will happen.’

‘Do you feel you’re in danger, Mrs Meegan?’ asked Warren.

‘Not me, Jimmy. Despite it all, Tommy was a good influence on him. Jimmy’s easily led and… he can get himself into trouble. Tommy used to hold him back.’

Warren had read Jimmy Meegan’s file. If that was how he behaved when his older brother restrained him, he dreaded to think what the man would do now that he was gone.

Chapter 6

Tony Sutton hated fires. Fortunately, there were no bodies, nevertheless the scene conjured up old memories that he’d rather not dwell on.

The Islamic Centre was a converted residential property, and luckily for the neighbours was detached. The blaze had done significant damage to the downstairs, with the windows on the ground floor broken, the frames blackened. The smoke that smudged the centre’s sign hadn’t obliterated the racist graffiti scrawled across it. The front door hung off its hinges where the fire service had smashed it open to tackle the blaze behind. It too had graffiti, along with a couple of crudely drawn swastikas for good measure. A white-suited CSI was taking a swab from the paint in the hope that they could match it to any aerosol cans recovered from a suspect.

Hardwick resisted the urge to hold her nose; the smell of scorched plastic was making her feel nauseous.

‘Imam Mehmud seemed pretty worried about the long-term fallout,’ she commented.

Sutton agreed. ‘It doesn’t look good. When you were in the bathroom, he told me he’s concerned about strangers turning up and using the fire as an excuse to make a point. There are some pretty angry social media posts in amongst the calls for solidarity and prayers for the victims. He’s pretty young and I don’t know if he wields enough authority to stop troublemakers.’

‘What about the stabbing? What if it turns out to be a member of his congregation?’

‘I don’t know. I’m trying not to think about it.’

‘Well we haven’t exactly covered ourselves in glory either. I can’t believe they pulled those two officers off guard duty, they left the place completely unprotected. No wonder everyone is so angry. What do you think will happen to Superintendent Walsh?’

Sutton shrugged; he only knew the Gold Commander for Saturday’s operation in passing, but by all accounts she was a good officer.

‘Let’s not judge. It sounds as though she faced an impossible choice. I don’t think anybody was expecting that many protestors; she needed every warm body at her disposal in the centre policing the riot.’

‘Do you think the arson was planned, or just an opportunist? Could they have known that the patrol car would be pulled away?’

‘That’s what we need to find out,’ replied Sutton.

‘I don’t know what would be worse,’ said Hardwick quietly.

The two officers’ reverie was broken by the appearance of Chief Fire Officer Matt Brown, one of the county’s fire investigators. Sutton stuck a hand out and greeted a trim-looking man with steel-grey hair and thick crow’s feet that spoke of a lifetime squinting against smoke or bright light. Black smudges on his overalls confirmed that he was a hands-on investigator.

‘Walk me through it, CFO Brown,’ Sutton instructed after he’d introduced Hardwick.

‘Nine-nine-nine received a mobile phone call from somebody trapped on the top floor at 14.28. They called the volunteer appliance, but the roadblocks slowed things down and it took nearly eight minutes to assemble and another six to get to the scene. They only beat the crew from Cambridge by about two minutes. By that time the fire had taken hold of the whole ground floor.’

Brown pointed up. ‘Fortunately, everybody inside had managed to make it upstairs and was accounted for and we were able to start bringing them out by ladder.’

‘How did it start, you suggested arson?’

‘No question in my mind.’ He handed over a couple of hard hats and motioned for the two officers to follow him as he started up the front path.

‘Watch your step,’ instructed Brown as they stepped over the threshold.

The floorboards were warped and split and a pool of melted plastic had oozed across the floor.

‘The fire started here after somebody poured an accelerant, probably petrol, through the letter box. There was a plastic welcome mat that worshippers used to wipe their feet on here and as you can imagine that went up a treat.’

Brown pointed up the wall, where black smoke stains were visible.

‘Lots of soot and smoke damage, but the main structure remains sound.’

Straight ahead, the entrance to the prayer hall was visible. Stacks of rolled prayer mats still dripped water from the firefighters’ ultimately successful bid to stop the fire spreading further. To the right, a set of stairs led upwards. Black soot smeared the walls all the way up to a small landing halfway up that allowed the steps to turn through ninety degrees.

Either side of the entrance were open shelving units, with the remains of what looked like shoes, a number of pairs clearly children’s, the brightly coloured plastic burnt and twisted from the heat.

‘It’s early days, but as far as we can tell, there is no accelerant on the shoes.’

‘Meaning what?’ asked Hardwick.

‘It suggests that the person didn’t spray it through the letter box from a squirty bottle, but poured it from a canister. The doormat caught alight, which then spread and the shoes caught fire afterwards.’

Sutton scowled. If and when they caught the culprit, he could envisage a canny defence lawyer trying to use that as some sort of mitigation.

‘The fumes from these different materials are pretty nasty and would have filled the downstairs quite quickly.’ Brown pointed at the dark smoke stains travelling up the staircase. ‘Hot air rises, so we’d ordinarily recommend getting low, however in this case, going upstairs probably bought them some time as it took a little longer for the smoke to fill the landing and double back on itself.’

Sutton made a mental note to reassure Imam Mehmud that his decision to head upstairs had been the correct one.

‘What about the rear entrance?’

‘Come and see for yourself.’ Again, Brown led the way.

‘That metal wheeled bin was in front of the door to stop anyone getting out, so you can definitely add attempted murder to the charge sheet as well.’

The container was a large, heavy, dented affair with a lid, a design long since supplanted by plastic recycle bins. Sutton supposed it must have been an old one that the centre used if they filled the newer ones.

He squatted down and looked beneath. The wheels were rusted and at least one looked as though it would fall off if the bin was lifted.

‘We’ll get scenes of crime to take a closer look, but I doubt this has been wheeled anywhere for years.’ He pointed to white score marks leading back to a slightly darker patch of tarmac in front of the fence about three metres away. ‘I’ll bet it was dragged over.’

‘So no chance of it being an accident, then.’ Hardwick looked at her notes and then back at the door. ‘Imam Mehmud said that they rarely opened the back door and it hasn’t got a window so it’s unlikely anyone noticed when the bin was moved.’

Back on the street, Hardwick and Sutton were met by DS Hutchinson and a team of constables ready to start house-to-house inquiries.

Sutton consulted his notebook. ‘OK. According to the log, there was a patrol car with two uniforms sitting here as a visible deterrent until about 14.02 when they were called to the town centre to deal with the riot.

‘That leaves a twenty-six-minute window during which the arsonist or arsonists set the fire.’ He gestured at the street. ‘The street is a mixture of student and non-student properties and there was a fair-sized crowd of rubberneckers by the time the fire brigade turned up. Some of the morbid bastards were even filming it on their mobile phones. Let’s see if anybody saw anything suspicious; strangers hanging around, cars they didn’t recognise, people pouring petrol through the letter box, that sort of thing. I’d also like to know if there were any issues before Saturday. What were relations like with the neighbours?

‘Can anyone pin down when that charming graffiti appeared? We think it was late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning. Did anyone hear the bin being dragged? I imagine it wasn’t quiet. What about the CCTV camera? It was broken in the early hours of Thursday morning.’

As they headed back to the car, Sutton looked over at his younger colleague.

‘You were very quiet back there, Karen.’ Sutton had noticed her pale complexion.

‘I’m still a bit under the weather.’

‘That bug you caught on holiday still bothering you?’

‘It’s been over a month now. Every time I think I’m getting over it, it starts again.’

‘What did the doctor say?’

‘I haven’t seen him yet, I can’t get a bloody appointment.’

‘How’s Gary?’

‘Fit as a butcher’s dog, the lucky bugger. He was sick first. By the time he’d finished puking, I was just starting. He was done in twenty-four hours, but it took me nearly three days to get over the first bout.’

‘And you’re certain it’s the food poisoning coming back?’

‘Not one hundred per cent, but the doctor that treated me in France reckoned it was a viral infection, and warned me it might.’

‘You’d think they’d be able to make an omelette properly in Paris.’

‘I guess not.’

Chapter 7

‘Single stab wound to the chest. Almost certainly a knife or bladed implement. Curved blade, no serration.’

Professor Ryan Jordan’s accent was still predominantly American, but decades living in England – married to an Englishwoman – had left their mark.

‘What can you tell about the attack?’ Warren had the phone on speaker so he could look at the emailed files Jordan had sent him without getting a crick in his neck.

‘It pierced his left lung, catching a rib on the way in. It didn’t reach the heart, but it nicked an intercostal artery. The knife was pulled out without twisting. He’d have bled out in less than a minute. From the shape of the pool of blood under the body and the lengthy smear, I’d say he expired where he finally collapsed. I see no evidence that his body was moved post-mortem.’

‘What about his killer. Any ideas?’

‘From the angle and position of entry, I would guess someone of a similar height, probably standing face-on.’

‘So his attacker would have been covered in blood?’

‘No question. Even if he jumped back, I’d say he’d have got a good spattering.’

Warren really hoped Andy Harrison and his team found the killer’s clothing, only a tiny speck of blood would be needed to tie it to the scene.

‘Anything else you can tell me about the weapon?’

‘Not a lot, but I’ve photographed the marks on the rib, so I should be able to match any suspect blade.’

‘What else have you found? Any defensive wounds?’

‘Inconclusive. He had a number of pre-mortem injuries. A cut on his scalp was clearly inflicted sometime earlier, it had already started to bruise. His knuckles also had contusions consistent with fighting, but again they were probably picked up a few minutes before he was killed. Unless there was a pause of several minutes between him meeting his attacker and the final wound, I’d say the injuries occurred during the ruckus in the square. I’ve scraped under his fingernails just in case.’

Warren thanked him and hung up. The first twenty-four hours of any investigation were crucial. The clock started ticking the moment a crime was committed, as evidence disappeared, memories began to fade and killers continued to cover their tracks. It had been a promising start and a couple more hours remained. He just hoped they could maintain this momentum over the coming hours and days.

Chapter 8

Arranging a preliminary interview for all those present at the previous day’s riot was no trivial task. Many of the members of the British Allegiance Party were from East London, or further afield, and those who had managed not to get arrested had returned on the coach late Saturday night. To help process them more easily, Welwyn had sent a minibus full of officers clockwise around the M25 and taken advantage of the generosity of the Metropolitan Police in securing the use of some interview suites. The news of their leader’s murder had shocked most of the BAP members into docility and, to everyone’s surprise, all of those invited to give a statement had meekly turned up first thing on Sunday morning. Anybody with something interesting to say would be interviewed more formally, under caution if necessary, at a later date. Establishing alibis prior to the fire breaking out as well as in the last minutes before Tommy Meegan’s demise were equally important at the moment; Warren was acutely aware that a quick arrest over the fire would go at least some way to making good the mistakes made by the police that day.

Tracking down the many counter-protestors was more difficult. Those arrested during the riot had already been processed; a few more would no doubt be identified from CCTV footage and picked up later, but the majority had gone home, scattering to all corners of the UK. The press office had released a public appeal for information, but given who the victim was and many of the protestors’ attitudes towards the police, nobody was especially hopeful.

Nevertheless, there were still plenty of witnesses and potential suspects remaining in Middlesbury to interview, and none of them were happy. Some had spent the night in the cells and a couple were even trying to pin the responsibility for their assorted bumps, cuts and bruises on the police. More than a few of the BAP members were calling foul because they had been thoroughly searched as they left the bus whilst the counter-protestors hadn’t. Perhaps, more than one had suggested, the knife that killed Tommy Meegan could have been confiscated from the outset and a ‘good man’ wouldn’t be dead.

Many of the counter-protestors arrested at the scene were old hands and knew exactly what to do: namely keep their mouths shut and wait out the custody clock.

That left Tommy Meegan’s closest friends. Much to Warren’s surprise, Jimmy Meegan, Goldie Davenport and Bellies Brandon had actually stuck around in Middlesbury to be interviewed that afternoon. He suspected the influence of Mary Meegan.

First up was Harry Brandon.

‘He was a good lad. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.’

‘Then help us find who did it and bring them to justice.’

Bellies Brandon was well named. A good few inches under six feet tall, he still weighed well over twenty-five stone. Warren had no idea the kit makers made England football shirts that large; no wonder he’d not been able to keep up with Tommy Meegan when the counter-protestors had broken through the front line and the BAP members had scattered. He was the last person to be seen with Tommy Meegan as the two of them ran off the edge of the CCTV’s field of view.

‘Why did the two of you decide to run in that direction?’

Brandon shrugged and it was all Warren could do not to stare at the ripples and wobbles that flowed across his huge frame.

‘Dunno. It all went to shit when you guys let the Pakis and the Muslim-lovers attack us. Tommy started legging it and I followed him, ’cos he knows Middlesbury.’

Warren had twice reminded Brandon that although the interview was voluntary, he was being recorded and that he might want to consider his choice of language. The sneer on the man’s face left him in no doubt that he was choosing his words deliberately.

‘Then what happened?’

‘We could hear the fighting behind us. Tommy already had a cut on his head after some bastard threw a stone at him, so we just kept on going.’

‘I’m assuming the two of you split up before Tommy disappeared. Can you describe what happened then?’

‘I had to stop by the edge of the market square at the war memorial – my asthma’s been playing up lately – and I let him run on.’ Warren let the white lie slide; he couldn’t imagine the huge man being able to trot more than a few dozen paces before his massive weight and smoking brought him to a halt.

‘Was that the last you saw of Tommy?’

‘Yeah, he kept going down the road between the Marks & Spencer and Next.’

The protest had taken place in the market square in front of the town hall. Metal barricades had surrounded the BAP members, as they were addressed by Tommy Meegan with a loudhailer. A ring of police had kept protestors to the eastern end of the square, allowing a clear pathway to the BAP’s coach parked at the edge of the bus station.

After passing between the two department stores, Tommy Meegan would have found himself on the much narrower Ackers Street, lined with smaller businesses. Turning north then took the fleeing man up the road, where a left turn led to the alleyway where he finally met his fate.

If he’d continued down that alleyway he’d have exited onto Stafford Road, then entered the maze of back streets leading to The Feathers pub where the marchers had agreed to meet for a celebratory drink.

‘Did you see anyone else run in the same direction as Tommy?’

Brandon shook his head. ‘Goldie and Jimmy legged it towards BHS but I don’t think anyone else went the same way as Tommy.’

The CCTV footage processed so far backed him up; Tommy Meegan was on his own when he left the square.

‘Was the meeting at The Feathers planned in advance?’

‘Yeah, the landlord’s a mate of Tommy and Jimmy’s, he used to go to the footie with their old man.’

‘You aren’t from Middlesbury, so how did you find your way there?’

‘When I got me breath back, I went and hid in a beer garden at the top of the square whilst you lot finally arrested those bastards that attacked us. I tried to phone Tommy…’ For the first time the large man’s façade looked in danger of cracking and he cleared his throat before coughing ostentatiously. ‘I tried to phone Tommy, but he didn’t pick up. Then I phoned Jimmy and Goldie. Neither of them answered either.’

‘So how did you find your way to The Feathers?’

‘When they reopened the pub’s doors I asked one of the drinkers for directions.’

So far he hadn’t given Warren very much in the way of new information.

He decided to change tack.

‘I can see that you and Tommy knew each other well. How did you meet him?’

Brandon scowled. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Look, Harry, my job is to find out who killed your friend. That’s all. The more I know about him, the easier it is for me to picture what happened.’

‘Bullshit. You don’t care about Tommy. We’re scum to you.’ He raised a hand. ‘Don’t try and deny it. In the days before those helmet cameras you lot would try and wind us up and then when we stuck up for ourselves, arrest us.’

Warren said nothing – he’d earned overtime policing such protests back when he was in uniform. The atmosphere had been nasty and brutish. The two sides had hated the police as much as each other, seeing them variously as fascist sympathisers, state-run paramilitaries or members of a big conspiracy to chase indigenous Britons from their historic homeland. Stuck in the middle, arms linked with colleagues to form a human wall, Warren had felt fear. He’d been spat at, hit, and called names he’d had to look up online. Once somebody had even thrown a cup of urine over him.

It didn’t matter which direction he was facing; the hatred was like a physical force. And you reacted in one of two ways. Either you turned the other cheek and rode it out, or as soon as the opportunity arose, you let go of your comrades, unhooked your baton and waded in. One thing Warren was sure of was that everyone who’d ended up in the back of a police van that day had well and truly earned their seat.

Nevertheless, he needed to win Brandon’s trust.

‘Look, I’m CID. I don’t get involved in that sort of policing. I solve murders. I don’t care what people are supposed to have done. A murder victim is just that, a victim and they deserve justice as much as anyone.’

Brandon looked down at the table for a long moment, before finally meeting Warren’s eyes.

‘I guess I’ve known him getting on for ten years now. At first it was just to say “hello”. He’d travel down to Essex if there was a meeting on. Then he went away for a bit—’ he meant prison ‘—and when he came back he moved down to Romford. We’re about a mile apart. I’m a painter and decorator and Tommy needed some work and a place to stay, so we teamed up. I guess that was about five years ago.’

‘You lived together?’

Brandon scowled. ‘Not like that. He kipped on my couch for a couple of months until he found a flat.’

‘Of course, I didn’t think otherwise.’

Brandon grunted.

‘After he moved out, did the two of you stay good mates?’

‘Yeah, he repaid the favour a few months ago when me and the missus went through a rough patch.’ His voice cracked slightly. ‘He was an untidy bastard, but it’s times like that you find out who your mates are.’ He paused. ‘He wouldn’t even take any rent.’

‘But you aren’t living with him now?’

‘No, I got myself a bedsit.’

‘Did you still see each other outside work?’

‘Yeah, we both like a bit of golf and we used to go and play on a Sunday afternoon.’ He smiled slightly. ‘He was crap.’

‘What about Jimmy?’

Brandon snorted.

‘You’d never get Jimmy on the golf course, far more likely to find him in a wine bar with Goldie. Me and Tommy used to take the piss out of him. He had the cleanest overalls you ever saw. God knows what he used to wash them with. I swear, if he wasn’t always on the pull, I’d think he was batting for the other side.’

‘So he used to work with you guys as well?’

‘Yeah, me, Tommy, him and Goldie.’

‘I’m surprised you managed to find enough work, what with all the Poles.’

If Brandon realised he was being provoked, he didn’t seem bothered.

‘Yeah, fucking Europe. Sooner we’re out and can send them all packing the better. How is a man supposed to put bread on the table when he has to compete with that? They use cheap materials, charge half as much and don’t pay fuck all in tax. Half of them just want to use the NHS. There are plenty of good, honest British tradesmen out there, why do we need to bring in foreigners?’

Warren was beginning to wish he hadn’t broached the subject, but he needed to get Brandon worked up.

‘But you weren’t up here for work?’

‘’Course not.’ Brandon looked at him scornfully and Warren worried his deliberately clumsy questioning had been too obvious. ‘You know why we’re up here. To stop that fucking super mosque.’

‘But what’s so special about Middlesbury? You didn’t march on Dudley or Newham.’

‘Some of us did. But Middlesbury is personal to Tommy and Jimmy. They grew up here. Their old lady still has to live here. You’ve seen the town, it’s like fucking Islamabad.’ He leant forward, warming to his topic. ‘You mark my words, it’s a slippery slope. Before you know it the local schools will be serving halal food and teaching the boys and girls in separate classrooms so they don’t offend the Muslims. And what will they be teaching? They’ll be learning the Koran by heart and listening to preachers telling them to destroy the West and earn their seventy-two virgins by blowing themselves up on the underground.’

Brandon was now in full flow and Warren found himself watching with a disturbed fascination. How much did he actually believe and how much was just hyperbole spouted to justify his unabashed racism?

‘Fancy a pint on a Friday night? Forget it, before you know it they’ll be demanding pubs shut down. It’ll be like Iran. Islam will be the biggest religion in the UK within twenty years the rate we’re letting them into the country. They’re breeding like fucking rabbits and converting people left, right and centre. And what do we do about it? We build more mosques and give them free houses and let them use the NHS without paying.’ Brandon leant forward.

‘You and me are an endangered species, pal. Look around you. Middlesbury is supposed to be at the heart of England. If anywhere in this country should be full of white people it’s here, but it’s not. It’ll be as bad as Birmingham or Bradford before you know it.’

The man’s face was bright red and he used the edge of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

‘Help me out here, Harry. Who killed Tommy? Point me towards them.’

Brandon slumped back in his chair, the plastic creaking alarmingly.

‘I don’t know. Take your pick. It could have been one of the Muslims or it could have been one of those Muslim-lovers throwing stones and making death threats on Facebook.’ He smirked. ‘Hell, it could even have been a bunch of Polish painters trying to wipe out the competition.’

Chapter 9

Marcus ‘Goldie’ Davenport, was another person whose nickname was both unimaginative and descriptive. In addition to his gold earring and incisor, he also sported several gold sovereign rings. Like his friend, Bellies Brandon, he too wore an England shirt, although it was probably one-third the size.

‘Can we be quick about this? I need to get back home to feed the cat.’

Davenport’s face was inscrutable and Warren couldn’t tell if he was being serious or facetious.

‘It’ll take as long as it takes, Mr Davenport. After all, we don’t want to miss something that could let your friend’s killer go free.’

Davenport sighed his acquiescence.

Much of his story matched that of Bellies Brandon, so Warren focused on the small details. Davenport enjoyed the audience.

‘I’m a pacifist, me. I wasn’t going to get involved in any violence. I was just there to exercise my freedom of speech. So when the police let the protestors attack us, I left quickly.’

‘Where did you go when you left the square?’

‘Me and Jimmy headed past the war memorial then towards BHS.’

‘Did you go into the shop?’

‘Nah, ’course not. They’d pulled the shutters down, probably to stop the muzzers and the soap-dodgers from nicking stuff, you know what they’re like.’

‘So where did you go?’

‘Down the alleyway and onto the street behind.’

‘Did Tommy and Mr Brandon follow you?’

‘No, we split up at the war memorial. Bellies is too fat to run, so Tommy left him and headed towards Marks & Spencer.’

‘Do you know where he went after that?’

‘I reckon he probably cut through into the backstreet, but we were ahead of him and didn’t see him again.’

‘And that was definitely the last time you saw him?’

‘I just said that, didn’t I?’

‘OK. Did you see anybody else in the street or around the area?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Where did you go after you cut past Marks & Spencer?’

‘BHS,’ Davenport corrected.

Warren acknowledged the correction.

‘We went through another alleyway next to a key-cutter’s and then headed towards the pub.’

‘Which pub was that?’

‘The Feathers.’

‘And you went straight there.’

‘Yeah, pretty much. Jimmy led the way, he knows the area.’

‘Do you know roughly what time you arrived?’

‘No, I wasn’t wearing a watch.’

‘Were you the first to arrive or were there others there already?’

‘We were pretty much the first.’

‘Do you know when everyone else arrived? Was anybody late?’

‘Most everybody else arrived at the same time. Bellies got lost and came in last.’

‘How long did you stay for?’

‘We were supposed to be there until about nine, then catch the coach back home. The beer was flowing and they’d laid on food. It was the shittiest chicken Kiev I’ve ever eaten, even Bellies didn’t finish it.’

Warren looked over his notes. Despite his attitude, the man had been helpful. A picture of Tommy Meegan’s movements in the hours before his death was being built, but it was slow going. Large gaps remained and they had yet to identify any concrete suspects.

With that, he turned off the tape recorder and thanked Davenport for his time. The man merely grinned.

Chapter 10

Up close the similarities between Jimmy Meegan and his brother were even more striking. It was strange what death did to a person; if anything, Tommy looked younger.

Warren scrutinised the man sitting opposite him. His eyes were still bloodshot and the edges of his nostrils inflamed, but his pupils weren’t dilated and the nervous energy that he’d radiated that morning was gone. It would seem that he wasn’t high on cocaine at the moment; leaving him until last had probably been the right decision.

What remained was the anger; it seemed to infuse the very air.

Warren decided not to repeat his condolences. They’d been thrown back in his face that morning and he saw no reason to start the interview on a negative note. It was likely to go sour all on its own.

From the outset, Meegan made it clear that he regarded the interview as a waste of time, and that he thought Warren was only going through the motions.

‘Why don’t you tell me who you think killed him?’

Warren knew exactly where this would go, but he might as well get it out of the way now.

‘Take your pick. Look at anybody who was behind that pathetic line of nancy boys you sent to protect our right to free speech.’

‘There were a lot of people there, Mr Meegan, was there anyone that you recognised that may have been involved? Perhaps we could review some of the CCTV footage.’

‘Are you taking the piss? None of those fucking cowards were man enough to show their faces.’ He pointed a finger at Warren. ‘I tell you what you lot need to do, you need to arrest anybody that turns up at these things with their face hidden. What have they got to hide?’ He turned the finger back towards himself. ‘I’m fucking proud of what I am. You won’t ever catch me wearing a mask.

‘It’s like those burqas. We don’t let people wear helmets when they go into the garage or the bank, we should make them take off their masks. Who in their right mind lets someone dressed like a fucking ninja go into a shop?’ He suddenly giggled. ‘Maybe we should get Bruce Lee to sort them out.’ The laughter disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

‘If their women want to dress like that at home, that’s their business, but they shouldn’t be allowed on the public streets.’ He blinked and paused as if he’d forgotten his train of thought, before brightening again.

‘Anyhow, the same should go for those fucking terrorist-lovers at the march, with their ski masks. Traitors to their race they are. They should show some pride in their white skin.’ He looked towards the CCTV camera in the corner of the room. ‘Fucking White Pride,’ he shouted.

Warren paused for a beat. It was clear that Meegan was a regular drug abuser and it was taking its toll on his mental stability. He wondered what he’d get out of the man.

Finally, Meegan’s face took on the sullen tone of a teenager. As exasperating as it was, Warren forced himself to remember that the man had just lost his older brother.

‘Look, Jimmy, help me put together a timeline here. Let’s figure out your brother’s last moves and then we can work out what happened and bring whoever killed him to justice.’ He locked eyes with Meegan. ‘I know you don’t believe me but I promise you I do want to find your brother’s killer. I’m a CID officer, working the murder squad. Your brother was a victim and I will find justice for him.’

The silence stretched between them. Would the rhetoric persuade Meegan to cooperate or would it push him further away?

Eventually, he nodded.

‘Take me through the day as it happened.’

The story was essentially the same as that told before, with the BAP scattering after the police line was breached, Jimmy Meegan and Goldie Davenport going one direction and Tommy Meegan and Bellies Brandon the other, before they too split.

Warren was suddenly struck with the thought that perhaps if Tommy hadn’t abandoned his friend, he wouldn’t have been in the alleyway on his own… karma?

‘So you and Mr Davenport must have emerged onto Ackers Street at about the same time as Tommy?’

‘No, we had a bit of a head start.’

‘And you didn’t see Tommy come out?’

For the first time since the interview had started, Warren saw something other than anger and contempt in his eyes.

‘Yeah. I never saw him again.’ He put his head in his hands, hiding his face. Warren waited patiently. He knew better than to offer the man tissues or even acknowledge his distress.

Finally, with a loud sniff, Meegan straightened.

‘Did you see any other possible witnesses along the way?’

Meegan started to shake his head, before suddenly pausing. ‘Hang on, we wasn’t the only ones in Stafford Road.’

Warren raised an eyebrow.

‘Yeah, I remember now. There was some bloke hanging around the back of the shop next to the key-cutter’s.’

‘The Starbucks?’

‘Yeah, must have been.’

Warren made a note to prioritise any CCTV from the rear of the coffee shop and other businesses along Stafford Road.

‘Can you describe this person.’

‘Skinny, Asian, wearing a black turban.’ Meegan’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘There’s your suspect, DCI Jones. Round up all the Pakis, you’ll solve it before sundown.’

Warren ignored the man’s language.

‘Can you remember anything else about him?’

Meegan thought for a moment, before shaking his head.

‘OK, let’s go back to The Feathers, just so I have the complete timeline sorted. When did you arrive?’

Meegan shrugged. ‘Dunno, I didn’t check the time.’

‘Was the pub empty or were there others already present?’

‘We were pretty much first.’

‘And did the rest of your friends arrive soon after?’

‘Yeah, most of them.’ He grinned. ‘A few got a bit lost on the way, but they made it there eventually with the help of a few friendly natives.’

According to the switchboard at least a half-dozen callers had complained about intimidation and foul language as the BAP supporters made their way to their rendezvous point. However, that had been the least of the police’s worries by that time, with riot control officers still arresting those protestors who had yet to disperse peacefully and, on the other side of town, uniformed officers hastily dismantling roadblocks to make way for fire engines rushing towards the Islamic Centre.

‘Why The Feathers?’

‘Why not? It’s a free country. Besides, I have a thing for overcooked chicken Kiev.’

‘Did anyone not make it to The Feathers on time?’

‘Bellies, but he got there in the end.’

Warren paused for a moment.

‘When did you realise your brother was missing?’

‘I figured Bellies was late ’cos he’d gone back to find him. When Bellies said he hadn’t seen him, I tried to phone him, but he didn’t pick up.’

‘What time would you say that was?’

‘Probably about four.’

‘So what then? Weren’t you worried?’

Meegan shrugged. ‘Not really. He’s a big boy. I figured he’d either decided to lie low somewhere or he’d been nicked.’

‘And so you kept on drinking?’

‘Thirsty work.’ Meegan looked away. Was that a hint of shame?

‘Some of the lads kept on calling him,’ he continued, ‘but it kept on going to voicemail. By about five-thirty we reckoned he’d been nabbed and we’d hear from him later.’

‘When did you hear about your brother’s death?’

Meegan looked down at the table again, and Warren worried that he wasn’t going to answer. Eventually, he started to speak, his voice soft.

‘About eight o’clock, four coppers came into the bar. We assumed they were there to escort us out.’ He smiled humourlessly. ‘Perhaps give us a bit more aggro before we left. We’d already given up on Tommy, the coach was waiting to take us home. I’d left a message telling him to call me when the pigs let him go and that he’d have to crash at Mum’s if they didn’t keep him overnight.’

He paused as he remembered.

‘They knew exactly who they were looking for. They came straight for me.’

For the first time since the interview had begun, Meegan paused and reached for the polystyrene water cup.

‘They asked if I had seen Tommy. I said no, obviously.’

Whether he meant that obviously he hadn’t seen his brother, or that he’d have denied seeing him even if he was sitting next to him, just because, Warren was unsure.

‘They asked for a private word and I said that anything they had to say to me, they could say in front of my esteemed colleagues.’

He took another sip of water.

‘And then they told me.’

Chapter 11

‘Well, that was enlightening.’ Warren sat opposite Theo Garfield, who’d been watching the interviews via CCTV. He felt exhausted. He’d had no idea how hard it would be to maintain his professional detachment, or to empathise with the victim. He said as much.

Garfield grimaced. ‘Par for the course, Warren, I’m afraid. I’d offer to help, but none of them know me and I need to keep it that way. You get used to the language eventually. They’re just words.’ He leant back against the wall. ‘It’s the hatred I struggle with. I really do think that there is something fundamentally wrong with these guys. They need that hate. There has to be something for them to direct their anger towards, it’s cathartic. If they didn’t have a target, they’d explode.’

Warren looked at him thoughtfully. ‘So you think the racism and bigotry is secondary to their need to let out their frustrations?’

Garfield shrugged. ‘I really don’t know. I’m not a psychologist, but I reckon they’ve some sort of innate tribalism. If you brought them up from birth in an environment where they never met others with different-coloured skin or from a different culture, they’d divide the world by eye colour. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that these guys are fanatical football supporters. Often they don’t even support their local team; they almost arbitrarily pick a team who they have no personal connection with and take part in the most extreme violence in the name of that club, literally risking life and limb. It makes no rational sense.’

Warren sighed. ‘These guys aren’t the biggest arseholes I’ve ever interviewed, but they’re close. Still, I got a few leads and their stories pretty much match, so either they were in it all together or they’re telling the truth. What about you? Anything useful?’

Garfield shrugged again. ‘I think it was interesting that they largely only had a go at Muslims. These guys are full-spectrum far-right, they usually bring in Jews, blacks, Asians and homosexuals whilst they’re at it.’

He scratched his chin. ‘It confirms something I’ve suspected for a while. Ever since Tommy Meegan took over the BAP, we’ve seen a ratchetting up of the anti-Muslim rhetoric, at the expense of some of the other crap. That might just be because of recent events; Islamic State, Boko Haram and Al Quaeda are stealing all the headlines lately.’ He shifted his stance. ‘The thing is, forget idiots like Bellies Brandon and Goldie Davenport, they’re just foot soldiers who couldn’t find their arse with both hands. The brains are people like Tommy Meegan. He definitely wasn’t an idiot. He knew the way the wind was blowing.

‘Old school racism against blacks or other minorities just because they look or speak differently hasn’t completely died out, but it’s generally social suicide if you express it publicly. When was the last time you saw anyone admit to owning a Bernard Manning DVD? Overt homophobia is also a no-no. Plenty of prejudice still exists, but opponents of gay marriage are seen as out of touch and embarrassing in this country; if the thought of gay sex is icky to you, you keep it to yourself. You can’t even criticise Israel without making it clear that you aren’t an anti-Semite first.

‘We’ve seen it in the evolution of organisations like the BNP; out go the jackboots and the Combat 18 jackets, in come the sharp suits and the election manifestos. Until UKIP started stealing their thunder, they even had some success. Nick Griffin was invited on the BBC’s Question Time, remember – mind you, he got such a spanking, it probably did him more harm than good.’

‘And you think the BAP are going that way?’

‘Well, quite the opposite, we thought. The BAP were supposedly one of a number of ragtag groups formed out of the old guard who didn’t want to go down the political route. They were proud of who they were. I have to confess, our intelligence on them was pretty slim until recently, much of the information we had on the key players came from their previous associations with more established groups, or through other sources such as criminal records.’

‘So what changed?’

‘The rhetoric on social media, primarily. We were already watching Islamophobic groups, such as Britain First, and when we saw the BAP starting to share followers and content, we started to pay attention.

‘At first, we saw them as a bit of a joke. The usual muddled neo-Nazi rhetoric, wrapped up with so-called British patriotism – a ridiculous contradiction if you think about it too hard, citing Winston Churchill in one breath and praising everything he stood against in the next. Their philosophy varied depending on who was in charge of their Facebook page that day. But when Tommy Meegan became their de facto leader, that all changed.

‘Tommy recognised that Islam is fair game nowadays and he started playing on those fears, whilst also moderating their public image. He understood that it’s about far more than how many troglodytes you can pack in a coach and drive to a rally. It’s about how many retweets or likes you get on social media.

‘Protests against so-called super mosques are just a bone to keep the hardcore onside and stop them pissing off to join somebody else. Tommy Meegan knew that he’d never effect social change that way. But a leopard doesn’t change its spots and he and his brother were nasty, violent pieces of work. Wherever the hell he is now, I’ll bet Tommy Meegan is loving every minute of this; his death could lead to the sort of race war he could only dream of in his lifetime.’

Warren needed to change the subject.

‘So how did you get into this game?’

Garfield pointed to himself.

‘Well, when you’re the colour I am, growing up in Liverpool in the Seventies and Eighties, racial politics is hardly something that passes you by.’ He held out his hand. ‘This sexy brown is the result of a white mum and a black dad.

‘Now I know what you’re thinking: I was brought up by a single mum on a housing estate in Toxteth with no opportunities and no job prospects until I decided to turn my back on a life of crime and either enlist in the army or join the police.’

Warren said nothing; he’d not really given it much thought, but it was obvious Garfield enjoyed telling the story.

‘Actually, it was far worse than that. I was born into a loving family in the Wirral – that’s the posh end of Liverpool – you know, indoor toilets and electric lighting,’ Warren smiled; he’d heard the exact same joke told about parts of Coventry many times. ‘My father was second-generation Jamaican and only retired as a consultant gynaecologist last year. He was the most well-spoken man in the street. My mother is still an education officer for the council and I’ve never heard them exchange an angry word. They sent me to the best school in the area and I went to university in Manchester and got a first in History.’

‘Oh.’ Warren wasn’t entirely sure where this was going.

‘Mum and Dad did their best to shield me from everything of course, but they couldn’t be there in the playground at school, or on the bus on the way home. It got a bit better when I joined the local sixth-form college; I wasn’t the only mixed-race kid anymore and most of the real racists never made it that far.

‘By the time I went to university, I figured the worst of it was over.’ He snorted. ‘The first time somebody threw a stone at me and shouted at me to “fuck off home”, I pledged not to wear my Liverpool shirt in Manchester again. The second time I heard it, I wasn’t wearing my shirt and the penny dropped.

‘I phoned my parents and asked right out how bad the racism had really been when I was a kid. I was shocked by their response. Dad had always said he didn’t like golf, so he didn’t play with the other consultants. In reality, he was never invited. When he took over the running of some clinics, about a dozen patients asked to be transferred, claiming that they weren’t comfortable being examined by a man. Dad’s predecessor had been an old, white guy.

‘I remember our car was always being vandalised. My parents shrugged it off; car crime in Liverpool was an epidemic. I don’t know if I was naive or in denial but I never twigged that ours was the only car in the street that was attacked, and that we were the only non-white family.

‘Nobody was ever racist to Mum’s face, but when I was born she was the only mother in her birthing group who didn’t stay in contact with the rest. At playschool, I was never invited to birthday parties.’

‘So when did you join the police?’

‘After university. I’d joined a couple of protest groups but we never really felt we were achieving anything. Some of my mates wanted to go down the direct-action route – getting stuck in against the BNP – but it didn’t seem the right approach.

‘Then one day we had a talk from a police commander in charge of race relations. Until then, I’d kind of gone along with the idea that the police were almost as bad as the far-right. Full of old-school bigots at the very least willing to turn a blind eye. The Stephen Lawrence inquiry was just wrapping up and the police were being branded as institutionally racist.

‘But I had trouble squaring what I was hearing from this police officer with what I was hearing on the news, and what I was being told by the people I was going on marches with. So in the end I attended one of the force’s recruitment days and decided that whilst the police were far from perfect, it was better to be inside the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in.’

‘So how did you end up down here?’

‘Career advancement. I was stuck on sergeant up in Liverpool with no vacancies on the horizon, whilst Hertfordshire was building up its Hate Crime Intelligence Unit. My missus is a schoolteacher and had no particular ties to Liverpool, so we decided to move south.’

The tale sounded familiar to Warren and he said so.

Garfield raised his mug and clinked it with Warren’s. ‘Here’s to Hertfordshire Constabulary and understanding wives!’

Chapter 12

Warren’s conversation with Garfield had given him much to think about. The man’s hypothesis about the BAP’s motivations was intriguing. He looked at his watch. It was already after 9 p.m. The first twenty-four hours were over. Every fibre in his body wanted to go to bed, but he decided to speak to the team one last time before he left. It was a bad habit and his wife would tell him off – that was what email was for, she always said – but experience told him that small, important details that might come out in conversation may not be recorded in an email.

Heading back upstairs, he entered the section of the building allotted to CID. It might have been late on a Sunday evening, but the office was still packed.

Dusk at this time of year was perfectly timed for the candles outside the Islamic Centre to appear on the late-night news. Earlier in the evening Tony Sutton had tuned the wall-mounted screen at the back of the office to BBC News with the sound turned low. Now he turned it up, switching off the garbled automatic subtitles.

The crowd featured in the panning shot had been gathering all afternoon, the pile of flowers and soft toys growing taller by the hour. Numbers had swelled after lunchtime prayers as minibuses from other towns brought in more Muslims to pay their respects. They were soon joined by several dozen members of a local church and a nearby Hindu temple showing solidarity with their Muslim neighbours. By mid-afternoon there were at least three hundred people gathered, the crowd representing a mixture of Muslims and non-Muslims, residents of Middlesbury and those who had travelled from outside. Many carried placards bearing the Twitter hashtag #Justice4Muslims.

‘I don’t know whether to be pleased at the show of unity across so many faith communities or dismayed by the fact that they seem to be united against the police,’ Grayson had muttered before stomping back to his office.

The centre was still an active crime scene and surrounded by tape, however the dozen or so officers policing the crowds that had gathered for the candle-lit vigil were trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. It wasn’t working.

‘Where were you when those animals torched the place?’ yelled a bearded young man into the face of one of the officers standing in front of the entrance to the community centre’s driveway. To her credit, she didn’t so much as flinch. The man was showboating for the TV cameras, who duly obliged by zooming in.

‘Emotions are running high outside Middlebury Islamic Centre, the scene of yesterday’s arson attack that injured eight and left an eighty-nine-year-old and her three-year-old great-grandson fighting for their lives in hospital,’ intoned a grave-looking reporter.

‘Crowds have been gathering all day to pay their respects and send their prayers and best wishes to those hurt in the attack. Middlesbury’s close-knit Muslim community are understandably upset and worried by yesterday’s attack but some are also concerned by the wider implications. Imam Danyal Mehmud leads prayers at the community centre.’ The camera panned back slightly, revealing the young imam. He looked sick.

‘Can you describe how residents are feeling at the moment?’

‘Umm, obviously we are shocked and saddened, and we pray for the recovery of those injured yesterday.’

‘What are your thoughts on calls for the officer in-charge of yesterday’s operation to be suspended? Should there be an inquiry into the decision to remove the guard from the Islamic Centre in favour of policing the town centre?’

Mehmud licked his lips, trying to find appropriately diplomatic language.

‘Ask the police why they are spending so much money protecting white fascists marching through our town centre and won’t lift a finger to help innocent Muslims?’ The young man with the beard had somehow pushed his way in front of the camera again.

The camera-operator nimbly twisted to keep Imam Mehmud in shot whilst blocking the intruder.

‘Obviously, we welcome any inquiry into the events of yesterday…’ started Mehmud.

‘It’ll be a whitewash,’ interrupted the man with beard again. ‘The police don’t care about Muslims. They never have done. They may as well have given a box of matches to those fascist scum.’

‘It should be pointed out that a spokesperson for the British Allegiance Party has categorically denied any involvement in yesterday’s arson attack,’ the journalist interjected hastily.

‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they?’ The unknown bearded man was now centre shot again and it was clear that the reporter had been told to go with him.

Sensing he now had an audience, the man puffed his chest out.

‘The government and the police are quick enough to close down so-called hate preachers but won’t touch groups like the BAP who call for Muslims to be locked up or deported and set fire to their mosques or put bricks through their shop windows.’

Again the reporter interrupted swiftly with, ‘A charge which the BAP deny.’ Her expression froze for a moment, evidently listening to a disembodied producer instructing her to move away from the angry young man before he said something even more defamatory.

‘I believe we can go over to our correspondent Steven, who has been joined by Councillor Lavindeep Kaur.’

The camera cut, but not before the bearded man flashed a handwritten placard bearing ‘#Justice4Muslims’ and started shouting about the ‘fascist police’.

The abrupt change was dealt with smoothly by the experienced correspondent, who wasted no time introducing Councillor Kaur. The councillor expressed her sympathy and support for the victims of the fire and drew attention to the wide variety of people, across all sections of society, who were condemning the violence both in person and online.

‘Do you agree with calls for the suspension of the officer in charge of yesterday’s policing operation, and calls for an independent inquiry?’

Kaur adopted a concerned look. A middle-aged Sikh woman with jet-black hair, she wore a smart black trouser suit, a pale blue scarf her only splash of colour.

‘Far be it for me to suggest how the police should deal with internal disciplinary matters such as these. However, I think the people of Middlesbury – indeed Hertfordshire as a whole – have a right to ask questions about the decisions made yesterday. Decisions that led to an obviously vulnerable target being left unprotected and which ultimately resulted in an innocent toddler and his great-grandmother being seriously injured. The officers in charge of those operational decisions must be prepared to justify them.’

‘Sounds like a bloody lynch mob,’ grumbled Sutton quietly.

On screen the original reporter had ditched the vocal bearded man and found somebody else to interview.

‘Since when have the BBC interviewed masked protestors?’ asked Sutton, aghast. ‘And what about Danyal Mehmud? He barely got a word in edgeways.’

Glimpses of the interviewee beneath her black face mask, bandana and oversized sunglasses suggested a blonde woman of indeterminate age. Her baggy long-sleeved shirt, devoid of any identifying logos, successfully concealed her figure and comparison against the interviewer suggested unexceptional height and build.

‘I’m joined by Kay – not her real name – who claims to have been part of the group of counter-protestors involved in yesterday’s demonstration. My first question is why we should listen to you when you are not prepared to reveal your face?’

The protestor’s polished response suggested the question had been anticipated.

‘Unfortunately, we have no choice. We supposedly live in a free and democratic society, but the state routinely tracks and follows those of us who wish to protest peacefully and exercise our right to free speech.’ The protestor’s accent gave Warren no clues about her upbringing, although he freely admitted to still struggling with accents outside the West Midlands where he’d spent his formative years.

‘Members of the British Allegiance Party who marched yesterday say the same thing, but they are willing to show their faces. Why should you be treated any differently?’

‘We are forced to wear face masks to protect ourselves from reprisals, both from the fascists and the authorities. As we saw yesterday, the police are willing to use excessive force on peaceful counter-protestors to allow the BAP to express their hateful views.’

‘Views that are protected by the same right to free speech that you yourself cite.’

‘Hate speech should not be protected speech. In fact, we have lawyers studying transcripts of the BAP’s address with a view to demanding a prosecution on the grounds of inciting racial hatred.’

‘Much has been made of the police discontinuing the patrol outside the Islamic Centre and how that may have left it open to attack. Could you tell us some of the views that you are hearing about that decision?’

The masked protester straightened her shoulders slightly.

‘Many of us think it is symptomatic of the institutionalised racism that still exists within the police and their widely held view that the concerns and well-being of minorities are less important than those of others.’

There were ripples of disgust from the officers watching the TV. Fortunately, the reporter was too professional to let the slur go entirely unchallenged.

‘That’s a rather sweeping statement.’

‘Kay’ shrugged.

‘How do you answer charges that the actions of the protestors in breaking through the police line meant that the officer-in-charge had no choice but to call in as many reinforcements as possible?’

Again ‘Kay’ shrugged. ‘Yet more evidence that the police’s priorities on Saturday were wrong.’

‘Are you suggesting that the police should have allowed protestors to assault the marchers? After all, there is clear footage of protestors throwing stones and bottles at both the police and the BAP.’

‘Kay’ paused, realising the dangerous waters she suddenly found herself in.

‘At last some balanced journalism,’ somebody muttered from the back of the office.

‘No, what I meant was the police had clearly under-resourced yesterday’s operation, even though it was obvious that there was potential for significant trouble…’

‘Caused in part by the actions of some of the counter-protestors,’ interjected the reporter.

‘… caused by the police not taking seriously the concerns of local residents – from all sections of the community – who have repeatedly said that they did not want fascists marching through their town.’ She paused for breath.

‘If the officer in charge of the operation and his or her superiors had taken the threat posed by the BAP to minorities seriously, they would have deployed enough officers to not only adequately police the march but to protect the targets of this group’s hatred. Not just the Islamic Centre but the synagogue, the Afro-Caribbean centre, meeting halls for the Sikh and Hindu communities and pubs and bars associated with the LGBT community among others.’

‘Anywhere else you’d like us to stand outside?’ grumbled the voice from the back again. Warren decided not to turn around but made a note to address the discontent later.

‘That would be an expensive operation at a time when police budgets are under increasing pressure,’ noted the reporter.

‘You can’t put a price on people’s lives,’ the protestor responded primly. ‘I’m sure that with enough motivation Hertfordshire Constabulary could have policed the event proportionately and cost-effectively.’

‘But doesn’t that require the cooperation of all parties involved?’

‘Of course. We made it clear that we would be counter-protesting at the march; yesterday was entirely predictable.’

‘But was it? According to sources involved in yesterday’s counter-protest, steps were made to conceal the true numbers of protestors planning on turning up to the march.’

For the first time, ‘Kay’ seemed to be lost for words.

‘According to an email seen by the BBC, organisers were told to “keep it quiet” and “not let the pigs get a handle on numbers”. In fact, they were deliberately told to “go old school and keep clear of social media” and make arrangements by word-of-mouth.’

‘Hah! Burned!’ came the voice from the back.

Suddenly on the back foot, ‘Kay’ mumbled something about not having seen the email and being unable to comment. The journalist let her stew for a moment before thanking her for her time and returning to the studio.

‘Could have gone worse, I suppose,’ said Sutton.

‘Well, at least we’re trending on Twitter,’ said Gary Hastings, holding up his smartphone.

‘Is that a good thing?’ asked Warren.

Hastings scrolled for a few seconds and winced.

‘No, not really.’

‘Well, let’s leave Twitter to sort itself out.’ Warren raised his voice slightly, and pointedly addressed the back of the room. ‘I shall repeat the Assistant Chief Constable’s instruction, “stay off social media”.’

A few muttered assents, including from the back corner, were enough to satisfy him.

A brief circuit of the room revealed nothing urgent that couldn’t wait until the following morning and so Warren decided to check his email for anything pressing and finally head home.

The blinking red light on his telephone console told him that he had a voicemail waiting for him.

‘DCI Jones, it’s Andy Harrison here. Check your email, we’ve found the murder weapon. I’ve taken a photo and sent it to you.’ The man’s voice sounded more serious than Warren could ever remember. ‘If it’s what I think it is, the shit’s about to hit the fan big time.’

Warren’s gut tightened as he typed his username and password into his computer then clicked straight to the message from Harrison, with its attached image.

Warren felt as if he’d been punched.

Middlesbury was going to burn.

Monday 21st July

Chapter 13

‘It’s a Kirpan. A ceremonial knife worn by baptised Sikhs.’

A groan rose from the officers assembled for the 8 a.m. briefing.

‘SOCO have already done a presumptive blood test on the stains on the blade and it’s come up positive. We’ll need a DNA match obviously, and Professor Jordan will be checking it’s consistent with the wound, but I wouldn’t want to bet against it.’

The knife on the screen had a wicked-looking curved blade made from stainless steel. A blade covered in blood. The handle was made of brass with elaborate engravings in Indian script.

‘They’re using acrylate to pull some partial prints off the handle. Hopefully there will be enough reference points for a positive match. They also found a dark blue nylon fibre caught on the edge of the blade. It doesn’t match anything on the victim and they’re trying to exclude contamination from the bin.’

DSI Grayson cleared his throat, taking over from Warren.

‘Confirmation that the leader of the BAP was murdered by an individual from one of our minority communities has the potential to spark rioting or even worse.’

‘I thought the BAP were marching against the new super mosque?’ said a middle-aged sergeant on loan from Welwyn. ‘What would one of them be doing with a Sikh knife?’

‘The BAP are a threat to anyone who doesn’t fit their notion of what modern Britain should consist of,’ answered Warren, uncomfortable with the man’s usage of the tabloid term ‘super mosque’. ‘There were counter-protestors from lots of different sections of the community.’

Grayson took over again. ‘We can all imagine the significance of this find – and the need for discretion.’

He looked around the room, making eye contact with everybody present. ‘I shall repeat what ACC Naseem said yesterday: there will be no contact with the press or the general public without my direct say-so. Any queries are to be directed specifically to the press office. Have I made myself clear?’

There were nods all around the table.

* * *

‘This is bad news, Warren.’ The two men were sitting in Grayson’s office. ‘You were in that meeting yesterday. That was a clear warning about the future of Middlesbury CID if we don’t solve this quickly. It’s personal for all of us.’

Warren remained silent. He’d worked for Grayson for three years, and whilst the two men were hardly close, he could see that the older man needed to get something off his chest.

Grayson stood up, and walked to the window, staring out onto the car park below.

‘Tommy Meegan was an arsehole. Part of me is relieved that he’s dead. But the fallout from this could be devastating.’ The man’s shoulders bunched as he gripped the window ledge.

‘If it turns out that he was killed by a minority, then it’s playing right into the far-right’s hands. Some of these bastards still want a race war, and now they’re the victims. With the power of social media behind them this could give them exactly what they want.’

He turned and Warren saw a rare crack in the man’s usual composure.

‘The Stephen Lawrence murder was a turning point in this country, I truly believe that. Not just the institutionalised racism charges, Lord knows the police have got a lot more work to do on that score, but for the public’s perception of what it can be like to be black in this country. That poor boy was simply waiting for a bus and those animals killed him, just because they could. It shocked our society, Warren, and made people start to see these racist thugs for what they are. The legacy of that killing was to expose the nasty, filthy underbelly that still exists in some quarters.

‘It’s why the BAP have been looking for new targets. We know that every time some so-called Islamist extremist commits an act of terror, the number of attacks on Muslims jumps. If the murder weapon does turn out to be a Kirpan, it’ll be open season on our Sikh community also, and anyone else with brown skin and a beard. Will we see a surge in popularity for groups like the BAP?’

‘I’m also worried about copycat killings,’ said Warren. ‘What if we see a rise in vigilante justice? At the moment, the anti-fascist crowd limit themselves to counter-protests; what if the murder of Tommy Meegan is just the first?’

Grayson was silent. When he eventually spoke again, his voice was quiet. ‘This goes no further than this room, you understand?’

‘Of course.’

‘ACC Naseem has asked for a report into the likelihood that this might be the start of concerted action against individual members of the far-right. There are those within the anti-fascist community who publicly state that the laws regarding hate speech and racially motivated violence do not go far enough, and that the police do not have the resources – or the motivation – to deal with the problem. Until last week, the feeling was that these people were all mouth and trousers, but now we’re starting to wonder if there might be real intent behind the computer screens.’

‘Shit,’ breathed Warren. ‘That’s all we need, vigilantes taking the law into their own hands.’

The situation was worse than he’d feared; where would it end? Far-right extremists and overzealous anti-fascists attacking and killing one another would be bad enough, but what about the general public? What about those innocents in the wrong place at the wrong time? Could the hatred between these groups really undo all the progress made since the Eighties?

Warren vividly remembered the Bradford riots in 2001. On the face of it, modern day Middlesbury was as far removed from the Bradford of a decade and a half previously as one could imagine. But society had changed enormously in that time, not least with the rise of social media. Could Middlesbury really be at the epicentre of a new explosion of violence? The fact that senior officers had gone as far as commissioning a study into the likelihood of such a scenario, told Warren that it was more than idle speculation; no wonder he had been sworn to secrecy. If the media got wind that such a report was being prepared, the headlines would be explosive.

‘Maybe I’m overreacting,’ said Grayson. ‘Maybe the progress made since Stephen Lawrence was killed is too great to be derailed by this one act, but I don’t mind telling you, I’m scared, Warren. For Middlesbury and for Britain as a whole. And for my kids.’

Grayson picked up the photograph that sat on his desk.

‘You know my family, Warren. You know it’s personal to me. When our boys started going out in the evening, Refilwe and I would lie awake until we heard them come in. They’re only a quarter black, but you can see it in their features. It would certainly be enough for those bastards to take exception to. We tried to play it down of course, but we still had to talk to them about it: keep an eye out for trouble, don’t react to provocation, and if in doubt run.’ He smiled grimly. ‘All things that my wife is singularly bad at. Touch wood, nothing’s ever happened and we stopped worrying about it so much once they went to university. Things have moved on, we told ourselves. But now…’

Warren wasn’t really sure what to say. What could he say?

‘Catch whoever did this, Warren. And do it quickly. The sooner we get a handle on this, the sooner we can start repairing the damage and perhaps we can avoid disaster for Middlesbury.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.