The Common Enemy

‘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.’