The Common Enemy

‘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.’

Chapter 14

Warren sat in his office, filled with a nervous energy only partly attributable to caffeine. Despite not arriving home until 11 p.m. the night before, after over twenty-four hours with barely any sleep, he’d been unable to rest, the image of the Kirpan burned into his retinas. Eventually he’d given up and headed back into the office. Susan had barely turned over. Forcing himself to eat some toast, he noticed that the kitchen still smelled of the reheated meal he’d eaten alone the previous night. He’d have to make it up to her; they should be spending more time together these days, not less.

He drummed his fingers on the table. He should stay here to coordinate the various strands of the investigation. He was a DCI after all; visiting suspects and crime scenes was a job best suited to more junior ranks. But his meeting with Grayson had left him with the urge to get out, to do some real policing.

He looked through the window at the job board. Tony Sutton and Karen Hardwick were assigned to the arson at the Islamic Centre, with David Hutchinson coordinating house-to-house inquiries. Gary Hastings and one of the detectives on loan from Welwyn were out double-checking the stories told yesterday. DS Mags Richardson was liaising with the force’s video surveillance unit down in Welwyn. Allowing for annual leave, that accounted for almost all of Warren’s usual team. He picked up his desk phone to dial headquarters and arrange for some bodies to interview Tommy Meegan’s significant other and take a look inside his flat.

Theo Garfield walked past the window. The man had arrived first thing that morning on the train for a meeting with Grayson and was now hot-desking in the corner of the office. He looked as impatient as Warren.

A quiet ping announced the arrival of an email. ‘Quarterly budget projections’ teased the header. Warren replaced the handset and grabbed his jacket.

‘Fancy a road trip, Theo?’

‘Thought you’d never ask.’

* * *

Micky Drake was well known to Middlesbury Police, as was his establishment, The Feathers pub. Nevertheless, Drake didn’t have a criminal record and he was just good enough at keeping the behaviour of his clientele in check to retain his licence and keep his premises open.

Hastings and Moray Ruskin, an eager young probationary DC from Welwyn, had left their unmarked patrol car in the car park. Both wore their ties loosened in deference to the warm weather. Nevertheless, they were met with a chorus of pig noises as they shouldered their way through the crowd of smokers by the front door.

Ignoring them, they entered the bar. Dimly lit, it took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust. A couple of early morning drinkers got up and pushed past them, leaving their half-finished pints behind. Hastings suspected they probably had something weighing on their conscience.

There was no mistaking Drake. His shaved head sat directly atop his shoulders, with no visible evidence of a neck. As if to stand out from his customers, rather than the ubiquitous England football shirt, he wore a Six Nations England rugby shirt.

Hastings glanced over at his companion; ordinarily he might think twice about bringing such an inexperienced colleague to this environment. But Moray Ruskin was six feet five inches tall and weighed over eighteen stone, none of it excess fat. He could handle a bit of verbal abuse over his Scottish accent.

Drake leant over the bar and leered at Hastings.

‘How may I be of assistance, officers?’

Hastings resisted the urge to ask for a bottle of Cobra; somehow, he doubted they served the popular Indian lager

‘May we have a word in private, Mr Drake?’

He looked at the two officers hard, before lifting the serving hatch and motioning them to follow.

‘Jaz, I’m taking a break,’ he called out.

The back of the pub was narrow, a state of affairs not helped by a ceiling-high stack of boxes containing bar snacks. To the left of the entrance a flight of stairs presumably led towards the landlord’s private accommodation. Following Drake to the right, into his office, Hastings caught a glimpse through beaded curtains of a small, dingy-looking kitchen area. He hoped the food preparation surfaces were cleaner than the carpet sticking to his shoes. The air was so heavy with the smell of air-freshener, Hastings couldn’t help wondering what he was covering up.

Drake dropped into a rickety-looking leather office chair; it creaked alarmingly, but didn’t collapse under his substantial weight. He waved vaguely across the desk in what Hastings decided to interpret as an invitation to pull over one of the moulded plastic seats.

‘Thank you for taking the time to see us, Mr Drake,’ Hastings started.

‘Don’t really have much more to tell you than what I said Saturday night.’

‘Nevertheless, it may help us to piece together what happened that afternoon.’

Drake sighed. ‘Suppose it’s the least I can do for Ray’s boy.’

That seemed to be as good a starting point as any, Hastings decided.

‘I knew Ray way back when, when we used to do jobs together.’ Hastings fought the urge to ask what he meant by ‘jobs’.

‘We’d go to the footie on a Saturday afternoon, you know to get away from the wives.’ He smiled. ‘That Mary of his was a cracking bird – he was punching well above his weight – but she can’t half nag.’

‘And did you get to know his boys then?’

‘Yeah. He started bringing them along to the matches when they were nippers. It was a cheap afternoon’s entertainment, not like today. When they was old enough, he used to bring them in here for a bag of crisps and a glass of lemonade.’ He smirked slightly.

‘Did you keep in touch with the boys and their father after they went away?’

‘If by “went away”, you mean after they got banged up, yeah I did.’ He glared fiercely at the two officers. ‘It’s times like this you find out who your real friends are.’

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