by Ted Tayler
“That’s excellent,” said the DS, thanking Mrs Chowdhury.
She nodded and carried on chatting to the PCSO.
“Hang on, boss,” said Deb, “she knows his name. It’s Ferris. When she first came to Bradford her late husband ran a corner shop, further out of the city. There was aggravation back then, they had graffiti painted on the shop door and verbal abuse. One man was at the centre of it. Jack Ferris. She says his sons should be known to us; they were football hooligans back in the day. Mrs Chowdhury reckons this young lad is the old man’s grandson.”
“She doesn’t want a job, does she Deb?” said the DS, with a grin, “come on, constable, let’s go make an arrest.”
There was nobody at home when they called at the Ferris house. A neighbour told the DS the mother worked at a local school as a lunchtime supervisor and would be home by two-thirty. The father was a delivery driver and could be anywhere. Young Jack should be at school.
The constable drove them across the city to the sixth-form college. Jack Ferris was escorted to reception by a teacher. The DS read him his rights and asked for a phone number to contact either of his parents. Late in the afternoon, Jack was interviewed, under caution, with his mother in attendance as his responsible adult. She wasn’t happy.
Jack was gutted. He had been so sure he’d get away with it. Just as his grandfather said, the cops bend over backwards to help the immigrants, the refugees, and asylum seekers. Yet, if a white person whose family has lived here for a thousand years needs a helping hand, they go to the back of the queue.
Gary Ferris got home from work at a quarter to six. Dinner wasn’t on the table. Michelle explained they had only just got in, and why. Gary hit the roof. Michelle cowered in the corner. Jack lay upstairs in his room.
Michelle didn’t need to worry this time. Gary’s anger wasn’t centred on her, nor on Jack. It was on Muslims in Bradford in general. He phoned his older brothers.
“We need to do something,” he told each of them. “I’ll meet you later tonight.”
Three dark-clothed figures left the bar at closing time. This was where the Ferris brothers had always drunk together since they were old enough to get served. Before that, their father carried the drinks into the beer garden on summer evenings. They were hardened drinkers, and ready to strike a blow for the cause they supported.
A nondescript Toyota was stolen from a nearby car park. The three men travelled to the city centre. A carpet shop on Manningham Lane was their first target. The slogan ‘no surrender’ and ‘EDL’ spray-painted across the wide plate-glass window. Poppies strewed in the doorways.
Bricks were then thrown through the windows of a solicitors’ offices, further up the street where a bronze plaque indicated the practitioners bore Indian names.
Gary Ferris drove the Toyota towards White Abbey Road. Their last call was to the local mosque.
“It’s time this place got a makeover,” he cried.
“Let’s do this,” shouted his brothers, Terry and Duncan.
Farhad Kirmani was an imam at the mosque. He was fifty-seven, a gentle, soft-spoken man, and a pillar of the Muslim community. His fellow worshippers had left. The fifth stage of Salah had been completed at ten o’clock. Prayers were now over for the day.
Many of his community would return tomorrow. Friday was always a busy day. Farhad wanted to tidy up and prepare for an early morning start. He enjoyed the peace and tranquil atmosphere in the building when empty.
He heard noises from the entrance hall. Farhad was certain everyone had collected their shoes and made their way home. Who could be out there now?
As he opened the door to the hallway, he was confronted by two men. They were almost as old as him and drunk and angry.
“What are you doing?” he asked, “this is a place of worship. You should leave.”
The men stopped what they were doing. Cans of petrol in their hands continued to drip their contents onto the mosaic floor. The smell that greeted Farhad told him their cans were almost empty already.
The Ferris brothers laughed at the imam as Gary appeared behind him. He had broken in through a rear door. His empty petrol cans were discarded inside.
“You ever been to a pantomime, Muzzie?” sneered Gary.
“He’s behind you,” cried Terry and Duncan.
The frightened imam turned and threw an arm up to protect himself from the baseball bat aimed at his head. It was no use. After several hefty blows, he crumpled to the floor, his skull fractured.
“I’ll meet you at the car,” said Gary. He ran back to the rear door, lit the cloth he had prepared and cast it into the room. The fabrics on the walls, soaked in petrol, caught fire quickly and the rear of the building was soon ablaze.
Gary ran along the side of the mosque, and out onto White Abbey Road. The Toyota’s motor was running. He jumped in the back. The front of the mosque billowed smoke, and an orange glow could be seen through the narrow windows.
“Drop me off at home,” said Gary. “I’ll drive out to Lister Park and meet you there.”
The Toyota was abandoned and reduced to a burnt-out shell before the three Ferris brothers were tucked up in bed. The emergency services arrived at the mosque within thirty minutes of the fire breaking out.
Early enough to save the building from destruction. Too late to save Farhad Kirmani.
CHAPTER 6
Friday, 11th July 2014
Athena brought the morning meeting to a close. The alarming events of the last forty-eight hours in the North-East of England had been discussed, and direct action sanctioned for the earliest opportunity. Phoenix and Rusty were already on their way to the orangery to prepare their response, and to talk about other issues raised during the week.
Henry Case walked across the lawn to the stable-block. Anyone who observed him on this sunny afternoon would have remarked on his progress. It was more a ‘skip, and a whistle’ today than a leisurely stroll, or a world-weary trudge after a stressful week.
Henry was off for the weekend.
The Reverend Sarah Gough had invited him to tomorrow’s summer flower show. He was booked into the Hurtwood Hotel for three nights. Henry couldn’t wait to see Sarah again, but his first treat this weekend was to drive to Surrey and find the delightful venue for his temporary stay. It sounded quintessentially English. The hotel was situated in Walking Bottom, Peaslake, a mere three miles from Sarah’s parish.
As soon as he had packed his bag, Henry decided to visit the canteen in the workers’ cottages. A light lunch was all he required today. Something to fortify him for the two-and-a-half-hour drive ahead of him. No alcohol, of course; that fortification would need to wait until he arrived.
Henry was nervous. This weekend promised to bring a significant shift in their relationship. Sarah had promised him an evening stroll through her parish followed by a meal at the Royal Oak. There was much to admire in the village. The road said to have inspired Summer Street in Forster’s ‘Room With A View’, was hidden away somewhere nearby, and the village had strong links with Beatrice Webb, the social reformer.
Sarah Gough had written of these important landmarks in her letters, and to his eternal credit, Henry tried to feign interest. Tucked away in the corner of his bag, were scraps of paper with handwritten notes. They held what he hoped were appropriate responses to comments Sarah might make as they passed these points of interest.
Henry was desperate not to upset her by revealing his ignorance of the literary and political world in the first half of the twentieth century. In a hasty background check on the good lady Sarah had mentioned, and her husband Sidney, he discovered they loved one another and loved justice.
At last, he had found common ground. Henry was all for justice.
At two o’clock. Henry threw his bag into the back of the car he collected from the transport section. As he pulled away from the stable-block, he wondered whether Athena had given the chief mechanic licence to issue a classier model for the occasion. He opened up the po
werful limousine along the A303 as he sped towards the leafy bowers of Surrey. Henry eased back on the accelerator after a while. A speeding ticket and points on his licence would put a black mark against his name. The next time he wanted a weekend off from Larcombe, Athena might not be so co-operative, nor so generous.
The first-floor bedroom at the rear of the hotel in Peaslake was well-appointed and promised to be quiet. Henry unpacked his bag and called Sarah to tell her he’d arrived safely. She was keen to see him.
“Can you drive over straight away, Henry,” she said. “I’ve finished writing my sermon ready for Sunday. My evening is free. Let’s spend as much of it together as we can. There’s plenty of time before we’re due at the pub.”
Henry drove the three miles to the vicarage. In truth, he could have floated there, he was that happy. As soon as he pulled up outside, Sarah rushed to greet him. She kissed him on both cheeks and hurried him indoors.
A trifle formal thought Henry, who had hoped for more.
Sarah saw the confusion on his face and laughed.
“My parishioners are an inquisitive bunch and would be shocked if they saw us kissing in public.”
With the door firmly shut behind them, Henry received his reward for his patience. Several minutes later, Sarah came up for air.
“This won’t do, Henry,” she said, “we’re wasting this lovely weather. Let me show you the sights.”
Henry held on tight and gazed at the flushed face of the woman he loved.
“This is the sight I have waited weeks to see,” he said.
“Easy, tiger,” said Sarah, giving him a squeeze, “everything comes to he who waits.”
The happy couple then strolled, arm-in-arm past the church that gave the village its full name.
“St Mary’s is only one of four parishes I cover. I’m happy here in the country. There’s so much for the locals, and visitors to enjoy. The surrounding hills are popular with walkers, cyclists and horse-riders. There’s no shortage of activities on offer to occupy one’s leisure time.”
They continued their tour, and Henry noted the village green, pond, and well; all traditional features on the tick-list for the English village.
“It’s like stepping back into an Agatha Christie novel, isn’t it?” said Sarah.
“What can I look forward to tomorrow at this fete-cum flower show?” Henry asked.
“What you might expect, I suppose,” Sarah replied. “Stalls of home-grown vegetables, fruit, flowers and plants. Inside the marquees, there will be displays of floral art, handicraft, and photography. Of course, there will also be an ample supply of baked goods.”
“Ah, good,” said Henry. “I love a good cake.”
“Neither of us needs fattening-up,” chided Sarah, “but I freely admit to a sweet tooth. Anyway, I believe the true measure of the endurance of the village is inextricably linked to shows such as these. Critics say places like this are full of commuters, second homers and locals who can’t afford to leave. While that may be true, on a day like tomorrow those elements of friction are set aside. There will be activities for young and old. The hog roast, ice cream parlour, beer tent, bouncy castle, and dog show will all attract families from all walks of life. If there’s still a fete every spring and summer; with maybe a bonfire night, and carols in the pubs at Christmas, then the village will keep its soul intact.”
“You’ve fallen in love with this place,” said Henry. “I can see why. Could you ever leave, I wonder?”
“Henry was that a proposal?” asked Sarah.
Henry was flustered. Sarah came to his rescue.
“It’s alright, my love, I know what you meant. Well, there are village parishes throughout England. I’m sure that if my superiors wished to move me somewhere they thought I could be of more use I would settle in soon enough.”
The rest of the evening passed quickly. The meal at the pub was excellent, and the pair found that conversation still posed no problem between them. As he escorted Sarah back to the vicarage after closing time, Henry spotted fellow pub-goers, dog-walkers, and love-struck teenagers scattered around the main street. He and the Reverend Sarah Gough seemed to be the centre of attention.
“You see what I mean, Henry?” said Sarah, “you can only walk me to my door, then drive back to your digs. Tongues would wag were I to invite you in. If only for coffee.”
“If a kiss on the cheek it must be,” said Henry, “then I shall carry the memory of that kiss into my dreams tonight.”
“You old romantic, come here,” said Sarah, and leaned in for a kiss on the lips as they paused in the shadows by the high hedge in front of the vicarage.
“Until tomorrow,” said Henry.
He drove back to Walking Bottom, walked upstairs to his room, undressed and got into bed. Before he dropped off to sleep, Henry reflected on Sarah’s question. Had that been a proposal? Was it possible to prevent her from ever discovering the true nature of his role at Larcombe Manor? If so, he would very much wish to spend the rest of his life with her; but were the chances of a broken heart worth the risk?
*****
While Henry had been motoring towards his weekend getaway, Phoenix and Rusty were tucked away in the orangery. It was another long session discussing the group of issues raised during that week’s meetings and deciding which should become their priority assignment.
“Do you believe the flurry of racially motivated attacks in the past forty-eight hours is being orchestrated?” asked Rusty.
“Not one bit,” replied Phoenix. “I’m convinced they’re random acts. The locations aren’t surprising though. If you recall, at the end of June, the far-right used the murder of Lee Rigby last year to push their racist ideology. Leeds saw one of the largest turnouts the English Defence League managed. They marched through the city to the war memorial. While they were mobilising, the Unite Against Fascism crowd were already en route to lay their own tributes, calling for unity in the face of far-right fascism.”
“Both Islamist extremists and EDL were their targets, weren’t they?” asked Rusty.
“That’s right,” said Phoenix. “The police moved in to keep the two groups separate, the EDL laid their wreath, and apart from a few minor scuffles, the groups dispersed in an hour.”
“Much ado about nothing?” asked Rusty.
“Neither group has shown signs of capturing the hearts and minds of enough of the public to make a real impact. There are internal squabbles in the EDL, and as with many of these organisations, they centre on whether they should adopt the path of peaceful protest or violent confrontation. The authorities won’t ban the marches while conditions remain as they were in June. Even if there were rumours of an Asian woman being verbally harangued by EDL members outside a pub near the city centre.”
“So, where does the danger lie, do you think?”
“With the anti-fascists. If they proactively build a grassroots movement amongst the working class. Then, we might expect to see more violent militancy erupt on our streets.”
“How do we tackle that problem?”
“I think we leave that to the authorities. Our focus must be on the loss of life in two of the most recent incidents. The killers of Solomon Hussein, and Kirmani, the imam last night, must face justice. We will need Giles’s help to identify the attackers and the call for action sent to Zeus for final approval.”
“Who’s likely to be selected for any direct action in that region?” asked Rusty.
“Unless something requiring our skills sends us elsewhere, Rusty, then we’ll have a day out in Yorkshire, and Tyneside. I haven’t been up that way in a while. I have fond memories of my time in Durham, four years ago.”
Neil Cartwright, the man who had murdered Phoenix’s daughter Sharron had been released from Durham Prison at nine in the morning on the day in question. He had served a miserable ten years inside the high-security prison before he somehow got parole. As Cartwright walked towards the station concourse to board a train bound for his hometown of Ne
wcastle, Phoenix killed him, with two bullets to the chest from a silenced gun.
“A penny for them?” offered Rusty.
“Happy days,” said Phoenix, “let’s move on. I’ve been reading this report from Minos on anti-Muslim hate crime. There’s nothing unusual about the main culprits; most are white males between twenty-five and sixty. The incidents centre around public spaces. On the streets, on footpaths in parks for instance, and it’s common for a mosque or Muslim community building to be somewhere in the vicinity. A few of those responsible belong to organisations such as EDL, but many are ordinary working-class people with no link to any group whatsoever. Minos noted that there has been a significant increase in online abuse. The victims are as likely to be Muslim women as men in that case.”
“Why don’t the social media sites do more to stop this abuse?” asked Rusty.
“My gut feeling is they remove offensive material wherever they spot it, but something crops up on another thousand pages within seconds. Unless they were ordered to filter every posted comment, image, or video before release, then they don’t have many options left. Of course, the whole point of these sites is their immediacy. Legislation to slow it down would be stoutly resisted. I doubt if either side has the appetite for spending months tied up in the courts.”
“So, what’s the way forward for Olympus?”
“We ask Giles and Artemis to locate the frequent offenders online and decide the appropriate direct action. Then, we delegate that to the nearest local team. Our intervention must be untraceable but will ensure those targeted learn a harsh lesson. It must be clear there are no further chances.”
“One more strike and they’re out,” Rusty nodded.
“Exactly,” said Phoenix. “Game over.”
Phoenix and Rusty continued to work until it was too dark to see.
“Shall we pick this up again in the morning?” asked Phoenix.
“We might as well,” agreed Rusty. “Artemis will be in the ice-house with Giles and the team, chasing down the exact location of your Irregulars. I’ll be at a loose end.”
