by Paul Gitsham
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.’
‘What about when Ray died?’ It was the first time Ruskin had spoken.
He nodded. ‘We held the wake in here. ’Course the boys couldn’t come. They got released to attend the funeral but they were sandwiched between two fucking apes from the prison service and the bastards wouldn’t let them raise a toast to their old man’s memory.’ His voiced dropped. ‘A fucking disgrace it was. You’d think they’d make an exception.’
Hastings had read the files of both men and was rather glad they hadn’t taken any chances. There had been enough concerns about the potential for trouble that the force had decided to spend the best part of five thousand pounds on overtime to keep the peace. That figure would no doubt be dwarfed when Tommy Meegan’s final send-off took place next week.
‘After Ray passed away, did you keep in touch with the boys?’ asked Ruskin.
‘Off and on, they don’t come back as often as they should. That poor mum of theirs lives all alone in that tower block.’
‘But they contacted you Saturday before the rally?’
‘Yeah. They just wanted somewhere friendly they could enjoy a quiet pint and unwind after they’d had their say about the super mosque.’ The man said it without a hint of irony.
‘OK, so tell me about Saturday.’
‘The plan was to leave Romford in the morning on a coach, and get to town about midday. Then they was going to have a march, exercise their right to free speech and walk back here for about two or three. They wanted a bit of grub, so I got the kitchen fired up.’
‘Who was organising?’
‘Tommy, he’s the leader.’ He paused. ‘He was the leader.’
‘Did he say how many they were expecting?’
‘Tommy said about sixty.’ He smiled. ‘He always was a bit optimistic. I catered for about forty. The coach was only a fifty-seater. Mind you that big lad Bellies could probably ha
ve helped me out if I’d made too much. The bugger’s huge.’
‘So what time did they all start arriving?’
‘Most arrived about three. None of them knew where they were going and they had to ask directions.’
‘Were any late?’
‘Yeah Bellies waddled in about five minutes after the scrawny one with the gold tooth. Reckon they turned up about half past three, twenty to four.’
‘I don’t suppose you have any CCTV footage that could help us pin down the times more accurately?’
Drake grinned, revealing a number of missing teeth. ‘Sorry, been meaning to get it fixed.’
‘When did they realise Tommy was missing?’
He let out a hiss of air.
‘To be honest, I don’t know. The beer was flowing and they were hungry. They’d probably been here over an hour before I realised I hadn’t seen Tommy.’
‘What did you do?’
He shrugged. ‘Nothing really. The tills were ringing and I was too busy to think about it. I asked Jimmy where he was and he just shrugged. Everybody figured he’d probably been arrested. There was a bit of piss-taking about not dropping the soap in the shower, that sort of thing.’
‘OK. Can you take me through the rest of the evening?’
‘They were supposed to knock it on the head about eight-ish and get back on the coach. The driver had moved it into the car park and was waiting for them to finish their pints. Then I was going to open the doors again to a few of the regulars, but that never happened.’ For the first time the older man looked sad. ‘Four of your lot turned up unannounced. I assumed they’d arrived to give the lads a bit of hassle before they went home so I told them to piss off and wait outside unless they had a good reason to come in.
‘The lead fellow was all right for a copper. He took me to one side and explained what had happened and asked me to point out Jimmy.’ He paused again. ‘I knew before he did, the poor sod.’
‘What happened next?’
‘They took Jimmy out the back, he was in a bit of a state. The big lad and the one with the gold tooth went with him. The rest of the boys were pretty shocked as you can imagine. A few more coppers turned up and asked a few questions, took their names and addresses, that sort of thing.’
‘When did they all leave?’
‘About eleven. The coach driver was banging on about being over his hours, but everybody wanted to go home.’
‘And did they all go?’
‘Everyone except Jimmy and his two mates.’
‘Mr Brandon and Mr Davenport?’
‘If you say so.’
‘Bellies and Goldie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where did they go?’
‘The police took them to see Mary. To break the news, I guess. Poor bastards; I offered my spare room, but I think they all stayed with her.’
Hastings looked at Ruskin who shook his head. No more questions.
He stood up. ‘Well, thank you for your help, Mr Drake.’ He didn’t offer his hand. Drake’s smirk returned.
‘My pleasure and come back any time, there’s always a warm welcome for proper patriots. Besides I do good food. The chicken Kiev is especially popular.’
Chapter 15
Annabelle Creasy fulfilled several stereotypes. A gravel-voiced forty-something, she’d tried her best to smooth out the wrinkles with what Warren had heard termed an ‘Essex facelift’ – a painfully tight hair grip that pulled her dyed blonde-hair back, stretching the skin on her forehead and exposing her dark-brown roots. Aside from that, the best one-word description he could think of was ‘orange’.
It was strange, Warren mused, the way that despite the steady march of cosmetic science, fake tans seemed to have gone backwards. He was certain that they used to look more natural, as if you’d spent a couple of weeks sunning yourself in the Mediterranean, rather than a month at what Garfield had termed ‘Camp Oompah-Loompa’. Warren had to fight hard to keep the rather mean observation out of his mind as he expressed his condolences to the woman sat before him. It was just as well that Garfield had opted to keep a low profile and borrowed the car to go and pick up the keys to Tommy Meegan’s flat.
Creasy had barely acknowledged him and Warren felt a twinge of shame at his unkind thoughts. Regardless of what he may think of her political views – and the tattoo on her left bicep gave no doubt about which end of the political spectrum she leant towards – she was still a grieving partner, her eyes bloodshot and her nose reddened.
The mantelpiece was covered in photographs of her and Meegan. In many of them they stood either side of a young boy. Judging from the way that the lad aged, the couple had been together for several years.
‘Is that your boy?’ asked Warren, deciding to start the conversation on a neutral topic. Typically, when he did this sort of inquiry, the great British tradition of offering a cup of tea could be relied upon to break the ice. Warren knew he would not be getting that sort of hospitality here.
Often a Family Liaison Officer would already be present. By now they would have got to know the bereaved a little and could give him a quick heads up. Creasy had made it clear that an FLO was still a police officer and that they wouldn’t be welcome in her house. She’d grudgingly agreed to the presence of a uniform outside to deter any unwanted visitors, such as the press, but she’d not engaged at all with her.
She’d had a couple of visitors – a slightly younger looking woman who’d identified herself as her sister and a much older woman that had claimed to be her mother. They’d both stayed for less than an hour.
Creasy answered his question with a nod.
‘Yeah, that’s Dale. His old man’s got him this weekend.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘He’s heartbroken with what happened to Tommy. I said he should be here, you know, but a court order’s a court order.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears and Warren felt even more sympathy. He’d scanned her record before arriving and seen that she and her former partner were embroiled in an ongoing custody battle over the young boy. The police had been called on several occasions to deal with incidents concerning the former couple, including criminal damage and assault, hence the record. It was a classic case of a relationship gone sour, with the couple acrimoniously dividing up the spoils – the spoils in this case being a young boy. That perhaps explained why she and Tommy Meegan hadn’t lived together. Meegan’s own record was hardly going to impress the courts.
‘How old is Dale?’
‘He’s just turned eleven.’ She smiled slightly. ‘Off to big school in September.’ Her smile faded. ‘Tommy was going to take him to get his new uniform next week.’
Warren gave her a few moments.
‘He wasn’t a bad man.’ Creasy’s voice had become stronger. ‘But the press painted him that way. He just wanted to stand up for his country. For all of us.’ Her rhetoric was practised, peppered with the same innuendo, hyperbole and half-truths that Warren had been subjected to since the investigation had started. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a picture of young Dale, his light blond hair no doubt shaved to the limit of his school’s uniform policy. He wondered what sort of poisons had been pumped into his developing brain by his mother and Meegan. What sort of citizen would he grow up to be? Tommy and Jimmy Meegan were the product of their father’s views. What would be the effect of Tommy Meegan’s death on the young boy’s development? Would the removal of such a toxic role model prevent him from following that same path, or would it reinforce those views? If it transpired that a member of the Sikh community was responsible, rather than the Muslim community, what would the effect be on him? Not good, he suspected. Warren pushed the thought away for the time being and focused on keeping his face neutral.
Creasy finally finished her diatribe, stuttering to a halt and blowing her nose loudly.
‘It’s my job to find out who killed Tommy, but I need your help. Had Tommy mentioned any threats against him recently? Did he speak about any fears?’
‘Check out the BAP’
s Facebook page or Twitter feed. They received death threats every day.’ She scowled. ‘We report them, but nobody gives a shit. All the time you read about how trolls are being done for posting vile things on the web or tweeting about how they want to rape or kill feminists—’ she sniffed loudly ‘—but nobody gives a toss when somebody threatens to stab or shoot Tommy and party members. It isn’t fashionable. Offend some Muslim on Facebook and you’re taken down in hours. Tell a patriot that he’ll be killed if he tries to exercise his right to free speech and nobody does anything.’
Warren kept his face neutral. Garfield’s observation from the interview with Bellies Brandon rang true. She’d mentioned Muslims repeatedly, but had said little about the other groups traditionally targeted by the far-right.
‘We’re going through all of Tommy’s social media accounts looking for suspects, but we need your help. Did he mention anyone in particular that he was worried about? Did he have any fears about what might happen on Saturday?’
She shrugged. ‘No, not really. In fact he seemed really excited about going back to Middlesbury.’
‘That was his hometown, I believe.’
‘Yeah. He and Jimmy were brought up there. But it was more than that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He said something about it being a turning point for the BAP. That it would secure the party’s future.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t say.’
Warren thought about her phrasing. ‘Securing the party’s future’ sounded almost financial. Had the party found some sort of backer? Somebody who was willing to help pay for their activities? According to the coach firm they had hired for the day, it had cost them about six hundred pounds – roughly fifteen pounds each for the forty-odd participants. Usually, they travelled by public transport, which typically cost even more. The majority of the BAP’s active supporters were in low-paid jobs or unemployed. If Meegan had secured some sort of sponsorship for his activities, then he would have been understandably excited.
