Divide and Rule

by Solomon Carter

“They’re human, Dan. They are innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Trial by internet. These men are guilty.”

  Eva shrugged. “You’re opinions are duly noted. So what now? Where do we go with this?”

  “Back to basics,” said Dan. “We have a list of names here. This thing could be politically motivated. But to my mind it could have been perpetrated by any of these BNP thugs too. They’re on the suspect list in my mind.”

  “Interesting. How would it have been done? What’s their motive?”

  “Being stupid and being violent. That’s a good enough reason. But beyond that, maybe they’re jealous of Will Burton. Maybe all is not well in the UKFirst bunker. I mean, I wouldn’t want to have a friend like Peter Serge, would you?”

  Dan thought about the man’s face then shook his head to make it go away.

  “Point taken. We can’t rule out an inside job. But what was their intention? To nobble their own man and lose the election. I don’t buy that, even if Peter Serge is the epitome of political weirdo. Unless there was a personal axe to grind, it doesn’t work.”

  “So maybe it was personal,” said Dan.

  “Could be. But that’s a guess.”

  “You know how this game works, Eva. It’s all guesswork until you’ve got something. Those guys are sick. You must have seen that, felt it. If someone got hurt, those bastards were involved. It’s what they do.”

  Dan’s face flickered with emotion. Then the emotion faded away under the spotlight. Eva registered it but passed no comment.

  “I don’t think we can ever rule out a political reason here,” said Eva, “-an attack from an enemy faction. Left wing radicals aren’t all liberal softies. Any time it’s riot season they come out of the woodwork for a nice game of smash and loot. In the old days the Anti-Nazi league and the BNP used to fight every other week like a bunch of football hooligans,” said Eva.

  “You’re confusing anarchists with people trying to defend our liberty, Eva,” said Dan.

  “My, my, aren’t you the little revolutionary?”

  “Not at all. But you’re half right, I don’t like these people. If you can even call them that.”

  “Think about the son, Dan. The son didn’t deserve having his head caved in, whoever did it.”

  “How do you know he didn’t, Eva? Young Jerry Burton could have been the next Adolf…“

  “No, he wasn’t Dan. I’ve checked on that. He’s a bright kid, good at rugby and football, and likes literature and history. He got three A’s in his ‘A’ levels, and was getting ready for a year out before University. This boy was interested in what his father was doing, but that doesn’t make him a skinhead.”

  “So where does all this talking and your flipchart paper leave you. Because to me, it sounds like no one has a clue what happened,” said Jess.

  Eva turned to Jess. In 24 hours the girl had contributed nothing but a bad attitude and her usual humour hadn’t been present to dilute her acid.

  “You’re right, Jess. And you haven’t got even the slightest idea either, have you?”

  The girl’s lips moved but she stayed silent.

  “See. But here’s what happens. We take some ideas and we go and investigate to see if we are right or wrong, then we come back and plot them down again. Rinse and repeat. And then we close in on the culprit, getting closer each time we do it. So Jess, have you got any ideas, yet?”

  Jess struggled and looked at Dan. Dan’s face didn’t move a muscle. But it was all in his silent unwavering eyes. Jess’s face turned red and she stood up and walked away from her desk.

  “Fine. Dan, have you got any ideas?”

  “For me it’s all about Serge’s boys. I could look into them some more.”

  Eva sighed. “Ok. For me this is about Jerry Burton. I want to get a fix on him and his actions before the attack. That should give us a few insights.”

  “Oh, I think I’ve got some insights already.”

  “Dan. Think about it. We haven’t got anything yet but a potted history on Peter Serge and the other local UKFirst men. We need some information on Jerry Burton, who he was dealing with, been seen with, the last few days. That’s where we should take this.”

  “Yes, you should do that, Eva.”

  Eva shook her head. “Jess. Come on, Jess. What’s your feeling?”

  “Like you want to know.”

  Eva’s temperature started to rise like mercury in a movie thermometer.

  “Yes, I want to know. That’s why I asked.” She held her voice in check.

  “Then here’s what I think. It’s political. They’ve scored their points – they’ve achieved their aim and they won’t be back. They didn’t want to hit Burton senior, not really, probably because they are gutless little bitches just out to score a cheap point for using to boast to their friends. I can’t see anyone coming back to do worse than they’ve done already. And if I’m right, you’ll probably never work out who did it because they’ll be long gone.”

  “Great. So how would you back that up?”

  “I don’t have to. I’m just the admin girl. I answer the calls from non-existent clients, heavy breathers, and sarcastic private detectives. Working out the case is your job. You’re the investigators.”

  The thermometer broke there and then. Eva screamed in frustration at the sheer obstructiveness of her colleagues, and silently swore she would sack them both as soon as she recovered enough to talk. But any time she got this angry, uncontrollable emotion came with it. She folded her arms, and walked straight between Dan and Jess, heading for the door. She stopped, picked up her phone and bag. “Eva?” said Dan. But Eva carried on walking. Enough was enough. Yes, she’d lost the cool she’d been trying to play. But she hadn’t ever been winning. Office relationships had fallen into total disorder and she didn’t know how to the fix them, not yet. And yes, she had even been reduced to playing the walk-out card just like Jess had done yesterday.

  But at least now, whether she seemed ridiculous or not, Eva had time and space to think and breathe. She jumped into her red Alfa before anyone could call her back and drove off towards the seafront. She would start work on the case immediately, get hold of the facts, and then involve the office brats later when they couldn’t make a mess of it. They were acting like children, making the worst of one another instead of acting like a team. But Eva wasn’t seeing the underlying cracks. Not yet. If only she looked closer, Eva might have understood the reasons Dan was acting strange… the cracks were lengthening. They would soon come apart.

  Five

  The hospital was semi-lit with an ambience of moroseness which went well with the soft blue walls and beeping technology. Eva managed to avoid her office for a full two hours before she made it to Southend Hospital. She hadn’t been looking forward to the hospital either and it wasn’t anything to do with Will Burton being a supposed neo-Nazi. Eva didn’t really believe he was a Nazi even if his UKFirst colleagues were. Burton was too slick, too smart for that. It was easier for Eva to believe that he may have been using the skinheads as an unlikely springboard for a career boost. It wasn’t a wise move, but politicians were power-hungry gamblers, so anything was possible. Maybe that was the reason for Eva’s reluctance to meet him; she knew she was coming up against the prospect of yet another man with forked tongue. On top of all the current madness with Dan and Jess, Eva wasn’t sure if she could handle another lying client. And there was the issue of laying eyes on the son who had been beaten within an inch of his life. The idea was unpalatable. Every time something terrible like this happened in the town, Eva strongly felt that the world around her was falling apart. She hated feeling the loss of control. But when she saw Will Burton sitting alone in the side room by his son’s bed, two conflicting emotions set in. Eva immediately recognised Will Burton’s type as the consummate politician, a true cockroach, and she hated herself all the more for taking the job. It came across in his overly-sharp silver suit, his expensive style and arrogant demeanour. She felt sorry hi
m… this pathetic man who was trying to hold it together for the public while surveying his son’s plight. Forget the cockroach part, she told herself, he’s a father, remember. Get the info you need and get on with the case.

  Will Burton didn’t see Eva at first and she was glad. It gave her a moment to survey the situation without any political artifice. Burton was smaller than he looked on television, not so thickset and more regal looking than she imagined. He sat with his shirt sleeves rolled up looking patiently into face of his son. His son lay upright with monitors arrayed all around his head, his chest bare but for cables stuck to his skin. There were bandages all over the top of his skull. Machines beeped around him in a sleepy way, suggesting - right now at least - that nothing was wrong. There was a TV set mounted above the bed, the screen angled towards Will Burton, and Eva could hear Burton’s political rivals being interviewed. “Of course, we all wish Mr Burton’s son a speedy recovery. There is no excuse for violence of any kind in this campaign, either the inexcusable violence perpetrated against Mr Burton’s son, or the terrible history of violence in some of Mr Burton’s political colleagues.”

  “Bastards…” she heard him mutter, just as a large shadow darkened the space behind her. “Who are you?” said a gravelly voice.

  Burton and Eva turned around simultaneously. Burton straightened up and put on the politician’s smile. Eva saw the change in Burton, but she was mostly busy paying attention to the big shaven headed man standing at her shoulder. He had narrow blue eyes and his skin looked as rough as sandpaper.

  “I’m Eva Roberts. I’m here to see Will Burton.”

  The big man looked at Will Burton. Burton nodded, “Thanks, Jeff. She’s allowed in.” Jeff walked away like he enjoyed showing off a body full of fighting muscle. There was a similarly shaped man sitting further down the corridor reading a newspaper. The skinhead security service.

  “Did you hear that? My son was nearly killed, and my rival, Tony Jobson is trying to play the violence card against us. UKFirst is not a racist party, let alone a violent party. In this day and age it should be okay to talk about immigration and a sense of Britishness without being considered a racist Neanderthal. We had all that PC multi-cultural rubbish for ten years under Labour and look where it got us.”

  “You miss your soap box, don’t you, Mr Burton?”

  Burton was in his mid to late forties, but looked a little younger. If it weren’t for the lack of sleep and the political insincerity etched all over his face, the man may have even been attractive. Once. But in Eva’s mind he’d sold all that down the river.

  “I’d rather be out on my soapbox, but only if this hadn’t ever happened.”

  “Hmmm. That has the ring of truth,” said Eva.

  “You don’t trust me? That’s fine. I’m used to that. No one trusts politicians any more. That’s one reason they are coming to UKFirst in droves. We are the party who we say we are and we’ll do what we say we will. You won’t get a pledge card full of lies from UKFirst.”

  “Yes. How’s your son, Mr Burton?”

  Burton’s face changed, and became softer.

  “Better than he was. Stable. The doctors tell me the sedation is just a precaution now. They think he has an excellent chance of making a full recovery.”

  She found herself watching Burton intently, looking for lies, waiting for any tells. But if he was lying, he was good. But then, he’d would have to be good to be in his line of work.

  “That must be a relief after such a shocking attack.”

  “Yes. You’ve no idea… I thought we were going to lose him, right there in my hallway. I dread to think what could have happened…”

  “If that had happened… the worst I mean… You wouldn’t have continued with the election, would you?”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Of course not! What do you think I am? But people like Jobson would have been ecstatic. But Tony Jobson would have gladly given the attacker a few quid for his trouble.”

  “Mr Burton. This will be easier for us if you could leave the politics out of our interview. I don’t follow local politics.”

  “This isn’t local politics, sweetheart. This is the start of the big game. Within five years the political landscape of this country is going to change forever. The Scots nearly pulled off their independence coup. It was a close run thing. What with uppity Scots, those money guzzling Welsh Boyos, Europe siphoning off our wealth to fund French farming and German Industry for the last 40 years, and the Jihadists chopping off British heads for larks, this era is tailor made for us. UKFirst is on the march.”

  “I don’t find that remotely appealing, Mr Burton. Your kind of politics is all about antagonism, negativity and fear. I don’t often vote but this year I think I’ll have to make an exception. I’ll vote for whoever is standing against you.”

  “Charming. And all the while we’ll be looking after your rights as a British subject.”

  “You’re only looking out for number one, Mr Burton. Now, I’m here to talk about your son.”

  “You still want our money then?”

  “If you want me to work for you. I can take bad money and make it good.”

  “But can you find the bastard who did it?”

  “We can find them if they have left a clue. And every one leaves clues. Furthermore, if they try this again its very likely we’ll spot them coming before they have the chance to strike.”

  “Very likely? You want me to pay you for very likely?”

  “Yes, Mr Burton, I do. Now, I need to know all about the last few days leading up to the attack, including everything you remember about your son’s whereabouts and behaviour, and anything untoward happening around your house. Can you help me with that?”

  Burton rubbed his chin and looked back at his son. Eva noticed his eyes glaze. The man was hesitant and thoughtful. Eva thought his behaviour strange for a man whose son had been nearly killed. He should have been more forthcoming…

  “Yes. I can help with all of that.”

  “You’re sure?” Eva analysed him. There was nothing. Burton was a closed book again. She tried another tactic. “What about your wife? You’ve been out on the campaign trail for what, ten hours or more a day, for weeks now, I guess. Your wife must have seen more, noticed more, than you. Can I speak to her?”

  “Ha. You can try. Dawn isn’t quite as strong as she used to be. Especially after what’s just happened with Jerry.”

  “What do you mean, Mr Burton?”

  “I mean you can speak to her, but don’t expect too many answers. Dawn is a lovely woman, don’t get me wrong. But she’s in pieces right now.”

  “So, do you think I should talk with her or not?”

  “I didn’t say otherwise, did I? Miss Roberts.” He looked at her a moment with hard eyes, appraising her for her first time. “This is a very bad time for us. You can see that, right? She needs a careful hand, that’s all.”

  Footsteps echoed down the corridor, sharp clacking footsteps growing louder as they grew near. Eva looked over Will Burton’s shoulder and saw a man in a dark suit with black hair. He took form in the dull hospital light. “Is she upsetting, you, Will? We can always cancel the arrangement if she’s causing you trouble.” His voice was nasal but sharp too. It was Peter Serge. For the first time, Eva realised Peter Serge reminded her of a younger Alan Rickman. Or more accurately, a young Snape, from Harry Potter. The atmosphere changed when he arrived. The big men in the corridor shuffled around their newspapers, sat up and greeted the man. But Will Burton was unfazed, which was only right. As the parliamentary candidate he outranked Serge. As Councillor Serge drew up beside Will Burton, Eva felt a hint of anxiety whip up her spine. Burton pointed at Eva.

  “We won’t ever win this one’s vote. Too much of a women’s libber, if you ask me. But I think she’ll do a good job for us. Very likely, anyway,” said Burton with a hint of a smile.

  “Are you sure, Will?” said Serge, giving her the intense dark eyes again. Eva coughed and looked a
way.

  “I have more questions, Mr Burton. And I’d rather I asked them when Mr Serge was not around.”

  “Why?” snapped Serge.

  “Confidentiality, Mr Serge. Surely Mr Burton has parts of his life he wouldn’t share with even you.”

  Serge nodded. “I suppose he might.”

  “Don’t worry, Peter. Only my toilet habits.” Burton laughed at his own joke, and walked away leaving Serge and Eva uncomfortable. Eva didn’t look at Serge again. Instead she walked away in pursuit of Burton and the end of their interview. So far she had learned nothing about the case save that she didn’t like any of her new clients. But there had to be a way into this ugly mess beyond Burton’s politics. And at the same time she felt Serge and Burton were creating invisible barriers. Traps, maybe. It could have been her suspicious mind of course, but if it wasn’t, Eva was determined to get through any barriers. She had the skills to drag more truth from them than they would ever be willing to give. To get the truth she would have to get past the politics, Serge’s intimidation tactics, Burton’s games, straight to the heart of the matter. The heart of the matter: Who would want to hurt Burton’s son? And why?

  Six

  It certainly wasn’t the best pub around, but in being so damned close to Eva’s office made The White Hart the best possible venue right now. It was early evening. No big drinker by any means, Dan needed alcohol just for its medicinal value right now. Serge’s eyes had started it off. The image of Serge’s eyes stayed with him - two white marbles with big jet back centres. They reminded him of the sheep eyes he had cut open in science at school, dead and inhuman. Those eyes spoke volumes about the man they belonged to, and they were the kind of eyes Dan hoped he would never see again. Not as soon as this. Dan had arrived in the pub fifteen minutes ago holding a folded Echo newspaper as a barrier to stop conversation if anyone recognised him. Dan didn’t want to speak to a soul until he was feeling alright again. Dan had felt fear before. Plenty of times, especially back in the boxing days. But since those times he had rarely felt true fear. And this feeling was far worse - it was uncontrollable, it made him feel giddy, and cool slick sweat came upon him like in a fever. He felt out of control and he had never known anything like it. Back in that South London dungeon in early summer, even as he waited for death, he finally found peace in the darkness. But the peace was gone. They flashed into his mind - the lunatic eyes of his captors as they pressed down close to him, ready to cut his face again, ready to laugh as they inflicted pain. No. Now they had Peter Serge’s eyes. Dan blinked several times and pressed his fingers onto the cold wet surface of his beer glass, hoping the sensations could block out the intensity of his feelings.