by Liz Mistry
Chapter 36
17:15 City Park Bradford
Fire engines, screams, ambulances, tears, police sirens. The noise was deafening. However, what was worse was the smell of petrol fumes, and the overlying stench of singed flesh that clogged up Gus’ throat. He had bodily dragged Imti away from the blast, and within ten minutes, the police in riot gear had cleared the area of everyone, except the injured. In record time, two fire engines drove straight onto the park. The City Library had opened its doors as a base for triage, and the surrounding restaurants and cafes distributed hot drinks to the emergency services and those in shock.
As he’d pulled Imti away, Gus had spotted Shahid towards the back of the crowd, looking as desperate as his younger brother. He’d managed to reunite the brothers, and now, the three of them were helping the paramedics do triage. The most serious injuries had been whisked off to BRI, but many people with non-life-threatening injuries remained in the library where, at least, they were warm.
Gus suspected an investigation into the bomb would establish some combustive commodity had been added to extend the effects of the explosion. Imti had told him he saw who had thrown the bomb, and he said it had come from the protestors’ side. One of the riot squad had stated various witnesses had reported seeing the bomb in the hands of one of the protestors in City Park. It didn’t make a lot of sense, and it would be a nightmare to prove until the fire investigator had done her full and thorough investigation.
As they worked in the freezing conditions, Gus was aware of Jez Hopkins and the other journalists snapping photos and trying to interview people. On the parapet above the café, Graeme Weston delivered an interview which, no doubt, would lead on most national news channels as well as local news. A few words drifted downwards, and Gus’ body tensed as he realised Weston was using this to paint a picture of an immigrants’ riot.
Behind him, he overheard one firefighter say to another, ‘If I’d known that Brexit would release the floodgates for scum like him, I’d never have voted for it. All I wanted was independence from Europe, not a bloody race war.’
Unfortunately, many people Gus came across during his working week held similar views, and he knew they would be horrified with this outcome. Looking around him at the broken people, with their heads bowed in defeat, a wave of anger wracked his body. The delicate balance of his city was at risk, and whilst these people licked their wounds, Graeme Weston and his cronies stood, Union flags stretched between figures in balaclavas, too cowardly to reveal their true identities to their neighbours. Their fists raised in cheers, as if this had been some sort of victory for them. It made his skin crawl.
At least with UKIP, most of their members were accountable for their views. Most expressed their views honestly and openly. The worry with the Albion First members was that many of them were under the police radar. Their insidious beliefs and propaganda were covert until … like now … they weren’t. Until, like now, they fanned the flames of unrest from behind their balaclavas and voiced their vitriol, with only their topmost ranks brave enough to show their faces. It was sobering to think you could be living next door or sharing a drink, or working with one of them, and not know just how deep their hatred was. Deep enough to murder? wondered Gus. Was one of those faceless figures responsible for the deaths and torture of three men? It was a scary thought.
Chapter 37
18:05 Caroline Drive, Dudley Hill, Bradford
It was amazing and so damn simple. All eyes had been focussed on the wogs, Pakis and gay sympathisers gathered in the Mirror Pool. Their man had got himself into position early. Then, arm up and over, leaving a trail of flames like a huge firefly, as it sailed through the snow and landed – plop! – right in the middle of them. Lambs to a slaughter. Couldn’t have been planned any better. The idiots didn’t even realise they’d been herded into a corner until it was too late, and like the animals they were, they squealed and ran; headless chickens in a slurry of flames. Brilliant! The scent of flesh burning hung heavy in the air; a delicious winter barbecue, and, like Gods on Mount Olympus, we watched them burn.
I could have watched all night, but after the initial rounds of interviews and playing-up to the media, it was time to go. Strutting our stuff – showing the reality of the protestors trying to discredit us – that was fine, but when they’d got things under control beneath us, the police turned their attention our way. It was time to leave.
Thank God for a quick getaway! I escaped from City Park by walking briskly over the road, up past the Alhambra Theatre and into Sir Titus Salt Wetherspoons. No rushing. No drawing attention to myself. Just a measured getaway. After a quick trip to the toilets, I emerged, having pulled a dark woolly hat over my forehead and black scarf around my mouth. My reversible jacket was duly reversed too. Everyone in the pub was staring at the huge wall-hung telly, where journalists were already on scene outside City Hall reporting on the devastation. The interviews were being played on a loop, interspersed with footage of the clean-up.
Nobody noticed me exiting Wetherspoons from the upper level. Nevertheless, heading up past the ice rink and around the corner to the National Science and Media Museum car park, I kept my head down until I reached my car. Didn’t want anyone to realise that, whilst their expressions were full of horror, mine was full of joy.
Thinking about it even now makes my heart beat faster … the last remnants of adrenaline still course through me, making me hungry for what I’ve got planned for tonight. That’s why I’ve come here. I’ve been smart, though, and have driven a circuitous route. No point in taking chances. Now, outside the row of shops, in the comfort of my vehicle, I replace my reversible jacket with my heavy coat, and with the engine running, I’m warm. When I parked up, I turned the radio down a notch and slid over into the passenger seat. Anyone wondering why I am parked there with my engine running will just assume the driver is in one of the shops. I’ve grown wise over the past few weeks. Been a fast learner, and with three targets already disposed of and the next one within my sights, a warmth gushes through me from my stomach up to my chest.
Settling in for the long haul, I pull off my gloves and flick the radio on. As expected, all the local stations are harping on about the ‘protest gone wrong’ in City Park. I smirk, lean my head back on the seat, and listen.
Through the window, I see my target pull into his drive and alight from his brand-new BMW. More than likely bought with the proceeds of drug transactions. That’s how most of them make their money, isn’t it? Bringing their trash to our streets! He turns and reaches back into the car, pulling out his briefcase, and that’s when I see it… a big scrape down his cheek and a bandage round his hand. A wave of pure pleasure ripples through me, giving me goose bumps. He’d been at City Park! He’d been hurt at City Park! I hadn’t seen him, but it is good to know he’d been there. Proved my point. People like him take the moral high ground when it suited, yet they are happy to behave like animals in secret. I frown. Good job he’d not been one of the ones seriously hurt … that would have messed up my plans.
Head drooping, he limps towards his front door, and then, it’s flung open and his pregnant wife appears, her bulk making her movements clumsy as she descends the steps and wraps her arms round him. Dropping his briefcase, he embraces her, raining kisses on her hair and cupping her face with his injured hands. My skin tightens, and I taste bile at the back of my throat. Cracking open the window, I breathe in the cool air. It calms me until I hear her relieved sobs as she helps her husband inside. Vile creatures. My skin crawls, and I want to do it right there and then. I want to smash their happy little family to smithereens. Twisting around in my seat, I rest my forehead on the side window and allow its delicious coolness to soothe my flushed face. Knowing she thinks he’s had a narrow escape gives me a rush. It makes the promise of her devastation when I’m done with him all the more delicious. Anticipating her destruction, I laugh out loud.
A voice I recognise filters through the radio, so I flick the volume back up
and listen to his smooth oratory performance. Slow, definite phrases describe the scene in City Park. Faultless delivery. The tone perfect. Leaves the listeners in no doubt the Molotov cocktail had originated from the protestors. Expressing sadness that anyone had been hurt, emphasising the point that, if the perpetrator had had a better aim, it would now be Albion First supporters lying injured or in Bradford Royal Infirmary.
The interview continues, ‘Make no mistake! It is Albion First who are the victims here. It is my supporters who were the targets of this heinous attack, and many witnesses saw that the firebomb originated in the hands of the protestors. The events in City Park today were appalling. As you know, I am a great believer in free speech, having had my own rights, in that respect, denied on many occasions. It pains me to see that same right denied to the people of Bradford by the Asian and Black communities that protested my legal right to stand as a candidate for Albion First in the upcoming Bradford Central by-election. Having arrived with a few of my supporters in City Park to have a civilised conversation, I was shocked to witness the tragic event that unfolded there this afternoon.’
Another voice interjects, ‘For those of you have just tuned in, we are here in City Park, Bradford, and I am Jez Hopkins, speaking to Graeme Weston, the Albion First candidate for the by-election in this ward. Mr Weston, could you tell us more about what happened in City Park today?’
‘It is with a heavy heart, indeed, I have to say these words, Jez. Today, I witnessed yet another indication of the unrest that the ethnic minorities provoke in our city. Today, I personally witnessed one of the protestors hurl a lit Molotov cocktail into their own group. I have no doubt whatsoever this act was either a conscious and malevolent one aimed at casting the blame on my followers or a misguided attempt to hurl the bomb at my followers who stood on the balcony. Fortunately, the claim that the homemade bomb, aimed at – and I make no bones about the use of this word – terrorising the people of Bradford was thrown by one of my supporters, has been widely refuted by many witnesses most of whom were part of the protesting group.’
‘Isn’t it true your decision to attend the protest was a spontaneous one which casts doubt on the pre-meditation of the protestors?’
Tut! Smarmy-voiced jackass! I cross my arms wishing I could punch that Jez Hopkins. What is he playing at? It was quite clear who was to blame for the bomb! What more did Hopkins want? It was all a media conspiracy to discredit Albion First.
‘Ha, ha, ha! Very amusing, Jez! I do admire your tenacity in trying to discredit me and my party. Albion First are a legitimate political alternative to the hypocritical ineffective mainstream parties. Since my decision to stand in this fine city, Albion First have increased their membership both locally and nationally. My message is clear to Bradfordians. Albion First will represent you. We will return Bradford to its former self. We will pull Bradford from beneath the skirts of its sister city, Leeds, and we will put Bradford on the map. First stop: Bradford, next stop: the rest of the UK!’
What a save! What an inspired response. I raise my fist in an air punch. How’s that for a sound bite. Tell it how it is! Then, realising I’ve attracted the attention of a group of people waiting at the nearby bus stop, I duck my head. My heart speeds up when, from the corner of my eye, I see an old woman place her handbag on top of her wheeled trolley bag and rummage inside. When she withdraws a pen and a small notepad, my stomach flips. What is she doing? Talking a note of my number plate because I punched the air? I shake my head. I’m being paranoid. Why would she take a note of my number plate? Anyway, even if she has, it won’t do anyone any good. I swapped the number plates with an old Polo in Keighley. Time to make another swap though. No point in taking unnecessary chances. No point in risking being recognised. Not now. Slipping back over to the driver’s side, I drive off. In my rear-view mirror, the old bitch isn’t even watching me. I laugh, amused at my own paranoia.
Chapter 38
19:35 The Fort
The smell of burning human flesh and petrol fumes had gotten into Gus’ nostrils. So much so that now, he inhaled with relish The Fort’s institutional lemon scent overlaid with eau de grease. This was the same aroma he moaned about with monotonous regularity, but this evening, it was like a bouquet of roses. The TV was on in the corner when he arrived with Alice, and when they entered, three heads turned from the screen as one, before Compo, Sampson and Taffy, who’d made it back minutes earlier, jumped to their feet and let loose with a barrage of questions.
Gus grinned and waving them to silence, grabbed the controls and turned up the volume on the TV. ‘Let me listen to this, guys, then we’ll talk.’
He and Alice joined the other three to watch the interview with Graeme Weston. It had been on the car radio as they drove back to the station. Now, he wanted to watch the man’s body language as he spoke. Weston had changed his clothes for the demo, and instead of the riding gear he’d worn when Gus had interviewed him, he now wore a suit and tie.
Maybe Weston knew there’d be a photo opportunity, thought Gus, not bothering to quell his cynicism.
Where Graeme Weston was concerned, Gus was sure a healthy dose of scepticism should always be applied. The man interviewed well. He had all the charisma of Farage without any of his ‘comic’ characteristics, and judging by the crowds watching the televised interview in City Park, he was amassing quite a crowd of supporters.
As the news anchor in the studio began to list the details of those injured and the one boy who’d died, Gus switched it off. He turned and studied Taffy. ‘You my new DC?’
Taffy nodded his head and thrust a hand in Gus’ direction. ‘Talvinder Bhandir, most folk call me Taffy.’
‘You Welsh then?’ asked Gus, deadpan.
Before Taffy could reply, Sampson laughed. ‘Don’t go there, Gus. The lad’s got no sense of humour. Completely missed the joke when I asked earlier.’
Taffy grunted. ‘Actually, it was your delivery that was poor, Sampson. DI McGuire’s was spot on!’
Alice laughed. ‘Oh my God, we’ve got ourselves an arse lick! What’ll we do with him, Compo?’
‘Make him get some food in?’ replied Compo, his tone hopeful.
Alice shook her head. ‘Christ, Compo, Gus and I have been in the thick of it for hours in the freezing cold, in the driving snow and wind, dealing with distraught victims and relatives, whilst you, on the other hand, have been cosying up with your computer all afternoon, and all you can do is think of your belly?’
Compo’s mouth drooped. ‘I’ll take that as a no, then, shall I?’
‘Damn right you will.’
‘Okay, children,’ said Gus, raising his voice. ‘Welcome to the team, Taffy. Just muck in, and if you’re unsure, give us a shout.’ He turned to Compo. ‘I’ve ordered food from Mo. He’s delivering it in a bit, okay? Meanwhile, let’s get updated before we eat. I’m cold and knackered, and I want to go home. Who’s first?’
Sampson brought Gus and Alice up-to-date on the interviews with the victims’ friends ending with, ‘So, it looks like maybe the link is that each of our victims breached our killer’s ‘moral code.’ That would tie in, too, with each of the dump sites being known for ‘illicit’ goings on.’
‘Keep on that tomorrow. Taffy will help you with that.’
Sampson put a note in his book and said, ‘What about Weston? Any progress either incriminating or eliminating him or any of his lovely sidekicks?’
Gus shook his head. ‘He’s a sleazy bastard, no doubt of it, yet his alibi holds up. We were heading to interview his campaign manager, Michael Hogg, when it all kicked off in City Park. Truth is, I don’t think he’s a stupid man. The question is, would he risk putting someone up to this at this critical time in his political career? That’s not to say he doesn’t have a rogue supporter acting on their own. I want to get the measure of this Hogg guy. Anytime I’ve seen him being interviewed, he seems less polished than our man. More of a thug, maybe more unpredictable.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows.’
Wandering over to the small fridge in the corner of the room, he took out a can of Irn Bru, saying over his shoulder, ‘Tell them about the son, Al.’ He took a long swig, savouring the way its coolness caressed his raw throat as it went down. Maybe it would get rid of the scorched taste in his mouth.
Alice filled them in on Christine and Graeme’s reaction to Gus’ innocent enquiry about Jacob’s health, but the other detectives were as stumped as they were.
Gus drained his can and said, ‘I reckon if we don’t make headway soon, we could try to get Christine on her own … I think she’s fragile enough to break the party whip, so to speak.’
After clearing his throat, he began to speak again. ‘Today, in City Park … it was awful. Many people were hurt. Most of them were kids. Imti and Serafina were there, for God’s sake. Imti reckons he saw one of the protestors throw something into their crowd. He’s convinced it was someone from Weston’s group trying to make trouble for them, and I have to say, word from the bobbies backs that theory up. When the statements are compiled, they’re going to send copies to us.
‘I don’t know if there are links between this and Weston and the deaths, but I want us to keep on top of it. When they come in tomorrow, I want you, Sampson and Taffy to go through them with a fine-tooth comb, okay?’
Compo, who’d been watching the door with eager eyes, presumably for signs of their samosa delivery, burped, and then, as if the burp had released some inspiration, he jumped to his feet, dashed across the room and started typing on his PC.
‘Comp?’ said Gus.
Not taking his eyes off the screen, Compo said, ‘I’ve got something. Give me a minute, huh?’
