by Simon Hall
Kindle watched, then smiled, checked his appearance in a car window and rejoined the demonstration. Across the road, Abdul stood watching from the doors of the centre, his arms folded across his chest. A couple of the protesters whispered to each other, pointed and shook their heads.
A police car drew up, two officers climbing quickly out and donning their hats. One stood by the demonstration, the other outside the Islamic Centre.
‘To keep our little foreign friends nice and safe,’ came a mocking voice from the crowd. ‘Where are you when old ladies are getting mugged, eh? You should be ashamed of your bloody selves.’
One of the police officers fixed the woman with a long look, but didn’t reply.
Nigel stood up from the camera. ‘I’ve got enough pictures. The cops on guard, wide shots of the demo, close ups of the placards. You should have heard what some of them were saying about …’
Dan held up a hand. ‘No thanks. I can guess.’
‘Are we really going to interview them?’
‘What choice do we have? They got enough votes in the last election to have a party political broadcast. And our job’s about free speech. There’s no asterisk by the side of that marked only so long as we agree with what’s being said.
Kindle walked over. ‘My turn then, I think. Where do you want me?’
Nigel positioned him so the demonstration was in the background. He was a tall man, probably in his late thirties, well-dressed and so clean-shaven that there wasn’t a hint of a nascent hair trying to colour the surface of his skin. His suit and overcoat looked expensive, and the rich scent of a fine cologne drifted in the air around him.
‘What’s your first question then?’ he asked.
‘It’ll be something about – why the demo?’ Dan replied.
‘Something about? Come on, what is it really?’
‘It’ll be along those lines. I can’t say exactly how I’ll phrase it.’
Kindle nodded slowly, took one more check on how he was looking, smoothed his hair and turned to the camera.
‘This demonstration is irresponsibly provocative at a time of considerable tension, isn’t it?’ Dan began.
‘We in the BPP believe in fighting to keep the traditional character of Britain. We also believe in fairness,’ Kindle replied smoothly. ‘We think there are too many immigrants, and they’re being given benefits, housing, health treatment and education ahead of the people who have inhabited this proud island for thousands of years. That is simply unfair and wrong.’
‘An interesting coincidence you should be here after the graffiti attack on the Mosque, some may think?’ Dan countered.
‘A coincidence is all it is. We in the BPP would never advocate breaking the law. However, we do say this. We can understand the frustrations of many of the people of this country boiling up as immigrants take over. They see their beloved nation changing around them, without anyone having the care to ask what they think. We can understand how that may spill over into making a statement like this.’
‘You agree with equating Muslims with terrorists then?’
‘We say only that the facts speak for themselves. A young man walked into one of our most beautiful and sacred buildings yesterday and killed and injured innocent people in the name of Islam after being radicalised by Muslims. I don’t feel I need to comment any further.’
‘And what would you say to all the Muslims who pride themselves on being peaceful, count themselves as British as you do, and are shocked by the attack?’
‘I doubt they could ever count themselves as British as me, or the vast majority of the population of these islands. We have a proud Anglo-Saxon and Christian heritage, a tradition of tolerance, and we in the BPP believe in keeping the country that way – the way it should be.’
Dan tried a couple more questions but got exactly the same responses. He gestured to Nigel to end the interview. One of the police officers began walking along the line of protesters. He tried asking a couple how long the group planned to stay, but got only monosyllabic answers.
‘Enjoy the media training course, did you?’ Dan asked, as Nigel switched off the camera.
Kindle shrugged. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Come off it. The BPP aren’t going to allow just anyone on air. And your clothes could have come out of the TV-friendly catalogue. It’s hammered into you that the most important factor in how the audience perceives you is appearance.’
Another shrug.
‘And as for your answers – short, sharp, and resolutely “on message”,’ Dan went on. ‘Designed to appeal to your supporters and any others who may have a sympathetic ear. And for future reference – asking what the first question is, that’s a dead giveaway.’
Kindle didn’t look flustered at all. ‘I’ll take that little rant as your way of saying I did pretty well in the interview, then. And anyway, what’s the matter with wanting to do your best? When it’s something you believe in? Well, whatever, no hard feelings.’
He stretched out his hand. Dan hesitated once more.
‘Come on, I bet you shook hands with that lot in the mosque.’
Dan reached out slowly and made a brief contact. Nigel turned away and busied himself polishing the camera’s lens. A car roared past, the man in the passenger seat screaming abuse at the demonstration. Several banners waved in reply.
Kindle waited for Nigel to take the camera off the tripod and put the lens cap on, then said quietly, ‘I knew John Tanton, you know.’
Dan was about to head for his car, but stopped. ‘Really?’
The BPP man leaned back on a wall. Now the business of the interview was done, he had become chatty, almost friendly.
‘I didn’t want to say in the interview, too much danger of mixed messages, but I help run the local kids’ football clubs. John used to come along and play. He was a good goalkeeper. A nice lad too. But he was always a bit of a loner, never had too many friends or that much confidence. I reckon if someone came along and pretended to be his mate, indoctrinated him, gave him a mission, he would have been vulnerable to being radicalised.’
‘Any chance of saying that on camera?’
Kindle shook his head knowingly. ‘No thanks. I’ve done my bit.’
Dan thanked Kindle and picked up his mobile to call Adam when he remembered another question he should ask. But as with the Imam, it would have to be done surreptitiously.
‘I guess this is one of those stories we’ll all remember where we were when we heard the news of the bombing,’ Dan said in as relaxed a way as he could manage. ‘Where were you?’
Kindle didn’t show any hint of suspicion. ‘I was on a day off. Funnily enough, I was over in Exeter, doing some shopping.’
Dan watched thoughtfully as he walked back to the demonstration. Kindle was a long shot. Why would someone from the BPP be interested in radicalising a young man to commit a bombing outrage in the name of Islam? Surely only in an attempt to spread racial disharmony and stir anger and resentment.
It was far-fetched, but not impossible. In the years working with Adam, he’d seen stranger.
It wasn’t bad for an hour’s journalism and unofficial police work. They now had film and interviews sufficient for a story, and three more suspects ripe for investigation.
Dan drove back to the studios, Nigel following. It was only a quarter past ten. He could sit down for quarter of an hour, read a newspaper and have a cup of coffee and some toast before editing the report. He would also call Alison Tanton. That would be the interview to get.
Dan yawned hard and rubbed at his aching eyes. The car mirror suggested they were sporting an unattractive hint of bloodshot and were supported by dark crescents. A break would be very welcome.
He should have known better. Empathy and sympathy were a delightful couple who not only had Lizzie never entertained, she had erected notices around her personality stating they’d be most unwelcome visitors. Dan only just had time to park when he heard the ominous clicking of fast
stilettos striding across the tarmac. Nigel heard it too and ducked back into his car, but Dan was caught in the killing ground of his editor’s machine gun list of demands.
This was an unpleasant first. Lizzie often sprung her ambushes when a reporter walked into the newsroom, but never before had she been known to come down to the car park to pounce.
‘What the hell are you doing back here?’ was her welcoming opening gambit.
Dan opened his mouth to find some justification, but the growing words were swept away in the breaking storm. Any attempts at defence were as effective as whispering at thunder.
‘One of the biggest stories we’ve ever had and you’re slinking back here! Get out there and cover it. I want everything you can give us. I want interviews. I want the injured blubbing at the horror of what happened. I want the cops telling us how they’re getting on with the hunt for the radicaliser. I want it all and I want it good.’
‘We’ve just done the Islamic Centre …’
‘Bravo. Whoopee.’ A sharpened fingernail began a rhythmic jabbing, her dark hair flying in time. ‘That’s a start. But all the action’s at the Minster. Get back there. Get going. I want a live broadcast for lunch. I want a report. I want tears and shock and outrage.’
A small group of people had gathered outside the canteen to watch the verbal mugging. Lizzie in full flow was a celebrated spectacle, on the proviso the hapless victim wasn’t yourself. It was pure schadenfreude, a modern day equivalent of going to watch Christians being thrown to the lions.
He didn’t argue. It was pointless. Dan got resignedly back into his car and drove off.
As he passed under the trees that surrounded the exit, an unseen bird let loose a dropping, right onto the centre of the windscreen.
How quickly can news pass into history.
The Minster was open and as busy as Dan had expected, but around it people came and went, just as they had before yesterday’s bombing and probably would for the next thousand years or more. Some cast glances over at the ruined window, a few stopped to stare, but most just got on with their lives.
Loud’s sullen face warmed into a rare smile at the sight of Dan and Nigel. ‘You got lumbered with coming back too then,’ he clucked. ‘Me tooth’s still hurting, if you’re interested enough to care.’
Dan handed him the tape, sat down on the step of the Outside Broadcast van, steeled himself and found Alison Tanton’s name in his contacts book. Like most good journalists, he rarely discarded a number. You never knew when it would be useful again. Early in Dan’s career he’d got into the habit of noting down the names and numbers of all the people he’d spoken to that day in a large, and now very tattered old book. It was filled with memories.
The phone rang and rang until the answer machine kicked in. Dan briefly debated whether to leave a message, then did so. He wondered if she would call back, given all she must be going through. The chances had to be against it, but it was worth a try. Every hack in the country would be trying to contact her.
Partly to spite Lizzie, but mostly for himself, on the way over to Exeter Dan had stopped off at his flat to give Rutherford a quick cuddle. It was odd how much he missed the dog when he was forced to spend nights away. Rutherford did his whirling and yelping dance of delight at the appearance of his errant master.
‘Promise you I’ll be home tonight,’ Dan told him. ‘And we’ll go out for a walk, no matter how late it is.’
He closed the door, convinced that Rutherford had put on his smiling face and couldn’t help grinning too. What a fine companion the dog was, always there for him, always delighted to see him, never a hint of reproach nor ever liable to make a sudden decision that their relationship was over. Not like …
Dan stopped the thought before it grew. He would see her soon enough, when he rejoined the investigation.
You going to write this report then?’ came the sullen voice of Loud. ‘Or just stand there daydreaming?’
‘I was thinking about how to put it together,’ Dan replied, not altogether convincingly.
They started the edit. As he was tired and struggling to concentrate it would be best to keep the broadcast simple. In the live scene set, Dan would stand in front of the Minster’s façade and talk about the aftermath of the attack, the great building reopening in a show of defiance. Then the studio would cut to his report. Finally he would sum up by talking about the police continuing to question a man in connection with radicalising John Tanton, but also that they were following other lines of investigation.
He began the report with the graffiti on the Mosque, wrote about how the bombing had heightened racial tensions, and also mentioned the attack on the Muslim man. He had been fortunate and escaped with only cuts and bruises. They used the clip of the Imam, talking about Islam being a religion of peace and denouncing the attack.
After that Dan used the pictures of the BPP demonstration and some of Kindle’s interview, when he spoke of disagreeing with people breaking the law, but understanding their frustrations. He’d gone through it with Lizzie who agreed the party had to be given their say. Wessex Tonightwould get complaints, but that was the nature of being a news broadcaster in a democracy.
The Minster’s bells struck one. Dan sat on a bench in the easy autumn sunshine and gave himself a few minutes to unwind. It had been a busy but relatively smooth morning. He wondered what the afternoon would bring. Life inevitably moved fast on a big story.
His mobile rang. Alison Tanton’s number was flashing on the display.
‘Hello, Dan.’ A gulp, then another. ‘This will have to be a quick call. I’m at the hospital, hoping to see John. They haven’t let me yet. He’s been badly injured and there are lots of police here, guarding him.’
‘I’m sorry, Alison. For you, and all that’s gone on.’
A quick rush of breath, then a tumble of words. ‘I knew he was interested in Islam and talking about becoming a Muslim, but I thought it was just a phase. He didn’t show any signs of … well …’
Her voice broke. ‘Look, you were very kind, coming along to the Prize Day and giving out the awards. John went on about it for weeks afterwards. I would like to talk to you about what’s happened, but can it wait a few days? I hardly know what I’m doing with myself at the moment.’
‘Yes, of course. Alison, one more thing – all the other reporters will be wanting to talk to you, and …’
‘Don’t worry,’ she interrupted. ‘I won’t be talking to them. I’ll give you a ring, or call me within a day or two.’
Dan thanked her and hung up. He sat, staring at the Minster. Her voice sounded so fragile. He remembered the Prize Day, how she was wearing what was obviously a new suit, and her pride at John being given an award for the efforts he had made that year. He was a quiet lad, a little overweight, with a trusting face, painfully nervous as he walked on to the old wooden stage. His school tie was an inch askew and his hand trembling and sweaty to shake.
Dan shook his head, got up and walked back to the satellite truck. It was time to get ready for the live broadcast. His mobile rang again. Adam.
The detective’s voice was sharp and urgent. The familiar sound of trouble.
‘You back in Exeter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I need to see you this afternoon. As soon as possible. We’ve got real problems.’
Chapter Eight
ADAM’S TERSE INSISTENCE WAS sufficient to override the need for a decent lunch. Dan grabbed an unappetising-looking roll from a café, along with a piece of cake to bridge the taste deficit, and walked across Minster Green towards Heavitree Road police station.
It was warm enough for the lawns to be filled with people enjoying their lunch hours in the sunshine of the early days of autumn. Students sat in a group, some juggling balls and clubs with a conspicuous lack of success. But, being students, they still had the cheek to pass a hat around, and being the kind folk of Devon, plenty of people donated some change. Dan tipped in a few fragments of silver. At lea
st it would stop that annoying jingling as he marched.
He noticed he no longer felt tired, but wasn’t surprised. He was rejoining Adam on another extraordinary case. Again he would attempt to straddle the twin worlds of reporting on a crime and secretly helping with the investigation. It was a heady mix.
As Dan had expected, he had to field a call from the newsroom. Lizzie professed herself “satisfied” with lunchtime’s broadcast, but quickly launched into a series of demands for tonight. She wanted another report, plus a live interview to follow. Dan popped into the Minster office and had a word with Reverend Parfitt’s secretary. Yes, the Principal was available later and would be happy to grace the airwaves again.
That was predictable. The Minster was busier today than Dan had ever known it. Another plug of publicity would do no harm at all. It was fair enough. In the modern money-obsessed world, even men of God had to have an eye for the finances.
A couple of crows hopped and stalked across the green, pecking at the remnants of a picnic which had spilled from a bin. A young child balanced carefully on the low wall that divided the lawns from the cobbled old street. Streams of shoppers slipped past, proudly holding bags boasting of a legion of designers.
Life went on. Come what may, it always did.
As it would for him. He should be able to get home for about half past seven, ready to take Rutherford for a run around the park. He had promised, and it would happen. Dan grinned at the thought of his dog lolloping across Hartley Park, sniffing around the trees.
There was just the one nagging itch in his easing mind. The usual one, the standard one, the ever-present one. It was quite likely Claire would be at the police station. Perhaps working on a computer in the incident room, or on the phone, talking to potential witnesses. No doubt wearing one of her familiar black trouser suits, the dark ruffle of her bob as attractive as ever.
