Backlash

by Nick Oldham

  Extra decorations had been put up. Banners displaying huge swastikas and various provocative slogans were draped along the facade of the hotel. Immense photographs of the glorious leader, Adolf Hitler, accompanied these, his steely, slightly mad gaze watching passers-by.

  David Gill knew it was a risk, but one he had to take. He had to see Vince. There was every chance the Berlin was under some sort of police surveillance, particularly this week, and there was the possibility he might be recognised. He found a parking spot for his bike on Caroline Street and walked the hundred or so metres down to the Berlin Hotel, wearing his helmet all the way.

  At the foot of the steps leading up to the front door of the Berlin Hotel, Gill stopped and gazed upwards. Inside the all-glass front doors, two tough-looking men lounged indolently. They glowered down at him. He nodded imperceptibly at the most prominent photograph of Hitler and trotted up the steps.

  The two bouncers opened the door for him, but would not let him go through the next set of doors.

  ‘Who are you?’ one of the bouncers asked, stopping him from entering the hotel by putting a hand on his chest.

  ‘I’ve come to see Bellamy.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gill. ‘Let me through.’

  ‘I think not.’ The other bouncer moved towards him with menace.

  Gill reacted swiftly, catching them unawares. He kicked the one in front of him swiftly in the testicles, hard and accurately. He went down like a lead balloon. Gill turned to the second one who, before he could punch Gill in the guts, received the full weight of the crash helmet on his nose which splashed open instantly. He staggered back holding it, unable to stem the gush of blood.

  ‘Jesus Christ, David, you didn’t have to do that.’

  Gill turned quickly to the voice. It was Vince Bellamy. ‘I needed to see you, Vince. No one should try to stop me.’

  ‘And why the fuck do I employ you idiots?’ Bellamy said to the groaning bouncers. ‘Go and get yourself cleaned up f’Christ’s sake. You couldn’t protect a damn thing.’ To Gill he said, ‘Come on.’

  He led him through the hotel. They went past the reception desk and down a short corridor. On the right was a large bar area with a fair-sized dance floor and stage. Dozens of rows of chairs had been arranged to face the stage and the walls had been festooned with Nazi-related literature and photographs of the German ‘top team’, circa 1939-45. They passed a large dining room to the left and went through a door at the end of the corridor marked ‘Private – staff only’. This opened out into a further, shorter corridor with three doors off it.

  The first door was open. Two men sat at a table with a Citizens’ Band radio console on it and a transmission microphone. This was the radio room: Hellfire Dawn operatives were positioned at strategic points throughout Blackpool, equipped with radios, relaying information back to the Berlin Hotel about the movement of police and politicians. They were well organised. Last night the co-ordination of the rioting in Shoreside had been done from the Berlin.

  Bellamy led Gill to the third door along and ushered him in ahead of him. He closed the door and locked it.

  Vince Bellamy regarded Gill with a fatherly smile.

  The two men had first encountered each other while students at university. Bellamy, the older of the two, had been a post-graduate and very politically active in a brand of extreme politics which had appealed to, and sucked in, the younger man. Bellamy, even at that age, his early twenties, had been able to exert great influence over others, particularly the weak. He and Gill had spent many hours together discussing the right-wing movement into the early mornings; Gill, who went by his real name then, listened attentively, rather than spoke, nodding in firm agreement about the way things should be, how Britain even then was losing its way, and how action had to be taken to make changes.

  It had been during the course of these conversations that Bellamy had fuelled Gill’s hatred of minorities, feeding his mind with twisted logic and suspect political argument. One night, after a long session, Gill had expressed his loathing of an Asian girl student in his year. She seemed to be given opportunities denied to white students, seemed to be getting favouritism, despite the fact she was coloured.

  Under the influence of alcohol, Gill had revealed he would like to kill her.

  In response Bellamy had said simply, ‘Why not?’

  At first Gill had hesitated. However, over a period of weeks the idea grew in his mind. It became an obsession which Bellamy nurtured until one night Gill said he was ready to do it.

  Undetected, both young men entered the student accommodation in which the girl lived. They found her in her tiny bedsit, sleeping. Bellamy watched with excitement as Gill strangled her with her pyjama cord. Gill himself got a brutal pleasure from the taking of life and Bellamy got another idea for his political strategy: pick off individuals who somehow played a part in the decline of the country either by their presence or their actions. Like a sniper.

  The police investigation did not come anywhere near the two men.

  Before leaving university – to a job suggested by Bellamy – Gill murdered once more: a high-flying female student who was also suspected of being a lesbian. He murdered her with a knife and relished every single slice he took off her.

  Since then, on Bellamy’s instructions, Gill had murdered fifteen other people, all in some way connected to the ‘corrupt system’ that Bellamy wanted to make right. The methods of his killings varied and the police never really made any connections, which Bellamy found ironic and amusing, and fitted in nicely with his strategy.

  There were occasions, though, when Gill needed to be cooled down for his own good – usually when he had carried out murders close together. Then the urge to kill was very strong in him and he needed to be talked down to some kind of normality, though Bellamy could only guess at the normality which existed in Gill’s mind.

  ‘David, you have done well this week. It has been hectic for us all. We all have had to go the extra mile. Things are coming together nicely. The end result is close. I’m sorry I had to ask you to kill the girl, but she knew too much about me.’

  ‘You petrol-bombed the detective, didn’t you?’

  Bellamy nodded. ‘It was an opportunity not to be missed, it increased the pressure. But Geri knew and I could not take the risk of her talking to the police to save herself. That was why I asked you to kill her, even though I know it was a difficult thing for you to pull off. But you did it and I thank you.’

  Bellamy patted Gill’s arm. ‘Now you need to step back, David. David – hah! David. I can’t get used to calling you David. Here, come here.’ Bellamy beckoned Gill into his arms. Gill fell into the embrace and held onto his mentor. ‘That’s good, that’s good. You’ve done well. Other things are starting to happen on other fronts now. The American is here,’ Bellamy whispered.

  Gill drew back, wide eyed. ‘That’s fantastic! Can I meet him?’

  Bellamy shook his head. ‘No one meets him, not even me. That is how he wants it. I don’t even know where he’s staying. I just know he’s here and he’ll be producing a bomb for us. I’ll keep you informed of where it will be placed, for your safety. In the meantime, though, David, keep a low profile. Your next job is the most important you will have ever done. Your crowning achievement.’

  Once more he and Bellamy embraced.

  Bellamy could do this to Gill. Twist him, manipulate him, make him realise he was wrong, take him in any direction he wished. Gill nodded, once again awed by Bellamy, the man he most respected in the world. He reckoned Bellamy was the one who had made him what he was, who had shown him the way. Bellamy had been the one with the big ideas and the way to achieve them. Gill knew he was simply a cog in the bigger machine of right-wing extremism. A miner beavering away at the coalface, doing the dirty but vital work.

  The bomber breathed in the fresh sea air deeply. He looked out across Morecambe Bay from where he stood on the promenade in Fleetwood, to the
north of Blackpool. In the distance, rising up from the swirling mists like two medieval castles were the twin nuclear power plants at Heysham. He wondered what the hell it would look like if they blew up. Pretty spectacular, he thought. From a purely professional point of view it was something he would have liked to witness. On a personal note, he hoped he would be in another continent if it happened.

  He put his binoculars to his eyes and focused on the twin reactors, then swept across the bay, holding for a moment on the Isle of Man ferry which had just departed Fleetwood docks. Then he moved to a point on the shoreline, some fifty metres in front of him where several hundred oyster catchers had gathered to feast on the harvest uncovered by the receding tide. He watched them with some pleasure for a few minutes before strolling on.

  Eventually he found a seat in a large shelter near the miniature golf course. Both shelter and course were devoid of people. He slid the rucksack off his back and fished out a small flask from which he poured himself a very welcome cup of coffee. It tasted wonderful against the chill of the fast disappearing afternoon.

  Few people were about the place. One or two old folk with dogs, that was all.

  The bomber sighed contentedly. Life had been good for the past couple of months on tour, as he thought of it, in Europe. His offer to several organisations had been snapped up on the back of his lone success in America and he had fulfilled his promises to them, and more.

  Germany had been fantastic.

  He had combined his visit there with a sight-seeing tour of the remains of the concentration camps and of Berlin. He had felt an emotional rush to be so close to what had been a wonderful campaign and those who had led it. He had been more than happy to provide two bombs which helped keep the movement alive and in the public eye and in which two Jews had died.

  Then there had been France and Spain. One bomb in each. These countries did not have the buzz of Germany, but they had been pleasant nonetheless. Now he was in England which he was also enjoying. After this he would head home to resume business there.

  He placed the rucksack between his feet and unzipped the hood. He eased a pair of latex gloves onto his hands before sliding his fingers into the rucksack and removing a plastic sandwich box. There was a timer strapped to the outside of the box and inside was a lovely nail bomb. Instead of big fat nails, the bomber had packed over a thousand steel panel pins into the plastic explosive. These would have their own particularly devastating effect. He had used a similar one in Chicago and had taken out forty eyes, totally blinding eight people and killing two blacks. That had been a good one. A delicate bomb, he had called it. Refined. It was also equipped with a beautiful trembler device just in case someone moved it either by accident or design once the timer had been set. He put the bomb into a plastic Asda shopping bag and wrapped it tightly with elastic bands.

  He pushed the deadly package down behind the bench in the shelter, wedging it out of sight of the casual observer.

  Now he could relax. Delivery made. He finished his coffee and walked back along the promenade, making a quick call on his mobile phone.

  ‘Well?’

  It was a demanding word, requiring explanation.

  For a moment, Henry thought it was part of a dream.

  ‘Well?’ The word came again, probing, piercing.

  Henry moaned, feeling very ill because the word had pulled him back up from the depths of a deep, black sleep. He wanted to ignore it, roll over, burrow into the bed, wrap the pillows tightly round his head and just bloody ignore it.

  ‘I want to know who she was, what she was doing here and what the hell has been going on!’

  Henry’s eyes flickered open. Difficult, as they were caked in sleep. He was on his back, staring at the cracked ceiling.

  ‘Who – what?’ he said, mouth dry.

  ‘That woman – that woman!’

  He moved his head and blinked at Fiona. She was in her veterinary gear, green overalls and wellington boots, her hair tucked inside an elasticated cap on her head. Her arms were folded across her chest. She meant business, but was on the edge of tears.

  ‘What woman?’ he asked dumbly. His brain had not clicked into gear and he was beginning to resent being woken up again.

  ‘The one who was kissing you – that woman,’ Fiona explained.

  ‘Oh . . . right,’ it dawned on him. ‘You mean Jane?’ He shook his head. This was the confrontation he had been dreading.

  ‘I don’t know who I mean because I don’t know who she is, do I? All I know is that when I opened the back door I saw you and her kissing . . . and God knows what else had gone on before that.’

  ‘Right, right, I’m with you now,’ Henry said, trying to pacify her and slow it down so he could get his own head round this and manage the situation. ‘Here, Fi, come on, sit here.’ He patted the edge of the bed. ‘Come on,’ he coaxed. She was resolute, unwilling to move. Her face and jaw were set hard, eyes glistening with anger. ‘Look, come down to this level, I’m getting a crick in my neck.’ He smiled boyishly.

  Despite herself, she weakened and sat down, clenching her fists. Henry propped himself on one elbow and tried to touch her face gently.

  She shied away, not wanting the intimacy of the gesture. Henry thought she looked beautiful, even in her working clothes with her hair pulled tightly away from her face and neck, tied into a school-marm bun under the cap. It accentuated her fine bone structure. From a looks point of view, Henry knew how lucky he was. When she was ‘done up to the nines’ she was absolutely stunning. Unfortunately, Henry had started to find her personality somewhat grating. While admitting his own was probably not much better, he was struggling to feel close to her emotionally and intellectually.

  He glanced at the clock. 3.30 p.m. Only an hour since Karl had left. He had planned to have another three-quarters of an hour sleep, which now seemed unlikely. Henry – being a sensitive soul – sensed that tears were not far away and he wanted to avoid a blubbering scene at all costs.

  So he lied.

  ‘Jane Roscoe is a DI dealing with a murder that happened on South Shore last night. I had some information she needed as a matter of urgency, that’s all.’

  ‘So you pass information in the police mouth to mouth, do you? Kissing? Did you have a secret message in your spit?’

  ‘No, no, no, no,’ he cooed, holding up a hand. Here was the lie, ‘She also happens to be a very old friend. I know her and her husband very well. He and I used to play rugby together. It was a friendly kiss, nothing more. Certainly nothing sexual.’ God forgive me, he thought, but needs must.

  ‘Is that the honest truth?’ Fiona snuffled.

  Henry nodded sombrely.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ Fiona gasped in relief. ‘I thought you were going off me.’

  ‘Never,’ he said softly. Crisis diverted. He lay back. ‘I could do with a bit more kip before I go back to work, sweetheart,’ he suggested.

  She seemed not to hear. She pulled off the hair net, shook her gorgeous locks free and kicked her mini-wellington boots off, then slid in next to him. He was very hot and naked.

  ‘I was worried,’ she admitted, hugging him.

  ‘No need.’ He yawned, hoping she would take the hint.

  Next thing he knew, Fiona had disappeared under the duvet and his limp cock was in her warm mouth. He groaned, but not with ecstasy. Although he was unable to prevent an immediate erection, he would rather have slept than had a blow job. Which in itself said something about the relationship, he thought.

  Gill was changing out of his motorcycle leathers, back into his casual gear. He had a quick glance round the flat to satisfy himself that everything was hunky-dory. He slid his denim jacket on, ready to leave and head to his real home.

  When the ‘rat-at-at’ spanked on the door, Gill’s bowels almost opened. He did not move. He closed his eyes. Maybe they would go away, whoever it was. More knocking. They were persistent. The sound of the letter-box flap opening.

  ‘Hello,’ someone called,
‘could you come to the door, please?’

  David Gill’s legs turned to a sort of mush.

  ‘I know someone’s in,’ the voice called. ‘I heard you moving about, so please come to the door. This is the police.’

  Fourteen

  Jane Roscoe decided that any time spent at the scene of Joey Costain’s murder was well spent. There was no point in rushing anything and thereby losing evidence. Once the forensic and SOCO people had done their initial work and withdrawn, Roscoe, kitted out in the latest high-fashion overalls and overshoes, together with the pathologist, Dr Baines, reassessed everything.

  Baines was useful to have around. He had been to hundreds of murder scenes and had carried out the subsequent postmortems, so his experience was vast. He wasn’t very old, either, Roscoe noted. Not like most of the pathologists she had come across before who were usually of or approaching pensionable age. Baines was in his mid-forties at most. He was also modest and helpful which endeared him to her. He recognised she was the senior investigator and that he was there to support her, and seemed to have no problems with that state of affairs.

  She bled him dry with her constant questions. Patiently he answered them all, even when they had been repeated several times or were silly. An hour and a half of minutely working through the scene saw both of them parched. A break and a drink was needed. They peeled off their protective outer garments and left the flat, body and entrails still in situ.