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Chapter 6

Tony Sutton hated fires. Fortunately, there were no bodies, nevertheless the scene conjured up old memories that he’d rather not dwell on.

The Islamic Centre was a converted residential property, and luckily for the neighbours was detached. The blaze had done significant damage to the downstairs, with the windows on the ground floor broken, the frames blackened. The smoke that smudged the centre’s sign hadn’t obliterated the racist graffiti scrawled across it. The front door hung off its hinges where the fire service had smashed it open to tackle the blaze behind. It too had graffiti, along with a couple of crudely drawn swastikas for good measure. A white-suited CSI was taking a swab from the paint in the hope that they could match it to any aerosol cans recovered from a suspect.

Hardwick resisted the urge to hold her nose; the smell of scorched plastic was making her feel nauseous.

‘Imam Mehmud seemed pretty worried about the long-term fallout,’ she commented.

Sutton agreed. ‘It doesn’t look good. When you were in the bathroom, he told me he’s concerned about strangers turning up and using the fire as an excuse to make a point. There are some pretty angry social media posts in amongst the calls for solidarity and prayers for the victims. He’s pretty young and I don’t know if he wields enough authority to stop troublemakers.’

‘What about the stabbing? What if it turns out to be a member of his congregation?’

‘I don’t know. I’m trying not to think about it.’

‘Well we haven’t exactly covered ourselves in glory either. I can’t believe they pulled those two officers off guard duty, they left the place completely unprotected. No wonder everyone is so angry. What do you think will happen to Superintendent Walsh?’

Sutton shrugged; he only knew the Gold Commander for Saturday’s operation in passing, but by all accounts she was a good officer.

‘Let’s not judge. It sounds as though she faced an impossible choice. I don’t think anybody was expecting that many protestors; she needed every warm body at her disposal in the centre policing the riot.’

‘Do you think the arson was planned, or just an opportunist? Could they have known that the patrol car would be pulled away?’

‘That’s what we need to find out,’ replied Sutton.

‘I don’t know what would be worse,’ said Hardwick quietly.

The two officers’ reverie was broken by the appearance of Chief Fire Officer Matt Brown, one of the county’s fire investigators. Sutton stuck a hand out and greeted a trim-looking man with steel-grey hair and thick crow’s feet that spoke of a lifetime squinting against smoke or bright light. Black smudges on his overalls confirmed that he was a hands-on investigator.

‘Walk me through it, CFO Brown,’ Sutton instructed after he’d introduced Hardwick.

‘Nine-nine-nine received a mobile phone call from somebody trapped on the top floor at 14.28. They called the volunteer appliance, but the roadblocks slowed things down and it took nearly eight minutes to assemble and another six to get to the scene. They only beat the crew from Cambridge by about two minutes. By that time the fire had taken hold of the whole ground floor.’

Brown pointed up. ‘Fortunately, everybody inside had managed to make it upstairs and was accounted for and we were able to start bringing them out by ladder.’

‘How did it start, you suggested arson?’

‘No question in my mind.’ He handed over a couple of hard hats and motioned for the two officers to follow him as he started up the front path.

‘Watch your step,’ instructed Brown as they stepped over the threshold.

The floorboards were warped and split and a pool of melted plastic had oozed across the floor.

‘The fire started here after somebody poured an accelerant, probably petrol, through the letter box. There was a plastic welcome mat that worshippers used to wipe their feet on here and as you can imagine that went up a treat.’

Brown pointed up the wall, where black smoke stains were visible.

‘Lots of soot and smoke damage, but the main structure remains sound.’

Straight ahead, the entrance to the prayer hall was visible. Stacks of rolled prayer mats still dripped water from the firefighters’ ultimately successful bid to stop the fire spreading further. To the right, a set of stairs led upwards. Black soot smeared the walls all the way up to a small landing halfway up that allowed the steps to turn through ninety degrees.

Either side of the entrance were open shelving units, with the remains of what looked like shoes, a number of pairs clearly children’s, the brightly coloured plastic burnt and twisted from the heat.

‘It’s early days, but as far as we can tell, there is no accelerant on the shoes.’

‘Meaning what?’ asked Hardwick.

‘It suggests that the person didn’t spray it through the letter box from a squirty bottle, but poured it from a canister. The doormat caught alight, which then spread and the shoes caught fire afterwards.’

Sutton scowled. If and when they caught the culprit, he could envisage a canny defence lawyer trying to use that as some sort of mitigation.

‘The fumes from these different materials are pretty nasty and would have filled the downstairs quite quickly.’ Brown pointed at the dark smoke stains travelling up the staircase. ‘Hot air rises, so we’d ordinarily recommend getting low, however in this case, going upstairs probably bought them some time as it took a little longer for the smoke to fill the landing and double back on itself.’

Sutton made a mental note to reassure Imam Mehmud that his decision to head upstairs had been the correct one.

‘What about the rear entrance?’

‘Come and see for yourself.’ Again, Brown led the way.

‘That metal wheeled bin was in front of the door to stop anyone getting out, so you can definitely add attempted murder to the charge sheet as well.’

The container was a large, heavy, dented affair with a lid, a design long since supplanted by plastic recycle bins. Sutton supposed it must have been an old one that the centre used if they filled the newer ones.

He squatted down and looked beneath. The wheels were rusted and at least one looked as though it would fall off if the bin was lifted.

‘We’ll get scenes of crime to take a closer look, but I doubt this has been wheeled anywhere for years.’ He pointed to white score marks leading back to a slightly darker patch of tarmac in front of the fence about three metres away. ‘I’ll bet it was dragged over.’

‘So no chance of it being an accident, then.’ Hardwick looked at her notes and then back at the door. ‘Imam Mehmud said that they rarely opened the back door and it hasn’t got a window so it’s unlikely anyone noticed when the bin was moved.’

Back on the street, Hardwick and Sutton were met by DS Hutchinson and a team of constables ready to start house-to-house inquiries.

Sutton consulted his notebook. ‘OK. According to the log, there was a patrol car with two uniforms sitting here as a visible deterrent until about 14.02 when they were called to the town centre to deal with the riot.

‘That leaves a twenty-six-minute window during which the arsonist or arsonists set the fire.’ He gestured at the street. ‘The street is a mixture of student and non-student properties and there was a fair-sized crowd of rubberneckers by the time the fire brigade turned up. Some of the morbid bastards were even filming it on their mobile phones. Let’s see if anybody saw anything suspicious; strangers hanging around, cars they didn’t recognise, people pouring petrol through the letter box, that sort of thing. I’d also like to know if there were any issues before Saturday. What were relations like with the neighbours?

‘Can anyone pin down when that charming graffiti appeared? We think it was late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning. Did anyone hear the bin being dragged? I imagine it wasn’t quiet. What about the CCTV camera? It was broken in the early hours of Thursday morning.’

As they headed back to the car, Sutton looked over at his younger colleague.

‘You were very quiet back there, Karen.’ Sutton had noticed her pale complexion.

‘I’m still a bit under the weather.’

‘That bug you caught on holiday still bothering you?’

‘It’s been over a month now. Every time I think I’m getting over it, it starts again.’

‘What did the doctor say?’

‘I haven’t seen him yet, I can’t get a bloody appointment.’

‘How’s Gary?’

‘Fit as a butcher’s dog, the lucky bugger. He was sick first. By the time he’d finished puking, I was just starting. He was done in twenty-four hours, but it took me nearly three days to get over the first bout.’

‘And you’re certain it’s the food poisoning coming back?’

‘Not one hundred per cent, but the doctor that treated me in France reckoned it was a viral infection, and warned me it might.’

‘You’d think they’d be able to make an omelette properly in Paris.’

‘I guess not.’

Chapter 7

‘Single stab wound to the chest. Almost certainly a knife or bladed implement. Curved blade, no serration.’

Professor Ryan Jordan’s accent was still predominantly American, but decades living in England – married to an Englishwoman – had left their mark.

‘What can you tell about the attack?’ Warren had the phone on speaker so he could look at the emailed files Jordan had sent him without getting a crick in his neck.

‘It pierced his left lung, catching a rib on the way in. It didn’t reach the heart, but it nicked an intercostal artery. The knife was pulled out without twisting. He’d have bled out in less than a minute. From the shape of the pool of blood under the body and the lengthy smear, I’d say he expired where he finally collapsed. I see no evidence that his body was moved post-mortem.’

‘What about his killer. Any ideas?’

‘From the angle and position of entry, I would guess someone of a similar height, probably standing face-on.’

‘So his attacker would have been covered in blood?’

‘No question. Even if he jumped back, I’d say he’d have got a good spattering.’

Warren really hoped Andy Harrison and his team found the killer’s clothing, only a tiny speck of blood would be needed to tie it to the scene.

‘Anything else you can tell me about the weapon?’

‘Not a lot, but I’ve photographed the marks on the rib, so I should be able to match any suspect blade.’

‘What else have you found? Any defensive wounds?’

‘Inconclusive. He had a number of pre-mortem injuries. A cut on his scalp was clearly inflicted sometime earlier, it had already started to bruise. His knuckles also had contusions consistent with fighting, but again they were probably picked up a few minutes before he was killed. Unless there was a pause of several minutes between him meeting his attacker and the final wound, I’d say the injuries occurred during the ruckus in the square. I’ve scraped under his fingernails just in case.’

Warren thanked him and hung up. The first twenty-four hours of any investigation were crucial. The clock started ticking the moment a crime was committed, as evidence disappeared, memories began to fade and killers continued to cover their tracks. It had been a promising start and a couple more hours remained. He just hoped they could maintain this momentum over the coming hours and days.

Chapter 8

Arranging a preliminary interview for all those present at the previous day’s riot was no trivial task. Many of the members of the British Allegiance Party were from East London, or further afield, and those who had managed not to get arrested had returned on the coach late Saturday night. To help process them more easily, Welwyn had sent a minibus full of officers clockwise around the M25 and taken advantage of the generosity of the Metropolitan Police in securing the use of some interview suites. The news of their leader’s murder had shocked most of the BAP members into docility and, to everyone’s surprise, all of those invited to give a statement had meekly turned up first thing on Sunday morning. Anybody with something interesting to say would be interviewed more formally, under caution if necessary, at a later date. Establishing alibis prior to the fire breaking out as well as in the last minutes before Tommy Meegan’s demise were equally important at the moment; Warren was acutely aware that a quick arrest over the fire would go at least some way to making good the mistakes made by the police that day.

Tracking down the many counter-protestors was more difficult. Those arrested during the riot had already been processed; a few more would no doubt be identified from CCTV footage and picked up later, but the majority had gone home, scattering to all corners of the UK. The press office had released a public appeal for information, but given who the victim was and many of the protestors’ attitudes towards the police, nobody was especially hopeful.

Nevertheless, there were still plenty of witnesses and potential suspects remaining in Middlesbury to interview, and none of them were happy. Some had spent the night in the cells and a couple were even trying to pin the responsibility for their assorted bumps, cuts and bruises on the police. More than a few of the BAP members were calling foul because they had been thoroughly searched as they left the bus whilst the counter-protestors hadn’t. Perhaps, more than one had suggested, the knife that killed Tommy Meegan could have been confiscated from the outset and a ‘good man’ wouldn’t be dead.

Many of the counter-protestors arrested at the scene were old hands and knew exactly what to do: namely keep their mouths shut and wait out the custody clock.

That left Tommy Meegan’s closest friends. Much to Warren’s surprise, Jimmy Meegan, Goldie Davenport and Bellies Brandon had actually stuck around in Middlesbury to be interviewed that afternoon. He suspected the influence of Mary Meegan.

First up was Harry Brandon.

‘He was a good lad. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.’

‘Then help us find who did it and bring them to justice.’

Bellies Brandon was well named. A good few inches under six feet tall, he still weighed well over twenty-five stone. Warren had no idea the kit makers made England football shirts that large; no wonder he’d not been able to keep up with Tommy Meegan when the counter-protestors had broken through the front line and the BAP members had scattered. He was the last person to be seen with Tommy Meegan as the two of them ran off the edge of the CCTV’s field of view.

‘Why did the two of you decide to run in that direction?’

Brandon shrugged and it was all Warren could do not to stare at the ripples and wobbles that flowed across his huge frame.

‘Dunno. It all went to shit when you guys let the Pakis and the Muslim-lovers attack us. Tommy started legging it and I followed him, ’cos he knows Middlesbury.’

Warren had twice reminded Brandon that although the interview was voluntary, he was being recorded and that he might want to consider his choice of language. The sneer on the man’s face left him in no doubt that he was choosing his words deliberately.

‘Then what happened?’

‘We could hear the fighting behind us. Tommy already had a cut on his head after some bastard threw a stone at him, so we just kept on going.’

‘I’m assuming the two of you split up before Tommy disappeared. Can you describe what happened then?’

‘I had to stop by the edge of the market square at the war memorial – my asthma’s been playing up lately – and I let him run on.’ Warren let the white lie slide; he couldn’t imagine the huge man being able to trot more than a few dozen paces before his massive weight and smoking brought him to a halt.

‘Was that the last you saw of Tommy?’

‘Yeah, he kept going down the road between the Marks & Spencer and Next.’

The protest had taken place in the market square in front of the town hall. Metal barricades had surrounded the BAP members, as they were addressed by Tommy Meegan with a loudhailer. A ring of police had kept protestors to the eastern end of the square, allowing a clear pathway to the BAP’s coach parked at the edge of the bus station.

After passing between the two department stores, Tommy Meegan would have found himself on the much narrower Ackers Street, lined with smaller businesses. Turning north then took the fleeing man up the road, where a left turn led to the alleyway where he finally met his fate.

If he’d continued down that alleyway he’d have exited onto Stafford Road, then entered the maze of back streets leading to The Feathers pub where the marchers had agreed to meet for a celebratory drink.

‘Did you see anyone else run in the same direction as Tommy?’

Brandon shook his head. ‘Goldie and Jimmy legged it towards BHS but I don’t think anyone else went the same way as Tommy.’

The CCTV footage processed so far backed him up; Tommy Meegan was on his own when he left the square.

‘Was the meeting at The Feathers planned in advance?’

‘Yeah, the landlord’s a mate of Tommy and Jimmy’s, he used to go to the footie with their old man.’

‘You aren’t from Middlesbury, so how did you find your way there?’

‘When I got me breath back, I went and hid in a beer garden at the top of the square whilst you lot finally arrested those bastards that attacked us. I tried to phone Tommy…’ For the first time the large man’s façade looked in danger of cracking and he cleared his throat before coughing ostentatiously. ‘I tried to phone Tommy, but he didn’t pick up. Then I phoned Jimmy and Goldie. Neither of them answered either.’

‘So how did you find your way to The Feathers?’

‘When they reopened the pub’s doors I asked one of the drinkers for directions.’

So far he hadn’t given Warren very much in the way of new information.

He decided to change tack.

‘I can see that you and Tommy knew each other well. How did you meet him?’

Brandon scowled. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Look, Harry, my job is to find out who killed your friend. That’s all. The more I know about him, the easier it is for me to picture what happened.’

‘Bullshit. You don’t care about Tommy. We’re scum to you.’ He raised a hand. ‘Don’t try and deny it. In the days before those helmet cameras you lot would try and wind us up and then when we stuck up for ourselves, arrest us.’

Warren said nothing – he’d earned overtime policing such protests back when he was in uniform. The atmosphere had been nasty and brutish. The two sides had hated the police as much as each other, seeing them variously as fascist sympathisers, state-run paramilitaries or members of a big conspiracy to chase indigenous Britons from their historic homeland. Stuck in the middle, arms linked with colleagues to form a human wall, Warren had felt fear. He’d been spat at, hit, and called names he’d had to look up online. Once somebody had even thrown a cup of urine over him.

It didn’t matter which direction he was facing; the hatred was like a physical force. And you reacted in one of two ways. Either you turned the other cheek and rode it out, or as soon as the opportunity arose, you let go of your comrades, unhooked your baton and waded in. One thing Warren was sure of was that everyone who’d ended up in the back of a police van that day had well and truly earned their seat.

Nevertheless, he needed to win Brandon’s trust.

‘Look, I’m CID. I don’t get involved in that sort of policing. I solve murders. I don’t care what people are supposed to have done. A murder victim is just that, a victim and they deserve justice as much as anyone.’

Brandon looked down at the table for a long moment, before finally meeting Warren’s eyes.

‘I guess I’ve known him getting on for ten years now. At first it was just to say “hello”. He’d travel down to Essex if there was a meeting on. Then he went away for a bit—’ he meant prison ‘—and when he came back he moved down to Romford. We’re about a mile apart. I’m a painter and decorator and Tommy needed some work and a place to stay, so we teamed up. I guess that was about five years ago.’

‘You lived together?’

Brandon scowled. ‘Not like that. He kipped on my couch for a couple of months until he found a flat.’

‘Of course, I didn’t think otherwise.’

Brandon grunted.

‘After he moved out, did the two of you stay good mates?’

‘Yeah, he repaid the favour a few months ago when me and the missus went through a rough patch.’ His voice cracked slightly. ‘He was an untidy bastard, but it’s times like that you find out who your mates are.’ He paused. ‘He wouldn’t even take any rent.’

‘But you aren’t living with him now?’

‘No, I got myself a bedsit.’

‘Did you still see each other outside work?’

‘Yeah, we both like a bit of golf and we used to go and play on a Sunday afternoon.’ He smiled slightly. ‘He was crap.’

‘What about Jimmy?’

Brandon snorted.

‘You’d never get Jimmy on the golf course, far more likely to find him in a wine bar with Goldie. Me and Tommy used to take the piss out of him. He had the cleanest overalls you ever saw. God knows what he used to wash them with. I swear, if he wasn’t always on the pull, I’d think he was batting for the other side.’

‘So he used to work with you guys as well?’

‘Yeah, me, Tommy, him and Goldie.’

‘I’m surprised you managed to find enough work, what with all the Poles.’

If Brandon realised he was being provoked, he didn’t seem bothered.

‘Yeah, fucking Europe. Sooner we’re out and can send them all packing the better. How is a man supposed to put bread on the table when he has to compete with that? They use cheap materials, charge half as much and don’t pay fuck all in tax. Half of them just want to use the NHS. There are plenty of good, honest British tradesmen out there, why do we need to bring in foreigners?’

Warren was beginning to wish he hadn’t broached the subject, but he needed to get Brandon worked up.

‘But you weren’t up here for work?’

‘’Course not.’ Brandon looked at him scornfully and Warren worried his deliberately clumsy questioning had been too obvious. ‘You know why we’re up here. To stop that fucking super mosque.’

‘But what’s so special about Middlesbury? You didn’t march on Dudley or Newham.’

‘Some of us did. But Middlesbury is personal to Tommy and Jimmy. They grew up here. Their old lady still has to live here. You’ve seen the town, it’s like fucking Islamabad.’ He leant forward, warming to his topic. ‘You mark my words, it’s a slippery slope. Before you know it the local schools will be serving halal food and teaching the boys and girls in separate classrooms so they don’t offend the Muslims. And what will they be teaching? They’ll be learning the Koran by heart and listening to preachers telling them to destroy the West and earn their seventy-two virgins by blowing themselves up on the underground.’

Brandon was now in full flow and Warren found himself watching with a disturbed fascination. How much did he actually believe and how much was just hyperbole spouted to justify his unabashed racism?

‘Fancy a pint on a Friday night? Forget it, before you know it they’ll be demanding pubs shut down. It’ll be like Iran. Islam will be the biggest religion in the UK within twenty years the rate we’re letting them into the country. They’re breeding like fucking rabbits and converting people left, right and centre. And what do we do about it? We build more mosques and give them free houses and let them use the NHS without paying.’ Brandon leant forward.

‘You and me are an endangered species, pal. Look around you. Middlesbury is supposed to be at the heart of England. If anywhere in this country should be full of white people it’s here, but it’s not. It’ll be as bad as Birmingham or Bradford before you know it.’

The man’s face was bright red and he used the edge of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

‘Help me out here, Harry. Who killed Tommy? Point me towards them.’

Brandon slumped back in his chair, the plastic creaking alarmingly.

‘I don’t know. Take your pick. It could have been one of the Muslims or it could have been one of those Muslim-lovers throwing stones and making death threats on Facebook.’ He smirked. ‘Hell, it could even have been a bunch of Polish painters trying to wipe out the competition.’