About the Author
PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a Science teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab-skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.
Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said ‘he’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve’. Over twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.*
You can learn more about Paul’s writing at www.paulgitsham.com or www.facebook.com/dcijones
*This is a lie, just ask any of the pupils he has taught.
Also by Paul Gitsham, featuring DCI Warren Jones
The Last Straw
No Smoke Without Fire
Blood is Thicker than Water (A DCI Warren Jones novella)
Silent as the Grave
A Case Gone Cold (A DCI Warren Jones novella)
The Common Enemy
PAUL GITSHAM
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2018
Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © 2018 September ISBN: 9780008301170
Version: 2018-09-06
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Paul Gitsham, Featuring Dci Warren Jones
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Saturday 19th July
Prologue
Sunday 20th July
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Monday 21st July
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Tuesday 22nd July
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Wednesday 23rd July
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Thursday 24th July
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Friday 25th July
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Saturday 26th July
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Sunday 27th July
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Monday 28th July
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Tuesday 29th July
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Wednesday 30th July
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Thursday 31st July
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Friday 1st August
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Saturday 2nd August
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Monday 11th August
Chapter 85
Acknowledgements
Read on
Dear Reader
Keep Reading
About the Publisher
To Cheryl – with me every step of the way!
Saturday 19th July
Prologue
Waste containers with sliding lids made the narrow alleyway even harder to navigate. Tommy Meegan bent over, hands on knees, breathing heavily. Behind him he could hear the sounds of fighting continuing. He smiled, baring his teeth, his blood singing from the adrenaline surging around his body.
It had gone better than he could have hoped for. He’d seen crews from the BBC, Sky News and ITN, all perfectly poised to capture the action when it finally kicked off.
Untucking his T-shirt, he bunched it up and used the front to wipe the sweat from his shaved head, leaving a red smear on the white of the St George’s flag. He reached up, wincing as his fingers found the cut above his temple. He hoped the TV cameras had caught that. He had no idea what it was that had actually struck him, just that it had come from the crowd of anti-fascists loosely corralled behind the cordon of under-prepared riot police.
Already he was planning the evening’s tweets and a press release for the website. A two-pronged strategy, he decided: they’d pin the attack on the Muslims and claim that the police hadn’t done enough to protect their right to free speech.
He touched his head again, another idea forming. The cut was still bleeding, but it was little more than a nick. He’d need to do something about that. If he was going to garner any sympathy on the evening news he’d need some real war wounds.
He squinted at his watch; he was actually a few minutes early. It had been touch and go with the timing after the police had kept them on the bus. He’d been worried that he’d get to the alleyway too late. Fortunately, the protestors had finally broken through the police line and the party members had scattered every which way.
He’d found himself running alongside Bellies Brandon and been concerned that he wouldn’t be able to find his way to his rendezvous unseen; his contact had made it very
clear that he was to come alone. Fortunately, the fat bastard was so unfit Tommy had soon left him behind.
A whoop of sirens in the distance finally signalled the arrival of more riot police. Tommy smiled again. Assuming that all had gone to plan and everyone had done as they were told, all the party members should have left the scene long ago. The only fighting should be between the Muslim-lovers and the police. Even the left-wing, mainstream media couldn’t bury that.
The alleyway remained silent. He pulled the battered Nokia from his back pocket – no new messages. He’d made certain to empty the inbox; he didn’t want to make things too easy for the pigs if he got arrested.
The lack of any communications irritated him and worried him in equal measure. The promised reinforcements hadn’t transpired, meaning he’d had to scrap some of his speech. And what if his contact had changed their meeting point or the time of their rendezvous? He wished he had his smartphone with him so he could access his email or Facebook, but everyone knew that the little devices would betray you in a million different ways if they fell into the wrong hands. He’d have to trust that any changes to their plans would be sent the old-fashioned way, by text or phone call.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, the adrenaline had made it dry. As excited as he was about the meeting, he hoped it wouldn’t drag on. The beers on the coach that morning seemed a long time ago and he’d worked up a thirst. The landlord of The Feathers was an old mate, sympathetic to the cause. He’d treat them right until the bus arrived to take them home.
The sound of a boot scraping the tarmac behind him caused him to spin quickly, bringing his hand up into a boxer’s stance. He squinted at the newcomer.
‘Why are you dressed like that?’ Tommy asked. ‘What’s that in your hand?’
Sunday 20th July
Chapter 1
‘Tommy Meegan, leader of the British Allegiance Party, found stabbed in the alleyway between the Fry and Tuck chip shop and the Sparkles nail bar.’
DCI Warren Jones pointed to the mugshot glaring across the crowded briefing room. The face was that of a shaven-headed, middle-aged white man sporting a few days of dirty yellow stubble. The man’s file on the Police National Computer didn’t detail if the missing front tooth was a casualty of the same incident that that had left a three-inch scar on his cheek or the same fight that had re-shaped his nose. The headshot extended to shoulder level, showing the top of a Union flag tattoo poking out of his T-shirt.
The 8 a.m. briefing was even more crowded than usual, with many of the evening shift still in attendance. The update was the third that Warren had given in the past twelve hours. The snatched sleep between two and five had been supplemented by several cups of strong coffee, but his brain was starting to feel mushy.
He glanced at the front row, then wished he hadn’t. Ordinarily the only uniform visible in Middlesbury CID belonged to his immediate superior, Detective Superintendent John Grayson, and even he reserved his dress jacket and flat cap for formal events such as press conferences and visits by senior brass. Assistant Chief Constable Mohammed Naseem certainly qualified as senior brass, as did the two chief superintendents, tablet computers resting on their laps.
Warren took a sip of water and continued.
‘Mr Meegan spent thirty-nine years on this planet, with a total of eleven residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure for football hooliganism and racially aggravated assault. For the past three years he has been chief spokesperson for the British Allegiance Party. I’ll not go into too much background detail about that for the moment, I’ll leave that to Inspector Theodore Garfield of the Hate Crime Intelligence Unit.’
Warren switched slides, immediately noticing a small typo on the second line of the timeline. He cringed inside, hoping nobody else saw it – or if they did, that they were generous enough to see it in the context of almost twenty-four hours on shift.
‘These are the facts as we know them.
‘At midday yesterday morning a coach containing forty-three supporters of the British Allegiance Party, including Meegan, his younger brother, Jimmy, and other senior members, arrived in Middlesbury after setting out from Romford, Essex. As you are no doubt aware, they were due to hold a protest and march against the proposed Middlesbury Mosque and Community Centre, referred to by some as a “super mosque”.’
Warren switched briefly to a photograph of twenty or so men posing in front of a single-decker coach, like a touring pub football team. All were white, most with shaven heads, and they sported a remarkable collection of tattoos between them. All wore England football shirts or T-shirts with the stylised version of the Union flag that had been filling the rolling news channels for the past few hours. If nothing else, the British Allegiance Party had brand recognition now.
‘They tweeted this along with the hashtag #NoSuperMosque on several of their social media accounts.’ Warren used the laser pointer to circle a face in the centre. ‘There’s Tommy holding the banner with Jimmy, his brother next to him. These are the less camera-shy members; there are a similar number out of shot.’
He flicked back to the timeline. ‘They were met on arrival by riot control police and led to the agreed rally point. As I am sure you already know, their plans to march down Sparrow Hawk Road, where the current Middlesbury Islamic Centre is located, were blocked by the city council, so they agreed to a symbolic march to the council offices before holding a rally then dispersing. As I’m sure you also already know, the Islamic Centre caught fire yesterday afternoon at the same time that the BAP were holding their rally. I don’t believe in coincidences and so DI Sutton will be running a separate but linked investigation that he’ll brief you on after this one is concluded.’
Warren took another sip of water.
‘The demonstration was supposed to start at midday but was delayed after there were problems clearing the route of protestors.’ Warren moved on quickly. The blame game for what happened later had already started and he wanted nothing to do with it. As far as he was concerned Tommy Meegan’s murder, and the fire, were where the responsibility of CID started and ended.
‘Eventually they made it to the front of the council building where they set up their stall.’ Another photograph, this time the image was time-stamped and had the constabulary’s logo in the corner. ‘As you can see, a number of those present, including Tommy Meegan and his brother, addressed their supporters with loudhailers.’ Another photograph, taken at a wider angle, showed the gathering encircled by a ring of fluorescent-jacketed officers, arms linked against a much larger crowd of protestors.
‘As you know, there was a vigorous counter-protest held by a wide range of anti-fascist and anti-racism groups.’ Vigorous was an understatement. ‘Unfortunately, protestors managed to breach the police line and confronted the BAP supporters directly.’ The next photograph was taken from a helmet-mounted camera.
‘This is the last photo we currently have of Tommy Meegan before he disappeared and his body was found.’
The image was blurry, but showed the man brawling with a masked protestor. His face was split by a huge toothy grin and despite the cut on his forehead, it was obvious that the former football hooligan was loving every second of the confrontation. The time stamp read 14:36:11.
‘As you can imagine, the scene was pretty chaotic and it was some hours before order was restored. Eight BAP supporters and seventeen protestors were arrested at the scene, with the rest disappearing into the surrounding streets.
‘It looks as though there was some contingency planning on the part of the BAP as they eventually regrouped at The Feathers pub.’ The bar was a dive frequented by the sort of clientele that would welcome members of the BAP with open arms.
‘When did they realise Tommy Meegan was missing?’
As usual it was Detective Sergeant David Hutchinson who asked the first question.
‘Apparently his brother tried to ring him at about 4 p.m., but the phone went straight to voicemail. He wasn’t worried at first, he
figured he was either in custody or taking cover somewhere. He and a couple of others rang him again between four and five and eventually assumed that he had been arrested. They already knew that at least some of their friends were in the back of a police van.’
‘So nobody raised the alarm?’
‘No, although I don’t think that’s too surprising. I doubt their first instinct would be to call the police. Besides which, they were enjoying the hospitality of The Feathers. They weren’t planning on going anywhere for a few hours.’
‘When was the body found?’
‘The switchboard received a call at 6.31 from the owner of the chip shop to the left of the alleyway. They’d closed for a few hours when the trouble kicked off and were putting the bins out prior to reopening when they found him.’