Читать книгу The Common Enemy - Paul Gitsham, Paul Gitsham - Страница 18

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.’