The Common Enemy

by Paul Gitsham

  Again, Warren forced his attention back to what Sutton was saying; he was going to have to call it a day soon. His shortened attention span was a symptom of his tiredness; he’d start making mistakes soon.

  ‘So why would he use his own Kirpan? It seems a bit sloppy for someone taking that much care to set up an alibi,’ finished Sutton.

  ‘A message to the BAP from the Sikh community? “We stand with our Muslim brothers”?’ suggested Warren.

  Sutton chewed thoughtfully. ‘I can kind of see that, but why use his own Kirpan? Surely he could have just got hold of another one? One without his own fingerprints, for a start?’

  ‘Perhaps he wants to take credit for the attack?’ said Warren, although the suggestion sounded even weaker when he said it out loud.

  The two men lapsed into silence. They needed more evidence. And more sleep. Warren had laid out his case to the magistrate and was awaiting a decision to extend the custody to seventy-two hours. It wasn’t a done deal. In the meantime, Singh Mahal was back in his cell, apparently catching forty winks. Warren envied him.

  The phone rang. It was Andy Harrison.

  ‘I thought I’d better ring you myself.’

  ‘That was quick, I thought it’d be another twelve hours before they matched the DNA.’

  ‘There’s no match.’

  ‘What? Then whose blood is it on the knife?’

  ‘The knife is still being tested, the blood probably is the victim’s. I meant the tracksuit.’

  Warren was confused. ‘Wasn’t the Kirpan sent off first?’

  ‘It’s not blood on the tracksuit.’

  ‘But you did a presumptive blood test at the scene.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, it was a false positive. The test looks for the presence of haemoglobin in blood, but it can also change colour in the presence of iron oxide – rust. You’re supposed to add the reagent first and wait to check there’s no colour change before you add the hydrogen peroxide. The technician didn’t wait. I’m really sorry, sir.’

  Warren felt sick. He’d been so certain that the blood test would link Singh to the murder. Now it seemed it wasn’t even blood. Singh was a mechanic, he probably came home covered in rust.

  ‘What about his other clothes?’

  ‘We’re going over the lot. It’ll take time, but if there is blood on them we’ll find it.’

  Warren hung up, unsure what else to say. There was no use ranting about it, Harrison was clearly mortified at the error. In the years that Warren had known him, he’d never known Harrison – or his team – to make such a fundamental mistake. But then it wasn’t his team, was it? The Forensic Science Service was gone and services were being outsourced to the cheapest bidder. Who knew what other errors they’d made?

  The revelation pretty much scuppered their chances of the magistrate granting a further extension to custody, based on their current grounds. They now had until the following morning before the current extension ran out. If they didn’t come up with something soon, Singh would walk. And for the first time since Warren had arrested the man, he was beginning to wonder if it was all a big coincidence.

  Wednesday 23rd July

  Chapter 26

  Six a.m. and Warren wanted nothing more than to wipe the smirk off Singh’s face. The remainder of the extension had elapsed, and, as expected, the magistrate had declined his request for a new extension the previous night. Warren had gone home leaving strict instructions that he was to be called immediately if anything else turned up, so that he could apply again for the extension, but he’d known it was unlikely.

  Depressed and unable to face cooking at that hour, he’d stopped off for a kebab. Unfortunately, Susan had anticipated him being late and had prepared a tasty, healthy vegetable stew and left it in the fridge. Whether she was more annoyed at him for not answering her calls earlier that evening or his unhealthy choice of dinner was unclear. Regardless, she hadn’t offered him a goodnight kiss. He’d slept in the spare room to avoid waking her when he got up the next morning. The two of them had been on edge for the past few weeks, and the stressful nature of Warren’s current case wasn’t helping matters. Yet again, he vowed to make it up to her; yet again, he couldn’t see when that would happen.

  Singh’s solicitor had made a perfunctory objection to his release on bail, insisting he should be released without conditions, but Warren had stood firm. Until he knew exactly what had taken place on that Saturday, and until he had confirmation that Singh’s Kirpan was not in his possession when it was used to kill Tommy Meegan, he had no intention of absolving his only suspect. Warren didn’t believe in coincidences.

  Was it too early for a second cup of coffee?

  * * *

  At the other end of the CID office, DI Tony Sutton was having a better start to his day. The door-to-door inquiries organised by DS Hutchinson in the streets surrounding the community centre had yielded a couple of leads, but most of the houses were empty for the summer during university vacation. Relations between the Islamic Centre and the local neighbours were generally pretty good. Most of the worshippers lived within walking distance and a nearby bus route meant that the parking was generally adequate. Nobody had reported seeing any graffiti beyond the usual brainless ‘tags’ that the local youths felt compelled to spray everywhere, with most of those weeks or months old. No one recalled any racist slogans and certainly no swastikas.

  Sutton made a note; it looked as though Imam Mehmud was correct and the graffiti was only added a few days before the fire. SOCO had photographed the images and passed them on to Garfield’s team in the hope that they may produce a match from their database.

  ‘Most people that were around were either out enjoying the weather or didn’t hear anything until the sirens started.’ Hutchinson flicked through his notebook.

  ‘One of the neighbours a few doors down reported seeing the police car sitting outside from early morning but she didn’t know why it was there since she never reads the local paper. She confirms that it left a bit after 2 p.m.’

  ‘What about strangers in the street?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘Another neighbour reckons that there are always a lot of strangers around, since the Islamic Centre is the only one for miles around. On Saturday, there seemed to be a lot more people around in the morning. Then when the police arrived to keep an eye on the place, a load of the men walked off in the direction of town. She assumed that they were going to the protest. Most of the women stayed behind at the centre.’

  That matched what Imam Mehmud had told Sutton about the events that day.

  ‘One resident did spot something a little unusual. He took his dog into the garden about half twelve and spotted a car sitting around the corner on Buzzard Lane. It’d have been out of sight of the patrol car on Sparrow Hawk Road. He said you get all sorts visiting the centre, blacks and whites as well as Asians, but the car’s white occupant didn’t seem to fit.’

  Sutton stroked his chin thoughtfully. Had the fire been the act of an opportunist who had simply come across the unguarded centre? Sutton didn’t think so. The fire had been set in a thirty-minute window between the patrol car being called away and the first emergency call. He couldn’t see how somebody could have arranged the attack from scratch at such short notice.

  ‘Let’s go and see him. I want to see what he remembers.’

  * * *

  Stanley Buchanan was a retired postman who’d lived on the corner of Sparrow Hawk Road and Buzzard Lane for most of his adult life.

  ‘I remember when the centre opened back about ten years ago.’ He looked a little uncomfortable. ‘I have to admit we weren’t sure about it at first. I didn’t know much about Muslims, except what I saw on telly and read in the newspapers. You hear about stuff, you know. How they treat their women and all those hate preachers, but we never saw anything like that. The lead fellow, Imam Mehmud, runs a cricket team for Muslims and non-Muslims and they’re trying to get a girls’ football team up and running. Nice bloke, always has a w
ord if he sees us in the street.’

  ‘So there were never any tensions?’

  Buchanan shrugged. ‘None that I saw.’

  ‘What about vandalism?’

  ‘There’s been a bit of graffiti, but no more than anywhere else and nothing offensive. Just the local idiots, if it doesn’t move they think they have the right to spray their signature on it. They did my shed last year, the little shits.’

  The man’s account was matching what they’d been told by Imam Mehmud and others. The centre had been a well-regarded neighbour with little or no trouble.

  ‘What did people think about the proposed mosque and community centre?’

  Buchanan shrugged. ‘It’s on the other side of town so it won’t really affect me.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘If anything, I’ll probably miss them. They kept the place tidy and they didn’t have a bar kicking drunks out at all hours.’

  ‘Tell me about the strange car that you saw in the street.’

  Buchanan frowned. ‘I didn’t really think anything of it to be honest, until you guys appeared and started asking questions.’

  He shifted in his seat.

  ‘I took the dog out to do her business in the front garden about half past noon and saw them parked up.’

  ‘Do you usually take the dog out?’

  Buchanan smiled slightly. ‘I wouldn’t normally, but we’re having a conservatory built out the back and she’s only a puppy. She hasn’t quite figured out where to go out front. Call it a professional courtesy to my former colleagues at the Royal Mail.’

  Sutton smiled.

  ‘So why did you notice the car?’

  He shifted slightly. ‘I don’t want to sound racist, but there aren’t that many white folk coming in and out of the centre. They’re mostly Asians and that. Usually the white guys tend to have beards and wear those little caps, I guess they feel they have to try a little harder to look the part, but this bloke didn’t.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Buchanan paused. ‘I’ll be honest, he looked like a thug. You know the type, shaved head, England shirt and arms completely covered in tattoos.’

  Chapter 27

  ‘We’ve a new suspect, sir.’

  Hastings had called Warren and Sutton over to his workstation.

  ‘The Social Media Intelligence Unit and the Hate Crime Unit have been watching groups like the BAP for years. They also keep an eye on the other side of the coin, to try and get a heads up if there is any trouble in the offing.’

  ‘They didn’t do such a brilliant job this time, did they?’ noted Sutton.

  ‘No, sir. They dropped the ball on this one. They knew what the BAP were planning – it was all over their Facebook page and Twitter – but the counter-protestors are a bit more sophisticated. They announced their intention to attend via Facebook and got about a hundred or so likes, so policing was planned accordingly. But behind the scenes they were using platforms like Snapchat, which are transient and delete the conversation after a few seconds. In the end, closer to five hundred turned up and caught us with our pants down.’

  ‘So who is this new suspect?’

  Hastings turned to his computer and pulled up a headshot.

  ‘Philip Rhodri. He’s a veteran protestor – you name it, he protests against it: animal experimentation, hospital closures, the Iraq War. However, he has a particular beef with the far-right and the BAP and Tommy Meegan in particular.’

  Hastings opened another screen.

  ‘He has a couple of dozen different social media profiles, since he keeps on getting banned. This one cropped up on the BAP’s Facebook page in the comments section of the announcement about the protest march. The conversation was saved before Facebook deleted it and blocked the profile. It makes for interesting reading: Meegan calls himself TrueBluePatriot and Rhodri goes by the imaginative FascistKiller.’

  FascistKiller:You coming out to play on Saturday?

  TrueBluePatriot:Yeah going to fuck up some muzzer lovers.

  FascistKiller:Big words when you have the pigs watching your back.

  TrueBluePatriot:No need for the pigs, I’ve got my crew.

  FascistKiller:What crew? Your queer brother and some fat fuck who waddles like a duck. If he wasn’t such a chubster you could fit your whole crew in the back seat of a Mini.

  TrueBluePatriot:How many suicide bombers have you got lined up?

  FascistKiller:Don’t need any. Come to Middlesbury and you’ll get cut.

  ‘How poetic,’ said Warren. ‘So what’s so special about Rhodri? The BAP get death threats all the time.’

  ‘I agree, but Rhodri is one of the most experienced organisers in the country when it comes to these sorts of counter-protests. He regularly gives advice to other groups on everything from how to coordinate before, during and after, to knowing your rights if you’re arrested, even how to deal with tear gas. He practically carries a business card. He took the lead in organising this one, since it’s personal and local.’

  Hastings switched to a CCTV image of a male protestor in a black, long-sleeved T-shirt with ‘Fascists Out’ across the chest. His lower face was covered with a black face mask decorated with the logo of a CCTV camera in a circle with a line through it. His eyes were hidden by black glasses, and his hair covered with a red cloth. Despite the hot weather, the man wore dark blue gloves.

  ‘As you can see he tries to make it difficult for us to identify him, but we were able to track his movements once we’d isolated him.’

  ‘How do you know it’s Rhodri?’

  ‘He drove in with some other known activists and left his car at the Park and Ride. CCTV footage shows him stepping out of his car and putting his face mask on before joining up with some more protestors and walking into town.’

  ‘OK, so why else is he a suspect? He can’t be the only one there to say nasty things about Tommy Meegan on the internet.’

  ‘We know he travelled to Middlesbury – and we have images of him at the Park and Ride. But he doesn’t get on the bus and walks towards the centre with other activists. And then we lose him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There is a half mile or so that isn’t covered by cameras on the walk. He enters the blind spot and doesn’t re-emerge. His party keeps on walking and reappears at roughly the time we’d expect if they didn’t stop or make any detours. But eleven enter the blind spot and ten emerge.

  ‘Sir, this man was the main organiser of the protest and has a personal history with the BAP and Tommy Meegan. So what could be so important that he wouldn’t be on the front line with the rest of his troops?’

  * * *

  According to his file, Philip Rhodri was thirty-six years old, although his appearance suggested an age anywhere between mid-twenties and forty. For a man who liked to make it difficult for police to keep track of him, his build was perfect; he pretty much ticked ‘average’ for any physiological characteristic that you’d care to measure, and Warren could see no distinguishing features on display as he manipulated the brake levers on an ancient bicycle.

  Ask someone to describe student digs in Cambridge and the rambling, yellow brick building close to Parker’s Piece and within easy walking or cycling distance of most of the colleges would probably fit the bill nicely. Rhodri wasn’t a student – he’d left school at sixteen with few qualifications – but he shared the property with his landlord, another known activist, and a handful of like-minded students from the university. Of course, Rhodri’s name didn’t appear on any official paperwork, which was why he’d managed to avoid paying council tax for the past five years.

  ‘Mr Rhodri, my name is DCI Jones and this is my colleague, DC Hastings. Could we have a word, please?’

  ‘Whatever you want to talk about, speak to my lawyer first.’ The man’s accent retained a slight Welsh drawl.

  ‘I was rather hoping that we could simply clear up a few things without needing to go down that route.’

  Rhodri fished in his back poc
ket and pulled out a battered nylon wallet with the remains of a fluorescent surfboard pictured on the front. Without saying a word, he passed over a business card for a local law firm. Pointedly turning his back on Warren and Hastings he picked up an Allen key and continued fixing the bicycle.

  Ten minutes later Rhodri sat in the back of a Cambridgshire Constabulary police car under arrest on suspicion of sending malicious communications.

  * * *

  Despite the protestations of his solicitor, the warrant to search Philip Rhodri’s flat was valid and Warren was determined to execute it. The first thing the evidence recovery team did was seize Rhodri’s laptop and mobile phone. Unfortunately, the warrant didn’t extend to the other occupants of the house and so if he had given any other equipment to his housemates for safe-keeping, they were going to struggle to retrieve it.

  Fortunately, the warrant did include communal areas of the building and his car, which Warren ordered impounded. Nobody covered in bloodstained clothes had been reported walking around the area where Tommy Meegan was killed and Warren was determined not to miss something obvious.

  Philip Rhodri’s housemates had initially been obstructive, refusing to let the evidence recovery team into the property. However, the flashing of a warrant and the threat that they’d enter by smashing the door off its hinges if necessary, not to mention arrests for obstruction, soon ended that stalemate, although not before the sound of a flushing toilet was heard upstairs. Warren felt a twinge of sympathy. Somebody was going to have to go down the sewers to check that out, but he wasn’t expecting much more than a few joints and maybe a couple of bags of something stronger.

  Rhodri and his landlord shared the house with three students. The owner of the property lived in the large double room downstairs at the front of the house, with Rhodri in what had probably been a dining room when the house was first built. Upstairs, the three students – all female and in their early twenties – lived in small single rooms, sharing a miniscule bathroom. The cistern was refilling as they entered the tiny room. A root around the downstairs bathroom, which Warren noted was at least twice the size of the upstairs room, showed no evidence of female occupation.