The Common Enemy

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘I’m surprised it didn’t flush away completely.’

  ‘Well, it probably would have done, but the drain was partially blocked and it snagged on the way down.’

  Warren grimaced. ‘Spare me the details.’

  ‘So you don’t want to see what blocked it?’

  Warren eyed him suspiciously. ‘If this is going to put me off my dinner, I’m not interested.’

  ‘Depends how strong your stomach is, sir.’

  He pulled out another baggie.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Despite himself, Warren was intrigued. He ignored the unpleasant-looking stains.

  ‘I’ll know more when I get it back to the lab, but it looks like a lump of partially melted nylon.’

  Warren frowned.

  ‘Well, since she was the one responsible for flushing the drugs down the toilet, perhaps his housemate Laura Tufnail can some shed light on the mystery. I think she’s spent enough time sweating in the custody suite.’

  * * *

  Bryan Thornton, Philip Rhodri’s landlord worked for the housing department in Cambridge City Council, somewhat ironic given that he had been claiming Rhodri was a student, for council tax purposes, during the years that they’d lived together. Despite Hastings’ implicit threat to reveal the fraud – which would almost certainly have cost him his job – he denied all knowledge of Rhodri’s whereabouts on the day of the murder, claiming to have been visiting his sister. His record revealed a number of run-ins with the police and he was a known face on the protest scene; however, unlike Rhodri, he’d managed to avoid being charged, which explained how he’d kept his job. By the time Hastings called time on the interview they’d learnt nothing more and it was far from clear if he was genuinely ignorant or simply lying.

  Two of the three students that shared the flat with Rhodri and Thornton had driven into Middlesbury with Rhodri and had already been interviewed. Despite their relative youth, the two women were experienced and had simply repeated ‘no comment’.

  The third student, Laura Tufnail, had been away the day of the protest. The moment Warren saw her in the interview room, screwing up a polystyrene cup, he knew they had their weak link.

  After reminding Tufnail that she had the right to legal representation and confirming that she was not under arrest, Warren started by asking her what she knew of Philip Rhodri’s whereabouts on Saturday.

  ‘No comment.’ The faintest traces of an American accent coloured her words.

  ‘Tell me, Ms Tufnail, do you enjoy being a student at Cambridge University?’

  She said nothing.

  ‘I imagine your parents are pretty proud of you.’

  No response.

  ‘I didn’t go to Cambridge, so help me out here. You’re a member of a college first and foremost, which then means you are a member of the university. Is that right?’

  ‘Close enough.’

  They’d broken the impasse. Tufnail no doubt thought that answering such a question was harmless, but Warren’s experience had shown that simply moving someone away from ‘no commenting’ often made it more difficult for them to return to their previously uncooperative state.

  ‘Which one are you a member of?’

  ‘Fitzwilliam.’

  ‘Oh I know that one, it’s up on Huntingdon Road next to Newhall, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the house that you share with Mr Rhodri and Mr Thornton is college property, I assume?’

  ‘No, Bryan owns it.’

  ‘Oh, OK. I thought he was a student like you and Mr Rhodri.’

  ‘Philip isn’t a student.’

  Warren made a point of looking hard at the papers in front of him.

  ‘Sorry, my mistake. But it doesn’t matter if the college owns the house you live in, does it?’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean that just because you don’t live in a college-owned property, you still have to follow university rules and regulations, right? For example, you can’t own a car within the city limits without written permission from the college.’

  ‘I don’t own a car.’

  ‘I know, but Philip does. That confused me, but I guess if he isn’t a student he can do what he likes.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Warren placed the evidence bag containing the joints from the kitchen on the table between them. He said nothing.

  ‘I assume you know what these are.’

  The draining of colour from her face made the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks suddenly noticeable. ‘Cigarette ends?’

  ‘Try again.’

  She sighed. ‘I guess they’re spliffs.’

  ‘Correct. They were found down the back of the fridge.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about them.’

  ‘I sure hope that’s the case, because I believe that colleges like Fitzwilliam take matters such as arrest for drug possession very seriously. Now how about you tell me who the drugs belong to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Warren looked at her long and hard. She was starting to perspire, but he couldn’t tell if she was lying or just scared.

  ‘You can save us a lot of time and money by telling us who they belong to, rather than making us perform expensive DNA fingerprinting.’

  ‘I’ve said I don’t know.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Warren, his tone implying that they’d be revisiting the subject.

  ‘When we arrived at the property, we were delayed entry by your landlord, Mr Thornton. During that time, the toilet was flushed by somebody upstairs. We’re retrieving evidence from the drains as we speak. You were upstairs. Would you care to tell me what you flushed down the toilet?’

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t flush anything down the toilet.’

  ‘Then who flushed it? Mr Thornton was talking to me at the front door and Mr Rhodri was already in custody. Was it one of the other girls?’

  ‘No comment.’ Her voice was reedy and there was no conviction behind the dodge.

  Warren leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Look, Laura, I’m not with the drugs unit. I’m not interested in a bit of puff and whatever you flushed down the lavatory. That’s not the focus of my investigation. A man was brutally murdered on Saturday afternoon. It is my job to find his killer.’

  ‘He got what he deserved.’

  ‘Well, I’m not qualified to make that decision and neither are you,’ snapped Warren. ‘And neither was his killer. No matter what Mr Meegan is alleged to have done, or whatever views he may have held, we have rules in this country and they apply to all of us.’

  The rebuke had the desired affect and Tufnail lowered her eyes.

  ‘Now what can you tell us about Saturday afternoon?’

  ‘I was away, I didn’t go.’

  ‘Are you sure about that? We are trawling the CCTV as we speak. Being charged with a bit of drug possession is nothing compared to lying and perverting the course of justice. You’ll never set foot inside college again if you end up charged with that.’

  ‘I was visiting my friends that weekend.’

  ‘Where?’

  She sighed. ‘At Jesus College.’

  Warren blinked. ‘Jesus College? As in Jesus College, Cambridge?’

  She nodded.

  ‘But that’s barely down the road. I’d hardly call that going away.’

  ‘It’s what I told Philip. I didn’t want to go to the protest, but I was too scared to tell him, so I said I was going to a wedding in Edinburgh.’

  Her eyes were starting to shine. Warren handed her a tissue and gave her a moment.

  ‘Why don’t we start from the beginning?’ he suggested gently.

  She sniffed and when she started again her voice was croaky.

  ‘It’s all such a mess. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me all about it and maybe we’ll see if I can help.’

  She smiled gratefully. ‘You’re right, Mum and D
ad are proud that I got into Cambridge. They wanted me to go to university ever since I was a little girl. And when I gained a place studying Maths they were so proud.

  ‘I spent my first year in college, but the cost is crippling. With tuition fees on top, I’ll be over forty thousand in debt before I even graduate. And I really want to do a doctorate, which means I won’t be earning proper money for years. My parents keep on saying they’ll support me, but they can’t afford it. I’m the youngest of four and Mum and Dad want to retire back to the States. I have a job at the museum and work some shifts in a restaurant, but I still needed a way of reducing my fees.’

  ‘Rhodri?’

  ‘Yeah. I met him at a Students Against Fascism demo in my first year. They seemed a pretty cool bunch and I joined up. When I came to the end of my first year, I saw the bill for the next year if I stayed in college. It was astronomical. But Philip told me he lived in a house down near Parker’s Piece with a load of other students. It was a bit basic, he said, but it was less than half what college was charging.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Well it was OK at first. It was pretty convenient, I could cycle to college easily and I enjoyed being with other people who shared the same beliefs as me. But it soon started to get a bit scary. Philip and Bryan smoke a lot of weed. The house stinks of the stuff. I tried it a couple of times but I don’t like it.’ She looked down at the table. ‘That was me flushing the loo. I knew where Philip kept his stash and I panicked. I didn’t want to be associated with that stuff, so I tried to get rid of it.’

  ‘And that’s all you flushed?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She bit her lip; she’d draw blood soon if she wasn’t careful. ‘I think there might be other stuff in the house though.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘There was a weird stink coming out of Philip’s room Sunday night. Sort of like burning plastic and I could hear him coughing. I’ve no idea what it was, I’ve never smelt heroin or crack or anything before.’

  Warren was unsure what melting nylon smelt like, but he imagined it was similar to burning plastic. Sorting through his evidence folder, he found a photograph of the mysterious lump Stewart Beattie had fished out of the sewer. Tufnail looked at it before shaking her head. Warren believed her; it had been a long shot anyway.

  ‘OK, tell me about Saturday. Why didn’t you go to the protest?’

  ‘I was scared. I’ve been on marches and stuff in the past and it’s a lot of fun. Everyone wears face paint and carries placards. We stand behind the barriers and shout a bit, but this was the first time we were going to actually confront some of these thugs and try to disrupt their march. At first it sounded exciting, I’d seen them on TV. The police stand in the middle and both sides shout at each other, but nobody gets hurt.’

  Warren fought the urge to roll his eyes.

  ‘What changed?’

  ‘Philip was boasting about it one night. He doesn’t usually drink, but when he does he likes to show off. He said that they had figured out how to stop the pigs – sorry – hearing about our plans in advance and that this time there were going to be so many of us, they’d never know what hit them.’

  ‘And you didn’t want to be part of that?’

  ‘It wasn’t just that. I want to leave the house. I’ve been looking for somewhere to move to for my final year. I might even move back into college and sod the cost.’

  ‘The drugs?’

  ‘In part, but the house isn’t what I expected. Philip isn’t what I expected.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘I was such a fool. It all seemed a bit romantic you know, I guess I had a bit of a crush. But then there were the drugs and the lies – I’d been living there for two months, can you believe, before I realised that him and Bryan weren’t mature students? Philip doesn’t even have a proper job.’

  ‘And Philip didn’t return your affections?’

  ‘No, quite the opposite; that was the problem. I realised very quickly that my crush was just that and that he wasn’t my type at all. Which was fine, I didn’t make a fool of myself or anything. But it soon became clear that he and Bryan choose their flatmates very carefully.’ She paused to see if Warren understood.

  It seemed that his suspicions had been correct.

  ‘One of the other girls, Carly, worked that out to her advantage pretty soon – I’m convinced she doesn’t pay any rent. Our other flatmate, Rosie, made it clear fairly quickly that she isn’t interested in sharing a bed with Philip, Bryan or any man. I don’t think they saw that coming.’ She smiled bleakly, as if recognising the humour but not fully appreciating it. ‘Which just leaves me. I fitted a lock to my bedroom door – Bryan claimed that if we had locks on our rooms they were classed as separate residences and we’d all need our own TV licence, but I don’t care – but I still don’t really feel safe.’

  ‘OK. So let’s go back to Saturday. You weren’t there, but what else can you tell me about what happened that day and where Philip in particular went.’

  She shrugged helplessly.

  ‘I’ve no idea. When I said I wasn’t coming, he got the hump and didn’t really speak to me. All I know is he was planning to meet at the Middlesbury Park and Ride and walk into the town centre. He spent a lot of time on his mobile using Snapchat to arrange the meetings. I didn’t get back until Sunday night and he was already in his room. That’s when I noticed the weird smell. I saw him the next morning when I was getting ready to go to work, but he didn’t seem to want to talk. He didn’t even try to see down my dressing gown, which was a pleasant change.’

  ‘All right, what about in the weeks before the march? Did you notice anything strange? Were there any unusual visitors?’

  ‘The whole place was strange and people were always coming and going. That’s another reason I got a lock for my door. Some of them I recognised. I’m pretty sure I know the guy who he and Bryan get their weed from. Some of the other visitors I recognised from SAF meetings or other marches.’

  Warren pulled out a headshot of Binay Singh Mahal.

  ‘Do you recognise this person?’

  She looked hard at the picture before shrugging. ‘I really don’t know. He might have been around the house or hanging around SAF socials, but I’m really not sure.’

  ‘OK. Well thank you for your assistance. We’ll be sure to call you if we need any more help.’

  She blinked. ‘Is that it? Can I go?’

  ‘Yes. But do yourself a favour, Laura. Find yourself some new digs and some new friends.’

  Chapter 31

  ‘Sir, we have identified the car that picked up Philip Rhodri Saturday morning.’

  ‘Well done, Mags, that was quick.’

  ‘Well, don’t get too excited, sir, it might not be any use to you. The road that he was walking along has no direct CCTV surveillance. However, it’s a straight road, with only one additional junction. ANPR cameras on traffic lights either end of the blind spot and on the entry junction photographed thirty-six vehicles in the twenty-seven minutes that Rhodri and the rest of the protestors were in the blind spot.

  ‘Based on what Kernaghan told us, it was a white car, which narrowed it down to three possible vehicles.’

  ‘OK, that certainly sounds promising, what’s the problem?’

  ‘Well, two of the cars are registered to rather unlikely types; the first is a Motability vehicle with adapted controls for its elderly owner.’

  ‘It could have been borrowed by someone else.’

  ‘I agree and we’ll conduct interviews to rule that out.’

  ‘What about the other cars?’

  ‘The next one has been tracked continuing through Middlesbury, in the opposite direction to the town centre, onto the M11 motorway and eventually over to Bristol. Registration documents show it to be owned by a young couple. We picked up some still images in a motorway service station on the M4 and you can clearly see two small children in car seats.’

  ‘Sounds doubtful. What ab
out the final car?’

  Richardson sounded reluctant. ‘I’d bet a week’s pay on this being the one, for what it’s worth. The licence plate doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Fake?’

  ‘Looks like it, the index was never issued. I’ve put a search out to see if it has been picked up on any other ANPR cameras, but nothing yet.’

  ‘Bugger.’ Warren thanked her.

  This was the time that Warren hated most in any investigation. More than four days had passed since Meegan’s murder and the arson at the Islamic Centre and after a quick start, it had now turned into a waiting game. Waiting for forensic analysis of seized items; waiting for the analysts in Welwyn to finish trawling through hundreds of hours of video footage and thousands of social media posts; waiting for his colleagues to uncover that small link that would open up the case. It would happen, the two crimes would be solved, of that Warren was certain. But how long would it take? It could be months or even years.

  It was time that he didn’t have. Grayson had confirmed that the crematorium had been booked for 1 August and members of the far-right, at home and abroad, were planning on taking full advantage. In life Tommy Meegan had been little more than a mouthy irritant. In death he was being seen as a martyr to the cause. At the moment all the chatter was roughly evenly split between those that blamed Muslims for his death and those that were pointing the finger at anti-fascists. Nobody was looking forward to the reaction when the nature of the murder weapon was made public.

  Warren looked at his watch. It was 6 p.m. To hell with it, he had a mobile phone, he could even access his email if necessary. It was halfway through the first week of the school holidays and he had barely seen his schoolteacher wife, since he’d been going to bed after her and rising before her. They weren’t planning on going away until the end of August, but he’d hoped they might enjoy at least a few summer evenings in the garden that they had been working so hard on over the past year.

  Grabbing his jacket, Warren headed out to his car. Fifteen minutes later he emerged from Tesco with a shopping bag bulging with a curry meal, a bottle of Susan’s favourite wine and a bunch of brightly coloured flowers. He’d learnt from bitter experience that going to a restaurant or the theatre at this stage of a case was tempting fate, but hopefully tonight’s surprise would be uninterrupted.