The Common Enemy

by Paul Gitsham

  Placing the bag on the passenger seat, he inserted the key into the ignition. A simultaneous double beep and vibration heralded the arrival of a text message. Warren swore mightily. Could he not get a moment of peace with his wife? Was that too much to ask?

  He turned the key and put the car into gear vowing to ignore it. His promise lasted as far as the supermarket’s recycling station before, cursing his weakness, he pulled over by the bottle bank and took out his phone.

  The use-by date on the curry was three days away and the wine would taste better after twenty-four hours chilling in the fridge. The flowers would be a nice surprise for Susan on the kitchen table when she got up for breakfast the next morning. Warren just hoped that he was back in time to kiss his wife before she went to sleep.

  He opened the text message.

  ‘Gone to the cinema with the girls. Don’t work too hard and get an early night, big day tomorrow. Susan xx’

  Thursday 24th July

  Chapter 32

  Warren was in even earlier than normal the following morning; the expiration of the first twenty-four hours of Philip Rhodri’s detention was looming and he had a lot to do that day. A good night’s sleep would have been nice, but he’d lain awake for hours until Susan had come home, full of cocktails and giggles. Warren hadn’t mentioned his thwarted plans – it was hardly her fault – and the next twenty-four hours promised to be stressful enough for the both of them without more recriminations.

  Two Singapore Slings and a Cosmopolitan had worked their magic and within ten minutes Susan had been sound asleep, leaving Warren alone with his thoughts. Either they charged Rhodri, released him, or applied for an extension. DSI Grayson was able to authorise another twelve hours, but he had to have valid grounds. At the moment Rhodri was locked in a ‘no comment’ cycle.

  Warren’s insomnia hadn’t been helped by another vitriolic interview given to BBC Look East by Councillor Kaur, which had condemned the police for both the mishandling of the riot and their subsequent investigation into the Islamic Centre arson. To listen to her speak it was easy to forget that the investigation was only four days old. In addition, she managed to imply that the failures of the police the previous Saturday had emboldened the far-right so much that it was their fault that Jewish headstones in the local cemetery had been defaced by swastikas and other anti-Semitic graffiti the night before.

  Fortunately, the technician who answered the phone to Warren was an early riser also.

  ‘I’m afraid that Mr Rhodri is rather more computer savvy than most.’ The Forensic IT analyst was apologetic.

  ‘We managed to bypass his log-on and access his laptop’s hard drive, but it’s encrypted. Nothing too fancy, but unless he actually gives us his password, which acts as the encryption key, we can’t get in.’

  ‘There’s no way you can decrypt it?’ Warren tried not to sound too desperate.

  ‘Not unless you have a friend at GCHQ. The software is cheap and widely available, but it’s effective.’

  ‘What about his phone?’

  ‘We’ve managed to unlock it, but that’s all. He uses a secure email client and has a secure instant messaging app installed.’

  ‘What exactly does that mean?’

  ‘It means messages are deleted from the sender’s and receiver’s phones and the communication company’s servers immediately after being read.’

  ‘OK. But I thought they say that when it comes to computers, nothing is ever truly deleted. Can you retrieve it?’

  Was it Warren’s imagination or did the young-sounding technician speak a little slower, as if explaining something to an elderly grandparent?

  ‘No. The app uses end-to-end encryption. That means it’s encrypted on the sender’s handset and only decrypted by the receiver. And before you ask, even if the company who designed and run the app keep a copy of the file, they don’t possess the necessary encryption keys to read it.’

  ‘OK, well can we at least figure out who he was talking to?’

  ‘Nope. Again, that’s encrypted. You’ll need his password to gain access.’

  Warren thanked her and hung up, dejected. The chances of getting Rhodri to voluntarily give up his passwords seemed remote. He could apply for a warrant to compel him, but even if it was granted, his lawyer would no doubt contest it. Regardless, he was unlikely to get the information he wanted before it was too late.

  Chapter 33

  ‘What do we do with Philip Rhodri?’

  Gary Hastings, Theo Garfield and Warren were sitting in John Grayson’s office.

  ‘You seem pretty confident that Rhodri is involved in Meegan’s murder.’ Grayson was leaning back in his chair, fiddling with a golf ball. Whether this was the man’s equivalent of doodling or a subconscious telegraphing of his desire to be elsewhere, Warren was never entirely sure.

  ‘We’re waiting on forensics to see if they can find any traces of blood on his clothes or in his car. However, even if he wasn’t present at the killing itself, he’s involved somehow.’

  Grayson waited, saying nothing.

  ‘We know that he and Meegan exchanged heated and threatening exchanges online. We also know that he was instrumental in organising the protest march. Usually he is in it up to his neck—’ Warren glanced towards Garfield, who confirmed it with a nod ‘—but this time he seems to have sat it out, disappearing before the protest kicked off, picked up by a stranger in a car with fake licence plates.’

  Even to Warren’s ears, it sounded weak.

  Grayson sighed and placed the golf ball back on its wooden plinth.

  ‘For what it’s worth, Warren, I trust your gut on this, but you know that’s not enough. You have until two o’clock to find me grounds to extend your questioning by another twelve hours or you’ll have to release him on bail.’

  The three officers trudged out of Grayson’s office. Warren was philosophical. ‘He’s right. We have nothing on him at the moment beyond hearsay, some internet abuse and no alibi. Unless we can place him near that alleyway or forensics find a speck of blood, it’s all circumstantial. We don’t even have any real evidence that he was picked up by the car with fake plates.’

  ‘Are you going to put that to him?’ asked Garfield.

  Warren pulled at his bottom lip as he leant against the wall.

  ‘No. Not for the time being. That lawyer of his is sharp enough to call our bluff on the lack of real evidence and I can’t see him breaking his silence. Besides, the last thing we want is for him to tip off his accomplice and get them to ditch the car.’

  * * *

  Eleven a.m. The morning briefing had revealed no new evidence linking Rhodri to Tommy Meegan’s murder. No witnesses claimed to have seen him, and his face had yet to appear on any of the hours of video footage examined so far. The only remaining hope was forensics; traces of blood – it didn’t need to be identified as Tommy Meegan’s at this stage – would be sufficient for Warren to get another twelve hours to question the man.

  The phone on Warren’s desk warbled and he felt his pulse increase. He recognised the extension number.

  Ten minutes later, Warren picked up the phone and called down to the desk sergeant in the custody suite.

  ‘Prepare to cut Rhodri loose. I’ll be down in five to prepare his bail.’

  Chapter 34

  The alarm on Warren’s phone was set to vibrate and the sudden rattle against the wooden surface of his desk made everyone jump in surprise.

  ‘Sorry, I have another meeting,’ he said. It wasn’t technically a lie, although it had nothing to do with work. He felt a sudden urge to pick up the phone and text his apologies; to claim that he was too busy. He was in the middle of a murder investigation and overseeing an arson attack that could become a murder any moment. That would qualify as busy in anyone’s book.

  He shook himself mentally. Man up, he ordered himself.

  ‘OK. Any idea when you’ll return?’

  Warren and Sutton worked very closely together and Warren
usually shared all his plans and movements with him. But not this. This was private.

  ‘No idea. I’ve put it in the diary. I’ll let you know when I’m back.’

  With that, he plucked his jacket off his chair back and headed out.

  The traffic was quiet this time of day and he made much better time than he’d expected, arriving a few minutes early. Sitting back in his seat he pinched his eyes shut with his thumb and forefinger. There were so many questions that he needed to answer; so many loose ends that needed to be tied up. Normally he’d relish a few quiet minutes on his own to just think things through. Sometimes you just needed to let your subconscious off the leash, to see where it led you. But in an investigation as fast-paced as this, such contemplation time was a luxury he could rarely afford. Small wonder that his brain, starved of such a valuable activity, kept him awake at night.

  But today was different. He just couldn’t concentrate. Today, thinking about the case had been a distraction; an activity that kept him focused, stopping him from dwelling too much on anything else.

  That had been easy in the pressure cooker of the CID office. The ringing phones, the pings of arriving emails, the taps on his office door. All of them had conspired to keep him on track. Even yet another nagging call from finance had been a welcome diversion. He’d never thought of his job as a displacement activity before, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

  The crunch of gravel and grumble of Susan’s diesel engine disturbed his reverie. He opened his eyes at the creak of her handbrake and took a steadying breath, before opening his own door, a high-pitched beeping reminding him to remove his keys from the ignition.

  Slamming the door behind him, he circled the rear of his wife’s car to greet her with a kiss as she stepped out. Although it was a Thursday, it was the school holidays so Susan wore a light summer dress with the sort of heels that would have crippled her if she’d tried to wear them all day in the classroom. She’d still been asleep when he’d left and she looked a lot more rested than he felt.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t give you a lift,’ Warren apologised again.

  Susan squeezed his hand. ‘Don’t be silly. You’re far too busy to trek halfway across town to pick me up, then drive all the way over here.’

  Warren didn’t mention that he’d briefly thought about using his workload as an excuse to cancel altogether. For her part, Susan didn’t suggest that she should have perhaps driven to pick Warren up. They both knew that would have risked more questions for Warren. Questions that Warren at least, wasn’t ready to answer yet.

  ‘Ready?’

  Warren forced a smile.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Susan stared at him, searching his face to work out his true feelings. Not for the first time, Warren thought that she’d missed her calling. He pitied the poor teenagers who tried to lie about their homework to her. They didn’t stand a chance.

  ‘It’ll be OK.’ She squeezed his hand again. ‘Whatever they say in there, we’ll be fine. We’ll deal with it.’

  Warren leant forward, his lips brushing her forehead.

  ‘I don’t deserve you,’ he whispered.

  ‘I know you don’t.’

  Despite himself, Warren smiled.

  With one last squeeze for good luck, Warren turned. Time to man up, he repeated to himself. Leading the way, they crossed the car park and entered the clinic.

  Chapter 35

  ‘We’ve identified the brand of petrol that was used in the fire at the Islamic Centre; ESSO, regular grade.’

  ‘How certain are we?’

  ‘Very, the volatile part of the petrol has burnt off obviously, but there were enough of the additives and detergents remaining to identify it with some certainty.’

  Tony Sutton thanked the forensic chemist and hung up. There were ESSO forecourts across the UK, but assuming the petrol hadn’t been siphoned out of a car’s petrol tank, how often did customers fill a canister these days? He looked across the office at the back of Mags Richardson’s head. The team at Welwyn were already poring over thousands of hours of CCTV for the Meegan murder. How much more time would it take to analyse the footage from all the ESSO garages that had sold petrol in a container over the past few weeks? He had a suspicion Mags would let him know in no uncertain terms.

  * * *

  The waiting room was like any other that Warren had sat in; pale blue walls, with matching comfy chairs and cheap plywood tables piled with ancient magazines. In the corner, somebody had attempted to brighten the room with a vase of vivid flowers that looked a lot like the bunch he’d picked up on a whim from the supermarket the previous week. Behind the door opposite sat the consultant whose pronouncement would determine the course of their lives for the next few years, if not forever.

  Susan squeezed his hand again. Despite her bravado outside, Warren knew she was as worried as him, but that was what marriage was all about. You took the rough with the smooth and worked as a team.

  The move to Middlesbury three years previously had been far from easy, the pace in that first year had been relentless for both of them. No sooner had Warren got his feet under his new desk than he’d found himself embroiled in his first murder investigation, whilst at the same time dealing with the mess left by his predecessor. His situation was mirrored by Susan who had unexpectedly found herself in charge of a failing department in a struggling school. Within months of the conclusion of his first case, Warren had to take charge of the hunt for a serial murderer and rapist, whilst at the same time dealing with the sudden loss of his beloved grandmother. When he thought back on what they’d dealt with over the past few years he knew that neither of them could have survived without the other.

  Nevertheless, he felt shame. It was largely his fault that Susan had had to deal with the biggest challenge of her life. It was his past that had come back to haunt them two years ago; his past was the reason Susan still flinched when a stranger came to the door or when a maddeningly elusive electrical fault set the burglar alarm off without warning. It was his past that meant that her parents – who had once been so overbearing – hadn’t invited themselves down to stay since it happened.

  He vowed to man up more – his phrase of the day – and start supporting his wife like a husband should. He squeezed her knee.

  The door opened and Warren flinched.

  The consultant exited and Warren tensed his legs, ready for their names to be called. Ignoring them, the doctor picked up another overflowing folder from the pile on the reception desk. The dark green cover had been filled in with biro and Warren had no hope of reading it from across the room.

  The doctor exchanged a few quiet words with the middle-aged woman at the desk, who laughed, before he returned to his office. The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

  Warren let out a breath. Beside him, he felt Susan relax.

  ‘We’re still a little early.’

  The receptionist’s phone warbled. The ringtone was different to the previous calls. Did that mean it was internal, rather than external? There was no way Warren could overhear what the caller was saying. The receptionist glanced across the room.

  ‘Yes, they’re here.’

  Warren was on his feet before she’d hung up.

  Chapter 36

  ‘We’ve narrowed it down to sixteen possible.’ Karen Hardwick hadn’t realised there were so many ESSO petrol stations in the local area. Neither had Tony Sutton, or he wouldn’t have asked Mags Richardson to pull in all the CCTV – a request that had been politely, but firmly, refused.

  ‘These stations have all sold petrol in a can in the past two months. Some have footage of the cars and driver on the forecourt. Others, their licence number from the ANPR cameras. Some have CCTV of the shop at approximately the time that the petrol was bought.’

  ‘What about payment?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘Most used cards – we’re pulling them now to see if any interesting names pop up, but a few paid cash.’

  ‘Start with them. If I
was going to buy petrol to use in an arson attack, I doubt I’d be daft enough to pay for it with my credit card.’

  * * *

  Hardwick had a printout of petrol stations to visit. By the time she had reached number six she was sick of the sight of petrol forecourts. The fumes were giving her a headache and making her feel nauseous again and she’d bought some painkillers and antacids at the last stop.

  The ESSO station on the Cambridge road had four pumps and a tiny kiosk selling junk food and tobacco. The teenager behind the till steadfastly avoided eye contact with Hardwick until his manager arrived. He’d hastily slid a pack of rolling tobacco behind a stack of newspapers when she’d flashed her warrant card. She doubted he’d be going outside for his break until he was certain she was no longer downwind of him.

  ‘Hello, DC Hardwick, I’m Maureen, we spoke on the phone.’

  Hardwick shook her hand.

  ‘We don’t get that many requests for petrol in containers here and I remember this one because Ethan—’ she nodded towards the nervous youth ‘—hadn’t served it before and called me over for assistance.’

  ‘What can you tell me about the sale?’

  ‘It was for cash, so we don’t have a credit card receipt. He bought an approved green canister and then went back out and filled it with five litres of unleaded.’

  The story wasn’t much different to one she’d heard several times already today.

  ‘Do you have any video in here?’

  ‘Unfortunately no, it was over a month ago and the shop cameras are erased and recorded over.’ Hardwick made a note. She’d heard of a case recently where supposedly erased video footage had been retrieved by forensics.