The Common Enemy

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘What about on the forecourt?’

  ‘No CCTV since he didn’t drive to the pumps to fill up, but the ANPR cameras snap anyone driving in. It won’t have an image of the driver, but you’ll get the licence plate. You’ll need to contact head office for that.’

  ‘That’s great, thank you for your assistance.’ Hardwick added it to her list. She’d be spending quite a bit of time on the phone to ESSO’s head office.

  ‘You said that you remembered the transaction. I don’t suppose you could tell me anything about the person who bought the fuel?’

  ‘Sorry, love,’ said Maureen. ‘It was weeks ago and I see a lot of different customers.’

  ‘I remember him.’

  Hardwick turned towards the teenage assistant and tried to look encouraging. The boy flushed pink, making his acne stand out even more.

  ‘He had really sick tattoos. All the way up his arms.’

  Hardwick’s breath caught slightly.

  ‘What else do you remember?’

  The lad stammered slightly. ‘Mostly the tattoos, but I remember he had a shaved head. Oh, and he was wearing an England shirt.’

  Chapter 37

  ‘Nice work, Karen.’

  Tony Sutton was starting to feel as if the case was finally going somewhere. The recollections of the petrol station attendant and the retired postie, Stanley Buchanan, were pointing the finger at a shaven-headed man with tattoos and an England shirt. It was almost like a uniform for the far-right.

  ‘We’ll see if forensics can retrieve anything from the garage’s CCTV. In the meantime, let’s see what the ANPR camera has.’

  ‘If this is the right person, it suggests that this was planned for some time. The petrol was bought five weeks ago,’ said Hardwick. ‘It could also mean the arsonist is local. Why else would they buy the petrol in Middlesbury so far in advance?’

  ‘True, although he could have been visiting on a reconnaissance mission, so let’s not limit ourselves to suspects with a local connection’

  Hardwick conceded the point.

  ‘Let’s see if young Ethan can remember any more. We’ll show him our scrapbook of the far-right’s finest and see if any of these handsome gents jog his memory.’

  ‘OK, but can I nip downstairs and freshen up first? I stink of petrol.’

  * * *

  Ethan Westwood was both nervous and excited as he sat in the interview suite. Despite appearances, he was eighteen years old.

  ‘The tattoos were pretty cool. They stretched from his wrists to underneath his T-shirt.’

  ‘Can you recall the pattern?’

  ‘I only got a quick look, but there were some pretty awesome eagles and loads of gothic-looking script.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you can remember what the script said?’

  Westwood shook his head. ‘Sorry. I remember it looked like numbers or dates mostly.’

  ‘Were there any other patterns you can recall?’

  Westwood frowned in concentration.

  ‘There were some of those pretty cool-looking symbols you see on old war films. You know with the red background and the black cross with the right angles.’

  Sutton looked hard at the youth to see if he was pulling their leg. He stared back guilelessly.

  Hardwick took a pencil and sketched what he had described.

  ‘Yeah, that’s the one. What are they called?’

  Hardwick and Sutton exchanged a glance.

  ‘You didn’t pay much attention in history at school, did you, Ethan?’

  Hardwick and Sutton showed the petrol attendant a book of headshots of known far-right activists, but after half an hour he claimed not to recognise any of them. However, given that he apparently hadn’t known the significance of a swastika, neither detective was prepared to rule out any of the men completely.

  * * *

  ‘This skinhead is certainly looking promising,’ mused Sutton as he and Karen Hardwick drank coffee in his cubicle. Hardwick agreed, trying not to make too much of a mess with the Danish pastry he’d insisted on buying them in celebration.

  ‘We really need to identify him. It’s a shame that Mr Buchanan couldn’t tell us more about the car he was sitting in, he didn’t even seem too sure that the car was white.’

  ‘That’s the downside of witness statements. At least he was honest enough to admit it, rather than sending us on some well-intentioned wild goose chase,’ said Sutton.

  ‘Hopefully forensics will be able to pull at least a couple of images off the CCTV’s hard drive, and then Inspector Garfield can run them through his far-right database,’ said Hardwick hopefully.

  Sutton shrugged. ‘Let’s not rely on that, it might not work with the system that they have in the garage. Besides, we don’t know how much it’ll cost. The bean counters might not cough up, given that it’s not a murder inquiry.’

  Hardwick washed the remains of her pastry down with her coffee.

  ‘There is one thing that bothers me about Stanley Buchanan’s account.’ She flicked through the notes Sutton had made when he interviewed the retired postman. ‘It says that he saw the tattoos because the man’s left arm was hanging out of the car window.’

  ‘Which means the suspect was seated in the passenger seat,’ finished Sutton.

  ‘Exactly, so assuming Mr Buchanan was correct it raises the question, “who was the driver?”’

  ‘And where was he or she during this time?’

  ‘Well, let’s hope the ANPR camera comes up with a name for the registered keeper, then we can ask them directly who they both are.’

  Sutton smiled tightly and raised his cardboard cup in salute. ‘Here’s to hoping.’

  Chapter 38

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mr and Mrs Jones. May I call you Warren and Susan?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Susan. The man in front of them held their future in their hands; being on first-name terms seemed only right. He looked younger than either Warren or Susan, with a startlingly pale complexion that matched his slight Scandinavian accent.

  ‘My name is Peer Ingersson and I am a senior consultant.’

  Warren made a reappraisal of the man’s age. He was reminded of the old saying that you knew you were getting old when policemen started getting younger. Warren had been facing that reality for years. In fact, he’d had a sudden jolt when he’d realised that he was actually old enough to be the father of some of his probationary constables. Maybe he could change the saying to ‘you know you are getting old when you find that you’re older than your consultant’.

  ‘I believe that you saw my colleague, Michaela Reyes, last time and that she ordered some tests to see if the course of treatment she’d prescribed improved matters?’

  ‘Yes, I gave a sample last week,’ said Warren, his mouth dry.

  ‘Well I’m sorry, Warren. The lifestyle changes that she prescribed have had no significant effect.’

  Warren had suspected as much. Nevertheless, hearing it confirmed was a hammer blow.

  ‘What next?’

  Susan had taken over, her voice measured and calm. Warren felt an irrational flush of shame, he’d let her down. He’d let them both down.

  ‘Well, as you know, tests have shown that you are still fertile, Susan, but time is ticking. Statistically a woman of thirty has a roughly seventy-five per cent chance of becoming pregnant within twelve months of trying; by thirty-five the likelihood of a successful pregnancy will have dropped to two-thirds. You turn thirty-six in a few weeks and the odds are starting to stack against you.’

  ‘So IVF is the only option.’

  Dr Ingersson leant back and looked over his glasses at them. He pursed his lips.

  ‘It’s not the only option. For example, we could concentrate Warren’s sperm and try artificial insemination, but I have to warn you that when a man has a low sperm count, it can also be an indication of lower quality sperm. Increasing the density of the sperm may not significantly increase the likelihood of successful fertilisation.�
�

  Susan nodded; she was a biology teacher and Warren knew that she understood these things better than he did.

  ‘If we can remove some of your eggs and freeze them, Susan, then we have more options. If only to buy us some more time.’

  Warren could see that Susan was torn.

  ‘Let us think about it,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’ Dr Ingersson smiled tolerantly. ‘I have read your notes and I understand your concerns. If it is any help to you, I have leaflets that discuss the Catholic Church’s views on IVF.’

  Warren and Susan thanked the consultant for his time and agreed to a follow-up appointment in a few weeks.

  They walked back to their cars without speaking.

  Warren turned to Susan; he didn’t know what to say, but he couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he started.

  ‘Don’t,’ Susan snapped, before softening. ‘I’ve told you to stop apologising. It’s a medical condition. You know that. You wouldn’t be apologising if you had cancer or heart disease.’

  ‘I know, but they wouldn’t affect you like this does.’

  ‘Warren, listen to yourself, of course I’d be affected! I’m your wife.’

  She waved her hand in a vague gesture towards the clinic.

  ‘This is nothing. So what if we can’t have a baby? It’s not the end of the world.’ Her defiant words were betrayed by the catch in her voice.

  Warren enclosed her in a massive hug. ‘Now who needs to listen to themselves?’

  His own voice caught in his throat. ‘You’ve wanted this for years. If only I hadn’t been so selfish. You heard what Dr Reyes said last visit. Men have a biological clock, just like women. I turned forty in January, but I’ve been so wrapped up in my career, I might have scuppered our chances of having a family.’

  Susan pushed herself back slightly and glared at Warren. ‘Don’t you dare take all of this on your own shoulders. We both delayed this for the sake of our careers. Hell, I’m a biologist, I knew that every year that passed after I turned thirty I was rolling the dice. It was just chance that your fertility was affected more than mine. I could have insisted that you took a fertility test before we delayed any further.’

  Warren hugged her again; unsure what to say, he just held her. After a few moments he heard her sniff, signalling the end of her tears.

  ‘Let’s go home and get some lunch,’ he suggested. He’d blocked out several hours in his work diary and he was determined to use them. They had a lot to talk about and sometime over the next few days they would need to make some difficult decisions.

  His phone was set to silent, so he just ignored the pulsing in his jacket pocket, willing it to stop.

  Susan stiffened. ‘Is that your phone? I thought you’d booked time off.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to answer it?’

  ‘No, my diary clearly says “unavailable” until late afternoon.’

  ‘So it must be important then. At least check and see who it is.’

  Warren conceded to her logic reluctantly, already compiling a mental list of who he’d answer to and who could damn well leave a message on his voicemail.

  Sutton.

  He might not know what Warren had booked time off for, but he wouldn’t be calling unless he thought it was important.

  Warren answered the call.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, boss.’

  ‘It’s OK, Tony, I’m sure it’s important.’

  ‘It is.’

  Chapter 39

  Warren was waylaid on his way back to the office by Janice, the support worker who acted as his unofficial PA.

  ‘Chief, you have a visitor in reception.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t expecting anyone. Who is it?’

  ‘Councillor Kaur, sir.’

  ‘Great. Come to apologise, has she?’

  ‘I didn’t get that impression, no.’

  ‘Well, we’re under strict instructions to refer all contact with the media and the public to the press office. Give them a heads up and tell them to treat her nicely; maybe she’ll support us for once.’

  ‘She asked for you by name, sir.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Warren had a nasty feeling that he was going to be the focus of the publicity-hungry councillor’s next TV appearance.

  * * *

  Councillor Kaur was a short, sturdy woman of about fifty. Dressed in a sharply tailored grey suit, with a dark blue neck scarf, her hair was neatly pinned in an elaborate bun, with surprisingly few hints of grey around the temples.

  Warren forced a smile as he crossed the reception area and held out his hand.

  In person, Lavindeep Kaur was not only shorter than she appeared on TV, but seemed, at first glance, a lot less sure of herself. Her grip was less firm than Warren expected and slightly moist. The reception area’s air conditioning only had two settings: ineffectual and arctic blast. Today it was set to the latter, with the support worker pulling desk duty wearing a woolly jumper. Kaur had been there for a few minutes by all accounts, why was she still perspiring?

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Councillor Kaur, I’m sorry you had to wait.’ Warren offered no explanation. Kaur was on his territory and Warren had no intention of playing politics with a self-important local official. Regardless of what assurances Warren gave the woman, he was in no doubt that the councillor’s tame reporters would spin the story to her benefit, whilst also getting a dig in at Hertfordshire Constabulary.

  ‘Not at all, DCI Jones, thank you for taking the time.’ The politician’s tone was smooth, practised; more like the woman off the television.

  ‘Please come with me, I’m afraid the air con is pretty fierce out here.’

  Before coming downstairs, Warren had run a comb through his hair and organised some biscuits and fresh milk for the smart meeting room. Situated at the far end of the building from CID and Warren’s office, the room was decorated with light, calming pastels and padded, comfy chairs. Away from the bustle of the rest of the station it was better suited to the more delicate and private aspects of policing – such as the breaking of sad news and dealing with tricky elected officials. Its complex hot drinks machine also served the best coffee in the building – John Grayson’s private stash notwithstanding.

  Lavindeep Kaur was a tea drinker, black, one sugar, and so the machine obligingly spat out a cup full of boiling water. For his part Warren selected the strongest roast available. After what seemed like an age of huffing, puffing and grinding it belched out a thick black liquid. Carrying it back to where Kaur was seated, Warren reminded himself again to figure out where the hell the foil sachet disappeared to after use; the machine didn’t seem large enough to store more than a couple of them, yet he’d seen it serve meetings of over a dozen people.

  ‘Please help yourself to a biscuit.’ Warren would have preferred a custard cream or a garibaldi over the usual packets of shortbread and ginger stem biscuits, but it was called the ‘smart meeting room’ for a reason. Kaur shook her head in polite refusal.

  ‘I assume that you are here for an update on the investigation into the Islamic Centre fire?’ Warren doubted she gave two hoots about the progress of the investigation into the murder of Tommy Meegan.

  ‘Actually, I’m here about the arrest of Binay Singh Mahal.’

  Shit, Warren thought. Suddenly, he was no longer fobbing off a local politician. It looked as though Binay Singh Mahal had been as good as his word and was going to complain about his treatment.

  Ordinarily the matter would be dealt with quickly and efficiently. The warrant had been legally executed, with minimal force and Singh had been treated appropriately in custody. However, the involvement of Councillor Kaur – and no doubt the local press – would necessitate a more transparent approach than usual. Warren would probably be interviewed and waste hours filling in paperwork, whilst the media would doubtless enjoy the opportunity to recycle old news stories.

  ‘The a
rrest of Mr Singh was part of an ongoing investigation and I’m afraid I can’t comment on the matter.’ It was worth a try, Warren decided.

  ‘I understand that Binay’s arrest was because you suspected him of involvement in the murder of Tommy Meegan?’

  ‘Again, it would be inappropriate for me to comment on an ongoing investigation.’

  Kaur continued as if Warren had said nothing. ‘And that you suspect his involvement because of the presence of his Kirpan at the scene?’

  ‘Again…’

  Kaur cut him off with a wave of her hand. ‘Yes, I understand, Chief Inspector, however I have information that you may find interesting.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Warren took a swig of his coffee, using the opportunity to look over the woman seated across from him. Kaur licked her lips.

  ‘I believe that Binay was less than cooperative in the interview.’

  Warren said nothing.

  ‘That he refused to tell you where he was at the time of Mr Meegan’s… demise.’

  Again, Warren said nothing.

  ‘What if I told you he was with me?’

  ‘That’s an extraordinary claim, Councillor.’

  ‘Not really. We often spend time together.’

  ‘So you and Mr Singh Mahal are acquaintances. May I ask the nature of that relationship?’

  ‘Certainly. The Sikh community in Middlesbury, as I am sure you are aware, is very small, barely a hundred. I pretty much know everyone. I’ve known Binay since he was a child. For the last few years he has been helping with langar. We are often rostered together.’

  ‘Feeding those in need.’

  ‘Exactly, every Sikh’s duty. Middlesbury doesn’t have as large a homeless problem as some places, but we still have a few dozen regulars who come to us for a hot meal. As you know, race or creed is unimportant.’

  ‘So what were you and Mr Singh doing on Saturday?’

  ‘We were on food preparation duties. We have a rota system with two shifts. The first shift prepares the food. It’s not that difficult, two people can easily chop the vegetables and get the food cooking in a couple of hours, we’re pretty well practised. The second shift then takes over, there are three or four and they serve the food from early evening and wash up.’