by Paul Gitsham
‘I see. And were you and Mr Singh often partnered together?’
‘About once a month. Most of the shifts are done by the older, retired members of the community or those with more flexible schedules.’
‘What about Mr Singh?’
‘Binay works Monday to Friday, so he does a couple of weekend shifts a month. Our rotas would coincide periodically.’
‘What time were you and Mr Singh working together?’
‘Food preparation starts at 3 p.m. and takes about two hours.’
The last photograph of Tommy Meegan was taken after two-thirty. Even if he was killed only minutes after that, there was no way Singh could have made it from the alleyway to the Sikh Community Centre by 3 p.m. Not to mention the fact that he would have been covered in blood.
‘OK, Councillor, so why didn’t Mr Singh tell us this when he was interviewed?’
Kaur sighed and removed her rimless spectacles, rubbing them with the end of her scarf.
‘Binay hasn’t had the happiest relationship with the police over the years.’
‘Go on.’
‘You don’t need me to tell you that he was a troubled young man, with arrests and brushes with the law. In recent years, he’s put all of that behind him. He has a good job and has spent a lot of time helping the community. I’ve even persuaded him to look into college; he’s a very bright young man.
‘Nevertheless, he still doesn’t trust authority. He believes the police are against our community. Not without some justification’
It was the first dig she’d made since arriving and Warren decided to ignore it. But Kaur obviously had more to say on the subject.
‘Tell me, Chief Inspector, how many non-white police officers do you have in Middlesbury? How many in CID? Would you say the make-up of your department reflects the community you serve?’
It was a fair question. The demographics of the Hertfordshire population were significantly less diverse than that of the West Midlands where Warren had grown up and started his career. The lack of Sikhs was especially noticeable. When Warren was a small child in Coventry he remembered assuming that turbans were part of the uniform for bus drivers. By comparison, the sight of a bearded man with a turban was rare in Middlesbury. Yet even measured against that low bar, Middlesbury police would still struggle to claim it fully reflected their local community.
Warren said nothing, knowing that there was no satisfactory way to answer the question without landing himself in hot water. Kaur smiled slightly; she knew that she’d scored a point.
‘So for that reason, he refused to give an alibi that could have removed him from the investigation immediately?’
Kaur gestured the futility of any answer she could give.
‘It’s fair to say he has a bit of a blind spot when it comes to the police. That’s why he wouldn’t report being mugged earlier in the week.’
‘Which mugging was that?’
Kaur smiled thinly.
‘The one last Wednesday night that left him with two black eyes, a cut nose and bruised ribs. And that resulted in his Kirpan being taken.’
‘I see. And when did Mr Singh tell you about this alleged mugging?’
‘I asked him about his black eyes on Saturday.’
‘Did you not try to persuade him to report it to the police?’
‘Of course. But he refuses to have anything to do with you.’
‘On that note, I find it a little surprising that Mr Singh wasn’t present at the protests.’
‘As I said before, Binay is making an effort to get his life back on track. Just as well, really. I see that more counter-protestors were arrested than the far-right activists who were inciting hatred. And despite being unable to spare two officers to protect the centre last Saturday you are somehow able to find a half-dozen constables to keep an eye on visitors paying their respects and delivering flowers. Doesn’t cast a very good light on Hertfordshire Constabulary’s community policing initiatives, does it?’
Chapter 40
Karen Hardwick’s favourite day of the working week was Thursday, because unless they had to work overtime, she and Gary always finished shift together. She’d taken to referring to it as ‘date night’, although Gary still contended that was something that old, married couples with tribes of under-fives did. Despite that, he was as enthusiastic about planning their weekly fun as her. Tonight’s schedule of DVD and wine had just been shelved, however.
‘Shit.’ Hastings sat down at the table and put his head in his hands. ‘That’s just what we need.’ Wordlessly he passed over the letter from their landlord.
Hardwick did some quick mental arithmetic. ‘After tax, that’s more than double September’s pay rise. How can she justify that sort of increase?’
Hastings shrugged helplessly. ‘It’s true what she says, we haven’t had a rent increase in the two years we’ve lived here.’
‘Can we afford it? We’ve already changed our phone contracts and ditched the cable TV. And my car isn’t going to sail through next month’s MOT.’
‘We’ll just have to cut back on how much we’re saving towards a deposit and see what overtime the boss decides to throw at the Meegan killing and the arson.’
Hastings slumped back in his chair.
‘You know, I thought we were going to finally start growing that pot.’ He squeezed Hardwick’s hand. ‘I know you shouldn’t count your chickens and all that, but I did some sums and I worked out that if I pass sergeants’ selection and bank the pay rise, we might be able to save enough for a deposit in five or six years rather than ten. Now I’ll need the promotion just to stand still.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘No pressure.’
* * *
On the other side of town Susan Jones ended her phone call, her self-control abruptly collapsing as she burst into tears. Warren slid across the settee and took her in his arms. He didn’t know what to say. The relationship between a mother and a daughter was complicated at the best of times, but when your mother was Bernice…
After a few seconds, the tears subsided.
‘I’m sorry, I’m being silly.’
‘No you aren’t. Bernice is the one being silly. It’s the twenty-first century for crying out loud.’
‘I’ve already told her that and you know what she said.’
Bernice had made her views quite clear and they matched those of the Catholic Church; IVF and other assisted reproduction techniques were a sin. End of discussion. And it didn’t matter what century they were in, God’s word was eternal.
‘Find me the passage in the Bible where it says “thou shalt not mix sperm and eggs in a petri-dish”.’
Despite herself, Susan smiled slightly.
‘And Lo it was said, “the use of a turkey baster shall only be at Christmas”.’
‘Eww, that’s gross.’
Warren squeezed her shoulder.
‘I wish I’d never said anything,’ Susan repeated for at least the tenth time.
‘Don’t be daft. She’s like a bloodhound, your mother. There’s no way you could have hid it from her. I’m trying to persuade Grayson to employ her as an interviewer.’
Susan smiled weakly at his continued attempts to cheer her up.
‘I could have chosen my moment a bit better though. In a restaurant, after most of a bottle of red wine, probably wasn’t the best time.’
‘I thought you were remarkably restrained. The ticking clock jibe was below the belt and bringing up your sister Felicity’s latest pregnancy was disgraceful. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen your old man contradict your mother in public.’
Susan frowned. ‘I can imagine the drive home was a bit frosty.’
‘Have you spoken to Dennis since?’
‘He texted me and said he’d talk to Mum when she’s calmed down.’ She gestured towards the phone. ‘Judging by what she just said, it doesn’t look as though he’s had much success yet.’
She sniffed loudly. ‘So that’s it. I’m not going to call
again until she apologises.’
Warren gave her another squeeze. God knew Bernice was hardly the easiest person to get on with and probably still felt Susan could have married better, but over the years Warren had also seen the warm, caring side of her. He’d never forget the kindness she’d shown his Granddad Jack, especially since the death of Nana Betty. He hoped Susan and Bernice would work this out before it was too late. If there was one thing Warren had learnt, when your parents were gone, it was the things you wished you had said rather than the things you wish you hadn’t that haunted your dreams.
Chapter 41
One a.m. and Warren stared at the ceiling. Over the hours he’d been lying awake, his eyes had adjusted slowly to the darkness; what had started off as impenetrable, uniform blackness had steadily gained texture. The coal black was now interspersed with the occasional dash of the deepest charcoal.
Insomnia at this point in a case wasn’t unusual for Warren, and this time around the stakes were as high as they’d ever been. The town he loved could well be ripped apart by the twin blows of the Islamic Centre fire and the murder of Tommy Meegan. Even if they were somehow able to prevent Meegan’s funeral from turning into a massive rally for the far-right, rumours were already circulating that this week’s Friday prayer session – wherever it may be held – was likely to attract Muslims from all across the region. Warren doubted that even the charismatic young imam that Sutton had spoken to would be able to fully keep the lid on the boiling emotions.
In either event, it would be his colleagues in the middle of things. Trying to keep things calm, whilst allowing all of those present to vent their feelings and exercise their democratic right to free speech. All in front of the critical gaze of the nation’s – if not the world’s – media.
None of this had anything to do with Middlesbury CID or Warren – and everything to do with him. Never in his career had Warren wanted more to hand over a case, but even if that was possible, he knew that he couldn’t.
Everybody from the Home Secretary downwards wanted the murder of Tommy Meegan solved. To the politicians, and the senior officers in his own force, the man’s death was an embarrassment and a brewing headache. Already they were planning damage limitation should the killer turn out to be one of the town’s minority ethnic residents.
But to Warren, he was first and foremost a victim. The man had been deeply unpleasant, and few outside his immediate circle would miss him, but that wasn’t the point. He had been murdered – brutally and in cold blood. Even a man like Tommy Meegan had people who loved him, and Warren had seen the pain in their eyes. It was his duty to bring the man’s killer to justice.
Similarly, they also needed to find the arsonist. In some ways, it would be easy if the fire could be pinned on the far-right, but it was still going to raise a lot of awkward questions. The force would need to work with the local communities to rebuild the confidence lost when somebody decided to remove protection from a vulnerable target to stop a group of racist thugs getting lynched. Warren understood the pressures faced by the Gold Commander that day and knew that she had faced an impossible decision – but he could see how it must look to outside observers.
And what about Binay Singh Mahal? The man was still on bail and despite the intervention of Councillor Kaur, Warren’s instincts were telling him that he was still a person of interest. As Sutton had predicted, no witnesses to the man’s supposed mugging had come forward, and Warren didn’t believe in coincidences.
Hopefully forensic IT would have better luck with Binay Singh Mahal and Tommy Meegan’s laptops and mobile phones than they’d managed with Philip Rhodri’s. If they didn’t then Warren knew that the pressure would be on him to cancel Singh Mahal’s bail restrictions; he was in no doubt that if he didn’t, Councillor Kaur would fully capitalise on the situation.
In times like this, Warren would usually take solace in the sleeping form of his wife beside him. Listening to her soft breathing, he could usually convince himself that no matter what challenges the day ahead might bring, for the next few hours at least, the woman sharing the bed beside him made everything right with the world.
But tonight even that was denied him. Susan had been tearful as she’d come to bed, the fraught phone call with her mother still hanging over her. When had having a baby become such a big thing? At first it had been fun: their little secret. They’d known it probably wouldn’t be immediate and the two had resolved to enjoy the journey as much as the destination. After all, if the horror stories some of their friends had told them were true, once the baby arrived spontaneous lovemaking sessions whenever the mood took them were probably out of the question for eighteen years until their offspring left for university.
‘I just hope they don’t decide to take a gap year,’ Warren had mused as they lay in bed one night. ‘I’m not sure I can wait nineteen years.’
‘Maybe they’ll go travelling.’
‘We should start saving money to buy them plane tickets for their eighteenth birthday.’
They’d both laughed at that. After all they’d only been trying for a few weeks. Or was it months? Time had slipped by and slowly the process became more urgent. Susan started keeping a diary, taking her temperature and using ovulation testing kits from the chemist, applying science to the problem.
When had lovemaking become a chore? Warren asked himself. When had it changed from a joyful, fun experience into a duty that needed to be performed whether they were fully in the mood or not?
It had taken eighteen months before the couple finally admitted they might need help. Although the guidelines suggested that they should wait a further eighteen months, their GP had been sympathetic and referred them on the NHS to a local fertility clinic for investigation.
Warren and Susan had been relieved when the results showed that she still had a healthy store of eggs and no reason why she should be infertile. However, the news for Warren had been less encouraging. As before, Susan understood the science better than Warren but, in a nutshell, he had crap sperm.
‘I feel like half a man,’ he’d confided in Susan one night, ignoring her protestations. ‘Every day I see evidence that becoming a father is easy. You only have to meet some of the feckless idiots that populate our custody suites to realise that it shouldn’t be a challenge. Some of these guys couldn’t even tell you the birthdays of half their kids.’
Tests ruled out anything obvious and the advice had been to eat a healthier diet, reduce stress levels and cut back on alcohol. Reducing his stress levels at work was all but impossible and Warren flatly refused to take up yoga, but he’d tried his best to change his work-life balance and the couple had resolved to spend their free time more carefully. A brief dalliance with decaffeinated coffee had caused an increase in stress, or so he’d claimed, and the experiment had soon been abandoned. Warren wasn’t a big drinker, didn’t smoke and didn’t indulge in long, hot baths, so that left only diet.
Five pieces of fruit a day and trying to eat more vegetables were achievable; however, despite Susan’s entreaties, salad was out of the question and oily fish made him gag. Nevertheless, he’d been deeply disappointed when his latest test results had shown no improvement in sperm quality.
Disappointed and ashamed.
Friday 25th July
Chapter 42
Warren had asked Tony Sutton to lead the morning briefing.
‘This is our prime suspect in the Islamic Centre fire. Assuming it is the same person, he bought petrol from an ESSO filling station a little over a month ago, the same brand used to start the fire. He was then seen in a car near to the centre in the hours preceding the fire.
‘Unfortunately, the eyesight of one witness isn’t the best and the petrol station attendant isn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but this is what we have so far.
‘Both describe full-length tattoos on at least one, probably both arms. Details are limited, but it would seem that they are neo-Nazi in nature, with swastikas and gothic script, possibly includi
ng key dates significant to the movement. Aside from that he was white with a shaved head and the obligatory England shirt. Unfortunately, we have no more physical descriptors other than a rather vague impression that he was of average height and unremarkable build. It is possible, but not confirmed, that he may have had an unknown companion as he waited outside the centre.’
‘Does the description match anyone on the bus and were they all accounted for at the time of the fire?’ questioned a detective sergeant from Welwyn.
‘No and yes. We can vouch for them all. Whoever this person is, he didn’t come up from Romford with any of the BAP protestors. The Hate Crime Intelligence Unit are going through their files to see if the description matches any other known players, either affiliated to the BAP or another far-right organisation.
‘Our witness at the filling station didn’t get much of a look at the car. Unfortunately, there’s no CCTV of either the car or the suspect, but ESSO are currently trawling their ANPR records for us and should be able to supply us with an index shortly. We’ll cross-reference it with the wider ANPR network and see if we can reconstruct its journey. We might even get lucky and find some images of the driver.’
‘Thank you, Karen and Tony, good work. Check the job board folks, we’ve got a busy day.’ Warren dismissed the team. Day six was just starting.
* * *
‘What do you mean the plates don’t exist?’
‘They’ve never been registered. Sorry.’
Sutton resisted the urge to slam the handset down. It wasn’t the technician’s fault. He leant back in his seat and rubbed his eyes. The closing of that potential lead had taken the shine off an otherwise productive twenty-four hours.
Karen Hardwick looked over. ‘The car at the petrol station had fake licence plates?’
‘Apparently.’ He paused. ‘What do you think the odds are that two cars, both of them with fake licence plates, are unlinked?’