The Common Enemy

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘Intriguing.’

  ‘IT are unable to access any private messages, since they need a password, but now we know his online identities it’s easy to track what he posted on different forums and discussion groups.

  ‘To put it mildly, he has rather extreme political views, which he is happy to share on his public profile. He is a strong supporter of Sikh separatism, following some of the more militant Punjabi forums and Sikh rights in particular. But it’s his other profiles that are more illuminating.

  ‘On the one hand, he is engaged in some quite vicious flame wars with far-right groups, including the BAP. He’s been an outspoken critic since they first appeared. He also follows and joins in discussions with a number of anti-fascist and anti-racism groups. He was very vocal about the BAP’s visit to Middlesbury, joining in calls for counter-protests almost as soon as they announced the date of the march.’

  Warren wasn’t particularly surprised.

  ‘Any link to Mr Rhodri?’

  ‘It looks as though they posted in the same forums and followed the same Twitter feeds. Unfortunately, if there were any more direct communications they took place either privately through Facebook Messenger or via other secure applications.’

  ‘Which can’t be tracked.’

  ‘Precisely, although we’ve put a request in for access to their Messenger accounts and Twitter direct messages. Alas, neither have used anything as quaint and old-fashioned as text messaging.’

  ‘Anything of note in his call logs or GPS?’

  ‘I’ll send you his call history, but nothing jumps out. Interestingly, on the day of the riot, his smartphone never left his flat.’

  ‘Well, that’s suspicious in itself. He is supposed to have been serving langar that day, so we know he went out. What twenty-something leaves the house without his mobile phone these days?’

  ‘Somebody who watches CSI and needs an alibi?’ suggested Garfield.

  ‘What about his other user accounts?’

  ‘Well, that’s where it starts to get even more interesting.’

  Chapter 51

  Karen Hardwick swallowed another antacid, although they didn’t seem to be making much difference. Hastings got up from where he was seated in front of the TV and rubbed her shoulders.

  ‘Tummy playing up again?’

  Hardwick nodded, then wished she hadn’t as a wave of nausea passed over her.

  ‘I just don’t understand it,’ mused Hastings for the umpteenth time. ‘I got sick first – it was definitely that omelette I had in Montmartre, I hadn’t eaten anything else all day. But within twenty-four hours it was finished.’ He looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, I must have passed it on to you.’

  Hardwick said nothing, it was hardly his fault, but the way she felt right now she didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Failing to pick up on her unspoken cues to drop the subject, Hastings was now warming to the topic. ‘I was looking online and recurrent poisoning is rare but not unheard of. It usually clears up in a few months. It’s a bit unusual the way it seemed to go away for a few weeks then come back though.’

  Hardwick groaned. Hastings was now in full flow. ‘They say that you need to avoid recontamination, so every time you have an episode you need to make sure that everything you come in contact with is disinfected or disposed of properly.’

  Please change the subject, Hardwick pleaded silently. She lurched to her feet, heading for the bathroom again.

  At least the diarrhoea had stopped, but the regular vomiting was making her life a misery. The French doctor had said her symptoms suggested a viral infection, rather than bacterial, making treatment more difficult. Quite how Gary had escaped the same fate was a medical mystery that she was unable to contemplate right now. She’d have to see what her GP had to say, if she could ever get an appointment. She’d try again first thing Monday. If that failed, she’d take herself to the walk-in centre. This couldn’t continue.

  Exiting the bathroom, she returned to the living-cum-dining area of their small apartment. Gary was back in front of his laptop, surrounded by textbooks.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine,’ she lied.

  The last thing Gary needed right now was to be worrying about her health. He had interviews for sergeants’ selection in the next few days. Rumour had it that after the recent cutbacks the ratio of shortlisted officers to vacancies for this round of selection was more than three to one.

  ‘I’m going to take a bath and have an early night.’

  ‘OK.’ He was already engrossed in his textbook again.

  Hopefully the soothing water would ease her constant feeling of sickness. Then she might just be asleep by the time Gary joined her. The last thing she wanted to do was share the duvet when she felt so ill, but the only alternative was the couch. She knew that if she asked, Gary would grab a pillow and blanket without complaint, but he needed a decent night’s sleep as much as she did.

  Maybe when Gary got his promotion they could afford a bigger flat. Buying in a town less than an hour on the fast train from London was all but impossible for two junior police officers, even if Gary got a pay rise. They could just about afford the mortgage repayments on a two-bedroom flat, but they’d never raise the deposit necessary to secure such favourable terms.

  Gary had spent hundreds of pounds on online courses and textbooks to prepare him for the written OSPRE legal exams that he had passed last year. Now he was trying to anticipate the sorts of questions he might be asked in interview. If – when – he was successful, he’d be temporarily promoted to sergeant for twelve months, before gaining a substantive, permanent promotion.

  Hardwick had flicked through the textbooks herself and had been surprised at how straightforward it seemed. Gary had several years more service than her, since she’d done a Master’s degree before joining the police, but that was no obstacle. She decided that as soon as Gary had gained his promotion, she’d also apply. Perhaps with two sergeants’ salaries coming in they could finally start saving for that deposit.

  Sunday 27th July

  Chapter 52

  ‘Financial crime have found something interesting in Philip Rhodri’s credit card history.’

  Mags Richardson stood in Warren’s doorway clutching her ever-present bottle of water in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.

  ‘Come in, let’s have a look.’

  Warren shoved a pile of paperwork to one side. He still wasn’t sure where Philip Rhodri fitted into the whole affair, and anything that might shed a light on the man’s involvement was welcome.

  ‘The warrant to search his premises didn’t extend to his online banking unfortunately, but he hasn’t switched to paperless statements for his credit card and so they were fair game when the search team found them on the mantelpiece.’

  ‘What’s he been buying?’

  ‘We can’t be a hundred per cent certain since it only lists the companies’ trading names, but this payment here stands out.’ Richardson had highlighted an entry about halfway down the page. The company’s name happened to be its web address.

  ‘PrinceofInk.com, is that what I think it is?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a tattoo parlour.’

  Warren thought back to when they’d arrested the protestor.

  ‘I didn’t see any tattoos on him. Did the custody officer record any when he was searched?’

  ‘None at all.’

  Warren scratched his chin.

  ‘That seems quite cheap for a tattoo. Could he have paid for somebody else? Or is that a booking fee?’

  Richardson smiled. ‘Not unless he was planning to travel to the Willamette Valley, Oregon USA.’

  ‘What? That doesn’t make sense. Why would he book a tattoo session in the US?’

  ‘I doubt he did. I visited their website and it seems they also have a thriving mail order business.’

  ‘How can you order tattoos by post?’ Now Warren was even more confused.

  Richard
son came around Warren’s desk and accessed the website on his computer.

  The homepage proclaimed that it was the state’s number one provider of personalised body art and custom body modifications. A link invited visitors to read the testimonies of satisfied customers. A second link invited visitors to book an appointment for a consultation.

  ‘These guys are pretty popular. There’s a three-month waiting list.’

  ‘So you won’t be getting a Stevenage FC tattoo any time soon?’ teased Warren.

  ‘How do you know I don’t already have one?’ replied Richardson.

  ‘So if he didn’t book a tattoo, then what did he buy?’

  Richardson reached over and clicked a link entitled ‘custom merchandise’.

  It took just a few seconds for Warren to spot it.

  ‘Very clever,’ he breathed.

  ‘Factor in the exchange rate and the cost of international postage and packaging and the price matches the amount charged to Rhodri’s credit card.’

  Warren slumped back in his chair. It seemed that he had almost certainly been completely wrong about Rhodri. But where one door closed, another opened. He resisted the urge to punch the air.

  ‘Great work, Mags.’ He rose to his feet and leaned out his door into the office.

  ‘Tony, I need you in here.’

  Chapter 53

  Philip Rhodri was more nervous and fidgety the second time he was called in for questioning. The smug sneer that he’d worn as Warren had released him on bail a few days ago was now just a faint shadow of itself. Even his solicitor’s slick veneer seemed tarnished, he was surely experienced enough to realise that they wouldn’t have recalled him so quickly unless they had a significant new line of inquiry. Nevertheless, the lawyer went on the attack the moment Sutton finished setting up the PACE recorder.

  ‘I assume that you have called Mr Rhodri here to remove the unjustified bail conditions that you have imposed upon him?’

  Warren ignored the man’s bluster; he had no desire to take part in the lawyer’s grandstanding for the benefit of his client.

  ‘Mr Rhodri, on Saturday the nineteenth, you travelled to Middlesbury to take part in the protest march against the BAP. Could you tell us what time you arrived?’

  Rhodri said nothing, just glanced over at his solicitor.

  ‘Mr Rhodri made it clear that he did not wish to discuss his whereabouts on the date in question at his previous interview. I hope that you are not intending to waste his time by simply going over the same ground yet again.’

  ‘No matter. We have video footage of you arriving at the Park and Ride at two minutes past ten. We also have witnesses that saw you there and confirmed your arrival. Could you tell us where you went after meeting there?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Unperturbed, Warren continued. ‘Again, no matter. Eyewitnesses have said that you decided to walk into Middlesbury and video footage shows that you didn’t wait for the shuttle bus into town. Why? You’d paid for a ticket.’

  ‘No comment.’

  Rhodri had folded his arms.

  ‘Which route did you follow when you walked into town, Mr Rhodri?’ asked Warren.

  ‘No comment.’

  Warren shuffled the papers in front of him.

  ‘Again, we have eyewitness reports that say you set out walking up Lansdowne Lane. I wouldn’t say that was the most direct route to town. Why didn’t you walk along Claverton Road? That’s the route that the shuttle bus takes.’

  Again Rhodri said nothing, glancing at his solicitor who, on cue, leant forward. ‘I would remind DCI Jones that my client has declined to discuss his whereabouts on the day in question.’

  ‘Be that as it may, we have eyewitness reports and CCTV footage that place him on that route.’

  Rhodri and his lawyer exchanged glances again.

  ‘It was a hot day. I didn’t fancy a sticky bus ride.’

  The buses that served the Park and Ride route all had air conditioning, but Warren let that slide.

  ‘Why did you choose such a strange route into town?’ It was the first thing Sutton had said since the interview started.

  Rhodri shrugged. ‘I don’t live here, do I?’

  ‘Did you walk directly into town from there?’ Sutton asked.

  Rhodri paused for a moment, a brief look of indecision flashing across his face.

  ‘Yeah, pretty much.’

  ‘Lansdowne Lane, then onto Oakfield Street?’

  ‘If you say so. I don’t know the names of the roads around here.’

  Sutton nodded, as if he’d confirmed something then sat back.

  Warren shuffled the papers in front of him.

  ‘Tell me, Philip, who was driving the car that picked you up on Lansdowne Lane?’

  Rhodri started slightly.

  ‘I don’t… No comment.’

  Warren sighed. ‘Come on, Philip, don’t start playing that game again. We know that you were picked up by somebody in a white Vauxhall Corsa, we have eyewitnesses. Where did you go?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you have something better to do? You’d spent ages organising that march, what could be more important than attending it? Getting stuck in with your mates against those fascists, surely that was the point of Saturday?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Who was driving the car?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Rhodri’s solicitor’s eyes had been narrowing more and more throughout the questioning.

  ‘I would like to request a break to talk to my lawyer,’ said Rhodri.

  ‘Interview suspended.’

  * * *

  ‘What do you think?’

  As usual, Sutton and Warren had taken the opportunity to fulfil their caffeine needs.

  ‘It’ll go one of two ways,’ replied Sutton. ‘Either he’ll dig his heels in and we’ll need to drag it out of him, or he’ll confess.’

  The custody sergeant poked his head around the door. ‘They’ve finished their break.’

  Warren looked at Sutton. ‘Shall we let him sweat for a bit?’

  ‘I think so. Fancy a pastry from the canteen?’

  ‘Just this once.’

  * * *

  By the time Warren returned to the interview suite, Rhodri had shredded his polystyrene cup into tiny fragments. The bulging folder Warren carried under his arm had been bulked out with two blank paper pads, but he placed it on the desk as if it contained the key to Rhodri’s future. Both Rhodri and his lawyer struggled to keep their eyes off the cardboard envelope as Warren took his time setting up the PACE recorder.

  ‘Is there anything you would like to tell me, Philip?’

  ‘My client has nothing to add to what he has already told you.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Philip?’

  Rhodri said nothing.

  ‘Let’s go back to two o’clock that afternoon. Could you tell us your whereabouts at that time?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Are you certain? It would certainly help clear things up if you could account for where you were. Perhaps the person who picked you up in the car could be an alibi?’

  Rhodri’s lawyer stirred immediately. ‘I wasn’t aware that my client needed an alibi. In fact, at this moment in time, my client has not been accused of anything concrete. I would like to request that my client be advised of what you are investigating, so that he may properly address the issue.’

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry. We’re currently investigating a death linked to Saturday’s events.’

  Rhodri’s eye twitched and his breath caught in his throat.

  ‘If you can verify your whereabouts on Saturday afternoon, this could help eliminate you from the inquiry.’

  Warren could see that the solicitor was suspicious. He hoped that he didn’t suggest his client request another break to think over his response, or worse than that, ask to see evidence.

  ‘No comment.’ The man’s voice was a lot less confident now.
/>   ‘The car that picked you up – that eyewitnesses saw you being picked up in – had fake licence plates. Why?’

  Beads of sweat had appeared on Rhodri’s forehead.

  ‘I had nothing to do with any death.’

  Warren ignored him.

  ‘Tell me, Philip, do you know anybody with tattoos?’

  The sudden change in questioning caught both the suspect and his solicitor off guard.

  His solicitor responded first. ‘Of course my client knows people with tattoos. Half the population have them.’

  ‘Sorry, let me be more specific. Do you know anyone with full-length arm tattoos?’

  Rhodri relaxed slightly. ‘A bloke who lives near me has a full sleeve on one of his arms.’

  ‘Could you describe it?’

  ‘One of those thick, black tribal decorations, I think.’

  ‘Nothing with Germanic script? Pictures of eagles, swastikas, that sort of thing?’

  Rhodri sneered slightly. ‘Hardly my scene. Why don’t you look on your little database? See if anyone interesting pops up.’

  ‘Why did you cut your hair, Philip?’

  Again, Rhodri’s solicitor stepped in. ‘I hardly see what that has to do with anything.’

  Warren and Rhodri ignored him.

  ‘I fancied a change. Hot weather and all that.’

  ‘I’m surprised, it must have taken years to grow that amount of hair. When did you get it cut?’

  He shrugged. ‘A couple of months ago.’

  ‘And it had nothing to do with trying to disguise yourself more easily when taking part in protests?’

  ‘DCI Jones, I don’t like this line of questioning.’

  ‘Presumably you are a lot less recognisable on CCTV. I’ll bet it was quite hard to cover your head with all that hair.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ The bravado was back; after all, cutting one’s hair was hardly a crime was it?

  ‘Tell me, do you have tattoo sleeves, Mr Rhodri?’

  The solicitor nearly choked. ‘DCI Jones, my client is wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt. If you can’t see that his arms are bare of any decoration, I think you should consider an eye test.’