The Common Enemy

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘Answer the question please, Philip.’

  The man’s face had paled slightly.

  ‘This questioning is ridiculous. I’m going to demand an end to this farce,’ snapped the lawyer.

  On cue, Sutton opened one of the manila folders and removed a colour photograph.

  ‘Do you recognise this, Philip?’

  ‘What the hell is that?’ asked his lawyer.

  The solicitor was starting to get on Warren’s nerves. ‘Let your client answer, please.’

  The man scowled but sat back.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you certain? It was retrieved from the drain in your house.’

  ‘I live with flatmates.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of PrinceofInk.com?’

  ‘No.’ His voice caught in his throat and he reached for his solicitor’s polystyrene cup without asking.

  ‘Really, because your credit card statement shows that you purchased something from them. What did you buy?’

  Sutton produced a photocopy of the statement, the purchase highlighted.

  ‘No comment.’

  Sutton produced a screenshot of the company’s website.

  ‘We looked at how much you paid, factored in the exchange rate on the date of purchase and the cost of international postage and packaging and it seems that you could only really have bought one thing from their website. So I ask you again. Do you recognise this item, found in your drain?’

  Rhodri said nothing, instead staring at the table top. His fingers had started the cup shredding again.

  ‘According to a preliminary lab analysis, it appears to be melted nylon, similar to ladies’ tights, with a mixture of different inks soaked into the material. The results are consistent with bespoke fake tattoo sleeves. The website markets them as suitable for fancy dress parties or testing out a design before committing to the real thing. What pattern did you ask them to print on them? Swastikas? Germanic script?’

  Rhodri continued to stare at the table.

  ‘Never mind, we’ll get the details of your order from the company.’

  ‘So far I don’t see anything other than circumstantial evidence here.’ The solicitor was back on the attack again. ‘There are a dozen perfectly innocent reasons why my client might have such a thing in his possession.’

  ‘What about this?’

  The next photograph looked like a flesh-coloured melted rubber bathing cap.

  Rhodri remained mute.

  The next photograph was an England football shirt.

  ‘We found this in your wardrobe, Mr Rhodri.’

  ‘Yeah, so? Owning an England shirt is hardly a crime.’

  ‘I tend to agree, but then you’re a proud Welshman.’

  Chapter 54

  Philip Rhodri looked beaten. He sat back in his chair, gnawing his thumbnail.

  ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

  ‘A man with arm-length tattoos, a shaved head and an England shirt was seen by several witnesses. You have no alibi, were picked up by somebody in a car with fake licence plates and have consistently refused to confirm your whereabouts on Saturday afternoon. In your house we find evidence of fake tattoo sleeves, what appears to be a rubber cap designed to mimic a shaved head – both of which have been partially destroyed and flushed down the loo – and an England football shirt, even though you are supposedly a Welsh rugby fan.’

  ‘Still all circumstantial,’ interjected the solicitor. Warren glared at him and he quietened.

  ‘Tell us who picked you up and where you went or I’ll have to start drawing some unpleasant conclusions.’

  Rhodri continued staring at the table. Warren waited patiently, the only sound in the room a faint whir from the PACE recorder.

  ‘I was picked up by a mate and driven to the other end of town.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Philip, I already know that you were picked up. I have witnesses and number plate records. Where did you go?’

  ‘We went to his house.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We were going to play Xbox.’

  ‘Do you seriously expect us to believe that? That you decided to ditch a huge counter-protest that you’d been organising for weeks to play video games? Come on! No, I think you got changed there. You put on your bald cap – so much easier now you’ve had a haircut, then changed into your England shirt. Or did you put your fake tattoos on first? What next? Sunglasses? I’ll bet your mother wouldn’t even have recognised you.’

  Rhodri looked close to tears. Warren continued to press.

  ‘Where next?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Come on, Philip, you got changed at this mate’s house and then what? He got out the dressing-up box as well?’

  Again nothing.

  ‘Who was this friend of yours?’

  The only sound was the whir of the tape recorder.

  ‘We have more than enough to charge you.’

  The solicitor shifted in his chair but said nothing.

  ‘I was down the other end of town, I wasn’t anywhere near the town centre.’

  ‘Where? Give us some times and locations and we’ll see if we can place you on CCTV. Tell us your friend’s name and we’ll see if his story matches yours. You can clear all this up right now.’

  Rhodri licked his lips.

  ‘Buzzard Lane. Between about noon and two o’clock.’

  ‘And what were you doing there?’

  ‘Nothing. I just sat in the car and listened to the radio.’

  ‘For two hours?’

  Rhodri said nothing

  ‘So you didn’t get out?’

  ‘That’s right. I just sat in the car and listened to the radio for a bit and then drove home.’

  ‘Were you alone?’

  He paused, visibly conflicted. If he admitted that someone was with him in the car, then that person could verify that he was nowhere near the alleyway that Meegan was killed in, at the time of the murder. On the other hand, Rhodri couldn’t be certain what his companion would tell Warren about their whereabouts or what they were doing.

  However, by refusing to admit to the other person being present, he was effectively hanging himself out to dry. He looked over to his solicitor for advice; none was forthcoming. His solicitor was ethically obliged to urge his client to tell the truth.

  ‘No comment.’

  Warren glanced at his watch. One o’clock.

  ‘Why don’t you have a think about it, Philip?’

  * * *

  Philip Rhodri was formally re-arrested, starting the custody clock again, but Warren wasn’t bothered. He had more than enough to charge him there and then, but there was more to the story and Warren was in no rush. A twelve-hour extension to the initial twenty-four hours was guaranteed; he’d probably get the full seventy-two hours if he really wanted it. Unfortunately, as soon as Rhodri was charged he’d be up in front of the court. Bail was unlikely, but the details would be splashed all over the newspapers. Warren’s instincts told him that minimising publicity for the time being would be prudent.

  Chapter 55

  ‘Good news; defeating the swipe-lock on Tommy Meegan’s smartphone was a doddle, he left dirty fingerprints all over the touchscreen,’ started Pete Robertson. It was a Sunday afternoon, but Warren knew from past experience that once the IT specialist got involved in something really interesting he wouldn’t let it go. Warren wondered what Mrs Robertson thought about her husband’s dedication. In fact, was there a Mrs Robertson? Warren tried to picture the man’s long fingers – did he wear a wedding ring?

  ‘We’ve accessed his Facebook, Twitter and email accounts and his internet browsing history. I can even tell you what cinema tickets he’s booked.’

  Warren sat up straight immediately, all ruminations about Robertson’s private life evaporating. ‘Bloody hell, Pete.’

  ‘I’ll let you trawl through them at your leisure, DCI Jones, but just to whet your appetite, it seems that
contacting Mr Meegan for some one-to-one is as simple as sending him a private message on Facebook and leaving a phone number or an email address for him to contact.’

  ‘You are kidding, right?’

  ‘Nope. I’ll bet they didn’t advocate that sort of behaviour in those personal security seminars Inspector Garfield’s team spent so much taxpayers’ money sending him on.’

  * * *

  Commandeering a conference room at headquarters on a Sunday wasn’t difficult, so Warren opted for one with a large table, whiteboards with plenty of different coloured pens, and a hot drinks machine. The coffee for the machine was supplied by Theo Garfield whose office was only a stone’s throw away and Tony Sutton conjured up some biscuits. Pete Robertson had offered to bring some mugs, but Warren had politely declined the offer – he’d seen the state of the man’s office – and borrowed some from Garfield.

  Warren had known Pete Robertson for three years, yet the IT specialist’s height still surprised him every time they met. Warren had suggested that Robertson take off and enjoy the rest of his Sunday, but he was having none of it.

  ‘You’ll only end up having to phone me anyway, it’ll be quicker if I’m here. I’ll record it as flexi-time. Besides which, my boyfriend is away on a rugby tour, I’ll only get bored.’

  Tommy Meegan’s phone turned out to be the proverbial goldmine and within the space of a couple of hours, the team had pieced together a rough timeline of what had taken place over the past few weeks.

  The large table had gone from being covered in dozens of printed transcripts from Meegan’s different internet accounts to a series of neat piles and a multicoloured timeline now adorned the whiteboard.

  By 6 p.m. Warren had taken a photograph of their handiwork and was writing a report for DSI Grayson. As usual, his superior’s phone went straight to voicemail. Repressing an unprofessional sigh, Warren left a message and requested a meeting the next morning.

  He looked at his watch. Maybe he and Susan could finally get an evening together. They really needed to talk.

  Monday 28th July

  Chapter 56

  It was still only eight-thirty in the morning, but Warren had been at his desk for almost three hours and a similar number of cups of coffee.

  Susan’s talk with her father the day before had resulted in limited success. They’d enlisted the support of her sister, but according to Dennis, her mother was unwilling to even discuss the situation. The drive to and from the Midlands had taken the better part of five hours and Susan had been emotionally and physically exhausted when she returned.

  Warren hoped that Bernice would soon see her overreaction for what it was, but he worried that she seemed to be digging her heels in deeper. The situation weighed heavily on his mind, along with everything else and after yet another sleepless night, he’d decided at 5 a.m. to do both him and Susan a favour and go into work; she’d barely acknowledged him, rolling over and burying her head in her pillow.

  Also contributing to his insomnia was Binay Singh Mahal. Until the revelations about his online activities had come to light, Warren had been unsure what it was about him that set his teeth on edge. Was it his arrogance in the interview room, or the way that he had refused to confirm his whereabouts during Tommy Meegan’s murder, despite having a solid alibi? He could have saved them a lot of footwork by getting his friend Councillor Lavindeep Kaur to vouch for him from the start.

  Warren had voiced his frustrations to Susan as they lay in bed that night.

  ‘I’ve been going through his file. There are entries dating back to April 2002 when he broke another kid’s nose in the playground. The parents filed a police report for assault, but eventually dropped it and let the school deal with the incident.

  ‘Then, less than six months later, he’s cautioned for shoplifting, and a few weeks after that for vandalising a community centre down on Lilac Lane. The last entry was theft of a motor vehicle and criminal damage. Luckily for Singh, he was the youngest passenger in the car by several years and managed to avoid a custodial sentence. Then nothing until his Kirpan turned up at Tommy Meegan’s murder.’

  ‘It sounds as though that playground fight was the start of something. Perhaps his teachers know more about what was going on?’

  ‘Maybe. Normally I’d call the school, but this was twelve years ago. I doubt they even remember him.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure. I can remember some of the first kids I ever taught; it sounds as though he made an impression.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right, but I can’t wait until everyone comes back in September to chase this down.’

  ‘You mightn’t need to. I’ve been into school twice these holidays already to prepare for next year and the main office is still fully staffed. Our senior leadership team stagger their breaks away so that there is always somebody available in an emergency. You might be surprised who you can get hold of.’

  The central switchboard at Dame Etheridge Academy rang several times before it was picked up. A week into the school holidays and all of the end-of-term trips had probably returned and the parents demanding the school be turned upside down to locate their offspring’s wayward PE kits appeased.

  Warren explained who he was and what he was looking for. The bemused woman took his number, promising to get somebody with enough seniority to call him back.

  Warren drained his coffee and walked over to his Superintendent’s office.

  DSI Grayson was just hanging up his own phone.

  ‘The early morning call didn’t go down well, but I hinted that we were just aiming to tie up a few loose ends.’ He grimaced slightly. ‘There’ll be a solicitor in tow.’

  Warren shrugged, ‘It’ll save us time later, I suppose.’

  ‘What about Mr Singh Mahal? No courtesy call for him, I presume?’

  ‘Nope. He’s in the back of a car as we speak. That should minimise any chance for them to get their stories straight. However, he’s already demanding his own brief, so he’ll have to wait for a little while.’

  ‘What about Mr Rhodri?’

  ‘He’s keeping his mouth shut so far, but we have more than enough to charge. I’m running down the custody clock as I want to delay him appearing in court and everything going public.’

  ‘Good, let’s hope the rest of the day goes as smoothly.’

  * * *

  Barely an hour after Warren’s call to Dame Etheridge Academy, his phone rang. This time the voice at the end of the line was Mrs Sims, the headteacher.

  ‘It’s an unusual request, DCI Jones, but yes we do have records of our students going back to that time period. However, I would have to be convinced, along with the chair of governors, that the request was appropriate. You are aware that it is the summer holidays? Tracking down staff or governors at this time of year can be very hit and miss.’

  ‘I appreciate your assistance, Mrs Sims.’

  ‘Let me see what I can do, I don’t think our chair is planning to go away until the end of August. I’ll see if I can get hold of him.’

  * * *

  ‘You need to tread very carefully, here.’

  The warning was unnecessary, but DSI Grayson felt compelled to issue it anyway. A look of pain had crossed the man’s face when Warren had outlined his proposed course of action that morning, before he’d even had a chance to remove his jacket. If Warren was wrong and complaints were made, they would rocket to the top of the tree and Grayson would be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his DCI explaining why he’d authorised such a reckless course of action.

  The potential for career-limiting fallout was the reason Warren had decided not to involve Hastings. The last thing he wanted was the young officer embroiled in controversy whilst he was in the middle of his sergeant application.

  Hastings had protested of course – after all he’d done much of the legwork that led to this moment – but Tony Sutton had told him not to be silly; he’d get the credit he was due and hopefully none of the blame if everything went pear-shaped.
/>
  Warren took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the interview suite.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Councillor Kaur.’

  Chapter 57

  Councillor Lavindeep Kaur seemed smaller than before in the bare room. Despite the air conditioning, she’d hung her jacket on the back of her chair. Beside her sat her solicitor; a slim woman almost six feet tall.

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ asked the lawyer as Warren set up the PACE recorder. ‘My understanding is that Councillor Kaur is merely here to help your inquiries.’

  Warren smiled politely. ‘I always think it’s a good idea to keep these things on the record, don’t you?’

  Kaur glanced over at her lawyer, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

  After completing the preliminaries, Warren started the conversation.

  ‘When you visited me on Thursday, twenty-fourth of July, you did so to help us eliminate Binay Singh Mahal from our inquiries, which we appreciate.’

  Kaur inclined her head slightly.

  ‘For the record, would you mind telling me what you said then?’

  The request was perfectly reasonable but Kaur squirmed slightly. It was her lawyer who spoke up; Warren noted that Kaur, aside from confirming her name for the tape, had yet to speak.

  ‘Is this really necessary? I’m sure you took appropriate notes at the time.’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Councillor.’

  Kaur removed her glasses.

  ‘I explained that on the day of the riot, Mr Singh Mahal was with me preparing langar, the daily feeding of the poor.’

  ‘And what time was that?’

  ‘Our shift was food preparation before those serving the food took over.’

  Warren made a mark in his notebook.

  ‘And you were rostered together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just the two of you?’

  ‘Yes, it doesn’t take much preparation. Mostly just peeling and chopping vegetables then getting the pans of water heated.’