The Common Enemy

by Paul Gitsham

  Warren handed over a printout.

  ‘Hardly surprising, since the football season is over and there were no matches being shown on Sky or Freeview at that time.’

  Singh Mahal licked his lips.

  ‘I got confused, I thought there was a Champions League game being played.’

  ‘OK, we’ll come back to that.’ Warren let the threat hang in the air.

  ‘Now, when you were arrested on Monday twenty-first we took a number of items of clothing for forensic testing.’

  ‘Which proved negative for bloodstains,’ interrupted his solicitor.

  ‘That is correct. It would appear that the stains are in fact iron oxide, or rust.’

  Singh Mahal shrugged.

  ‘Could you explain why your clothing was covered in rust, Mr Singh?’

  The suspect paused for a moment, his eyes darting around as he tried to think of a reason why Warren was so interested, a question that his solicitor put to Warren.

  ‘If you could just answer the question, Mr Singh.’

  ‘I work at a garage don’t I? I’m working with rusty cars all day.’

  ‘So you’ve worn these trousers to work?’

  Warren pushed over a high-resolution picture of the tracksuit bottoms.

  ‘Guess so. Could have been in the laundry for ages.’

  ‘Did you wear them on Saturday?’

  Singh Mahal’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Dunno. Maybe.’

  ‘OK, we’ll come back to that later.’

  The solicitor frowned. He could see that Warren was letting his client build a house of cards and he didn’t like it.

  ‘Yesterday, we discussed your social media activity. I’d like to revisit that.’

  Singh Mahal was clearly unhappy, but a glance towards his solicitor held no answers for him.

  ‘We have traced this rather inflammatory Facebook profile to you. In it you threaten Mr Meegan on several different threads, along with another user. Could you name this user, we’d very much like to speak to him or her?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Mr Singh? You use pretty threatening language, that some might see as concerning, but it’s nothing compared to this person.’ Warren leaned forward slightly. ‘If I’m honest, I think this person is far more interesting. We’ve identified several profiles linked to him and he sounds like a pretty scary guy. Are you sure you can’t help us identify him?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Are you protecting him?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘OK we’ll come back to that.’ Warren took a moment to retrieve some papers from the folder in front of him. When he looked back up he could see faint beads of sweat on the man’s forehead.

  ‘Last time we spoke, you claimed not to have had any contact with Tommy Meegan. However, we then established that you had in fact had several phone calls with Mr Meegan, as well as private messages through Facebook.’

  Singh Mahal said nothing.

  Warren passed over the printouts.

  ‘Do you recognise these emails?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘For the benefit of the tape, I’m showing Mr Singh exhibit 26A, a series of emails between an anonymous email account and an email account on Mr Meegan’s smartphone, suggesting that the author could arrange for up to fifty members of an organisation called Sikhs Against Jihadis to accompany Mr Meegan and the British Allegiance Party on their march through Middlesbury. Do you recognise these emails, Mr Singh?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘As you said yourself, these emails are anonymous. They could be from anybody.’

  Warren ignored the solicitor’s interjection.

  ‘Mr Singh?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Why would Mr Singh email Tommy Meegan, a known racist and leader of a far-right organisation that is likely to attack him on sight?’ asked his solicitor.

  ‘Why indeed?’

  Warren let the statement hang in the air for a moment.

  ‘Besides which, how would Mr Singh obtain Mr Meegan’s private email address? I would imagine that he doesn’t exactly advertise it?’

  ‘A good question. How did you get his email address?’

  Binay Singh Mahal glared at Warren and Sutton.

  ‘OK, Binay, time to stop messing us about.’ Sutton leant forward. ‘We know that you called Tommy Meegan on his mobile phone at least twice from a payphone on the Chequers estate. An email account was set up by Mr Meegan immediately afterwards, for the sole purpose of contacting you. We have the evidence, so stop wasting time and let’s move on.’

  Singh Mahal glared at Sutton, saying nothing.

  The two officers sat back and waited. Even his lawyer knew better than to say something at this point.

  ‘Yeah, OK. I emailed him to offer support for his march against the Muslims. It was a prank. I wanted to see if he was dumb enough to believe that there were fifty Sikhs willing to march alongside him and the BAP.’

  Singh Mahal’s lawyer had been rapidly reading the emails and transcripts.

  ‘Aside from some inflammatory language, I see no evidence here that my client was in any way involved with the murder of Mr Meegan, and we have already established that there are no forensics tying him to the murder scene.’

  ‘Except for his Kirpan.’

  ‘Which was stolen when Mr Singh was mugged.’

  ‘And his lack of an alibi.’

  The lawyer snorted. ‘Oh, please. You know full well that if you were to stop one hundred people on the street and demand proof of their whereabouts at any given time, most wouldn’t be able to oblige.’

  ‘I’ve been looking at this evidence. A fresh pair of eyes, if you will and I’ve got an interesting theory.’

  Singh Mahal turned his gaze on Sutton

  ‘You see, I reckon you probably didn’t stab Mr Meegan, although I’d be interested to know how your Kirpan turned up at the murder scene.’

  ‘Yet again, my client has—’

  Sutton cut him off. ‘Whatever. Anyway, I don’t think you were in the alleyway when he was killed. However, I do think you were involved. I reckon you called Mr Meegan and invited him to meet up in Middlesbury on the day of the protest march. You lured him to that alleyway, where he was then killed by your accomplice, whilst you arranged your alibi.’

  ‘No, I had nothing to do with Tommy Meegan’s murder.’

  Sutton continued as though he hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Why did you go for a fake alibi, by the way? I mean, if you weren’t involved in the killing, surely it would have been safer to actually go and do your shift? Perhaps then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

  Singh Mahal shook his head vigorously. ‘No, you’ve got it all wrong.’

  ‘What were you actually doing in that time? We all know you weren’t meeting up with some mysterious lady friend. Perhaps you just couldn’t face actually working, and decided to skip langar in the end.’ He looked over at Warren. ‘I get that. I’d probably find it hard to concentrate on peeling potatoes if I knew my mate was sticking someone with my Kirpan on the other side of the town.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t like that.’

  ‘I guess that’s why you didn’t speak to Councillor Kaur beforehand. Which seems a bit rude if you ask me. I’d be pretty annoyed if somebody called me without warning and asked me to give them an alibi for the same time that somebody was being murdered, no questions asked. Or were there questions asked? Did Councillor Kaur ask for a bit more information before committing herself to perjury?’

  Singh Mahal was breathing heavily.

  ‘No comment.’

  Sutton tapped his teeth thoughtfully with a biro.

  ‘What do you have on Councillor Kaur? What do you know about her that could possibly make her risk everything to cover your arse? You aren’t related. I can’t believe it’s just because you’re a fellow Sikh – the woman’s a politician, I don’t imagine she’d be that loyal. What did you u
se to blackmail her?’

  ‘I must protest at this line of questioning. I think it highly inappropriate,’ appealed the solicitor.

  Warren ignored him, taking over from Sutton. ‘We’ve discussed your social media profile at some length. Tell me, do you have any other accounts? Are you a member of any groups for example that aren’t directly connected to opposing far-right extremism?’

  Singh Mahal had paled even further.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘What can you tell me about this group, Sikhs Against Jihadis?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘They would seem to have rather extreme views. Tell me, Mr Singh, are you a member of this group?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Are you aware of the inflammatory – some might even say Islamophobic – views expressed within this group?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Let me read you a few of the recent posts: “The Government should ban the teaching of Islam in schools. Share if you agree.” “All Muslims entering this country should be registered and tracked to make it easier to stop terrorists. Like to show your support.”’

  ‘Those posts were started by many different users, you can’t possibly claim that my client is responsible for all those profiles.’

  Warren continued without pausing. ‘This one is pretty topical, “Say no to the Middlesbury SuperMosque. No more terrorist training schools in our cities.” It got quite a few likes and at least one share—’ he looked up ‘—by the British Allegiance Party. Who would have thought that they’d be sharing posts from Sikhs Against Jihadis, eh?’

  ‘Again, DCI Jones, I have yet to see any evidence that my client is linked to this site, and even if he is, what that has to do with the murder of Mr Meegan.’

  Warren pushed another pile of printouts across the table.

  ‘A search of Mr Singh’s laptop and smartphone reveal that not only is he a regular contributor to this group and its associated website, he is also a founding member and group moderator, going by the name StopTheJihadis911. Nothing makes it onto this group or gets shared without his say-so. We also have evidence that he communicated directly with Mr Meegan in the run-up to his death using this account.’

  Warren slid another set of printouts across the table. ‘These are transcripts from Mr Meegan’s Facebook Messenger account, where it can be seen that Mr Singh and Mr Meegan hold a surprising number of common positions on politics. The final two messages include Mr Meegan’s mobile phone number and the address for a newly set up email account. The same email account from which this message was sent, arranging to meet up with Mr Meegan privately in the very alley where he was killed.’

  Singh Mahal’s eyes bulged and his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, like a fish out of water.

  ‘I would like to request a toilet break,’ he gasped eventually.

  ‘Interview suspended.’

  * * *

  ‘My client is prepared to admit that he may have been involved in some indiscreet and possibly inflammatory language, which may have some overlap with the views expressed by the British Allegiance Party and the late Mr Meegan. However, we do not feel that his personal political views are relevant to this investigation and he again denies all knowledge of the killing of Mr Meegan.’

  Binay Singh Mahal stared at the table, his jaw clenched.

  ‘So how do you explain the message arranging to meet Mr Meegan? It rather looks to me as if you were luring him there to his death.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Tommy Meegan.’

  ‘OK. Who did kill him? Who did you arrange for him to meet?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen that message in my life. Somebody must have hacked my email.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Binay, you don’t expect us to believe that do you?’ Sutton’s voice was dripping with disdain.

  ‘Either it was hacked, or you lot are trying to stitch me up.’ Some of the fire had returned to Singh Mahal’s eyes.

  Grasping firmly at the same straw as his client, Stock demanded access to the original files, so that he could investigate their provenance. Warren agreed – the rules of disclosure were very clear in this case. Seeing that Singh Mahal was unlikely to budge on that point, Warren decided to move on.

  ‘OK. Just to be clear, you have strong views against the Muslim community. How long have you held them?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘As I already said, we do not believe them to be pertinent to this investigation,’ repeated his solicitor.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Singh, how did your classmates’ attitudes change towards you after the events of September the eleventh 2001?’

  ‘DCI Jones! Your ignorance is staggering. My client is a Sikh, not a Muslim.’

  Warren ignored him.

  ‘Brown skin and a turban is still brown skin, right?’ Singh Mahal’s voice was strangulated, his words bitten short.

  To his credit, Singh Mahal’s solicitor picked up the thread of Warren’s argument quickly.

  ‘I’m not sure that this is the place to reopen old wounds, DCI Jones. There were many unfortunate consequences arising from the events on that terrible day, ignorance and bullying of other members of the Asian community being just one of them.’

  Singh Mahal scowled at the man next to him.

  ‘So to be clear, you feel that you were a victim of the backlash experienced by other members of the Asian community, not just Muslims,’ asked Sutton.

  ‘Will you stop using that phrase,’ shouted Singh Mahal. ‘What does it even mean, “Asian community”?’

  Warren, Sutton and Dan Stock all recoiled in surprise at the man’s vehemence.

  ‘There’s no such thing. What you white guys actually mean is “the brown community”. Go on, admit it. You’re no different to those bastards in the BAP or the EDL or the BNP or whatever they’re calling themselves this week. You see brown skin and you think “Asian”. You see someone on the TV with a cloth wrapped around his head and you think a turban’s a turban. Bin Laden was a fucking Saudi, he was from the Middle East, he wasn’t even from Asia. He wore a turban because he was hiding in the desert. I wear a turban because I’m a Sikh and I let my hair grow as a symbol of the perfection of God’s creation.’

  Singh Mahal leant forward in his chair.

  ‘There is no “Asian community”. It’s like grouping Scots and Greeks together and calling them the “white community”. It’s just laziness. To the police and the government and the BBC we all have brown skin, so we’re all the same. Those kids at school were ignorant, I get that, but they wanted to be ignorant. It didn’t matter how many assemblies the school held or how many visitors they had in to speak to us, the moment they got home their parents turned on the TV or bought a copy of the Daily Mail and it went in one ear and out the other. I was called “Binay Laden” every day until I left school.

  ‘The British public see brown skin and they think Muslim. They see brown skin and a beard and they think terrorist. For years after the London bombings, every time I got on the bus with a bag, people saw me differently. Sometimes it was obvious – people would stand rather than sit next to me – other times it was like a bad spy movie with everyone peeking over their newspapers or pretending to look at their phones.’

  The man’s voice broke slightly.

  ‘You know, ever since September the eleventh we’ve been bending over backwards to accommodate Muslims. You can’t turn on the TV or look at the BBC without some earnest reporter desperately telling us that Islam is all about peace. The government spends millions every year trying to “integrate” Muslims or other “minorities”.

  ‘But what about the rest of us? What about those of us who are already integrated? I’m a Sikh. My family is from India, not Saudi Arabia or Pakistan or Somalia. But you know what, that doesn’t matter, ’cos I’m British. I was born here, I’ve lived here all of my life. I’m as British as that bastard Tommy Meegan. I’m as British as you.

  ‘Where are our millions? Where are our super
mosques? Our community centre is a converted church hall with a leaky roof; the building’s listed so we’ve been refused planning permission to make it more suitable. If we want to hold a wedding, the nearest gurdwara is Letchworth. We’ve applied for funding from the National Lottery three times, but each time we’ve been knocked back. That bloody great mosque has been promised half a million quid, and planning permission is pretty much a shoo-in. Well, maybe it’s about time the rest of the so-called “Asian community” made sure their voices were heard.’

  Warren took a deep breath. He could see that Sutton was stung.

  ‘You are quite correct, Mr Singh. My colleagues and I shall attempt to use more appropriate language in future.’

  Singh Mahal folded his arms and stared sullenly at the table.

  ‘Let’s go back to your online accomplice. Philip Rhodri, I believe he is called.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘I haven’t asked a question yet. Now why would you be protecting him?’

  ‘It hasn’t been established that this Mr Rhodri is an accomplice, or even an acquaintance of my client.’ Stock had been visibly chastened by Singh Mahal’s outburst also.

  ‘Yes it has. In fact, Mr Rhodri is sitting in a cell just a few metres from here. He’s been very chatty. Now what do you think he has been telling us?’

  ‘That is not a reasonable question to ask my client. He cannot possibly know what this Mr Rhodri has been saying.’

  ‘Then tell me about those rust stains on your trousers, Binay. How did you get them?’

  ‘I’m a mechanic.’

  ‘Is it normal for you to end up with rust all over your clothes after a day at work?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Tell me, Binay, what made you vandalise the Lilac Lane Community Hub in 2002?’

  ‘That was a long time ago. My client was just a teenager, DCI Jones, and I fail to see what that has to do with Mr Meegan’s murder.’

  Warren turned slightly towards the solicitor.

  ‘You’re right, it has nothing to do with Mr Meegan’s murder. I’ve already said that I don’t believe that Mr Singh, or for that matter Mr Rhodri, killed Mr Meegan. Their involvement is a question that remains to be answered. However, Mr Meegan’s killing was not the only attack that day.