The Common Enemy

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘So Brandon’s off the hook?’ asked Hutchinson.

  ‘Not necessarily, he still has no alibi, has a colossal temper and plenty of motivation, so he stays on the board for now.’

  Warren pointed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘If you haven’t already done so take a look at the timeline and the suspect list and see if you can spot some new avenues of investigation.

  ‘The involvement of Binay Singh Mahal brings in an unwanted complication; tensions between the Muslim community and our far smaller Sikh community are inevitable. The last thing we need is the far-right wading in with their hobnailed boots and making a bad situation worse.

  ‘The clock’s ticking, folks. Tommy Meegan’s funeral is still scheduled for August the first, a key date in the far-right calendar, and we need answers before then.’

  Chapter 65

  Mid-afternoon and all eyes were on BBC News as ACC Naseem held a press conference.

  The information relayed to the assembled reporters had been terse, and short on detail, merely confirming the arrest of two suspects and their subsequent charging. Unfortunately, the rumour mill was already flowing freely and there was a flurry of questions about the arrest of Councillor Kaur and stories about a plot by radical Sikhs to stop the building of the new mosque and terrorise the local Muslim community.

  Naseem’s refusal to either confirm or deny the reports merely fed into the speculation. By mid-afternoon the leader of Middlesbury council had been forced to confirm Lavindeep Kaur’s suspension pending an inquiry and Imam Mehmud was being door-stepped by journalists from across the country.

  Within hours Channel 4 News announced they would be running an extended piece on tensions between different factions of the Asian community, particularly between Muslims and Sikhs. Warren couldn’t help think that even in death, Tommy Meegan would be looking on with glee at the seeds of discord sown that day – even if they had yet to bring his own killer to justice. Certainly his former compatriots in the BAP weren’t slow to seize the initiative.

  The announcement that the suspects charged over the fire at the Islamic Centre had nothing to do with them provoked a predictable response from the far-right organisation. A hastily posted press release cited everything from the systematic dismissal of the views of patriots to an establishment-led conspiracy involving the government, the police state and the Muslim-dominated liberal elite, facilitated by the mainstream media, in particular the BBC, known to have been infiltrated by homosexuals and communists since the Forties.

  For his part, Assistant Chief Constable Mohammed Naseem was directly accused of trying to brush the killing of Tommy Meegan under the carpet as part of yet another Muslim-led conspiracy.

  ‘I’m surprised they haven’t included the worldwide Zionist conspiracy and the Illuminati,’ commented Grayson.

  ‘I imagine that even the BAP would struggle to place Islamist extremists and Zionists in the same boat,’ suggested Warren.

  ‘Give them time.’

  Their last tactic though, appropriating the Twitter tag #Justice4Tommy in a deliberate reference to the already trending #Justice4Muslims, seemed to have backfired somewhat as Theo Garfield gleefully reported.

  ‘Say what you want about Twitter; some days it’s downright vile, but other days it can be magnificent.’ The hashtag had been tweeted about a hundred times in the hour after the press release, mostly by accounts known to be run by far-right extremists. In the next six hours, it was tweeted over ten thousand more times, mostly followed by pictures of the scene of Tommy Meegan’s murder, with a second hashtag #JusticeDone. Warren didn’t think such gloating by a senior officer such as Garfield was entirely appropriate. He wondered if the man would feel different if he’d had to sit opposite Mary Meegan?

  * * *

  A phone call from Pete Robertson, from Forensic IT, supplied a welcome distraction.

  ‘Pete, I hope you have some good news for me,’ said Warren, doing his best to sound upbeat.

  ‘Depends on what you mean by good news. We’ve been looking at those emails sent to Tommy Meegan by Binay Singh Mahal in more detail and we’ve spotted a discrepancy.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We traced the routing information for each message and found that the first few emails, discussing the organisation of the march and promising the participation of Sikhs Against Jihadis, were sent from a different account to the later emails promising financial backing for the BAP and ultimately luring Tommy Meegan to the alleyway where he was stabbed.’

  ‘What? But they all had StopThe Jihadis911 in the From: line.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything. It’s child’s play to change that. It’s a feature used both legitimately by big organisations managing their email, and in those phishing emails from criminals that claim to be from your bank.’

  Warren thanked him and hung up.

  Yet again the sands were shifting. It was looking as though Binay Singh Mahal had been telling the truth when he denied all involvement in Tommy Meegan’s murder. So who had sent the emails?

  * * *

  ‘How did it happen? We were both so careful.’

  It was eleven o’clock and Gary Hastings and Karen Hardwick were curled up in bed. Much to Hastings’ relief the big bunch of flowers and king-size box of Karen’s favourite chocolates had bolstered his heartfelt apology enough for Karen to forgive his thoughtless outburst the day before. The plan had been to get an early night in preparation for his interview the next day, but the excitement of the last twenty-four hours had made sleep all but impossible.

  Hardwick sighed. ‘We weren’t careful enough. You remember when I got ill in Paris?’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘Well, I felt better in the last couple of days, so we decided to make the most of it.’

  Hastings smiled at the memory. They’d finally had the romantic break they’d planned. They’d splashed out on a meal as they cruised down the Seine, climbed the Eiffel Tower in the dusk and finished off with cocktails. Then they’d returned to their little hotel room and spent the rest of the night making love.

  ‘But you’re always so careful about taking your pill.’

  ‘And I’d also just spent three days throwing up.’

  ‘Shit, it can happen that fast?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  Hastings thought about that for a few moments. ‘Wow.’

  Hardwick giggled. ‘I know. We’re going to be parents.’

  ‘When can we tell everyone?’

  She sighed.

  ‘Not yet. It’s bad luck, just in case, you know…’

  ‘But you can’t keep it completely quiet. What if you need to go running after somebody or you get into a confrontation?’

  ‘Gary, we’re CID, not uniform. I’m not going to be chasing shoplifters or taking down drunks on a Saturday night.’

  ‘Yeah, but still, you need to let DCI Jones and DI Sutton know just in case.’

  She sighed. ‘I know. But let’s enjoy it for the time being. It’s our secret, let’s keep it that way for a bit longer.’

  Hastings rested his hand on her still flat tummy. It was hard to believe that growing inside her was their future. He sighed and kissed her neck, before closing his eyes.

  Tomorrow was going to be a big day and he needed his sleep.

  Wednesday 30th July

  Chapter 66

  Hastings’ interview wasn’t until eleven, down at the forces’ headquarters in Welwyn Garden City. Nevertheless, Warren was not pleased to see him at 8 a.m., wearing his uniform and standing at the back of the morning briefing.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ asked Tony Sutton, beating Warren to the punch.

  ‘I’ve been preparing solidly for this thing for weeks. If I’m not ready now, I’ll never be. I’d rather be here than sitting at home or in Welwyn twiddling my thumbs.’

  Warren could sympathise, after all he’d been using work to distract him from his own worries lately.

  ‘Well, make s
ure you’re not late.’

  As Warren outlined the day’s plans and filled the team in on Pete Robertson’s revelation the previous evening that Binay Singh Mahal might not have been responsible for the emails luring Tommy Meegan to his death, he noticed Hastings talking quietly to one of the DCs on loan from Welwyn. The constable was a huge Scottish lad with a beard – what was his name? DC Ruskin? The two men had their notebooks out and were busy comparing them with the timeline.

  At the end of the briefing, Hastings crossed the room,

  ‘Boss, how confident are you about these timings?’ He pointed to the times that the BAP members arrived at The Feathers pub.

  ‘They came from interviews. Why?’

  ‘We spoke to the landlord, Micky Drake, and he more or less agrees with the time that most of them arrived and confirmed that Bellies Brandon arrived last, but you’ve grouped Goldie Davenport’s arrival in with most of the rest of them.’

  Warren opened his own notepad. ‘According to my notes, Marcus Davenport claimed that he stayed with Jimmy Meegan since he didn’t know the area and they were amongst the first to arrive at the pub. What did Drake say?’

  ‘He reckons Goldie Davenport arrived just before Bellies Brandon.’

  Warren fought to keep his voice calm.

  ‘If you are right, then what was Goldie Davenport doing in that time and why did he – and Jimmy Meegan – lie about it?’

  Chapter 67

  ‘No comment.’

  This was the fourth time that Marcus ‘Goldie’ Davenport had refused to answer a direct question since the interview had started. Gone was the confident swagger and arrogance, and in were the folded arms and solicitor.

  Things had moved fast since Hastings’ observation and barely three hours later, Davenport had found himself sitting opposite Warren and Tony Sutton in interview suite one. He’d still been in bed, when colleagues from the Met had banged on his door; it seemed that work was going through a sudden dry spell. As he’d been led out of the flat, Mags Richardson and Theo Garfield had headed in, along with an evidence recovery team. A phone call to Forensic IT had resulted in an email with Davenport’s mobile phone records.

  Warren had expected such an answer to his question about Davenport’s whereabouts immediately after the BAP protestors had scattered. He passed over a transcript of their previous interview.

  ‘We’re simply confirming what is already on record, Mr Davenport.’

  Davenport’s solicitor, a middle-aged woman who had locked horns with Warren on numerous occasions, looked at the transcript as if she hadn’t already read it before they started.

  ‘This interview was given without legal representation.’

  Warren pointed to the first paragraph. ‘Mr Davenport was being interviewed as a witness and was not under arrest. As you can see, he declined the offer of a solicitor.’

  The skirmish was little more than a verbal shot across the bows. But Warren took heed of the warning. He could expect resistance from all quarters today. Good, he was evidently onto something.

  Davenport looked over at his solicitor who remained stony-faced.

  ‘After the police let those scum attack us, we ran towards the war memorial.’

  ‘I wasn’t present for the original interview, could you remind me who “we” is?’

  If Davenport realised that Tony Sutton’s interjection was merely a play to get him to slip up and contradict his previous statement he didn’t seem bothered.

  ‘Me, Jimmy, Tommy and Bellies.’

  ‘And what happened next?’

  ‘We split up. Me and Jimmy headed towards BHS and Tommy headed towards Marks & Spencer. Bellies stopped at the war memorial to catch his breath.’

  ‘Did you see anybody else around?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘OK, tell me what happened after you reached BHS.’

  ‘Me and Jimmy went through the alleyway between BHS and Next, then crossed the road and went between the key-cutter’s and the newsagent. Then we walked to The Feathers.’

  ‘My client has confirmed exactly what he stated before, I fail to see what going over old ground will accomplish.’

  Sutton ignored her.

  ‘What route did you take to The Feathers?’

  Davenport squirmed slightly in his chair. ‘Dunno. I followed Jimmy, he knows the area.’

  ‘But would you say you went there by the most direct route?’

  ‘My client has already stated that he doesn’t know the area, so how could he possibly know that?’

  ‘Sorry, my mistake, I worded the question a bit clumsily.’

  The solicitor’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘If I were to walk from Stafford Road to The Feathers, by the most sensible route, I reckon it would take about ten minutes. Does that sound about right?’

  Davenport licked his lips. ‘Yeah, I guess so. Maybe a bit longer.’

  ‘OK, a slow walk. Call it fifteen minutes.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘That’s rather speculative, DI Sutton.’ The solicitor turned to Warren. ‘I’d prefer that we deal with hard facts.’

  ‘OK.’ Warren made a show of looking at the interview transcript. ‘Was the pub already full when you arrived, Mr Davenport?’

  The pause was so long that Warren was convinced that he was going to damn himself by ‘no commenting’. In the end, he shrugged helplessly. ‘I can’t remember.’

  Warren turned the transcript through one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and pointed with his ballpoint.

  ‘You said in the original interview “We were pretty much the first.” Do you agree with that statement?’

  Davenport looked over at his solicitor helplessly.

  ‘Do you agree with the statement that you originally gave?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘No comment.’

  Warren let him stew for a moment.

  ‘I have spoken to others from the pub. They say that you arrived at least thirty minutes after most of your friends. In fact, you were almost the last to arrive. Is that true, Mr Davenport?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘What were you doing in those thirty minutes or so?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Warren could see that he had locked Davenport into a ‘no commenting’ cycle.

  Sutton picked up on Warren’s cue.

  ‘Mr Davenport, you said that you are unfamiliar with Middlesbury?’

  Davenport bobbed his head.

  ‘Have you ever visited Middlesbury before?’

  Again he paused.

  ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘I take it that means you definitely haven’t visited recently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you weren’t in Middlesbury on the evening of Wednesday, sixteenth of July this year?’

  Davenport shook his head, but his voice was unsteady. ‘No.’

  ‘Are you absolutely certain, Mr Davenport?’

  He nodded.

  ‘According to a witness report, a man matching your description was involved in the mugging of an Asian man that night on the Chequers estate. Were you involved in that assault, Mr Davenport?’ Warren knew that he was taking a gamble. What little description Binay Singh Mahal had provided had been vague to say the least, and no other witnesses had come forward yet. If they couldn’t get Davenport to admit to the assault, then when his solicitor asked for the witness reports in disclosure, they could undermine Warren’s credibility.

  ‘No.’ Davenport was barely audible.

  Sutton pulled a sheet out of the manila folder sitting in front of him.

  ‘Do you own a Samsung Galaxy smartphone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is this the telephone number of your phone?’

  Davenport thought about it, before deciding that a denial or refusal to comment would be a waste of time.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘According to cell tower records, this handset was in Middlesbury – specifically the area adjacent to the estate where the assau
lt took place at the time of the attack. Are you sure that you have never been to Middlesbury, Mr Davenport?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Warren decided to take over again.

  ‘The victim’s wallet was taken, along with his Kirpan. Do you know what a Kirpan is, Mr Davenport?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘I’ll ask you again, were you involved in that assault, Mr Davenport?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am showing Mr Davenport a photograph of a Sikh ceremonial knife known as a Kirpan. Are you familiar with this type of knife, Mr Davenport?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘This knife was used to kill Tommy Meegan at sometime between 2.36 p.m. and approximately 6.30 p.m. on Saturday, nineteenth of July. Can you account for your whereabouts at that time, specifically between approximately 2.36 and your arrival in The Feathers pub roughly one hour later?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘I should warn you, Mr Davenport, that, as we speak, officers are executing a search warrant on your apartment in connection with the murder of Tommy Meegan. Is there anything that you wish to tell me at this time?’

  The man looked terrified.

  Picking up on his unspoken cue, his solicitor leant forward.

  ‘I’d like to request a comfort break.’

  ‘Interview suspended.’

  Chapter 68

  Warren and Sutton made straight for the coffee urn. Neither man was in the mood to wait for the barista in the coffee concession to faff about with a needlessly complicated machine then charge them nearly three pounds for the privilege.

  ‘What do you reckon? Think he’ll confess?’ Sutton was heaping several spoonfuls of sugar into his mug. ‘I need the energy,’ he protested at Warren’s raised eyebrow.

  ‘You’ll need a dentist. And in answer to your question, I really don’t know. On the face of it, we don’t have enough to charge. His solicitor has to know that, why do you think she paused the interview?’