The Common Enemy

by Paul Gitsham

  As the others laughed, Warren felt an irrational tide of shame wash over him again. Stop it, he admonished himself. Nevertheless, the mood was gone and after shaking Hastings’ hand once more and giving Hardwick a peck on the cheek, he downed his wine and slipped back to his office.

  To Warren’s relief, his phone rang just as he stepped over the threshold, giving him the perfect opportunity to kick the office door closed behind him.

  ‘We found the photos.’

  Pete Robertson’s voice was weary.

  ‘A single email received by Tommy Meegan on the twenty-eighth of June, with a half-dozen photos of varying quality, showing what is unmistakably Jimmy Meegan enjoying fellatio from an unknown male.’

  ‘Brilliant work, Pete. Have you managed to tell anything from the email?’

  ‘Quite a few things. First, it was an anonymous Hotmail account, and the received email with the images wasn’t forwarded. My guess is the photographer emailed them to one address and then the photos were copied into a new email by the recipient to obscure the original sender. There was no message other than the photos, and the subject line was “Family Photos”.’

  ‘At least the sender had a sense of humour.’

  ‘Quite. I’ve stripped the headers from the new email and we’re tracing it to see if we can work out where it was sent from. It won’t take long. If you’re lucky that might give you a clue as to the sender’s identity.’

  ‘That’s great news, Pete.’

  ‘There’s more. It looks as though we can confirm the photographer was Mr Davenport.’

  ‘How did you figure that out?’

  Robertson sounded slightly smug. ‘I looked at the photos’ Exif headers.’

  ‘You’ve gone techno on me again.’

  ‘When a digital camera takes a photo it records lots of additional information in a part of the file called the Exif header.’

  ‘Including the identity of the photographer?’

  ‘Alas, rarely is it that simple. However, it does record the make of camera and this matches Mr Davenport’s phone.’

  ‘That’s good, but that model is one of the most popular phones on the market.’

  ‘True. But the header also records the photograph’s precise time and location, if the phone’s GPS and location tracking is enabled. These pictures were taken in a car park around the corner from one of Basildon’s most popular gay bars at half past eleven on Saturday, 21 June. According to the location log on the phone and cell tower record, Mr Davenport’s phone was within a few metres of that position at that time.’

  * * *

  Warren rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. It had been a long day, but Pete Robertson had been as good as his word, sending over the location that the email containing the photos had been forwarded from as soon as he had it. Hopefully, that would help answer at least one of the remaining unanswered questions – namely who had been responsible for sending the photographs of Jimmy Meegan to his brother? He’d send Gary Hastings down to secure evidence from the internet café used by the mysterious sender tomorrow. In the meantime, the most important question of who had killed Tommy Meegan had been answered, as far as Warren was concerned.

  The problem was that nobody had seen Jimmy Meegan recently. His absence from his brother’s funeral had all but confirmed what they already knew and social media chatter indicated that it had also laid to rest any doubts about his guilt within the far-right community. Did any of those people remain loyal to Meegan? Would any still harbour him, hiding him from the police, either because they agreed with what he’d done or just because?

  It had been a hard few weeks and now that the case had become a manhunt, handled by specialist teams, Warren had taken the opportunity to send all but a skeleton team home for a decent night’s rest. He’d been tempted to go himself – he was as tired as anyone and he knew Susan was waiting – but if he didn’t take the opportunity to shift at least some of the paperwork that had been multiplying like bacteria on a Petri dish, he’d regret it.

  Over in the corner, Karen Hardwick and Gary Hastings were pretending to be busy, although Hardwick’s giggles suggested that whatever they were looking at on her phone wasn’t entirely work related. He considered sending the two of them home also, but he didn’t want to be caught under-staffed should the phones suddenly start going. And God knew, they’d be needing the overtime pay soon enough.

  As if on cue, the phone warbled. An internal call.

  ‘DCI Jones.’

  The caller was the main switchboard.

  ‘Sir, I have a Mary Meegan on the phone, she says it’s urgent.’

  Mary Meegan’s voice was gravelly, the product of too many cigarettes, too little sleep and who knew how many tears, although from what he had seen of the woman, Warren suspected that they had been shed out of sight of the Family Liaison Officer.

  ‘I think I know where Jimmy is.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I need to speak to you. I need to explain.’

  ‘OK, Mary, are you at home right now?’

  ‘Yes. Please come quickly.’

  Warren grabbed his jacket. As he recalled, Hastings had developed something of a rapport with the old lady.

  ‘Gary, you’re with me. Karen, I want you ready to coordinate with everyone else in case we have to move quickly.’

  Chapter 80

  Hastings was on a high as they drove towards Mary Meegan’s flat.

  ‘I know it’s old-fashioned, but I was really worried when Karen told me she was pregnant. Obviously, there’s the money and all that but my biggest fear is what my mum and dad are going to say.’

  Warren grunted politely and focused on his driving.

  ‘The thing is they are quite old-fashioned. They love Karen to bits, but they weren’t overly thrilled when we moved in together. Mum dropped several hints that Karen should have a ring on her finger by now.’

  Warren nodded encouragingly; truth be told Hastings’ predicament was a little too close to home for him. Nevertheless, as far as he knew, only he and Tony Sutton were aware of the pregnancy – it didn’t sound as if they’d told their parents yet. The least he could do was let the lad sound off a little.

  Hastings’ next sentence confirmed it.

  ‘Well, we’re having a bit of a family get-together for Karen’s mum’s sixtieth next weekend. Both our parents will be going. At least if she turns up with an engagement ring, it’ll soften the blow slightly.’

  Warren looked over at the young DC, his eyes narrowed slightly.

  ‘Gary, it’s none of my business, but are you sure a shotgun wedding is the best reason to get married? It’s a big commitment and you could probably put the money towards looking after the baby.’

  Hastings sounded offended. ‘Is that what people are going to think? I’ve been planning on proposing to Karen for months. That’s why we went to Paris. I even had the ring wrapped in a sock with a note telling anyone doing a bag search to be discreet. Unfortunately, she was so ill, I decided to wait until our next holiday. I wanted the most vivid memory of the trip to be me on my knees proposing, not Karen on her knees in front of the toilet.’

  Warren smiled slightly. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Anyhow, that was the plan. Then Karen said she was pregnant and I figured that’s probably put the kibosh on going on holiday for a while, so I decided “sod it”, no time like the present. Besides my parents have said they would be willing to pay for any wedding, so we don’t need to worry about that.’

  ‘You old romantic. I hope you asked her more nicely than that.’

  Hastings laughed. ‘Well, yeah. I knew what I wanted to say and Karen let me finish before she said yes, so that worked pretty well.’

  ‘Good, I’m pleased for you both.’

  ‘Thanks, sir.’

  He leant back in his seat slightly and became more thoughtful.

  ‘You know, it’s amazing how finding out you’re going to be a dad changes things. A few days ago, the biggest stress in
my life was selection followed closely by how much our rent has gone up and whether we could ever afford a deposit for a house. But now everything is different.’

  He looked a bit ashamed. ‘I have to confess, I made a bit of a mess of it when she announced it. For a few moments, I thought “Shit, how are we going to afford a baby.”’

  ‘Please tell me you didn’t say that?’

  ‘Umm, not in so many words, no.’

  Warren closed his eyes briefly. ‘Bloody hell, Gary. And you still managed to get her to say yes when you proposed?’

  Hastings chuckled. ‘Yeah. How lucky am I?’

  ‘She’s a remarkable woman, Gary. I’d have been sleeping on the couch for a week.’

  Hastings laughed in agreement. ‘It was heading that way.’

  He sighed, and looked out of the window. ‘It’s crazy I know, but we were in bed the other night using the iPad to look up baby names.’ He laughed. ‘We won’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl for months yet.’

  ‘We’re here,’ interrupted Warren as they swung into the Chequers estate.

  As always, most of the parking spaces were occupied either with residents’ cars or rubbish. Warren parked in the only space available, flanked either side by a rusting washing machine and a badly ripped armchair.

  Warren wondered if he could keep an eye on the car whilst they spoke to Mary Meegan, given that they were parked exactly below her balcony.

  Hastings’ phone rang. He glanced at the screen and blushed. ‘Karen. I’ll tell her to call back.’

  ‘No, take it, it might be important.’ Warren smiled tightly. ‘She probably has cravings for pickled gherkins or something.’

  Opening the door, he climbed out. If he was honest, he was glad for a moment’s respite. Hastings was like a child waiting for Christmas, and whilst Warren was genuinely happy for the lad, his excitement just seemed to underscore his own personal frustrations. The very thought that news of a pregnancy could be met with anything other than absolute joy – not to mention relief – was unimaginable to Warren right now.

  The sound of the massive earthenware plant pot smashing through the windscreen at the end of its ten-storey flight was like a bomb going off. Warren turned back towards the car in horror.

  A barely coherent scream from above him broke his trance state and he looked up.

  ‘Fucking pigs!’

  Jimmy Meegan stood on his mother’s balcony. Stripped to the waist, he wore only a pair of white, nylon shorts.

  Warren threw himself backwards, as the second plant pot arced its way through the air towards him. He covered his face as a shower of stinging shards exploded around him. Looking back up, he saw Jimmy Meegan retreating back into the flat.

  Scrambling back to his feet, Warren pulled the driver’s door open. The inside of the car was awash with blood, mingled with soil, the remains of the windscreen surrounding the heavy container. Warren grabbed the car’s radio. ‘Code Zero. Urgent medical assistance required. Chequers estate. Officer down.’

  Warren reached out and took Hastings’ hand. On the seat beside him, Hastings’ mobile phone remained on.

  ‘Gary? What’s happening, Gary? Are you all right, Gary?’

  Hardwick’s voice was getting louder, a note of hysteria creeping in.

  Warren picked it up. He had no idea what to say.

  Chapter 81

  Warren knew he shouldn’t stay in the car. Jimmy Meegan had disappeared back into his mother’s flat. There had been two bonsai trees, but who knew what else he could hurl off the balcony? But he couldn’t bring himself to move. The wail of sirens started in the distance. First one, then two, within seconds it seemed as if every patrol car in Hertfordshire was racing towards them. Code Zero. Officer down. Drop everything and get there as soon as possible.

  But it didn’t matter how fast they arrived. They were too late. They’d been too late the second the plant pot had all but removed Gary Hastings’ head from his shoulders. Now all Warren could do was hold his hand and sit guard over his friend, keeping him safe from any further indignities.

  * * *

  Warren didn’t need the paramedic to tell him he was in shock. He felt numb, his head was mushy. Nothing seemed to make sense. At some point they’d forced him to let go of Hastings’ hand and moved him to the back step of the ambulance. Somebody else had put a blanket around his shoulders.

  ‘Sir, your blood pressure is dangerously low. You really need to come with us to hospital.’

  It was at least the third time somebody had said this to him. It could have been the same person, he had no idea.

  ‘Not until it’s over,’ he repeated.

  Exactly what that meant, he didn’t really know. All he knew was that he couldn’t leave yet.

  How much time had passed since he’d heard that deafening crash and turned to see the remains of Gary Hastings, Warren couldn’t say. Minutes? Hours? At some point, it had gone dark.

  Warren looked across the estate. A hastily erected cordon kept the rubberneckers a reasonable distance away, the LEDs from their cameraphones twinkling like some sort of high-tech constellation.

  Warren felt a flash of anger and he surged to his feet. Why hadn’t they erected a tent? It was a crime scene with a victim, there should be screens preserving Hastings’ modesty, giving him privacy. He wanted to wade into the crowds of onlookers, smashing their phones, deleting the images that he knew would be spreading across social media like a cancer.

  The wave of dizziness had him sitting back down before the paramedic could react.

  Warren waved her away.

  A sudden whoop split the air and the barricade shifted out of the way to let a riot van through. A mixture of cheers and boos erupted from the crowd, as if the whole spectacle had been staged for their amusement, like some sort of macabre pantomime.

  No sooner had the van pulled to a stop its doors opened, disgorging its occupants. Black-clad and grim-faced they lined up, all of them wearing utility belts with Tasers. Two also had assault rifles; they weren’t taking any chances. Warren recognised Sergeant Roger Gibson, the forced entry specialist. The design of each tower block was essentially the same and his familiarity with their layout from the Binay Singh Mahal arrest would greatly speed up planning.

  ‘Get those vultures back.’ Warren recognised the angry clipped tones of DSI John Grayson. ‘The last thing we want is somebody getting shot.’ His tone suggested otherwise.

  Warren had no idea when he’d arrived.

  ‘Jesus, Warren.’

  ‘None of it’s his.’

  Grayson and the paramedic were talking over him as if he wasn’t there.

  ‘Mary’s still in there and the FLO.’ The memory returned in a flash. Her voice had been low, fearful. Her son must have been in the room with her, making her speak. Making her lure the two officers in.

  ‘Say again?’ Grayson turned to Warren.

  ‘Mary Meegan. She phoned us. Told us she had information about Jimmy’s whereabouts. On her landline…’

  ‘Bitch.’

  Warren shook his head, ignoring the waves of nausea.

  ‘No. I think he’s holding her prisoner.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Grayson called over to Gibson. ‘There may be two other people in the flat, an FLO and an older lady. She may be in on it, or she may be a hostage.’

  ‘Understood.’ Gibson turned back to his men, issuing new instructions.

  * * *

  Gibson and his team entered via the rear entrance of the tower block, out of sight of the Meegans’ balcony. Teams of officers had already covered the nine floors beneath the Meegans’, evacuating those residents that could manage the stairs and making certain that the less mobile stayed out of harm’s way.

  The whereabouts of Tommy Meegan’s homicidal younger brother were unknown. Spotters with binoculars reported that he’d drawn the curtains and turned off the lights. They had no idea if he was even in the flat. Nobody had yet clapped eyes on Mary Meegan.
r />   By now, Warren was starting to feel more connected to reality.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Tony Sutton’s voice was tight at the end of the line. Warren filled him in as much as he could, aware that his sentences were disjointed and that he kept on repeating himself.

  ‘Where’s Karen?’ he finished.

  ‘She’s with the surgeon, he’s given her something. She collapsed and we thought it best under the circumstances to call the doctor.’

  The circumstances. He meant the pregnancy. The child who would be fatherless before he or she was even born.

  ‘Keep her safe, Tony.’ It was all Warren could think to say; keep her safe the way I couldn’t keep Gary safe.

  Next to him, DSI Grayson’s radio burst into life. It was one of the spotters with the binoculars.

  ‘Fire. There’s fire in the apartment.’

  ‘Confirmed. That’s fire at the window.’ A second spotter jumped on the airwaves, her voice tense.

  Warren looked up, an orange glow was now radiating out of the previously darkened window.

  ‘Shit, evacuate all remaining residents,’ Grayson ordered.

  Warren strained his eyes. Even at this distance he could see the flames licking at the curtains. Suddenly they burst open and a figure stumbled out. Silhouetted against the fiery background, Warren could clearly see that it was a man, stripped to the waist.

  The crowd cheered, like spectators at a sporting event. Jimmy Meegan stepped forward to the metal railing surrounding the balcony and started to climb.

  The shouts of the crowd were all but drowning out Meegan’s defiant screams. The cheap nylon of his football shorts caught alight, engulfing him in flames. The crowd screamed – whether in shock or delight, Warren couldn’t tell.

  Raising his arms, as if to take a last salute, Meegan took one final step into oblivion.

  Saturday 2nd August

  Chapter 82

  Nine a.m. and the atmosphere in CID was oppressive. There had been a steady stream of colleagues, many off-duty, coming in to see if there was anything they could do.