The Common Enemy

by Paul Gitsham

  Anything at all.

  DSI Grayson had given up trying to persuade Warren to go home after he’d finally been given the all-clear by the hospital.

  Despite himself, Warren found himself staring out of his office window towards the desk Gary Hastings had sat at since before Warren had moved to Middlesbury. A lone bottle of champagne sat forlornly on the table, next to a large congratulations card. Before anyone else took that seat he would have to tidy them away. What the hell would he do with them? He could hardly give them to Karen Hardwick, could he?

  A quiet tap at the door disturbed Warren’s reverie.

  ‘I’ve just been to see PC Lederer.’

  Warren must have looked blank.

  ‘Kevin Lederer, Mary Meegan’s Family Liaison Officer,’ Sutton supplied. ‘The details of what happened are a bit sketchy, but it seems the poor bastard was using the bathroom when Jimmy Meegan forced his way into the flat. He walked straight out of the toilet and straight into Jimmy’s fist. For what it’s worth, he doesn’t think that Jimmy planned on killing his mum, he just wanted somewhere to lay low. But it all went tits up and escalated rapidly.’

  Warren said nothing; it really wasn’t worth anything. Sutton continued, regardless.

  ‘Lederer’s memories are a bit patchy, he hit his head on the way down, but he reckons Jimmy had no idea that his mother knew he’d killed his brother. God knows where he’d been for the past forty-eight hours.

  ‘Anyway, Mary tore into him, screaming and calling him a murderer.’ Sutton’s mouth twisted. ‘I’m sure the neighbours heard everything, but they aren’t the sort to report these things to the police.’

  The importance of his words hung in the air; perhaps if the neighbours had reported the violence from the flat next door, somebody would have called the Family Liaison Officer to check everything was OK. Perhaps Gary Hastings would be sitting at the desk next to his fiancée, not lying on a mortuary slab…

  ‘When Jimmy realised that his mum wasn’t going to help him, and didn’t have any money lying about the place, he lost it and started smashing things up. She told him it was all over and if he was a real man, he’d give himself up and take it on the chin.’ Sutton winced slightly. ‘I guess she must have hit a nerve. Not her fault, she didn’t know.’

  Warren rubbed his eyes wearily. Everything they’d uncovered about Jimmy Meegan’s private life suggested a man deeply conflicted about his true self; a closeted gay man trapped in an organisation that condemned him as a pervert and half a man, making his sexuality the butt of jokes, innuendo and insults. Hiding in plain sight, he’d worn his convictions for assault against homosexuals like a shield, using them to deflect rumours and allegations. Yet despite his best efforts, he’d been unable to entirely stifle his urges. Warren could only imagine the fury he must have felt when his brother confronted him with the photographs.

  It was a wonder he hadn’t killed Tommy there and then; that he’d waited so long before hatching his plan. But then Warren thought back to Mary Meegan’s story about how he’d held a grudge against the little boy he’d fought in the playground all those years ago. Perhaps it wasn’t such a surprise.

  Warren shuddered; a conflicted, violent man, filled with hate and fuelled with drugs, but with the patience and deviousness to bide his time and plot his revenge. Jimmy Meegan was so much more than the violent knuckle-dragger he’d been dismissed as.

  ‘So he decided to go out in a blaze of glory?’

  ‘Seems so. Apparently, he did a line of coke right there on the coffee table. His mum objected and got a punch for her trouble.’ Sutton looked pained.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He was mumbling something about “taking that bastard Jones” with him. That was when he told his mum to call you and get you to come over. She refused, even after he slapped her around a few times.’ He paused. ‘She was a brave woman.

  ‘In the end, Jimmy realised that he couldn’t beat her into doing what he wanted, so he fetched a knife from the kitchen and threatened to stab PC Lederer. That was when she folded and called you.’

  Warren closed his eyes. He’d replayed the recording of her phone call a dozen times. Her voice had been grumbly. Had that been a note of fear? What was that sound, just audible in the background with the volume turned up to maximum? He remembered the thrill of excitement as she’d asked him to come around. Was that why he’d raced around there without back up? Should he have asked to speak to the Family Liaison Officer first?

  Warren was too tired to hide his thoughts from his friend.

  ‘I’ve heard the recording, Warren. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to suggest he was with her. Why would you have called ahead?’

  Warren said nothing, not trusting himself to speak.

  ‘After she’d phoned you, Jimmy tied his mum to the chair and stabbed PC Lederer. Obviously the wound wasn’t fatal, but there was plenty of blood and the lad had enough sense about him to play dead. Jimmy went out on the balcony and Lederer said he heard a loud scraping noise, I guess he must have been lining up those big plant pots. Then he left the flat for a few minutes. Presumably that’s when he moved that discarded furniture around to make sure you parked directly beneath the flat window.’

  Sutton paused, struggling briefly to keep his composure.

  ‘He was a wanted man, with blood staining his shirt, dragging old furniture around the parking area in broad daylight, and not one person picked up the phone.’

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘Lederer reckoned Jimmy mustn’t have tied Mary up properly, but she wasn’t quick enough to escape. He came through the door seconds too early.’ Sutton sighed. ‘It’s all guesswork from here in; whether or not he was planning to kill himself in the end is anyone’s guess. Either way, he stabbed his mother and the rest we know.’

  * * *

  Warren’s phone rang. ‘It’s your wife, sir.’

  Suddenly the thought of going home to his wife’s comforting embrace was the one thing he wanted most in the world. But he couldn’t. There was too much to do. Wasn’t there? He looked through the window again. Tony Sutton sat grim-faced back at his desk, looking as if he couldn’t decide whether to hit something or to cry; beside him, David Hutchinson was thumping away at his computer keyboard, keeping himself busy, needing to feel as if he was doing something.

  ‘Tell her I’ll be home as soon as I can.’

  ‘Umm, she’s already on her way up.’

  * * *

  Susan finally succeeded where others hadn’t and after a half-hearted argument had driven Warren home to bed, where despite everything he had passed out within minutes of arriving.

  It hadn’t lasted long though, and despite Susan’s protestations he’d been back at his desk by early afternoon, if not rested, then at least able to function again.

  The phone rang and Warren snatched it up, eager for a distraction.

  ‘I had a feeling you’d be at your desk. I don’t suppose it’s worth telling you to go home?’ Professor Jordan was hardly in a position to talk; Warren knew for a fact that he’d been in the morgue since the night before.

  ‘What have you got, Ryan?’

  He heard the shuffling of papers down the phone. ‘I have preliminary findings for all three of the deceased.’

  The American’s cool clinical tones were a balm, helping Warren to detach himself from the news he was receiving.

  ‘I’ll give you the highlights then email you the remainder of the report. First, Mary Meegan: I believe it likely that she was dead from a stab wound to the heart before she had the chance to inhale significant amounts of smoke. The pattern of the cut matches the blade of a bloodied kitchen knife retrieved from Mr Meegan’s body.

  ‘As for Mr Meegan, immediate cause of death was massive trauma to the cranium consistent with a fall of several storeys, head first. There were also fresh, second-degree burns to his lower body, both pre- and post-mortem, caused by the melting of nylon football shorts.’

  Warren hoped w
ith every fibre of his being that Jimmy Meegan’s last few moments had been filled with excruciating pain.

  ‘A presumptive test on residue inside Mr Meegan’s nostrils was positive for cocaine. Damage to the septum of his nose and an abnormally fatty liver indicate long-term drug and alcohol abuse.’

  ‘What about Gary?’

  Jordan’s professional façade slipped slightly.

  ‘Cause of death was significant trauma, consistent with a high velocity impact by a large, heavy object.’ He cleared his throat. ‘In my opinion, he died instantly. There was nothing you could have done, Warren.’

  Warren thanked him and hung up.

  ‘Nothing I could have done,’ he repeated quietly.

  If only he could believe that.

  Chapter 83

  Warren had to get out of the office. No matter how he positioned his chair, he could still see Hastings’ empty desk through the window. Going home again was out of the question. What would he do? Watch TV? Read a book? Make small talk with his wife? He had to feel that he was accomplishing something, no matter how small.

  Pete Robertson’s report from the previous evening sat in his inbox; he’d been going to ask Gary to follow up on it. Ignoring the fresh surge of emotion, he forced himself to open it.

  The person that had coerced Goldie Davenport into taking the explosive pictures and then sent them in an email to Tommy Meegan had been the catalyst for the whole affair. Warren felt certain that Tommy had confronted Jimmy over the images and the result had been catastrophic. Jimmy Meegan had ended up killing his own brother. Had that been the aim of the sender? Regardless of the blackmailer’s intentions – or their culpability in the eyes of the law – the result had been the death of Tommy Meegan and the complete unravelling of Jimmy Meegan’s already dangerously unstable mind. And ultimately the death of Gary Hastings.

  Warren was in no doubt; the blood that had covered Warren’s hands as he sat next to the body of his friend and colleague also stained the blackmailer’s.

  Looking through the window, he could see Tony Sutton. The older man was leaning back in his chair, staring into space, his back to Hastings’ desk. He looked as broken as Warren felt. Sutton had been at Middlesbury for years before Warren’s arrival. Despite his sometimes rough exterior, he’d spoken on more than one occasion of the pleasure he got from mentoring junior colleagues. His calm, dispassionate demeanour as he’d finally persuaded Warren to leave the scene of Hastings’ murder had broken as soon as they had returned to CID. When he’d returned from the bathroom, his eyes were reddened and his voice gruff.

  Warren clambered to his feet, a renewed sense of purpose manifesting itself as a sudden surge of energy. Taking one last swig of the cold coffee next to the computer, he grabbed his suit jacket.

  ‘Tony, get your car keys. Let’s wrap this up.’

  * * *

  The trip down the A1 took barely thirty minutes. Neither man said a word, the silence eloquent in its own way.

  According to Pete Robertson, the email had been sent from a computer situated in an internet café. Even in these days of a smartphone in every pocket, free public WiFi and cheap home broadband, more than half of the twenty PCs were occupied.

  An expensive-looking coffee machine and a chiller cabinet kept the clientele watered, fed and caffeinated. Warren sniffed appreciatively at the air, but his hands were already shaking slightly and he didn’t think any more coffee would be a good idea.

  The middle-aged man behind the counter was so engrossed in his smartphone that Sutton had to clear his throat twice to get his attention. He didn’t even attempt to hide his irritation at the interruption.

  Warren flashed his warrant card. ‘I’d like to speak to the owner, please.’

  The man’s expression didn’t change. ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re trying to identify a customer that we believe used your premises a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Got a warrant?’

  ‘No, is that a problem?’

  ‘I value my customers’ privacy.’

  The man’s arrogance grated on Warren’s nerves and he forced himself to breathe deeply before he responded. Beside him, he could feel Sutton shifting.

  ‘I can get a warrant if necessary, but that will take time and I would appreciate it if you can help us now,’ said Warren.

  ‘No can do. It’s against policy.’

  Sutton leaned over the desk and Warren braced himself; he’d felt Sutton’s anger radiating off him all the way down.

  To his surprise, Sutton’s tone was calm, his voice low as if imparting confidential information that he didn’t want anyone to overhear.

  ‘We understand that, sir. However, time is of the essence. We believe the person used your premises to send images which are of interest to a major, ongoing investigation. I’m sure that the last thing you want is for your business to be associated with such… unpleasantness.’

  The man stared at him for a moment, before his eyes widened slightly.

  ‘My God,’ he whispered. ‘I would never… I mean, we don’t monitor our customers’ usage. We have filters obviously to block those sorts of sites and of course we’d report anyone who you know…’ The man was starting to flap and Warren silently applauded Sutton’s skill; he’d merely let the man’s imagination do all the work.

  Suddenly the man couldn’t be more helpful.

  Warren passed over a heavily redacted copy of the report from Pete Robertson. ‘Is this your IP address?’

  The man fished a pair of small reading glasses from his pocket and squinted at the sequence of digits. He nodded.

  ‘Would you be able to tell me which computer the person was using?’

  ‘No, that IP address serves the whole café.’

  ‘Would you be able to tell me the names of the customers that were using the café at the time the email was sent?’

  The man thought for a moment. ‘Maybe. These days a lot of people pay by card. I might have a record of that.’

  He turned to his computer and clicked the mouse a few times.

  ‘Here we are. Twelve of the computers were in use at the time. Seven were paid for by credit card and the rest cash. Before you ask, no we don’t keep a list of names for the people who pay money.’

  ‘But you have the credit card numbers?’

  ‘Partials, but I’m sure the bank can confirm them.’

  Warren made a note to get Hastings to chase that lead, before remembering why they were there. He pushed away the fresh surge of grief. It was unlikely that their blackmailer had used a credit card.

  ‘Do you have CCTV?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘Of course.’ The owner gestured towards a rather ostentatious ceiling camera in the far corner slowly panning across the room. It was mounted so that it could see the faces of everyone sitting at a computer, but not what was displayed on their screens. He licked his lips and leant forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘That’s just for show, the real one is above the front door.’

  ‘We’ll need to see the footage from this date.’

  * * *

  The images on the screen were full colour, but poor quality. None of the faces of the customers already present in the café eight minutes before the email was sent were familiar and Warren worried that the individual who physically sent the email might not be their actual target. If the blackmailer had gone to all the trouble of using an internet café, stripping the images from one anonymous email and copying them to a new, anonymous message, they might have been careful enough to pay a stranger to do their dirty work for them.

  The person just entering the café wore a shapeless hoody with a baseball cap pulled low. Aware of the ceiling camera, they took care to conceal their face as they paid cash to the bored owner. Head bowed, the new target walked briskly to a PC in the furthest corner, turning the chair slightly, to avoid facing the ceiling camera – and in so doing looked straight at the hidden doorway camera.

  ‘Bastard,’ breathed Sutton.

 
Chapter 84

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  The other man said nothing, staring into the distance. He was no fool. He knew it was over. The moment Warren and Sutton had appeared at his door it must have been obvious.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Don’t play me for a fool.’

  The conversation should have been taking place in an interview room under caution, legal representation present at the very least. But he’d said he wanted to speak to Warren privately, that he wanted an opportunity to set the record straight before he cooperated fully.

  Sutton disagreed, but Warren overruled him.

  ‘I thought I could finish them off.’ The man’s voice was bitter.

  ‘Who, the BAP?’

  He nodded. ‘I thought I had what I needed. Everything necessary to take the bastards down. To rip them apart.’ His tone was clipped, and for the first time since they’d started speaking, he made eye contact with Warren.

  ‘Why? What was so special about the BAP that you had to take such a risk?’

  ‘They were different.’ His eyes searched Warren’s. ‘Tommy Meegan was different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He was clever. Old school racism won’t get you supporters beyond the usual idiots and inbreds; they’re a dying breed, they’re marginalised. The battle isn’t won, but these guys will just disappear eventually.

  ‘Meegan understood this. That’s why he was shifting their focus, following the trend. He knew that Islamophobia struck a chord with a broader swathe of the public and that he could use it as a smokescreen for other, more violent, activities. The party faithful largely accepted that – you’ve heard them speak, if you didn’t know better you’d think it was all about Islam. But scratch the surface and they haven’t changed. They’re as dangerous as before. More so in fact.’

  ‘So you decided to take him out.’

  ‘No! That was never the plan.’ His tone turned imploring. ‘You have to believe me.’

  ‘Convince me.’ Warren’s tone was flat; no hint of a compromise.

  ‘The BAP was already straining at the seams. Tommy was their leader, but many didn’t agree with the path he was following and felt that they were being sold out. They didn’t have the patience to play the long game. Lots of their supporters had defected from other organisations precisely because they were getting too political and many felt that Tommy Meegan was starting to go down that route. Openly sharing Facebook posts from non-white anti-Muslim groups because they advanced the cause was a betrayal to some. Tommy believed in the old saying “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”. Not everyone in the BAP was that nuanced.’