The Common Enemy

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘Including Jimmy?’

  ‘Yeah. Apparently Tommy had tried to make him see sense; to persuade him that to survive they had to look to the future. But he was definitely old school. It all got pretty nasty. Besides, Jimmy had always been a bit of a nutter, and the Colombian marching powder was making him even worse.’

  ‘So why not just let them tear themselves apart?’

  ‘It wasn’t enough. If we’d left them to it, the BAP might have split, but there was no guarantee. We’ve seen it before, loads of times. These groups are always fragmenting and merging; it’s why there are hardly any good acronyms left.’

  Warren ignored the weak attempt at levity.

  ‘What was needed was a way to destroy their credibility in the eyes of their followers, otherwise they’d just go and form a new party and we’d be back to square one. If Tommy’s flirtation with Sikhs Against Jihadis became public knowledge it would have left him high and dry, but then Jimmy would be in the driving seat, and nobody wanted that.’

  ‘So what did you do?’ Warren wanted his version of events.

  ‘I came across some incriminating photos of Jimmy.’

  ‘Where from? What was the source?’

  ‘An anonymous email.’

  ‘What were the photographs?’

  ‘You’ve seen them.’

  ‘Jimmy’s gay.’

  ‘Yeah, you know the sort, “the man he doth protest too much”. The BAP might not be campaigning overtly against homosexuals at the moment, but they still hate them. I figured that if Tommy knew Jimmy was gay, he’d use it to discredit him, then both factions of the BAP would collapse.’

  Warren was incredulous.

  ‘Or they could come to some sort of détente; they both know each other’s dirty little secrets and it binds them together and makes them even stronger.’

  The man looked down at his feet, his cheeks colouring. ‘I misjudged them. I thought they hated each other too much for that to happen.’

  ‘No, you misjudged one of them. You were right about Jimmy’s hatred but you underestimated Tommy. Tommy proposed a truce. He blackmailed Jimmy into keeping quiet about Tommy’s conspiracy with Sikhs Against Jihadis, by promising not to say anything about the photographs. But that just gave Jimmy two reasons to hate his brother.’ Warren locked eyes with him. ‘You signed Tommy Meegan’s death warrant the moment that you sent him those photos and, in the process, you almost started a bloody race war. If word had got out about that Kirpan being the murder weapon, every gurdwara in the country could have been at risk.’

  The man opposite said nothing. What could he say?

  ‘And you signed Gary Hastings’ death warrant at the same time.’

  It was the first time Warren had said it out loud.

  For the first time there was fire in the voice of the man opposite him. ‘No, that’s not fair. There was the no way I could have seen that coming.’

  ‘That’s the whole fucking point!’ Suddenly Warren was yelling. ‘You threw a bloody hand grenade into a crowded room and now you’re claiming all the unintended consequences were just collateral damage? It doesn’t work that way. You don’t get to sidestep your responsibility for what happened the way you’ve been sidestepping all the other rules.’

  ‘Oh, get off your fucking high horse, Warren. What rules were you following when you raced around to Mary Meegan’s flat without back up? Her son, a known killer and coke-head, is on the loose with nowhere else to go and you don’t think for one second that he might be waiting for you? Why didn’t you call the Family Liaison Officer that’s been posted there all week?’ He mimicked picking up a telephone handset. ‘Hello? Is that the FLO? You haven’t seen that fucking psycho Jimmy, have you? Do you reckon I should bring an armed unit around?’ His lip curled. ‘The death of that lad is at least as much your responsibility as mine.’

  It was as if the man had clambered inside Warren’s head and taken the voice that hadn’t stopped whispering since yesterday and run it through a loudspeaker. Warren felt himself recoil physically, he leant back against the wall, not trusting his legs to bear his weight.

  ‘I’m sorry. That was a low blow. I didn’t mean it.’

  Whether he’d meant it or not, it didn’t matter. The sentiment was out there and could never be taken back.

  Warren had heard enough. He no longer trusted himself to speak. He no longer trusted himself not to hit the man. And keep on hitting him.

  ‘Inspector Theodore Garfield, you are under arrest…’

  Monday 11th August

  Chapter 85

  The day of Gary Hastings’ funeral was, Warren felt, inappropriately warm and sunny. When an older person dies, after a long and fulfilling life, a nice, sunny send-off seems appropriate. The weather today should be grey, miserable and overcast. There was nothing to celebrate.

  It had been ten days since the cataclysmic events on the Chequers estate – nine since the fall of Theo Garfield – and Warren hadn’t stopped. It was his own choice of course, everyone from the Chief Constable down to Tony Sutton had told him to take time off, to deal with his grief properly. But he hadn’t dared to, for fear that if he stopped, or even slowed, he’d lose the momentum necessary to finish the job. And he owed Gary that much.

  Warren had worked hand-in-hand with the CPS and Professional Standards to ensure that Garfield would get everything that he deserved. The lawyers were still arguing over whether they could push for manslaughter, but misconduct in a public office and perverting the course of justice were all but guaranteed. Whether the recording Tony Sutton had made of Warren’s confrontation with Garfield would be admissible in court was still a point of debate, but the Home Secretary’s signature on the warrant authorising it would carry a lot of weight. It didn’t really matter, Garfield had largely confessed to everything during a formal interview with Professional Standards, including eventually admitting to blackmailing Davenport to take the photographs.

  Pete Robertson had uncovered evidence that the email containing the incriminating photos of Jimmy Meegan had been deleted from Tommy Meegan’s phone around the time that Warren and Garfield had retrieved it from his flat. Garfield had yet to admit to tampering with the phone, but Warren could think of no other explanation.

  In his halting, rambling attempt to justify his actions, Garfield had admitted to living a lie. He’d described how he’d down-played the extent of the racial abuse that he’d been forced to endure every day of his childhood; experiences that left a burning, visceral hatred for the far-right thugs who’d made his childhood so miserable. He’d been telling the truth when he told Warren of the talk he’d attended by the force’s race relations representative. But he’d left out the bit where he’d found himself pouring out his heart to an increasingly concerned Greater Manchester Police recruitment officer, who had eventually suggested that joining the GMP might not be the best way to work out those demons.

  ‘I guess they were worried that I was unstable; that the first time I came up against a bit of racial abuse I’d whip out my baton and handcuffs and mete out some justice. So I went away and reinvented myself, hiding my anger behind the famous Scouse wit. I applied to Merseyside to ensure that I didn’t meet the same recruitment officer – and here I am.’

  Warren couldn’t care less. The lawyers were confident that Garfield would see the inside of a jail cell for at least a short period and of course his career was over. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do.

  In related events, Goldie Davenport was facing a slew of charges relating to his unprovoked bottle attack on the Asian youth in Romford, whilst Bellies Brandon had done exactly as Warren and Hastings had feared and marched around to his estranged wife’s house. He, too, was now facing assault charges. The CPS was deciding whether to charge Paige Brandon and Annabel Creasy over their lies.

  The funeral of Jimmy Meegan had been held a few days before. He had no more family left to attend and the fatal body blow he’d dealt to the British Allegiance Party had ensured th
at none of his former friends had turned up to pay their respects. He’d been cremated in a private ceremony, attended only by the undertaker and the council officials leading the ceremony; his ashes would doubtless end up on a shelf, unclaimed, until they were quietly disposed of in a few decades’ time. A fitting end, Warren felt.

  His mother, Mary Meegan had fared a little better, with a few friends from her social club in attendance. As she’d not expressed any wishes to the contrary, she was buried in the same plot as her late husband. PC Lederer, the Family Liaison Officer who’d spent so much time with her said it was a shame that she’d be spending eternity with him.

  * * *

  Warren had arrived at the small Methodist chapel that the Hastings family had worshipped at for generations just a few minutes before the service was due to start. His plan had been to slip in at the back, to stay as short a time as was polite, then leave Karen and Gary’s family to their private grief. As their senior officer it was unthinkable that he wouldn’t attend, but he knew that he had no right to be there.

  An internal investigation into the events of that night would almost certainly exonerate him and his decisions, but he knew that he had screwed up. What had he been thinking, racing around to the mother of a violent murderer without back up? Then parking in the only available space, directly below the Meegans’ balcony. How stupid had he been? Garfield’s accusation still rang in his ears and had haunted his dreams since.

  And why had he let Gary stay in the car to take that call? He should have told him to save his personal business for when he was off-duty and forced him to get out at the same time. Then perhaps Warren would simply be awaiting the repair of the car’s windscreen, not trying to work out what to do with the vehicle once his friend’s blood and brain matter had been cleaned out of the upholstery. He couldn’t imagine ever driving it again, yet simply scrapping it seemed disrespectful somehow, given that Gary had died in it.

  Unfortunately, Warren’s plan to maintain a low profile was scuppered. The funeral cortege had yet to arrive and the congregation was still standing outside the main entrance in small groups, a sea of black clothing interspersed with flashes of silver from the rank insignia on dress uniforms. Several minibuses worth of colleagues had driven the 100 miles to Gary’s home town to show their support. In amongst the mourners he also spied Imam Mehmud, in muted conversation with an older, Sikh man and ACC Naseem.

  Over the past few days, Susan had been his rock, even as she fought her own battles. Two days previously she had called her mother. Her voice firm but not raised, she’d told her that if nothing else, the last few days had demonstrated that life was too short for such silliness and that if she wanted to be a part of her future grandchild’s life the door would remain unlocked and that Bernice could decide whether or not to walk through it. And then, dry-eyed, she’d hung up. Warren couldn’t find the words he needed, but his hug had said everything he felt.

  Taking a deep breath, Warren retrieved his cap and stepped out of the passenger seat, tugging his uniform into shape. His polished shoes scrunched on the gravel driveway. Immediately the conversations dried up. Warren swallowed hard; a wave of nausea passed over him and he felt a little light-headed.

  First to approach him was Tony Sutton and his wife Marie; Sutton shook his hand firmly, whilst Marie gave him a big hug. After Marie had moved onto Susan, Sutton lowered his voice.

  ‘How are you?’

  Warren didn’t trust himself to speak.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault. You must believe that. The inquest will show that you acted in good faith and couldn’t have foreseen what would happen.’

  Before Warren could reply, his hand was grabbed by both the Chief Constable and the Assistant Chief Constable in quick succession; and so it continued. Handshake after handshake, he slowly made his way to the main entrance, every step making him feel more and more like an intruder, an imposter. It was as if he was the one who had been bereaved, as if his part in the whole affair was that of the victim, rather than the man making the decisions that led to Gary’s death.

  The torturous procession was cut short by the announcement from the police officers holding back the press at the front gate that the hearse was due any moment. Susan’s hand felt warm against Warren’s clammy skin.

  The gleaming car was covered in wreaths, the wooden coffin inside barely visible. The priest stepped forward to greet the undertakers. Another grind of gravel signalled the arrival of the rest of the cortege. Warren took a deep breath; this was the bit he’d dreaded most.

  Warren and Sutton had visited Karen at her and Gary’s flat the day after she had been discharged from hospital. It wasn’t either man’s first visit to the family of a dead colleague, but it was certainly the hardest. Karen had been so spaced out that the two men had spent less than twenty minutes with her before withdrawing and leaving her with her parents and Gary’s, who weren’t doing much better.

  The passing of the past few days had aged Hardwick, but the glassy stare had gone. Warren braced himself; the denial phase had passed, what came next? Anger? It was impossible to tell behind her dark glasses. The slim, black dress was obviously pre-pregnancy, but even if Karen had started to fill out at this early stage, the weight she had lost over the past days had more than compensated for it; at least she hadn’t been forced to go dress shopping for her fiancé’s funeral because their unborn baby was making its presence obvious. As she stepped out of the car her mother took her elbow protectively. Again, Susan squeezed Warren’s hand, as if lending him some of her strength. He felt sick.

  ‘Karen…’ he started, the sudden dryness of his mouth making his tongue feel swollen and clumsy.

  ‘DCI Jones?’ The question came from the other side of the limousine – Hastings’ parents. He remembered them from the home visit and again he was struck by the similarity of Gary to his father. The men were almost precisely the same height and build; take away the grey and the laughter lines and Gary could have been standing in front of him. But, the question hadn’t come from the father. Warren turned to Hastings’ mother. He braced himself for the onslaught. It was nothing less than he deserved, and if it would make them feel just a little bit better he’d stand there and let them scream at him until they were hoarse.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Had he misheard?

  ‘Thank you. My boy didn’t die alone.’ Her voice trembled. ‘You were with him.’ She looked over at DSI Grayson. ‘John told me that you wouldn’t let go of his hand until they made you get to safety.’

  Warren couldn’t say anything.

  ‘Can we ask you to do something for us – for Gary? He always spoke so highly of you, it’s what he would have wanted.’ Now Gary’s father had found his own voice, the exact same voice that Gary had. Warren nodded numbly, how could he say no?

  And so, minutes later, Warren found himself lock-step with Tony Sutton, behind Hastings’ father and the school friend Detective Sergeant Gary Hastings had asked to be his best man less than twelve hours before he died, walking deliberately slowly so not to disturb the coffin balanced upon his shoulder.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing a book is never a solo endeavour and it is always a great pleasure to give credit to those who have helped me. In the first instance, my ever patient beta readers Dad and Cheryl, whose eagle eyes and thoughtful suggestions immeasurably improve the first draft of anything that I hand them.

  Legal process is at the heart of any police procedural, and as always my favourite lawyers Caroline and Dan are never more than a Facebook message away to advise me – any mistakes are of course all mine!

  Lee, my friendly crime scene investigator, remains a fascinating source of war stories, many of which are too fantastic to commit to paper. You quite literally couldn’t make up some of the stuff he’s seen!

  One of the things I find difficult (as my beta readers will attest!) is choosing character names; therefore I am very grateful to Jeff Tufnail for his generous donation to the Clic Sargent
Get in Character charity auction – we got there in the end and I hope Laura likes her cameo!

  Useful feedback from Juliet on the first draft changed the tone of the story dramatically and improved it immensely; again my heartfelt thanks.

  My thanks also go out to Professor Niamh Nic Daéid, Professor of Forensic Science at the University of Dundee. A fascinating conversation at Theakston Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival in Harrogate left me with some very interesting story ideas…

  Racism and Islamophobia are at the heart of this story. Researching these subjects as I wrote this story was an eye-opening experience to say the least; unpleasant, anger-inducing and (very occasionally) darkly humorous. Yet it is a topic that I have wanted to explore for a long time, and I hope I have done it justice. Many thanks therefore to my friend Charlie, for his invaluable personal insights into far-right extremism in Britain today.

  Editing can make or break a novel, and as always my thanks go out to Clio Cornish and the team at HQ digital for all of their hard work. Thanks guys!

  And finally to my readers. Your kind support and feedback over the past few years has given me the confidence to continue writing; so many kind people have told me that they were looking forward to reading more about Warren and his team, and so I hope it doesn’t disappoint.

  Best wishes,

  Paul Gitsham July2018

  If you enjoyed The Common Enemy, keep reading for a sneak peek at The Last Straw, the first book in the DCI Warren Jones series, available to download now.