“Dan, you are full of what-ifs. Along with some other things.”
“It’s something, Eva. And I gave it to you free of charge. I’m going to help you, no matter what you and the brat say behind my back.”
Eva drained her glass and stood up.
“If you insist. But Dan, just please don’t crack up on me. Not now. Not on this case.”
“You’re all heart. I’ll remember those loving words while I fall asleep on the sofa.”
Eva walked away before Dan could say another word. She was too drunk to argue. She trudged up the stairs full of woozy worries. While she and Dan looked into skinhead Joe, Jess could be kept busy checking up on Peter Serge. Now her mission was to locate Dave Coulson while keeping Dan sane enough not to cause more problems. Damn, why the hell had she drunk so much? If Dan’s idea was right, with only two days to go, she didn’t have the time to waste in hangovers. And besides, like Dan said. No matter how bad she felt about her failings, Peter Serge had to be stopped.
Twelve
They were sitting in the creased, worn black leather interior of Dan’s has-been Jag. Eva was hung over. She looked as worn out as the car, but Dan refrained from rubbing it in. They were waiting for the enemy, and Dan was too tense for much levity. They listened to the local BBC Radio Essex to get updates on the local by-election story. The radio said Burton and UKFirst were set for a landslide victory in the by-election. They said UKFirst were nine percent ahead of their Conservative rivals. Of all the towns in the nation, it seemed Southend was going to be awarded the shame of putting the first fascist in parliament.
“If UKFirst actually wins, I’m going to have to move away.” said Eva. It was mid-morning now, as they sat in Dan’s old Jag. Dan nodded and didn’t say that she looked like shit. He knew she knew that already.
“If he wins I’m going to buy a rifle,” said Dan.
“Nice, Dan. It sounds pleasant in your world. But I wouldn’t like to visit. No offence, and all.”
“None taken. Most of the time the world’s pretty cool. But not with scum like this around. Hey, look at him. I told you it wasn’t all one way action.” He saw a trio of motley faces walking close together heading for the pub. Dan squinted at them. He couldn’t be sure. Not yet.
The Jag was in a bay of parked cars outside a parade of old, run-down shops beside the quiet Prittlewell training station. Their position was discreet, set back from the main drag and at an angle to the rushing traffic. Dan was happy that his has-been Jag was a better hideout than Eva’s bright red Alfa. Across the busy road was the red and brown tiled façade of The Railway Tavern, the makeshift campaign headquarters of UKFirst. One of the men walking towards the pub was fat, his barrel like body difficult for him to propel in his over-tight suit, while one of the thinner men was limping. The man furthest away had some marks on his face. Dan saw Eva squint to see the extent of their injuries.
“So that’s what you did to the other guys.”
“Yeah. They got off light. Next time, they’ll be in for a real fight. Good news, Eva. You see that tall one?”
Eva nodded. “Yes, I see him.”
“I’m sure that’s Joe. He left the pub just before it all kicked off.
The mission was pure and simple in Dan’s mind. With less than two days to go before the big vote, they had to find Joe and his boys, hoping they were as big a liability as Peter Serge dreaded. They also had to hope that the ‘boys’ and Coulson knew more about the attack on Jerry Burton then they let on. If so, it was case closed. But for Dan, the case went beyond locating the attacker. It went deep down into his core. He was out for revenge. Peter Serge barely knew the power he had over Dan. The scars of the battle with Victor Marka had gone deep, and for some reason Dan couldn’t quite grasp- maybe it was the sense of evil, maybe it was the vindictive staring eyes – for some reason Peter Serge caused Dan to feel an incapacitating fear. It was why he froze in the pub, why he took such a hiding from average fighters he would usually have pasted, and why he was back so soon to take a second shot. To wipe away the memory of failure. Dan felt ashamed. He had fought as hard as the fear would let him, but he had all but run from the pub with his tail between his legs. Yes, he hurt men on the way. Yes, noses were broken, heads were busted, and some skinhead egos cracked. But Dan had lost, and he knew it. A second chance to overcome his fear, to brutalise the people who had made him feel weakness, the chance to face up to Peter Serge and win – Dan wanted all of it, and he wanted it as quickly as possible so the memory of his current weakness would fade to black. Today was about staying in the game, keeping his dignity… and maybe saving his own sanity.
“You know the place. This is your play. What’s the plan?”
“Oh, you must be feeling bad if you’re asking me what the plan is. Eva Mastermind Roberts, asks Dan what the plan is…”
“Dan. Leave it… and tell me.”
“Okey doke! Simple. It’s all about Joe. You stay here and sober up some more. Myself, I need a little hair of the dog.”
“Dan...”
Dan opened the door and got out into the bright windy day. He slammed the door on Eva calling his name a second time and started the walk towards the boozer he’d left in a hurry yesterday. Today was another day. He was gambling that Peter Serge thought his political career too important to waste on being an 11 o’clock breakfast drinker in The Railway. Evidently, Joe and his chums were not so ambitious.
Dan crossed the road and again took the left-hand entrance - opposite to the one the suited skinheads seemed to like best. He kept subtle and quiet, pushing the door gently against the frame. He saw the pretty barmaid waiting to greet her early customer. When she saw Dan’s face, her smile sank like a hot coal in a bucket of cold water. Dan put out both his palms in a stop gesture, and smiled at her just as the manly banter restarted in the room next door.
“Hold on. It’s okay. I’m leaving. No trouble, I promise,” he said.
The look on the barmaid’s face was confused and cautious. She glanced in the direction of the other bar. Dan thought she looked worried, and he needed to diffuse it before she blew the whistle on him.
“You trashed the place, yesterday,” said the barmaid. Her tone was quiet. It was guarded and conversational. Dan gathered she was in two minds whether to let the gang know that their favourite punch bag was back.
“I think I was the one who got trashed, don’t you?”
The girl said nothing, then gave a subtle nod.
“Hey! Can we get some drinks round here or what?” said one of the skinheads next door.
“You’d better go. Now, or there’ll be trouble,” said the girl.
Dan pulled out a twenty pound note from his pocket, and folded it in half.
“I’m trying to help someone. Just tell me about the tall one in there, tell me anything you know as quickly as you can. The one called Joe.”
The girl looked at the money, she didn’t touch it. Then she nodded again and gently tugged the note from Dan’s fingers. “Coming boys! Give me a sec!” she called, the she leaned over the bar.
“You’re stupid, you know.”
“I think I’ll have my money back.”
“No. I’ll tell you what I know, but you’re stupid all the same. They’re dangerous. You should know that now. All I know is that Joe is one of the chiefs rather than the Indians. He doesn’t live round here, either. He lives round Basildon way, I think.”
“I need more if you’re going to keep that twenty. Tell me anything else you can think of.”
“He works at a food packing plant. He’s one of the shift managers. That’s in Basildon too. That’s all I know.”
“Is that it?”
The girl nodded. “I told you everything. That’s it. Go now.” The barmaid walked away quickly through the behind-bar arch to the opposite bar, but she was too late. The skinhead goon with the big body leaned into the empty bar to make a quip at the barmaid’s expense. His mouth hung open, ready to vent, then it stopped. His fac
e changed the moment he saw Dan. Dan looked at the big man. Thankfully the big man was effectively a sizeable barrier to stop his friends making their own entrance.
“Nice to see you again, Porky,” said Dan. “You know, I was thirsty for a minute, but I changed my mind.” Dan pushed away from the bar. Slowly, he began to walk to the exit. Porky took a second to think things through, then he put out a shout.
“Hey boys! Guess who’s back?”
Before Dan was through the exit, the other two men were looking over Porky’s shoulder.
“Unbelievable! He’s come back for some more.” The fat man got pushed through into the empty bar like wet soap squeezing through a fist. As the door closed behind him, Dan heard the barmaid shouting “If you start fighting again, I’ll call the police.” Dan crossed the road, walking quickly towards the black Jag. He heard the door hinges groan open behind him, and heard the voices of the skinhead boys carry on the wind.
“Come back for seconds, have you?”
The old fire surged up in Dan’s stomach and chest. But these men were zeroes. They were brutes hiding behind symbols of fear, and Dan had never been afraid of bullies. With anger rising in him, tempting him, the pain in his body had all but faded. Dan turned and looked at them while cars streamed between them left and right.
“You’re a bunch of cranks. Sick little cranks. Like perverts. Or paedophiles. What you say, what you do, who you are – it’s all wrong from top to bottom. One day someone is going to trample you into the ground. I just hope I’m the one to do it.” Dan caught some movement in the distance. From the right, walking from the direction of the Council Headquarters was another group of suited men marching in a tight-knit diamond of four. He squinted against the wind and checked off the faces he recognised from yesterday’s battle. Yes, all of them. One of them was shorter than the rest. It was Peter Serge, his Adolf Hitler hair flapping in the wind like a black sail, his suit billowing likewise. The fire in Dan’s belly was snuffed out, ice-cold, and his emotions lurching from excitement to hyper-tension. Dan turned away, and the trio looked to see what Dan had seen. They saw their comrades.
“He’s a chicken shit. Look at him. He’s terrified. Aint’cha. He’s scared of Serge.”
The others laughed. “Serge has done it again.”
Dan heard the laughter. It hurt badly. But most of all, what hurt Dan, was the undeniable truth of it all. His worst fear had been realised. They’d seen his fear, they’d guessed its source, and now his weakness was public for all to see. Dan had the information he needed on Joe. But trembling with shame and indignation, Dan wondered if he had ever felt this low before in the whole of his life. It took him a whole second to remember that he had. He’d felt suicidal back in a dungeon in Shad Thames where evil men had all but crushed him. As the laughter continued he lifted up his hand and looked at the sore, still-healing stump where just four months back there had been a whole finger. As they laughed, he relived the searing pain. Eva opened the door and stood up, her red mane flowing in the breeze. “Dan, get in the car. They’re coming over. Get in the car now.”
Dan looked at Eva and felt as if he’d been exposed as weak and useless. He’d always protected her, but now he needed protecting.
He got in the car and locked the doors. He started the engine and turned the car in a screeching arc and headed away, speeding down a residential street. The mockery was distant now. But in Dan’s head it was louder than ever.
“Eva. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
“Yes I do. That was it right there. That was the lowest point in my life.” He remembered cartoons with Popeye The Sailor Man. In his quiet despair Dan smiled, recalling Popeye’s line, “I can’t stands no more.” Dan felt like that. If he was ever going to survive to have any kind of life at all, if Eva was going to respect him ever again, this had to be the end of fearing Peter Serge. It had to be. Death was a better alternative to cowardice.
Thirteen
They left the backstreets of Southend and drove past two distinct crowds gathered outside the public square beneath the Civic Centre tower. The crowds were no louder than their numbers suggested. One crowd was full of Union Jack flags, bomber jackets, zip-up fleeces and the sword bearing crest of the UKFirst party. The other was full of banners and placards with slogans like No Nazis In Southend. For Eva it was reminiscent of scenes they’d lived through in London; the anti-capitalist and anti-Iraq war marches and riots of the early noughties. But this was happening in Southend. It seemed unreal, yet here it was. Eva noticed Dan shaking his head as he drove the clanky old Jag past the crowds down Victoria Avenue. Eva peered up at Parkita House, and momentarily remembering the time she nearly cheated on Dan with a man who was not who he seemed. It was about time they pulled those bloody buildings down.
“Are you okay, now?” said Eva, looking for the right words.
“Of course I’m bloody okay. I’m always okay.”
She looked at his dark eyes but they flicked away to face the road.
“Look, you’ve got what, a day and a half tops then this election starts. Forget about me. Let’s concentrate on the case. The way I see it if the boy stays unharmed you’ve done the best part of the job.”
“Not really, Dan. And you know that. I really need to find out who attacked Jerry Burton.”
He nodded. “Only because you think you know who did it already, and you want the bastard finished. Same here.”
Eva shook her head. “No. I want to do it because that’s what we said we’d do, and no matter what filthy hateful scum we are dealing with here, I won’t let anyone throw me off course. If we let them do it, then what happens when some else tries the same thing? No. We’ve got to nail this.”
Dan looked over at Eva.
“What?” she said.
“Are you trying to make a point?”
“What point?”
“That you won’t let anyone throw you off course, but I will…? Is that it?”
“No. Not at all. You’re being paranoid Dan.” Instantly she regretted saying that word, but it was too late.
“Paranoid. Okay, I’m paranoid. Fair enough.” Dan shrugged. “I’d like to see Serge’s face when we pin it on him.” Dan was grinning as he drove now, Eva watched from the side. “Do you know why I want to see his face?”
“Because you hate his guts.”
“More than that. This is about society. This is about our town. This country. Because when we expose Peter Serge’s evil outfit, UKFirst is going to crash and burn at this by-election and so will their nationwide ambitions. Are you up for making that happen?”
Dan was being wildly optimistic, he was fantasising again. But seeing as his head was so shot, Eva was happy to let him believe what he needed to. “That would be amazing, wouldn’t it?” She wondered if her words rang as false as they sounded.
Dan was keen to get to the frozen food plant where skinhead Joe worked, but Eva needed to make a stop to clear her mind. She wanted to pay a visit to Mrs Dawn Burton. Will Burton’s house was in Rendon, a stepping stone on the journey to Basildon. When they got to Rendon, five miles out from Southend, Eva opened her handbag and handed Dan her iPad
“Here. You can do some surfing. I need to do this woman to woman.”
“Hey, that was a song, wasn’t it?”
“So I heard, yes. Back before I was a sentient being. Use the tablet and check out the food factories in the area. You might be able to hone in on the right one.”
“There’s only a few around. It’s okay. I’m not a monkey. I don’t need entertaining. Take your time.”
She heard Dan sigh a long sigh of frustration before she shut the car door. She headed to the large new build house which belonged to Burton and his family. Maybe it was frustration. Or maybe it was just relief. Either way, Eva was glad she could leave Dan out of this one. Burton’s big house hid behind a high wall of dark green conifers at the end of a cul de sac behind the A127, one of the two main roads int
o London. Will Burton would be out either campaigning or at the hospital, but Eva wanted to see if Dawn Burton was in. She had no understanding of the woman at all. Why had she been absent from the hospital? Was she as weak as Will suggested, and if so why? Such things need not have had any bearing on the case, but Eva wanted a fuller picture. Things were hazy and she was running out of time. Eva used the black metal knocker and hammered on the door. It was still just past lunch time. As far as she knew, Dawn Burton had no need for a job, but the door didn’t answer. Eva hammered on it again, longer this time. No answer came. Eva waited a full minute on her watch, and worked out whether to abandon the visit or try to investigate further. In most cases she didn’t need to investigate her own client, but this wasn’t most cases. Peter Serge was working against them and he claimed to be acting in the interests of the client. The wife had been unavailable, and not present at her son’s bedside, which was iffy in itself. Eva needed to know what was going on, and nobody seemed likely to tell her. She took a breath and walked to the side of the house. The tall conifers helped hide her actions from neighbours, as she slid her arm over the side gate and unlocked the bolt. She expected a padlock to have fastened the gate, but there was none. Eva shrugged, and opened the gate, and walked quietly along the narrow side, listening for sounds within the house. There were none, but the breeze shook the conifers and made her stop still here and there. She reached the side door and peered into an opulent kitchen of granite work surfaces, glossy cupboards and an ornate tap. There was no evidence of family life in sight though. It was handsome but lifeless. Without the clutter of people it looked more like a show home than a real home. Eva tested the door, but it was locked. She moved on around the back, and found a conservatory and French doors, which gave a clear view of a wide space inside. The two rooms before her were clean and clear apart from a stack of magazines by the side of one chair. Eva couldn’t make out the titles or subject matter of the magazines, so she looked around the rooms and then turned back. As she was about to pass the side door, the door clunked and swung open rapidly. Eva’s heart tried to jump out of her mouth. A tall woman with a mop of frizzy brown hair stepped out and blocked her way aggressively. Eva had seconds to ponder her actions. The woman was dressed for home in a roll neck and jeans. She was a pretty woman, but her eyes were deadly serious and her wide lips stayed in a rigid straight line.
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