Then Roberto tells them about ‘the Devil’, a corrupt solicitor who’s half lawyer, half underworld PR man. They call him the Devil cos he’s more bent than the grafters he represents. Roberto says that the Devil’ll find out all what shenanigans the police are getting up to behind the scenes and deal with the papers as well.
Roberto takes Dylan to see the Devil at his office. He tells Dylan that it doesn’t matter what goes on in court these days. He says all that matters is what’s said in the papers about you, that it’s trial by media, end of story. He says the bizzies aren’t arsed about solving big murders, just about making themselves look good and getting more power. If Dylan and the lads want to stay out of jail, they’ve got to improve their image. Dylan doesn’t know what he’s on about, but he’s impressed so he gives him his last two grand graft money. The Devil says that he’ll do the rest for free as long as he can sell stories about them out the back door.
A few days later, the Devil rings Dylan with all the inside info on the investigation. He says that for the time being the bizzies have control of the Murphy family. Press liaison officers have been assigned to babysit the grieving parents. The Devil says that the police are boasting that they’re giving the family help and support. The Head of Marketing has said, ‘We need to help them deal with the hundreds of media enquiries they have had. They are an ordinary family with no history of dealing with the press. We’re going to relieve them of that pressure.’ That’s the justification for strictly controlling access to the story everyone wants, but the real motive is to keep Lynda and Keith Murphy ‘on message’, to make sure they don’t criticise the police for failing to stop the gang violence that led to the death of their daughter.
At a press conference, one reporter asks the Chief Con, ‘Your force has known about these gangs for a long time. The number of gang-related incidents has been increasing exponentially for years. There were 300 shootings in this postcode alone last year. Why didn’t you stop it?’ The reporter is quickly quashed, bought off with the promise of an exclusive interview and threatened with being banned from press conferences.
Lynda breaks down on camera in her first broadcast interview. It was heartbreaking, the Devil reckons. ‘The bit where she completely lost it, collapsed on the floor screaming like a grieving Arab woman on the Gaza Strip, all that was cut out,’ he says. A communications intelligence report that the Devil’s got hold of states:
Lynda Murphy is an excellent asset to the Force. As well as defending our position on the Chalina incident (CM34. 86. 7497 MP), Lynda may have a limited role in promoting some of our broader objectives.
Part of her appeal to newspapers and TV appears to be her classlessness. A Sky News producer commented off-camera to a civilian member of our PR team that Lynda went down well because she is seen as a yummy mummy with a lot of ‘middle classiness’. Newspaper reporters have commented to us, with the benefit of reader feedback, that her appearance in particular is pleasing.
A second interview is broadcast the following day on GMTV. Lynda tells the reporter: ‘As a family, we were healthy eaters – oily fish, salads, pasta. But once a week we had our one treat – fish and chips from the local Chinese. Just a family tradition, going back to when I was a kid. Chalina loved it. She looked forward to it. It was meant to be an extra little treat because it was her birthday the next day. So she was excited, asking who was coming to the party. Taking all the kids out to Digger Land. When we got there, like usual, I let her stand outside with her brother. Chalina always wanted to be the big girl. But I always kept an eye on her.
‘And then I turned round and she was on the floor. I didn’t even know she had been shot – cos there was a telly on in the chippy and I was watching that. All’s I could see was the other kids running away. Then I saw a little flash of red on the ground. That was her – that was her Liverpool top. I ran out and put my arms round her but she was already unconscious. Blood over her hair. Couldn’t even see where it was coming from, there was that much. As I got up I slipped over on my back – I never knew blood, our Chalina’s blood, was that slippy. It was like a tap which you couldn’t turn off. Tried to stop it with my coat. She was still breathing but I could feel her going in and out, like kids do when they got a fever or something. And then she seemed to go. And that was the last I saw of our little Chalina.’
CHAPTER 21
SPIN
Lynda’s interview blows the nation away. Despite the other stories they have, every paper and news bulletin runs the story, emotionalising, demanding justice. Several comment pieces call for National Service to be brought back. All in all, the Chief Con’s plan to lobby for his force to be armed is falling into place. A few big set pieces are organised. The Times crime correspondent is invited to go out with an ARV to be shown that armed police are the only solution. The papers are filled with pro-gun stats. A police commissioner from the States is flown in to argue the case for arming the force.
By the second day after the interview airs, however, the debate’s become even more inflamed. On Sky News, pundits call for the SAS to be put on standby to attack the HQs of teenage gangs. Suddenly, the issue of arming the police seems neither here nor there, such is the strength of public outrage at Chalina’s death. The Chief Con is seen as out of step, asking for too little, too late.
The Devil tells the lads that the Chief Con’s agenda is not the only one they need to worry about. A pundit on Sky News has been talking about how the army is equipped to deal with civil disorder. The retired lieutenant colonel, who commanded units in Kosovo and Iraq, told the presenter, ‘The armed gangs, that now control vast tracts of Britain’s cities, are no different from insurgents in Iraq or the warlords who terrorise decent, law-abiding people in places like Somalia or parts of the Middle East. Our indigenous gangs may not be political, but they’re just as dangerous in military terms. Some people say it’s unfair to ask the police to deal with these gangs – and they’re right. Our bobbies are simply not equipped with the urban warfare tactics necessary.’
The presenter gasped. ‘But this sounds like martial law. You might see it in a totalitarian regime, but surely not in Britain today?’
‘If the police use these tactics, they’re accused of being heavy-handed or the civil-rights brigade say we’re living in a police state. If you back up the police’s brave effort with support troops, it’s a different matter. It’s a case of winning hearts and minds, getting back the trust of these forgotten communities, taking away the fear, so that ordinary people can come out, take the streets back and rebuild their communities. It’s just like reconstruction in Afghanistan. Look at the way the Brits dealt with hearts and minds in Iraq. We took our helmets off, put our berets on and reached out.’
The Devil phones Dylan and tells him that they’ve been turned over on ITV. Dylan and the lads flick through the channels to find it: ‘ITV News has found disturbing evidence that the teenage gangs in Liverpool linked to the murder of Chalina Murphy have armed themselves with military weapons and terrorist-style bombs. One home-made video shows a cache of heavy machine guns and an SA80 army-issue assault rifle.’
There’s loads of laughing and finger-clacking as the latest Nogzy video appears on the screen. It shows New Loon hooded up in the full complement of Lowies, holding up a British Army General Purpose Machine Gun, a golden belt of 200 rounds of ammo slung over his shoulder. There’s also a Bren gun, with its distinctive curved box magazine, 30 rounds of 7.62-mm bullets, a conical flash hider and a spare quick-change barrel, all videoed on the pea-green carpet at Clegsy’s ma’s a few months ago. The ammo belt belongs to an American M60 machine gun – the gun used by Rambo, the reporter says.
An expert on the news identifies the weapons and talks about them. Then the presenter says, ‘Police are also investigating claims that the gang have made their own bombs. This video, made by gang members, shows a stolen car being blown up by a roadside IED, similar to those used by insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan.’ They cut to a pair of gloved ha
nds cupping a silver box with a small, wiry detonator sticking out of it – a home-made bomb.
The next day, media pressure is mounting. The Sun’s splash reads:
Soldiers on the Street – SOS Message to PM
Today, The Sun calls for British army troops to smash teen terror gangs. A petition signed by 30,000 people has been handed to the PM at No. 10. It’s an SOS message from Our Readers to get Our Boys to take back Our Streets.
The PM said: ‘It’s a tribute to Britain’s greatest newspaper that so many people have come out to support the Sun campaign. I will certainly be looking into their demands.’
Squaddies joined The Sun to support Operation SOS.
Paratrooper Peter Naylor, 24, whose unit has just returned from Afghanistan, said: ‘We can sort these lads out. We read the papers and we see what these gangs are doing to old people and women and kids back home. It’s disgusting. Everyone’s too scared to have a go – not us. That’s the problem. They haven’t come up against people who are harder than them. Let us at ’em.’
Richard O’Brien, 22, of the King’s Regiment added: ‘The British Army is mostly made up of lads from poor areas – estates in Newcastle, Manchester, Liverpool and Glasgow. So these lads are just like us, except we’ve chosen to serve our country instead of smash it up. Let us deal with it.’
On the back of the blanket media coverage, a ‘March for Peace’ protest comes together the following day. They carry banners saying ‘Mothers Against Guns’ and ‘Stop the Violence’. They were in floods watching Chalina’s ma’s interview. Sombrely, they march past Lynda and Keith’s new build in silence. ‘To represent the wall of silence that surrounds gang culture and guns,’ the organisers say. They asked Lynda to take part, to make a speech. But, through a spokesman, she fucked them off. She was ‘already busy with other media commitments’. She was going to be on the couch on breakfast telly. But she phoned them from the back of the car (a Merc SL) on her way to the studios, her hair in curlers. She wished them luck, half getting down with them, putting on a slightly stronger accent.
The PM makes a speech in Parliament calling for Britain’s streets to be taken back from armed gunmen. He reiterates his commitment to fighting the gangs ‘force with force’. Commentators say it’s significant that he doesn’t refer to the police once in his speech, or pledge, as is usual, to increase the number of coppers on the beat. The Chief Con’s very worried by this. There’s speculation that troops will be deployed, but spin doctors play the idea down, and rumours begin that a new special force will be formed.
Nogger reads the stories but can’t work out what’s going on. Dylan reads between the lines straight away. They want the army to come and sort us on the streets. Mad or what?
* * *
Over the next few weeks, Lynda Murphy’s emotionally charged interview becomes a worldwide Internet hit. March for Peace gathers momentum, with similar events staged in Manchester, Nottingham, Leicester, Birmingham, Newcastle and Glasgow. Then a national million-man march is held in London. There’s a massive outpouring of emotion. The Metropolitan Police Commissioner gladly makes a speech. The Merseyside Chief Con is furious. He’s been branded a ‘provincial meddler’ on a major political blog.
The day after the London march, the PM announces in the House of Commons, ‘This week, I will be announcing a series of measures aimed at smashing the gangs and their heinous influence for ever. I have asked the Home Secretary to form a new type of anti-gang force made up of the best professionals we have to offer, drawn from a wide range of our security and emergency services, and supported by social services and the judiciary. It will be called YCTF: Youth Crime Task Force. As part of this process, I will designate areas such as Croxteth and Norris Green “Gang Exclusion Zones”.’
The PM leaves it vague at first, but it soon becomes clear that there will be ‘an armed-forces contingent’. Officials play down the involvement of soldiers, insisting that the army will have ‘an educational role’, trying to help and support young men, possibly talking to them about signing up, rather like travelling emergency recruiting officers.
The general in charge tells the press: ‘We want to solve this problem. We don’t want any young man to be lost to a life of crime, and if we can, we will try to show them that a life in the military can be rewarding.’
‘Fuck’s sake, lad,’ Nogger says to Dylan when he hears this. ‘I’m not joining the army.’
‘They’re not trying to join us up. That’s a fucking blag. They just want to put fucking squaddies on the street. They can do it, lad – anti-terror laws.’
Before long, Dylan, Nogger and Jay get arrested outside the chippy. They give a no-comment interview six hours long. The forensics come back negative and no witnesses come forward. The Devil’s got them out of the police station the next day.
CHAPTER 22
CULT CELEBRITY
Dylan’s out of his pit quick. ‘What the fucking hell is that?’ The noise is different from the usual bizzy helicopter – the ‘wop, wop, wop’ of the rotor blades is faster, the sound bassier, heavier. He pulls the curtains back to take a look.
It’s a sand-coloured tandem-rotor army helicopter. ‘A fucking Chinook!’
The press pack are camped outside of Dylan’s waiting for him to come out. They’ve got their long lenses out, trying to get a picture of the army helicopters, which caught them by surprise, coming in from behind. They turn back to the house again when they see the curtains twitch. Dylan gets off in his full Lowies and a balaclava, says fuck all to the reporters, as usual. Just blanks them. Not like Nogger and Clegsy who batter them and get the lads to smash their cars up.
A tasty bird from the Mail rushes up to him. ‘All right, Dylan? What do you think about the troops on the street? D’you think they’re gonna get you?’ Unusually, Dylan stops. He didn’t know they’d sent troops in. The reporter, encouraged by his hesitation, carries on: ‘The King’s Regiment have got 100 soldiers in Norris Green and Croxteth, on patrol as of today. What do you think of that?’ She’s watching his face, trying to gauge his reaction. A reporter from The Sun chips in hopefully, ‘Yeah, there’s a few paras as well,’ thinking he’s in, desperate for a few quotes from Dylan.
The reporters need him so much now, they’ve actually begun to like him, even though he’s never said fuck all to them. The Devil says that Dylan has the power now because he’s a celebrity, that that’s why all the journalists are matey and deferential with him.
Dylan marches on, the main body of reporters outside his house thanking him, grateful to him for fucking them off. A few doors down are the ghouls, a group of about twenty fans who’ve set up camp in the neighbours’ gardens: a few truants from around the city, a few wool wannabe gangbangers from places like Hull, a couple of Asian lads from Luton, autograph hunters who usually stand outside the hotels in town. Some freaky arrivals over the past few days: a lad and a girl, backpackers from Spain, anti-capitalist protester types, smoking pot and thinking it’s cool to be down on the poorest housing estate in Europe, plus three young Japanese girls who thought Dylan was in a band. They turned up in short skirts and kilts, brightly coloured leggings and ponytails with cyber-fashion hairstyles. The oldest one was dressed Harajuku-style, with lime-green hair, pink space boots and a black top saying ‘Motor City Girl’. She’s told Dylan that millions of people in Japan think Nogzy is a band as opposed to a gang. After snatched pics of Dylan, Nogger and a few of the lads appeared in mags and on the telly, Japanese kids started dressing in mountain gear – but with a twist, she says: in red and fluorescent yellow.
Nogger’s round the side of the house, getting a nosh off the youngest bird, pure mall siren, wearing a grey schoolie skirt, white legwarmers, a white shirt, a crimson cravat and a cream cardi. She’s crouched down, steadying herself between a couple of wheelie bins. ‘Fucking boss, this,’ says Nogger when he sees Dylan coming round the corner. ‘Nips birds, la – they’re fucking excellent. Do anything for ya, lad.’ After he’s finished, h
e pushes the crouching girl over, toggles himself up and changes the subject. ‘Seen those fucking army at the end of the road waiting for us?’
On the corner there’s a checkpoint, a battered yellow Vaderis base manned by the Metropolitan Police Territorial Support Group. A desert-camouflaged Land Rover is parked across the road – three squaddies, SA80s scoping on Dylan.
Dylan moseys through the barbed wire and concrete anti-tank blocks, off for his breakfast. He notices the red dots from the police Heckler & Kochs on him straight away. The three paras have their SA80s trained on him as well, laser-free but sighted on him with one eye.
‘Armed police. Stand still. On your knees. Do not approach the barrier.’ It’s a force protection search, like they did looking for suicide bombers in Afghanistan, the para says. Dylan goes through the motions, pulling up his jacket to show that he doesn’t have a bomb strapped to him. He says fuck all, refuses to give his name, address or ID, won’t take down his trackies to be searched. Nogger’s giving them loads, refusing to do anything, saying that he’ll phone his brief, that it’s against his human rights. A private tells him, ‘You have been stopped under the Terrorism Act 2000.’
‘As if, you fucking prick.’
‘Listen, you fucking scumbag, show some fucking respect when you’re talking –’
Gang War Page 14