Minds That Hate

by Bill Kitson

  Juris looked up in surprise. ‘You want me to do the work of Zydrumas?’

  ‘Why not? You know my methods. What do you reckon?’

  ‘How do you know I could do this?’

  ‘I don’t,’ the farmer admitted bluntly. ‘Right now you’re my only choice.’

  Juris remained unconvinced. ‘I would not know how.’

  ‘Begin by finding people and offering them money. That usually works. You’ve done the job, you talk their lingo. Is it a deal?’

  Nash looked up as Clara entered. Her nod was sufficient. ‘Get their statements typed up and signed; then join me back here,’ he told her. ‘We’ve only four days until Vickers is released. I hope nothing else happens in the meantime.’

  Clara shook her head. ‘And you’re always telling me not to tempt fate!’

  Becky showed Tucker how to work the camera and to load and unload a film. She watched him shoot a variety of subjects using the zoom and wide-angle facilities. When he finished the reel and unloaded it, she said, ‘Come back tomorrow and I’ll show you the results. As to the other, you’re in luck. I can get what you wanted, but it’ll take a few days. It’s going to cost you an arm and a leg.’

  Tucker picked up the camera bag. As he left the Gazette offices he’d only one more decision to make. Which of his targets should he follow? He opted to follow Rathmell and parked a discreet distance from the Euro MP’s house, Houlston Grange. It was 6.30 p.m. when the Mercedes glided out of the gateway. He followed.

  When Rathmell turned onto the lane that ran alongside the river, Tucker dropped further back. Passing the bridge, he thought he’d lost him until he spotted the picnic area to his left. He glanced into the car park. Barely visible through the trees was Rathmell’s Mercedes; the only vehicle.

  Further along, Tucker located a track where his car was well nigh invisible. He picked up the camera and was about to set off when he heard a vehicle approaching. He stepped behind a bank of silver birches and waited. Only when he heard the clunk of the car door did he move.

  He walked slowly down the road and into the car park. Tucker could see the vague outline of someone moving along the path leading through the woods. He inspected the other vehicle. It looked like the one he’d seen on the moor. This time he wasn’t going to be thwarted. He made a note of the make, model and registration number, stuffed his notebook away and followed the new arrival.

  More at home in towns, Tucker was far from confident in his ability to follow someone through open country. Fortunately, the man he was tracking was even less of the outdoor type. Tucker stumbled from one patch of cover to the next, suffering painful scratches from briar and brambles. When the man in front paused at a junction, he panicked and sought refuge behind a pain-free laurel bush. After the man stepped into a large clearing, Tucker edged closer until his quarry came into view. The location seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t think why. Before he’d chance to dwell on this, his attention was occupied with what was happening.

  Carlton Rathmell emerged from behind a clump of shrubs. Tucker watched the men converge and begin talking, wishing he could get close enough to hear their conversation. He sighed in frustration. If he’d only got the equipment Becky had promised. He strapped the camera round his neck and attached the telephoto lens. Then he paused, remembering where the buttons were located before he adjusted the focus. As the image sharpened, he lowered the camera again in surprise. Councillor Frank Appleyard! What was he doing, meeting Rathmell in secret?

  Tucker eased his finger onto the shutter release and was about to depress it when Appleyard moved. Tucker waited. He watched the councillor take a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfold it. Tucker pressed the button as Rathmell began to study the document. The click of the shutter and the whirring of the auto-wind sounded like gunfire. Tucker held his breath and prepared to take flight. In the clearing, neither man had moved. The trees formed a natural amphitheatre. There had been plenty of rain in recent weeks, the River Helm plunged enthusiastically over one of the weirs that marked its progress down the dale. The noise of the cascading water masked the sound of the camera. The noise was a mixed blessing. It shielded the reporter, but made it impossible for him to eavesdrop. Although he’d have preferred the riskier option, Tucker relaxed and raised the camera.

  He’d used almost a whole reel of film before Rathmell folded the paper and handed it back. Then Appleyard turned to leave. Tucker saw Rathmell hadn’t followed. He decided to wait. As he eased his aching limbs, he heard the sound of someone approaching, their footsteps light but definite. He shrank back into the painful concealment of the gorse. The footsteps came closer and Tucker schooled himself to breathe silently. A minute later the newcomer passed: Gemma Fletcher.

  It was an hour before the couple left the clearing. It came as something of a shock when Tucker glanced at his watch. When he heard the sound of their departing cars, the pressman emerged from his hiding place. He was cold, stiff, scratched and sore. He’d been dined on by a colony of midges and had to remove over a dozen spines donated by the gorse bush.

  However, he’d some salacious photographs, such as were rare outside the confines of a hard porn film. The politician and his mistress had stopped at little in slaking their lust. Tucker had the pictures to prove it and was already devising captions. ‘European Member Exposed!’ was his favourite.

  Shortly after Rathmell turned into the main road, the evening sun struck metal, sending a shaft of light into his eyes. He glanced sideways, to see a car tucked away in what was little more than a cart track. Rathmell braked hard. Why was the car hidden? He discounted the obvious reason. For one thing there was no movement. For another the windows weren’t steamed up. It was probably nothing, but to be on the safe side he scribbled the car registration number down.

  ‘JT? It’s Becky Pollard. Those rolls of film you left me? I’ve developed them.’

  ‘What are they like?’

  ‘The ones you shot with the lens cap on didn’t come out at all. After you took it off, the quality got better.’

  ‘No need to rub it in.’ Tucker could almost picture Becky’s grin.

  ‘As for your second roll, there’s certainly no doubt what’s behind that relationship.’

  ‘It didn’t take rocket science to work that out.’

  ‘I thought you’d branched out into hard porn before I recognized Rathmell. Who’s the woman? I take it she isn’t Mrs Rathmell?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ As he spoke, the relevance of the location came to him. He gasped aloud.

  ‘JT, are you there?’

  He realized Becky was speaking. ‘Sorry, something distracted me. I’ll tell you later about the woman. Let’s just say her identity could be highly significant. There may be another angle to this story I hadn’t grasped until now.’

  ‘Sorry, JT, you’ve lost me completely.’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve figured it out for myself.’

  ‘I’ll try to control my impatience. What do you want me to do with these photos?’

  ‘Stick them in an envelope and post it to my flat. I’m not sure when I’ll be back in the office.’

  ‘What about that gear?’

  ‘Leave it with reception. I’ll pick it up when I can.’

  ‘I’ll call you when I’ve got it.’

  Chapter ten

  Rathmell was discussing progress with his agent, who was explaining, ‘I’ve put the word out through the local press regarding Friday’s meeting and suggested they get their stringers along. I warned them, if they miss out it will cost them. I’ve spoken to local radio and TV and they’ll have crews there. I’ve concentrated on Appleyard’s involvement. I haven’t gone any further than that.’

  ‘Get back and tell them I’ll also be speaking.’

  The agent was surprised. ‘I thought you were leaving it to Appleyard? Wouldn’t that look as if you’re jumping on his bandwagon?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ll get Frank to put forward his ideas. After he’s
finished, I’ll announce our plans.’

  ‘That’s brilliant; it’ll ensure bigger and better coverage.’

  ‘I want you to liaise with Jake Fletcher to make sure the attendance is as strong as he promised. And that security is water-tight.’ Rathmell smiled. ‘Not too water-tight, though. It would be a good idea to organize some heckling. Maybe a few mildly violent protests too.’

  ‘You want trouble?’

  ‘As long as it’s contained. The more unreasonable the “protestors”, the better we’ll look. It’ll also give us the sympathy vote.’

  ‘As long as no one suspects the trouble’s of our own making.’

  ‘I’ll leave that to you and Jake. I’ll call Appleyard and explain the change.’

  ‘Before I go, Carl, I’ve got the details of that car.’ He passed a piece of paper to Rathmell. He saw the MEP’s expression change. ‘Is that bad?’

  Rathmell looked up. ‘I can deal with it.’

  The agent saw the look in his employer’s eyes and shivered.

  Nash had been in bed less than fifteen minutes when he was disturbed. He fumbled for the phone and grunted into the receiver, a sound that by use of some imagination might have been ‘Hello’.

  ‘Michael, it’s Leonie.’

  ‘What? Wwho?’ He was totally confused.

  ‘It’s Leonie. Gino’s sister?’

  Nash was beginning to wake up. ‘Forgive me for not recognizing the name.’

  The sarcasm was ignored. ‘Michael, I’m calling from New York. I have something to tell you.’

  Nash struggled to guess. Pregnant? He doubted it. What then? Found someone else? He played for time. ‘That’s why you’re ringing in the middle of the night. I thought you were in Milan?’

  ‘Sorry. I forgot about time zones and yes, I was. But, Michael, I’ve been offered a new job. One that’s too good to miss. I start next Monday.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Was it worth waking him up to tell him this?

  ‘The problem is it’s here, in New York. I’ve been appointed fashion editor for one of the big American glossies. It’s the chance of a lifetime. But it means I won’t be back in England for a long time. I wanted you to be first to know. I haven’t even told Gino yet. I didn’t want you finding out from him. I’m sorry, Michael. Sorry for waking you up too.’

  ‘Leonie, don’t worry. Maybe we’ll get together sometime.’They talked for a while before he wished her well and said goodbye. After he replaced the receiver, Nash lay for a while in the darkness pondering this turn of events. Perhaps Clara was right. He seemed unable to maintain a relationship.

  Nash met with Mironova and Viv Pearce next morning for an update. ‘We need to get to grips with things before they get out of hand. Even more out of hand,’ Nash corrected himself. ‘So far we’ve had an arson attack that killed three people, plus a fatal stabbing. It’s possible these are racially motivated.’

  ‘Mike, you’re forgetting the other arson attack. On Vickers’ house,’ Clara reminded him.

  ‘That blows the racial theory out of the water.’

  ‘There could still be a link,’ Clara hesitated. ‘The attacks might have been timed to coincide with Vickers’ release.’

  ‘What’s the point of that?’ Viv was still trying to grasp all that had happened.

  Clara looked at him. ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps they’re intended to mask Vickers being the real target. But no, that’s too far-fetched.’

  ‘I don’t think we should dismiss anything out of hand until we uncover the motive,’ Nash pointed out.

  ‘That could be tricky if it’s a psychopath.’

  Billy was restless. The knifing had been alright. He’d loved it when the blood spurted, even when it went all over him. But it wasn’t nearly as good as a fire. He wanted lots more fires. Then he could get rid of hundreds, if he picked the right place. Club Wolfgang would be good. He’d seen it on Friday nights. He’d thought of it before. Now he knew some of the migrant workers went there, he’d do it. One Friday: soon.

  He tried to calm himself. He’d got another target from Danny. He’d do them tonight. He wondered if any of them would come running out, all on fire. Like the bloke from the gippovan. That would be something.

  Billy had been watching them for days. He knew their routine; when to do it and how. He was getting good at this. If he’d worked it out before, he wouldn’t have failed at the pervert’s house. But Danny promised he could have another go, when the pervert was there. Billy liked that. It was alright doing an empty house: he’d done one before. Well, three to be exact, plus a few barns and outbuildings. But it wasn’t the same. He had to be patient. Danny had said it would only be a few days. The bloke had been inside for rape and murder. So it was going to be justice. But for the moment, all that mattered was tonight. Tonight it was their turn. Their turn to burn. Billy felt the rhyme in his head. It made him smile. Their turn to burn. Their turn to burn. Their turn to burn.

  The flat above the paper shop had been home to the Hassan family since Khalid and Zayna married. Their younger son, Hafiz, woke up. The tightness in his chest was the first symptom; a feeling all too familiar. He groped on the bedside table for his inhaler. Then he remembered. He’d left it in the lounge. He waited, hoping the asthma attack would go away. The tightness got worse. He was beginning to gasp. Hafiz thrust back the duvet, stood up and swayed slightly. His head felt muzzy. This was different. This wasn’t like his previous attacks. It was then he noticed the smell. Something was on fire. He opened his bedroom door. The smell got worse. He went to his parents’ room and hammered on the door. ‘Mama!’ Half shout, half scream. ‘Papa!’ More scream than shout; all terror. ‘Wake up! Wake up! Fire! Wake up!’

  Khalid opened the door, eyes drugged with sleep. Thought the boy was dreaming but this nightmare was real. He caught the smell. ‘Zayna! Zayna, come quick. The house is on fire.’

  Khalid went to the next door, shouting, ‘Jalila!’ He ran in and shook his daughter. ‘Jalila, get up! Now! Fire! Now, girl! Now!’

  He ran to Adil’s room. The boy was already up. Khalid went to the flat door. He reached for the handle: too hot. He pointed to the other end of the corridor. The smoke was getting worse; choking. Hafiz could barely breathe. ‘Adil, take care of your brother.’

  Khalid opened the French door onto the balcony, their one addition to the property. The family stumbled outside and clustered together; breathed the clean, fresh, night air. Behind them the smoke was thicker, accompanied by a roaring sound. Khalid looked back. Yellow flames, licking round the flat door. If he’d opened that...they needed to get away. The balcony was a respite, not a haven. The drop was too far. Sheets, they needed sheets. Khalid signalled Adil, explained tersely.

  ‘Hafiz’s bedroom, it’s nearest.’ Adil stepped towards the corridor.

  Khalid shook his head. ‘No, single bed – sheets not big enough. Our room’s better.’

  ‘No, Khalid!’ Zayna yelled. ‘Airing cupboard – it’s closer.’

  It took less than two minutes. It felt like two hours. Back on the balcony, both of them were coughing. Khalid closed the doors behind them as Adil looped a sheet round the rail. He paused. ‘Listen!’

  In the distance they could hear the faint sound of sirens. ‘Fire engine,’ Adil said. ‘Shall we wait?’

  Khalid glanced back. ‘No.’ He pointed. Through the glass, flames glowed and flickered evilly. ‘No time.’

  Jalila went first. They tied her in a sheet and told her to cling on. She reached the ground, and unfastened the sheet. Hafiz was next. The boy was almost passing out. He reached the ground, but was too weak to unfasten the knots. Jalila helped him. On the balcony Zayna was arguing with her eldest son. Adil was tying his mother into a sheet whilst she was still protesting. As they gently lowered her to the ground, Adil could feel warmth on his back. Knew the fire was getting nearer. It seemed an age before the knots were undone. ‘You next, Papa.’

  Khalid blinked. His son was ordering him! ‘No,’ he prote
sted. ‘You must go.’

  Adil shook his head. ‘They need their father. Go!’

  As Khalid disappeared over the rail, Adil heard the glass in the door shatter. Felt a wave of heat. Desperately, he pulled the sheet up. He could feel his hair singeing. No time for knots. He grabbed the end of the sheet, put one foot on the rail, then jumped.

  Nash’s mobile chirped. It was Clara. ‘More trouble,’ she began tersely. ‘Fire on the Westlea, an immigrant family’s shop and flat. Nobody badly hurt, thank God. But the fire brigade’s been attacked by a mob. I’m on my way.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there.’

  The fire was all but out when Nash arrived. Clara greeted him. ‘Doug’s over there.’ She pointed to one of the trio of appliances that were parked, lights flashing. They stepped carefully over the snaking hoses.

  ‘Busy night, Doug?’

  Chief Fire Officer Doug Curran looked harassed. ‘I’m thinking of getting a transfer to your mob. Our work’s dangerous enough. But when we get attacked by a gang throwing stones and Molotov cocktails, it makes you wonder if it’s worthwhile. Damned good job your uniformed men arrived.’ Curran gestured to a small group of officers climbing into a Transit minibus.

  Nash frowned. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It could have been worse. The family escaped via a balcony and some makeshift ropes. Sheets to be exact. It was arson again. Oldest trick in the book – petrol poured through a letterbox and a match tossed in. The flat’s gutted. Fortunately the shop’s barely damaged, separate entrance. Two minor casualties besides smoke inhalation. One of the children had an asthma attack. He’s been taken to hospital along with his brother, who sprained his ankle. The mother’s gone with them and the daughter too. The little girl’s just suffering mild shock. Father’s over there.’ He pointed to a blanket-draped figure, wearing an oxygen mask, sitting in the back of an ambulance.