Minds That Hate

by Bill Kitson

‘What about the attack on your officers?’

  ‘A couple of grazes from stones, nothing worse. Some bastard sliced through one of our hoses with a knife. Your lot turned up and charged them. They all scarpered and haven’t been seen since. It was bloody hairy for a few minutes though.’

  ‘I’d better have a word with our guys. Then I’ll talk to the victim.’

  ‘His name’s Mr Hassan. Family’s been here for ages. Well known and well liked. Or so everybody thought.’

  ‘Thanks, Doug.’ Nash gestured to Clara to follow him. Before they reached the Transit, it pulled away.

  ‘That’s odd. Who ordered our men here?’

  ‘I thought you’d done it.’

  ‘I didn’t have time. Besides, there were half a dozen of them. We don’t have that many. Maybe somebody at Netherdale used their initiative.’

  ‘They did right. It could have turned nasty if that mob hadn’t been scared off.’

  ‘Let’s see what Mr Hassan can tell us.’

  They paused for a word with the paramedic before speaking to the newsagent. Hassan was able to add little to their knowledge. After a few minutes the ambulance took him to join his family.

  As Nash was leaving, his mobile rang. He listened for a moment before replying. ‘Right, Mironova’s with me. We’ll be straight round.’

  He turned to Clara. ‘That was Viv. Our stone throwers didn’t disperse. They merely moved on. They’ve been attacking another house. Care to guess where?’

  Clara looked baffled.

  ‘Thirty-two Grove Road.’

  Nash pulled in behind the police car. Pearce and a couple of uniformed men were standing outside Vickers’ front gate, surrounded by a small group of interested bystanders. Neighbours or stone throwers? Nash wondered.

  ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘I was about to set off to join you when a treble nine came in. I got hold of these two and we came straight round. The mob had scarpered by the time we arrived so we’ve been talking to the residents. They reckon there were about a dozen, all in their late teens. Nobody saw them clearly.’

  ‘No descriptions?’

  ‘All I got was “they looked like all teenagers”, which doesn’t help.’

  ‘Have you checked the house?’

  ‘All the front windows have been smashed. They’ve done a couple at the back as well.’

  ‘Any other properties damaged?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘Have you been inside?’

  ‘No, I waited for you.’

  ‘Okay, Clara, you try and get statements. I want all the names and addresses. We’ll have a look round inside. Scrounge a rug or something to put over the broken glass. I don’t fancy doing myself an injury climbing through the window.’

  As far as they could tell, nothing inside had been touched. Nash left Clara with instructions for a guard to remain overnight. ‘Ring an emergency glazier and then go home. We can’t do anything else tonight. I’m going to Netherdale first thing tomorrow to talk to Tom. The situation’s getting unmanageable.’

  When Nash returned next morning, he went straight into his office. One look at his face forbade them asking him how the meeting had gone. ‘Toss you for it.’ Viv stared at Nash’s closed door. ‘See who asks him if he wants a coffee.’

  Clara smiled. ‘One of the penalties of rank. Go put the kettle on.’

  Nash was studying reports on the latest violence. ‘Coffee?’ she asked.

  Nash grunted.

  ‘Viv’s making some.’ She sat down. ‘Go on.’

  Nash raised his head. ‘Go on what?’

  ‘Spit it out. It obviously isn’t good. You’re back in Helmsdale, remember? We’re all in it together.’

  ‘Tom wasn’t alone. He had King with him. King already knew about the fire and the trouble at Vickers’ place. Where he got that info, I’ve no idea. I asked for more officers and a higher level of backup. Tom supported me all the way, but King would have nothing to do with it.’

  ‘He turned it down?’

  ‘Yes, and made it clear I was wasting my time asking.’

  ‘Not even extra backup for the Westlea problems and Vickers?’

  ‘He told me we should ignore Vickers. We should concentrate on the arsonist and the knife attack. He added a threat for good measure. “If you can’t cope, we’ll replace you with officers who can. I suggest you pay more attention to your duties as an officer of the crown and spend less time on your hyperactive social life”.’

  Clara whistled. ‘He doesn’t pull his punches, does he? Was that all?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I left at that point.’

  ‘You walked out?’

  ‘It was either that or throw him through the window. I don’t reckon that’d look too good on my CV, do you?’

  ‘Probably not. What was Tom doing?’

  ‘Trying to pretend he wasn’t there. He saw there was no point trying to stick up for me.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Carry on as before. We’ll have to manage. I’m going to ask Tom for a memo confirming the details of this morning’s fiasco. When everything goes pear-shaped I’ll produce it in my defence. King’s a great one for doing everything by the book. I’ll just have to make sure I’ve covered my arse.’

  ‘I don’t reckon King’s acting alone. I had a call from Creepy whilst you were out. He’s been asked to come here next week. A fact-finding visit regarding DCC King’s restructuring plans. I told him I’d check with you.’

  ‘Let the bugger come. With luck our pyromaniac will have the Westlea ablaze by then. I’ll send Creepy to piss on the fire.’

  Clara winced. ‘Don’t say that, not even as a joke.’

  Nash was about to reply when the phone rang. He listened. ‘That’s good news. I wish it could have been longer. Thanks for letting me know.’ He turned to Clara. ‘That was the governor of Felling Prison. Apparently there’s been a mistake on the paperwork for Vickers’ release. Somebody filled the wrong date in. He doesn’t get out until Sunday.’

  ‘I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies.’

  ‘True. Two days extra isn’t much of a breathing space, though. Let’s hope we can make the most of it.’

  Chapter eleven

  Westlea Community Centre was a two-storey redbrick building. It boasted an auditorium capable of seating 300, and a stage of which Helmsdale Amateur Dramatic Society availed themselves for their shows. Two nights a week, the more athletic residents played badminton on the two courts. Senior citizens’ groups hosted socials and coffee mornings. The WI held weekly meetings and the local Scout group met there, as did the girls in the Brownies.

  The Residents’ Association usually met in one of the smaller side rooms on the upper floor, convenient for the tea-making facilities. For this event, however, nothing less than the main hall was suitable. On Friday evening, as Rathmell’s agent looked out from the wings, he could see the hall was full. There were no spaces in the press seats, which was even more satisfying. He spotted two TV cameras in the side aisles. Obviously the press releases had worked.

  There were three gatherings of young men and women standing in watchful groups around the hall. They would be the stewards Jake Fletcher had promised would be present ‘in case of trouble’. As he watched, Fletcher joined him. ‘Everything set?’

  Fletcher nodded. ‘We’ve got the security in place.’ He pointed towards the youngsters. ‘They may not look much, but they’re capable of sorting anything that might happen here.’

  ‘What about the trouble-makers?’

  ‘They’re all close to where the stewards are standing. Makes it easier to get them outside.’

  ‘What happens outside?’

  ‘They’ll be taken to the pub and bought drinks all night.’ Fletcher grinned. ‘Cheap enough, even the amount they can sup. Where’s Carl? We’re due to start in ten minutes.’

  ‘Relax. He’s been here a while. He said he was going into the dressing ro
om to have a chat with Frank. Thought it would be better if he waited until the house lights are down before he took his seat. That way, attention will be on Appleyard.’

  Rathmell hadn’t reached the dressing room. As Fletcher was speaking with the agent, the MEP was inside one of the cubicles in the Ladies’ with Gemma Fletcher. Their conversation was a whispered one. ‘You know what we’re going to do tonight, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll be cheering with the rest. That’s all I can do for the present. In public at least.’

  ‘It won’t always be that way. When our movement takes off I’ll be free of the financial shackles. Then we can be together properly.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. But there’s still the other problem.’

  ‘You mean Vick —’

  ‘Shhh, don’t mention that name. Don’t worry, he’ll soon be history. I promised he’d be dealt with as soon as he became available. I tried to scare him off. But this will be a more permanent solution.’

  ‘Carl, promise one thing?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Whatever you arrange, it won’t involve Jake and Ronnie. You know what they’re like. If they get near him, they’ll lose it. I don’t want them to finish up inside.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Can I tell them what you’re planning?’

  ‘Better not. Leave it to me. Now, as of Tuesday, I’ll have the house to myself for a couple of weeks. Would you like to visit for a few days?’

  ‘I have to go to work. I’m away Monday and Tuesday setting up a sales demonstration.’

  ‘Can’t you call in sick?’

  Gemma felt her resolve weakening. ‘I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Okay then, how about you come over on Tuesday when you’ve finished work?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she told him. As if she hadn’t already made up her mind.

  ‘There’s bound to be a fair amount of media interest after tonight, so I’m afraid you’ll have to stay out of sight at the house.’

  Gemma began to caress him. ‘Have you anywhere in mind?’

  ‘I know the ideal place. My bedroom.’

  Appleyard started with a degree of nervousness he hadn’t anticipated. He was used to addressing public meetings, some of them hostile, but tonight’s speech was the most contentious he’d ever delivered.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he began. ‘The attendance reflects a strong community spirit. It’s that spirit I wish to appeal to, the pride in one’s neighbourhood and a desire to retain the values that make it so special. I’m also speaking of the wider community that is Great Britain. Are we content with Britain? Or do we want it to be Great Britain? Are we to be British? Or should we stick with being “Brits”?

  ‘This is not an attack on any ethnic group. Rather it is a defence of the most ignored, vilified and abused section of our community. I refer to the ordinary working people, whose parents and grandparents laid down their lives for this nation in two world wars, in the belief that their sacrifice would keep Britain sacrosanct. Our ancestors toiled unceasingly in mill and factory, farm or pit, to maintain a way of life that is uniquely British. Now we must ask some hard questions. Questions like, why am I passed over for job after job? Or why am I at the end of a housing list when asylum seekers go straight to the head? And why don’t I get furniture, fixtures and fittings at the expense of the state? Or how come these newcomers have access to social services and benefits that are denied my family?

  ‘When such inequalities occur throughout the land it’s no wonder that same indigenous lower –’ Appleyard corrected himself swiftly ‘– hard-working sector feels let down by the representatives they elected. Their optimism has long since turned to cynicism. It has been destroyed by the systematic attack on their traditional way of life. Instead of rewarding their voters, politicians dump extra burdens of tax on them. Their traditional pleasures, alcohol and tobacco, have been taxed out of sight. If they can afford a car they have to pay more and more for their petrol. They find themselves beset from all sides.

  ‘What started as a whisper of discontent has grown to a rumble of anger. If the position continues unchecked, it will become a shout of defiance, and violence will spill over onto the streets.

  Politicians must act now before it is too late. They must meet the people who elected them, the people they have so callously abandoned. Only when they address the inequalities that discriminate against the indigenous population can they hope to avoid the consequences of their years of active neglect. Only then will there be any chance of Britain reverting to its former status of Great Britain.’

  Appleyard paused. To the audience, it was a pause designed to increase the impact of his words. To a few, however, it was a signal. The pause, following the phrase ‘Britain reverting to its former status of Great Britain’, was the cue for the first disturbance.

  Four hecklers rose from the second row and began chanting ‘Fascist pig’, ‘Racist bastard’, ‘Nazi swine’, in a confused yet curiously well-orchestrated series of taunts. They were swiftly surrounded and bundled, with minimal resistance, from the hall.

  Appleyard smiled, unruffled by the interruption. ‘I was prepared for some opposition to what I had to say,’ he told the audience. ‘I didn’t expect it to be delivered with such wit.’

  His words were greeted with laughter. Those who had been primed laughed because it was expected. But that was what they were there for. The others followed suit. Appleyard allowed the audience to settle.

  ‘Turning to local issues, the disquiet is apparent. Last week saw a tragic waste of life when a caravan belonging to a family of travelling people was attacked. Possibly they should have been on the site provided. That’s not the point. The attack was a symptom of fear; distrust of those whose lifestyle and values are different to our own. Then a migrant worker was stabbed to death. Although the motive is as yet unclear, it may well be a symptom of rising discontent.’

  Again he paused. It seemed as natural as the previous one. The press seats were too far from the stage to allow the use of recorders or mobile phones, so reporters were busy scribbling and didn’t notice anything amiss, until the prolonged silence made them look up.

  Becky Pollard had positioned herself in the lighting gallery, at the rear of the upper floor, overlooking the hall. It was the ideal position to get shots of the stage, the speaker and the audience. It also gave her an unrivalled view. She watched a further group of protesters begin to object. This time they weren’t content with hurling abuse at the councillor. They threw tomatoes and eggs. These fell short, some disastrously so. One, to Becky’s delight, hit the reporter from a local TV news programme.

  Becky was almost sure the protesters had begun rising from their seats as Appleyard was still speaking. Had it been chance that he’d paused? Or were they prepared? How could they know the councillor would stop just then? Curiously, Becky watched as stewards wrestled with the objectors. From her vantage point, even that seemed staged. She hurried downstairs, across the large vestibule, into the car park; then dodged round the corner of the building and waited.

  The small knot of protesters emerged, surrounded by stewards. Once outside, the struggles ceased and the group united in smiles and pats on the back. Two stewards joined the protesters as they left. Becky continued shooting, grateful for the silent operation of her camera. She waited until the remaining stewards re-entered the building before returning. For the first time in her career with the Gazette, Becky felt afraid.

  The incident had lasted a few minutes. As Becky reached the gallery, she heard Appleyard coming to the end of his diatribe.

  ‘The choices are stark. If we don’t see action in the near future, I tremble to think of the consequences. If the people of this country can’t obtain justice, they might form themselves into action groups. If that happens, if the rule of law becomes the rule of the vigilante, who knows where it will lead? The country could dissolve into two camps. One occupied by
those for whom the rule of law isn’t acceptable, set against them the decent people who won’t tolerate lawlessness. At that point society will be close to terminal meltdown.’

  Appleyard held his hands out wide, as if embracing his audience. They rose to cheer him. Again, Becky had the feeling everything was being carefully choreographed. She got a couple of shots of the stage surrounding the councillor. She captured images of three men standing in the wings. One, she knew. It was Carlton Rathmell’s agent. The other two were familiar, although Becky couldn’t name them.

  Her attention reverted to centre-stage as she realized the action wasn’t over. Appleyard was extending his right hand towards someone in the front row. A figure emerged from the dark and as he reached the brightness of the footlights, Becky gasped in surprise. Her training to the fore, she concentrated her lens on the newcomer.

  Appleyard performed the introduction. ‘For those few who don’t recognize him, I’m pleased and proud to introduce Carlton Rathmell, who has represented this region’s interest in the European Parliament so vigorously.’

  The applause broke out again as the two men shook hands. The pressmen scribbled, cameras flashed, a few camera phones blinked, the TV cameras swivelled from MEP to councillor and back, then to the ecstatically applauding crowd. Eventually Appleyard stepped back a pace. Rathmell stood at the podium, one hand resting lightly on the surface, at ease, smiling. He waited until the noise in the hall decreased and the audience regained their seats. Then he began.

  ‘Councillor Appleyard, ladies and gentlemen, when I found out that Frank was speaking, I knew what he had to say would be worth listening to. Hearing his words of deep wisdom; let me say I am in complete agreement. I am pleased to endorse his statements completely. I believe the actions of those few malcontents we have witnessed tonight underline the validity of his remarks better than anything I can say. As he was speaking, I believe what we witnessed here tonight should mark a starting point. It takes a brave man to attempt to forge a new beginning in British politics. I believe that two brave men stand a better chance than one. What we have to say is too important, too vital to the future of this country to be wasted on the night air. Therefore I am pleased to announce that we will work towards forming an alliance that will make those views heard by the people. We will represent the needs, wishes, dreams and aspirations of the indigenous British population.