by Bill Kitson
He lined up his bottles. Wine bottles filled with petrol. The corks replaced with cotton wool. He’d seen criminals on telly picking locks to enter buildings. Billy didn’t rate that much. He simply smashed the glass panel in with a lump of wood he found lying in the yard. The burglar alarm went off. It didn’t bother him. In a few minutes they’d have more to worry about than a break-in.
Once he was inside, he went into the small offices huddled in the corner. There was a short corridor with toilets to one side, a small reception area, a general office and the manager’s office. Billy lit one of the wicks, opened the manager’s door and tossed the first of his petrol bombs inside. He repeated the process in the general office and reception. The corner containing the door he’d entered by was now effectively sealed off. Billy didn’t realize, or perhaps he was beyond caring. He looked at the rows of shelves containing stacks of plastic sheeting. Then he saw a collection of bins in the opposite corner, close to the roller-shutter door. The first one he came to was half full of liquid. Billy didn’t recognize the smell. He paused. Would it burn? Worth a try. He lit another wick and tossed the bomb inside.
Danny watched Billy enter the building. He was standing no more than fifty yards away, alongside Jake Fletcher. It gave them an excellent view. ‘Right, go get your troops to stir the mob up. As soon as Billy’s out, and the fire catches hold, I’ll dial the fire brigade. They’re your first target. They’re bound to call the police for protection. That’s when you must change your attack. The pigs are our main target. Remember they’re the ones who did for Ronnie.’
Danny set off towards the garages, where the Juniors would be gathered. They’d had their gear – now they’d have to earn it. The bonus would come later. Danny had only taken a few steps when there was a terrific explosion behind him. He spun round. At first he thought somebody had shot Jake. Fletcher was lying on his back, near where Danny had left him. Then he realized the sound had been too loud for a gunshot. He turned to his right and stared in horrified disbelief.
Half of the single-skin brick wall had been blown out. Fire was already engulfing the building. ‘Billy!’ Danny’s cry was choked as he saw his brother emerge.
Billy stood in the centre of the hole. His eyes, crazed as if by drugs, stared straight at Danny. But Danny knew Billy couldn’t see him. His head flung back and he bellowed a huge shout of triumphant laughter. Laughter that turned into a scream. Billy staggered and Danny saw with fresh horror that the whole of his back was alight. Not just alight, but an inferno. His clothing had been melted to his skin. Billy was a human torch. Before Danny could move or say anything the fireball reached out and consumed its creator. Danny saw Billy disappear, engulfed by a wall of flame. He heard a long, piercing scream of pure and absolute agony. Then there was silence. Silence; broken only by the muffled ringing of the burglar alarm and the intensifying crackle of the flames.
Jake sat up. He’d been blown off his feet by the blast. He shook his head, trying to clear the ringing sound, then realized it was the alarm. He swallowed and his hearing returned. He looked round for Billy. There was no sign of the youth. Danny too had disappeared. Within minutes Fletcher heard a fresh sound: the sonorous wail of sirens. He watched the appliances screech to a halt. The unit where Billy had set the fire was beyond rescue. The firemen would have their work cut out to save the other buildings. As they were deploying, Fletcher saw a knot of spectators forming a short distance away.
He moved towards a bank of trees and scanned the crowd. He saw several faces he recognized. Young faces. Vicious faces. Danny had roused the Juniors. Now they were moving amongst the onlookers; turning a crowd into a mob. He heard a sound, the swell of discontented chatter. Soon he recognized anger in the noise. Then a man reached down and seized a piece of broken paving slab. He threw it.
It was pure luck that the stone found its target. Even luckier for the fireman, his helmet took the brunt before he pitched forward, stunned by the blow to the head. The crowd began looking for missiles. There were plenty about. Singly at first, then in a more concentrated bombardment, the stones and pieces of wood began to rain down amongst the fire crews. One of the mob sneaked up to the rearmost appliance and sliced through the hoses. Water spewed around the engine. The jet that might have saved a building died to a trickle. Fletcher heard more sirens. This time it would be the police. There weren’t sufficient in Helmsdale to contain this mob, whose numbers were growing by the second, too many to count. Jake guessed there to be over eighty.
Becky pointed into the distance at the plume of smoke. ‘Look at that. That’s a hell of a blaze.’
Nash took his eyes off the road for a split second. ‘Well organized.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Every attack, whether it’s a shooting, knifing or arson, seems carefully timed to interact with our investigation.’ He glanced sideways and saw her look of surprise. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? It’s all being carefully orchestrated.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘When we get there? Not much I can do. There’s Viv and me plus half a dozen uniforms until reinforcements arrive. Try and protect the fire brigade, that’s about it.’
‘Be careful.’
‘Listen to your own advice then. Keep well back. I don’t want to have to spend all the time trying to protect you.’
‘I can take care of myself.’
‘Not against a mob you can’t. At least I’m armed.’
‘You’re not planning to use it, are you? Your pistol, I mean?’
‘Not unless I have to. I don’t like the bloody things. Using it would be the last resort.’
They were still almost a mile away from the industrial estate when Nash heard the sirens. He glanced in his rear-view mirror and saw the flashing red and blue lights. He pulled to one side and watched as the trio of vans swept past. ‘Your men are quick,’ Becky said.
‘Aren’t they just.’ Nash pulled the car to a standstill. ‘Except that those men aren’t from Helmsdale.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Helmsdale hasn’t enough men to fill one of those vans. They’re from Netherdale.’
‘But if you’ve only had chance to get across town, how come they’ve arrived so quickly?’
‘That’s a very good question. An extremely good question. Not the first time I’ve asked myself that.’
‘Care to explain?’
‘Later, perhaps, when the dust settles. Anyway, I reckon those guys will sort the trouble out. No need for us to hurry. When we get there, we’ll park a discreet distance from the action. I’d like you to take plenty of photos.’ He reached for his phone. ‘Tom, Mike Nash. Your men are here in Helmsdale.’ Apart from the occasional grunt, he made almost no further contribution to the call.
They arrived at the industrial estate and Becky started to record the scene. ‘Have you got the timer record facility in use?’
‘I never switch it off.’
‘Good. I want some close-up shots, please.’
‘No problem. It’d be difficult if the mob was wearing masks or hoods.’
‘I’m not interested in the mob. I want you to take photos of the police.’
Becky lowered the camera and stared at Nash. ‘You’re joking?’ Then saw the expression on his face. ‘You’re not joking.’
‘Never been more serious.’
Nash watched her for a few seconds. Then his mobile rang. ‘Hi, Mike, it’s Lisa.’
‘Anything doing?’
‘There was plenty of action earlier. Rathmell had a couple of visitors. You’ll never guess who one of them was.’
Nash said a name.
‘How did you guess?’ Lisa asked. ‘Oh, it wasn’t a guess, was it? Anyway, they left and Gemma arrived. She’s just gone. I rang you because I heard about the riot on Helm Radio. Wondered if you need help?’
‘Did you really?’ Nash glanced at his watch. It showed 7.15 p.m. ‘Was that a news flash or one of the regular
bulletins?’
‘The seven o’clock news. Why, is it important?’
‘I think so. I’m interested to know how they found out about the riot five minutes before I got to know.’
Fletcher watched a flashing display of lights which signalled the arrival of three vans. These would be from Netherdale. The riot shields in front of the windscreens were taking a battering from the stone throwers, even before they reached the scene. The rear doors of the vans opened almost in unison. Helmeted officers sprang from each. Armed officers; riot shields up. They moved relentlessly forwards.
The crowd dispersed, parting briefly to allow the police passage. Then began throwing stones. There were several soft explosions and Fletcher saw what appeared to be smoke spreading among the crowd. ‘Tear gas,’ he muttered.
The wind took the gas and Fletcher saw it spread; heard the coughing, choking sounds. The riot police were forced to withdraw or suffer along with their attackers. The mob retreated in disarray. His attention was distracted momentarily by a car. It arrived quietly, coasting to a halt only yards from where Jake was concealed. A couple got out, unseen or unnoticed by everyone bar Fletcher. He didn’t recognize the woman. The man he knew only too well. ‘Nash,’ he breathed. ‘What the hell’s he doing? Why isn’t he in amongst the rest? And who’s that with him?’
He saw the girl reach back in the car and remove something. He wasn’t sure what, until she lifted it head high. It was a camera. He saw Nash pointing. Directed by Nash, the girl was taking photographs; recording the scene. Fletcher was in a quandary. He knew Nash was the danger, wanted him out of the equation. But Fletcher was alone. And Nash was armed. He knew that because he’d been told Nash would be carrying.
The mob hadn’t dispersed. That was never the plan. The police charge had been met with only token resistance. When the officers advanced, the crowd separated into groups and moved away, down the maze of intersecting streets. There they would re-form and seek new targets. At the head of each group was a member of the Juniors. They had their plan and knew their role to perfection. Hardly surprising, as they’d been coached in it for days.
From their vantage point Nash and Becky watched the retreat. ‘That was very tame,’ she said.
‘Too tame. I don’t like the look of this. I don’t like it at all.’ Nash pulled out his mobile.
‘Tom? Where are you?’
‘Just coming into the estate. How are things looking?’
Nash gave him a quick rundown. ‘It’s too well organized. As if they knew what they’d be up against and how to deal with it. What concerns me is what they’ll do once they’re out of reach.’
‘I’ll be there in a few minutes. What do you suggest?’
‘Who’s in charge of the uniforms?’
‘Jack Binns is running the guys with shields and batons. Creepy’s headed up the ARU.’
‘I suggest you split them. Put some of the blokes in riot gear into groups with one or two armed men. Follow the rioters. Do what they’re doing. Split up and walk through the estate. I think they’ll either regroup, or form small attack units. This doesn’t seem like a spontaneous uprising. It all looks carefully orchestrated.’
‘Any ideas as to their targets?’
‘At a guess, migrant workers and their property. All done in the name of, and in memory of, Appleyard.’
‘Are you out of harm’s way?’
‘As you ordered, Tom. For once I’m following instructions.’
‘And have you any more thoughts about tonight?’
‘Oh yes, Tom. As soon as this is over, I’m going to start asking questions.’ Nash disconnected and stood watching.
‘What was that all about?’ Becky asked.
‘When I spoke to the superintendent earlier, he ordered me to stay clear of trouble. He wasn’t prepared to have me finish up as the victim of a mob. Not when there were reinforcements on the scene. He told me to keep a watching brief.’
‘That’s not all though, is it? What about your conspiracy theory? About the way the mob acted?
‘You mean the fact that they’re being controlled? That the level of violence is just enough to grab newspaper headlines and be put out in radio bulletins? Or the fact that for the second time in the past few days, police from Netherdale arrived suspiciously quickly; quicker than those from Helmsdale? I can’t comment yet. Not on the record.’
Nash scanned the scene in front of him. A movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. ‘Lend me your camera a sec.’
Becky passed it over. ‘How do you work the telephoto?’
‘Twist the barrel of the camera. When it’s fully extended, that’s your close-up. Turn it the other way for wide angle.’
Using the camera as a telescope, Nash concentrated on the figure he’d glimpsed on the outskirts of the mob. He kept the camera steady. ‘Get my mobile out of my pocket. Press redial and hold it to my ear, will you? I don’t want to lose sight of this character.’
He waited for his call to connect. ‘Tom? I need a group of lads to chase someone down. Four should be enough. As long as one of them is armed.’
Danny took a swig from the flask. The neat spirit was harsh, painful almost. He didn’t mind that. It was what he needed. That and the drugs he’d taken, needed, to cope. The war he was in had claimed Billy’s life. Danny knew who to blame. Now it was payback time. All he needed was a target.
It didn’t take long for him to find one; or rather two. Two men heading home through the estate, steering well clear of the violent mob. Men Danny recognized. Juris and another worker from the farm. He took another hefty swig from his flask. Time for action and this time there’d be no mistake. This time he wouldn’t leave everything to chance. This time he’d not risk missing them. He’d walk right up to them. Stick his gun in their scrawny bellies and pull the trigger.
It took him longer to get close to them than he’d banked on. Partly because they were walking quicker than he’d expected, and partly because he didn’t want to show himself until the last minute. They were within sight of their house when he reached them. He pulled the pistol from his pocket and walked up to Juris.
Danny had been so preoccupied, he’d not seen anything. Not heard anything. His finger was actually curling round the trigger when he heard a sound. In the same instant he saw a blur of movement to his right. Then a sharp pain shot through his hand. He heard the crunch of breaking bone. As he cried out, he saw what was happening clearly. Saw the baton swing back. Then down. He squealed in agony; dropped the gun. Then felt a second blow across his shoulders. Then a third at the back of his knees. Danny howled, staggered; then ran.
‘Mike? Jack Binns. Danny Floyd’s escaped. We caught up with him. He was about to off a couple of migrant workers. Our lads fetched him a few good whacks, but he bolted down one of the alleys. We chased him, but this place is a warren. Could be anywhere by now. One good thing though. We’ve recovered his gun; dropped it when he was hit.’
Bereft of their leader, the Juniors began to lose heart. The amount they’d ingested didn’t help. The riot petered out, the mob disappeared. A few went home, more gathered in The Wagon and Horses. The Westlea troubles were over. Not counting Billy Floyd’s death, the most serious casualties were Danny’s broken fingers and a scalp wound for one of the firemen.
Nash met Pratt outside the industrial units. The fire was under control now. As they stood watching, Doug Curran joined them and said, ‘We’ve had reports that there was someone inside when the blaze started. Probably the bloke who torched the place. You’ll not need a cremation service. With this wind, he’ll be all over the county by morning.’
‘Doug, sometimes you’re a sick bastard.’
Curran grinned cheerfully. ‘I’ll leave one of you to phone Mexican Pete and the forensics.’ He waved farewell.
Pratt watched him depart. ‘I’ll see to that. What’s your next move?’
‘I’ve got to check on Vickers. Then I’m going home, hopefully to get some kip.’
/>
‘Anything you want from me?’
‘There is something.’ Nash told him what he wanted.
‘Right, I’ll fax the details in the morning. Care to explain?’
Nash shook his head. ‘I’d prefer to leave it until I’m certain.’
Nash returned to Becky. ‘Let me give you a lift home.’
‘Are you going to Grove Road? That would mean doubling back. Do that first; then drop me off.’
‘Right, let’s go. I’ve had enough of the Westlea for one night.’
The armed guard reported that all was quiet, both inside and out. ‘Vickers is very much on edge,’ the man told him. ‘I think he wants a word with you.’
‘I’ll see what he wants.’
Becky joined him as he went up to the door. ‘You don’t have to come in if you don’t want.’
‘You’re not leaving me out.’
Nash could tell Vickers was restless. ‘What’s eating you?’
‘Have you made any progress? Finding out who killed Stacey, I mean?’
‘I’m nearly sure I know who killed her,’ Nash told him quietly. ‘All we need is more evidence.’
Vickers looked at him oddly. ‘I’m going to bed now. One of the minders will let you out.’
When the door closed behind Vickers, Becky asked, ‘Are you serious? You think it was Gemma or Carlton Rathmell, don’t you? Does that mean they murdered JT as well?’
‘Oh yes,’ Nash said calmly. ‘The problem is the only evidence I have in either case is circumstantial. Short of a confession, I can’t see a hope in hell of proving it. I don’t honestly think we’ll ever bring the killer to trial.’
‘Have you any idea which of them actually committed the murders?’
Nash’s mind went back a couple of days. He was standing in a shop in the Market Place. Becky saw the distant look on his face and wondered again about Nash’s thought processes. This was what her godmother had described, she guessed.