Backlash

by Nick Oldham

  Henry nodded. ‘Interesting. If you’re right, then someone must know about the problems between the Khans and the Costains and the fact that there was trouble waiting to happen . . .’ Henry’s musings brought silence to the room. He glanced round at the four of them. ‘There’s the distinct possibility of loads more trouble. The Khans won’t let things lie and the Costains are likely to keep pushing the white kids on the estate to keep rioting . . . could be a bloody hectic week.’ And suddenly twenty-one extra cops did not seem very many. Added to the few he had, who also had the rest of Blackpool to look after, it was an inadequate number.

  He swore under his breath, uttered a short laugh and smiled in Karl Donaldson’s direction. The American had said nothing for some time. ‘But what makes me even more worried,’ Henry admitted, ‘is what you’re doing here, Karl. I presume you have more to tell me?’

  Donaldson licked his lips and nodded. He glanced at FB and raised his eyebrows. FB gave him the nod to continue. ‘Unfortunately, yes, and it could be even more of a nightmare than street rioting.’

  The woman prisoner Henry had arrested sat numbly in the small cell, crying.

  The flap in the cell door crashed open and an officer’s face filled the rectangular space. He did not say anything, just looked in. The prisoner wiped her eyes and stared defiantly at him.

  ‘I just wanted to know what you looked like,’ the officer said. ‘Just wanted to know what the person who half fried one of my colleagues looked like.’

  The young woman’s shoulders slumped.

  ‘The one who nearly killed a cop . . . or who might have killed a cop, because he might die yet.’

  The flap slid back up and the catches banged into place. The officer – whoever it was – had gone. The prisoner flew to the door, smacking her hands and feet against it, screaming words which were lost behind the heavy metal panelled door and which could not be heard down in the custody reception area because it was too far away, down too many steps, around too many corners . . . and no one would have really cared anyway.

  ‘There’s been a spate of bombings across the States over the last six years,’ Donaldson said, ‘aimed at minority groups – gays, blacks . . . you name it. Twenty-one bombs and over thirty people have been killed.’

  FB stifled a cough. All eyes turned to him for a moment, then went back to Donaldson who visibly bristled but tried to ignore the interruption. He knew FB held the world’s premier law enforcement agency in very low esteem.

  ‘As happens with these things, it took a while for connections to be made. It was only by the time the third bomb exploded that we realised we had a serial killer on our hands, but his infrequency of attacks and the fact that they have been all over America have made it virtually impossible for us to apprehend him. The bombs get better and better and more people get killed and injured each time.’

  ‘Presumably you must have some ideas about him,’ Henry said.

  ‘Yeah. Hazy, cloudy ones, but yeah.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘We went all the usual routes: undercover operations into right-wing organisations, covert operations, overt operations, busts left, right and centre – mainly right, of course,’ he slid in and got a titter of laughter. ‘But we got nothing. No hints, no whispers, no names, not a damn thing . . . so we think he’s a lone wolf, classified as the new offender model terrorist.’

  ‘Making it virtually impossible to catch him,’ Henry said, knowing about the model referred to.

  ‘And making you look like nob-heads into the bargain,’ FB contributed destructively.

  This time no one looked his way. There was a beat of embarrassed silence.

  Donaldson reached for the briefcase by his side. He took out a series of grainy, indistinct black and white photographs, handed them round the room. ‘These are from CCTV cameras in three locations: Miami, San Francisco and LA. We think they’re of the same man. Our facial analysts are seventy per cent sure it is the same guy. Caught on camera just minutes before bombs exploded in these cities.’

  ‘It’s a bit slim – and they are very poor photos,’ Henry said as objectively as he could.

  ‘Agree,’ Donaldson said. ‘But it’s all we have. Three images of an unidentified person at the scene of three out of nineteen bombings, who could be the same person. If it is . . .’

  ‘The odds of one person being at three out of nineteen attacks are pretty remote,’ Henry said. ‘Unless . . .’

  ‘Exactly – unless it’s the bomber – so I’m willing to go with it. Gut feeling and all that.’

  ‘Gut feeling isn’t evidence,’ FB said.

  ‘Very true, sir,’ Donaldson said. He fished out more photos. ‘Charles de Gaulle Airport two weeks ago.’ He handed them round. They were still grainy, but slightly more defined. They showed a male, maybe mid-thirties, medium height, casually dressed, the peak of a baseball cap pulled down covering his face. Henry held one of the new photos up alongside one of the first batch and compared them. He shook his head unsurely.

  ‘Could be,’ he said, doubtfully.

  ‘Facial analysts give it a seventy-five per cent nod,’ the FBI man said. ‘Which as far as I’m concerned means the guy is in Europe. Two days later there was a bomb in Paris, one person killed, thirty injured. Jews. Coincidence? Not a chance.’ He looked round the room for someone to defy him. No one did.

  ‘Anything from flight records, the passenger lists?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Nothing conclusive. Some things still being followed up.’

  ‘OK . . . say it’s the same guy – where is this leading, Karl?’

  ‘Maybe nowhere, Henry. Just a warning. Paris isn’t a million miles away. With all this upsurge of right-wing activity, it’s possible this guy might be operating around here. It’s a health warning.’

  Henry thought about the large gay community in Blackpool who would be easy targets for a fanatic. ‘OK, I’ll bear it in mind. Can we circulate these photographs around the clubs?’

  ‘No problem with me – sounds a good idea.’

  ‘I’ll sort it – get some posters done and sent out to the gay bars for tonight with a warning to be on their guard.’

  ‘Yeah – do it,’ FB snapped.

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about this guy, Karl? Do the bombs get left in the same sort of packaging? Sports bags, carrier bags?’

  ‘All different.’

  Henry nodded acceptance. He checked his watch. ‘Too late to do anything now because everywhere should be closed.’

  ‘OK, that’s it for the moment, Henry,’ FB said with finality. ‘Unless anyone has anything more?’ He glanced round the room.

  ‘Oh, I do, actually,’ Henry said brightly.

  FB wilted.

  ‘Just one thing – this new splinter group. I forgot to ask – do they have a name?’ He aimed the question at Andrea Makin.

  ‘Yes they do. They call themselves Hellfire Dawn.’

  Eight

  ‘It’s the way their twisted minds work.’ Andrea Makin was walking alongside Henry Christie as he descended the steps towards the basement of Blackpool Central Police Station. She matched him step by step. ‘Do you know the rationale behind the name Combat 18, for example?’

  Henry had to admit that he did not.

  ‘It’s a number-letter combination, related to their good leader, Adolf Hitler.’

  Henry thought about that. ‘You got me there.’

  ‘The number one relates to the first letter of the alphabet – A; the number eight refers to the eighth letter.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘H.’

  Henry stopped suddenly on one of the landings. Makin too.

  ‘A-H?’ he questioned.

  She smiled. ‘Come on, get a grip, Henry,’ she said lightly. ‘A is for Adolf and H is for Hitler – hence 18. They are devoted followers of Adolf Hitler and all his fine works and deeds.’

  ‘It’s a good job he wasn’t called Xavier Zakynthos, then, otherwise it’d b
e Combat 24-26.’

  Makin smiled and ignored him. ‘They just haven’t got round to genocide yet – but on Allport’s Scale they’ve got well off the bottom rung.’

  Henry’s simple mind was getting confused now. He knew he should have known something about Allport’s Scale, but in what context he could not remember.

  ‘What’s Allport’s Scale?’ he asked stupidly.

  ‘Gordon Allport wrote a book in the fifties about the nature of prejudice. He devised a scale about prejudice which runs from simple avoidance to extermination in extreme cases. Like Hitler and the Jews.’

  ‘Oh. So, anyway, what does Hellfire Dawn relate to?’ he asked, trying to mask his ignorance with a half-passable question. He waited with bated breath.

  ‘H is for Hitler – obviously.’

  ‘Goes without saying.’

  ‘D is for Disciples: Hitler’s Disciples.’

  ‘Sad bastards.’ He shook his head. ‘Still, it’s a pastime, though.’

  ‘Yeah – a dangerous one, don’t forget that. One which doesn’t keep them off the streets.’

  ‘And Allport’s Scale – where do Hellfire Dawn figure on that?’ He hoped that sounded a reasonably intelligent question too.

  ‘They believe in extermination, but they’re pretty much round the level of physical attack. In other words they beat people up.’

  ‘Just what I thought,’ he said knowledgeably, continuing downstairs. ‘Do they have a leader, other than the late, lamented Adolf?’

  ‘Guy by the name of Vince Bellamy leads the main political group, but we also believe he is the leader of the paramilitary wing, although he denies their actual existence. Very clever individual. Former university professor. Very political animal and has the ear of several right-wing MPs, we believe.’

  ‘How are they financed?’

  ‘Don’t know. Sympathetic businessmen, probably. But anyway, Bellamy is a real stirrer. Very motivational in a dark way.’

  ‘Sounds like Hopper out of a Bug’s Life,’ Henry chuckled. They had reached the basement.

  ‘Looks like him too – and he’s got a bunch of grasshoppers around him who’ll do whatever he wants them to do. He’s also a bit like Fagin too, and apparently he does a great Hitler impersonation.’

  ‘Or maybe he’s more like FB,’ Henry mused, mainly to himself as they approached the custody office.

  ‘You don’t like him very much, do you?’

  ‘Is it that obvious? I must be slipping.’

  They stopped at the barred door leading to the complex. He turned and looked at Makin. ‘He and I have a pretty sordid history, shall we say?’ Makin’s mouth opened to respond, but before she could ask, Henry was talking into his radio, ‘Inspector to Blackpool – custody door please.’ He leaned on the door as, accompanied by a loud buzz, it was released.

  He intended to hold a short interview with the nameless female prisoner he had arrested, just to see if he had some of the old magic left, see if he could get anything out of her before handing the job over to CID. Makin had volunteered to have a look at the woman to see if she could identify her through her extensive knowledge of right-wing activists.

  As Henry pushed the door open there was the sound of van doors slamming from the car park and of voices and two constables appeared steering Kit Nevison between them, just back from hospital. He was stitched up and very subdued, like a sleepy baby, compliant and easy to handle. Henry held the door open and allowed the trio in ahead of himself and Makin. Nevison did not even look at him.

  Inside the custody office there was a delay caused by a backlog of prisoners. Henry drew Makin to the back of the room.

  ‘Where does this Bellamy guy hang out?’

  ‘South London, usually, but not this week. This week he’s right on your doorstep, one of your residents. Set up in hotel in central Blackpool fairly near the Winter Gardens, so no doubt he’ll want to be made to feel safe, involved and reassured.’ Makin smirked as she quoted the words from Lancashire Constabulary’s mission statement.

  ‘If I’ve got anything to do with it,’ Henry growled, ‘he’ll be unsafe, uninvolved and totally unassured – if there is such a word.’

  In interview room 2 they sat awaiting the arrival of the nameless prisoner who was, at that moment, consulting with the duty solicitor. Henry had a sealed double pack of tapes in front of him, together with the necessary paperwork he was obliged to hand over to the prisoner at the end of the interview which explained her legal rights.

  There was silence, but not uneasy, between him and Makin. He gave her a pallid smile, which she returned.

  ‘How long will you be up here?’ he asked, making conversation.

  ‘How long is a piece of string? As long as your ACC wants me to stay, as long as I have something to offer.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the conference hotel.’

  ‘The Imperial?’ Henry said, surprised.

  ‘Basil fixed a room up for me.’

  Ahh, Basil, Henry thought. ‘Nice,’ he said.

  Makin turned in her chair to look squarely at Henry. ‘I’m fascinated by your relationship with FB. It’s as though you can say almost anything to him and get away with it. It’s unheard of.’ She sounded amazed, impressed, almost.

  ‘Not true. I can’t say anything to him and get away with it. After all, he’s an ACC and I’m only an Inspector. But our joint past does give me certain rights, I suppose. What it boils down to is that I hate him and he despises me, it’s a very balanced thing.’

  Makin’s lips pursed thoughtfully. Her eyes roamed his face.

  ‘You married?’ she asked out of the blue.

  ‘No – What?’ he spluttered, suddenly very hot under the collar. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just wanted to know.’ She smiled.

  The interview-room door swung open and the female prisoner sauntered in cockily, followed by the duty solicitor. Henry exhaled with some relief. He shot Makin a quick, troubled glance and turned his attention to the job in hand. Something he felt more equipped to deal with than Makin’s highly personal questions.

  The tapes were running. For their benefit Henry had introduced himself, as had Andrea Makin and the duty solicitor. The only person not speaking was the prisoner. Henry shrugged when she refused to talk and cautioned her to the letter. He asked if she understood the caution. She blinked blandly at him, made no movement and betrayed no body language, other than indifference. Henry almost smiled. He loved the ‘no response’ interview to bits, especially these days when it had been made explicit that a person’s defence could be harmed if they did not say something during an interview which they later relied on in court. In the past, too many defendants had used the ‘ambush’ defence and got away with things unfairly. Now the defence was obliged to reveal all before any proceedings, just like the prosecution had always had to do.

  It amused Henry that people still thought they could get away with saying nothing. Still, it was their prerogative. She could stay dumb for as long as she wanted because Henry would just throw the allegations at her. If she chose not to respond, it was her hard luck and bad judgement.

  ‘My client has decided to remain silent during the interview,’ the solicitor said. He looked annoyed at her decision. Henry guessed he had told her to speak and give her side of the story. She obviously had not taken this advice.

  ‘Fine,’ Henry said. He went into his opening gambit. ‘So far you have declined to reveal your name, address and date of birth. I hope you realise the fairly immediate implications of this for yourself. You have been arrested for several serious offences – possession of petrol bombs, as well as on suspicion of causing damage by fire, which is arson, serious public-order offences and the attempted murder of a police officer. If you do not reveal your personal details, your fingerprints will be taken, by force if necessary, and, should you be charged with these offences, don’t even begin to think that bail will be considered. It won’t.’

  ‘I think you
’re getting a little ahead of yourself here, Inspector. The question of bail is not a matter for you, but for the custody officer,’ observed the solicitor.

  ‘I am simply letting your client know the harsh realities of the course of action she seems intent on taking.’

  ‘That is very kind of you, Inspector, but she is already fully aware of the implications. I have already outlined them.’ The solicitor scribbled down some notes.

  Before Henry could continue, Makin said, ‘Could I just say something?’

  Henry sat back. ‘Fire away.’

  Makin addressed the solicitor. ‘I think it would be wrong of me not to appraise your client of the situation in terms of her identity before we proceed. I know her name.’

  The girl, who had been sitting fiddling with her fingertips, raised her face sharply. Her eyes darted between Henry and Makin. The colour drained from her face to match that of the white zoot suit she was wearing.

  ‘You are Geri Peters, aren’t you?’

  Her face cracked into a flood of tears.

  As quickly as it had begun, the interview ended. The girl was clearly in no fit state to continue. The tears grew into a crescendo of racked, desperate sobbing, which developed in intensity until it morphed up a gear into hysteria and there was no way she could continue.

  The duty solicitor requested a break. Henry agreed, saying that he thought he had done enough for the moment and perhaps the best course of action would be to let her get some sleep and continue the interview process in the morning when the CID took over. The solicitor, who should not have been on duty that night anyway – he was covering for the woman who had been attacked by Kit Nevison – readily agreed.

  The gaoler led the girl away.

  Henry and Makin watched her go.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Makin said. ‘Her name came to me in a flash – you know what it’s like. She’s on the periphery of Hellfire Dawn. She’s been seen in the company of Vince Bellamy a few times.’