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‘They have several dozen known accounts, some with openly provocative names such as “Keep Britain British” and others with more innocuous titles such as “Proud to be British”, sharing harmless patriotic fare. The First World War commemorations have been a real party for them, with lots of pictures of poppies and young Tommies. We’re expecting a major offensive in the run-up to Remembrance Sunday with attempts to hijack the poppy appeal.’
‘Why? Surely most of the people sharing these posts have no idea who’s behind them and would be appalled if they knew?’ The tone of the questioner, sat somewhere towards the back, suggested that they may be reconsidering some of the pages that they had personally liked or shared.
Garfield gave a shrug, ‘Nobody’s really sure. Some of it’s plainly propaganda and the number of shares – which is in the tens of thousands for some of these posts – probably helps them claim to be on the side of the “silent majority”. We think it might also be a form of market research, using the number of likes, shares and retweets as a means of gauging popularity for different causes. They might also get a bit of click-through revenue from people visiting their websites. As to its effectiveness in terms of active members, it’s hard to tell. They operate a lot of sock puppets – fake accounts – so it appears as if they have more supporters than they actually do.’
Warren cleared his throat slightly, he didn’t want to end up spending all morning discussing the far-right’s social media strategy.
Taking his cue, Garfield switched to the next slide.
‘On the opposite side of the argument to the BAP, we have the counter-protestors. It’s early days, but part of my team is also trying to identify as many of them as possible. Somebody killed Tommy Meegan and it’s as good a place to start as any. There were a lot more there than we expected, so we’ll have our work cut out for us.’
That was something of an understatement. From what Warren had gleaned so far, the number of BAP supporters was as predicted, but the counter-protest was significantly larger than anticipated. It had been sheer weight of numbers that had caused the lines to collapse and it was little more than good luck that more people hadn’t been injured or even killed.
‘We’re compiling a list and scrutinising CCTV for known faces, but we know that a lot of attendees were either concerned locals, or not known to us. We have a couple of super-recognisers helping us, but the seasoned veterans were wearing masks or had their faces and tattoos covered. Aside from the usual agitators there were also protestors from more mainstream leftist groups, people showing solidarity with the local Muslim community, and lots of students, none of whom are likely to be in our files.’
‘Any indicators from social media about who may have wanted to kill Meegan?’ asked Warren.
‘It’s hard to tell. BAP members, particularly the Meegans, get so many death threats posted on their blogs, Facebook pages and Twitter feeds they hardly bother to block them anymore. Where possible, we’re identifying and cross-referencing accounts with the list of attendees, but it’s slow going.’
Warren thanked him, feeling slightly dejected. The power of the internet had transformed policing in recent years, with many officers like Mags Richardson in his own unit becoming experts in its use. However, that power was also its downfall. The chances were good that buried amongst the vast amounts of data being collected were hints to the identity of Tommy Meegan’s killer. But finding those clues could take months or even years of sifting. Quite aside from the huge budget implications, Warren didn’t have months or years. The local and national media were already reporting a spike in inflammatory social media posts, from the far-right, the Muslim community and anti-racism campaigners. Even if Warren and his team had yet to find a direct link between the fire and the protest march and its aftermath, the public at large were already conflating the two events. Unless something was done soon Middlesbury was facing a bloodbath.
Chapter 2
After the briefing, Warren was summoned to DSI Grayson’s office. The privacy blinds were drawn on the door, so he had no idea who or what was awaiting him when he entered.
‘Sirs,’ Warren greeted the seated officers. There were no spare chairs, so Warren found himself standing like a naughty schoolboy.
‘Coffee?’
That was a good sign, the Assistant Chief Constable didn’t offer you some of John Grayson’s finest roast if you were in trouble.
‘That’d be lovely, sir.’
As one of the ACC’s assistants poured Warren a cup, he got down to business.
‘Let’s be blunt, Warren. Yesterday was a colossal cock-up on several levels, not least the murder of Tommy Meegan. We massively underestimated the number of counter-protestors and had to pull in reinforcements from across the region. The riot was bad enough, but a politically charged murder and an arson attack on a vulnerable target that we should have been protecting… we dropped the ball big-time.’
Warren stole a glance at DSI Grayson, who looked grim. The problem had landed squarely in his lap – which by extension meant Warren’s. The subtext was clear. Hertfordshire Constabulary was already looking foolish; now it was time to clean up the mess, and do it quickly. The grapevine was already buzzing with speculation that the officer in charge was likely to fall on her sword. Would the same be expected of Grayson – even Warren – if he failed to deliver?
‘Monitoring from the Social Media Intelligence Unit indicated tensions were already running high before the march, and now the far-right have gone ballistic,’ continued Naseem. ‘They’re already deciding how to capitalise on yesterday’s events. These buggers couldn’t decide on the colour of the sky normally, they hate each other almost as much as they hate non-whites and homosexuals, but yesterday’s killing is uniting them. The same goes for a lot of the anti-fascist organisations; we’re already seeing calls for mass protests if we don’t start making arrests over the Islamic Centre fire soon. More than a few keyboard warriors have said that what happened to Tommy Meegan was long overdue and have started naming other far-right activists as potential targets.’
The room settled into a leaden silence; eventually Garfield spoke up.
‘This time of year is full of significant dates for the far-right. They were originally planning on marching on the seventh of July, the anniversary of the London bombings. I guess they figured they could try and make a link between the proposed new mosque and Islamic extremism. We blocked that as too provocative. Then they tried to march on the first of August. Obviously we’re wise to that and said no.’
Warren evidently didn’t hide his ignorance fully.
‘The first of August, written 1/8 represents the initials of Adolph Hitler. It’s where Combat 18 get their name from.’
‘I see.’
‘So they suggested the next day. We almost let them have it, until we ran it through the computer – the eightieth anniversary of Hitler’s rise to Fuhrer. Finally, we settled on Saturday the nineteenth of July as comparatively harmless.’
‘OK.’
Warren didn’t quite see what they were so concerned about, surely the issue had been fixed?
‘The problem is that whilst we could stop a march through town on the grounds that it was likely to cause a breach of the peace, they’re already calling for his funeral to be held on August the first.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly. It’ll be a magnet for every right-winger in Europe. He’s already being eulogised as some sort of bloody martyr.’
‘Can we block the funeral?’
ACC Naseem snorted. ‘That’d be political dynamite. Can you imagine the reaction – “Police block grieving family’s funeral”? No, that’s a decision well above the pay grade of anyone in this room.’
‘Home Secretary?’ asked Grayson
‘You’d think, but we’re less than a year away from a general election, I wouldn’t bet on a speedy decision. Nevertheless, Mrs May has let it be known that she is following events closely.’
Warren’s head spun. He’d known the repercussions of the previous day’s murder were likely to be significant but he’d had no idea what was at stake. And he really wasn’t happy about the Home Secretary taking an interest. That sort of interest could end an officer’s career pretty quickly.
‘So where does that leave us?’
‘We need to know who was responsible for the murder as soon as possible to manage the fallout. If it was one of the protestors, it’ll be bad enough. If it turns out it was a member of the local Muslim community seizing an opportunity, the consequences don’t bear thinking about.’ He paused. ‘Without wanting to pre-empt DI Sutton’s briefing, are we treating the fire as arson?’
‘From witness reports, it’s looking that way.’
‘Great, that’s all we need.’
Naseem removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Warren watched him carefully over the top of his coffee cup.
At first glance it seemed strange that a small, first-response unit like Middlesbury would be taking the lead in such a politically sensitive operation, but it didn’t surprise him. Ostensibly, Middlesbury was most suited to coordinate investigations on its own turf; the CID unit’s intimate local knowledge made it ideal for dealing with crimes taking place at this end of the county, miles away from the Major Crime Unit’s headquarters in Welwyn Garden City. But there was more to it. Yet more cutbacks to the policing budget were making Middlesbury CID’s special status harder and harder to justify. A successful resolution to such a big, high-profile case would do wonders for the unit’s long-term future. The question was, were they being given an opportunity to prove themselves or handed enough rope to hang themselves?
Naseem’s face was unreadable. Beside him, Grayson looked similarly impassive, but his knuckles were slightly white as they gripped his coffee mug. Naseem turned to Grayson. ‘Blank cheque, John.’ His mouth twisted in disgust. ‘This needs sorting in the next ten days or we’re looking at the Brixton riots all over again.’
So there it was: make or break time for Middlesbury CID – and the career of John Grayson. Solve the murder quickly and efficiently and Grayson was one step closer to his next promotion; mess it up and it was the end of Middlesbury CID’s independence and perhaps John Grayson. And, quite possibly, Warren Jones.
Chapter 3
DI Tony Sutton dropped wearily into the comfy chair opposite Warren’s desk.
‘The fire at the Islamic Centre is almost certainly arson; I’ll be meeting the fire investigators later today.’
‘Is there a final casualty count?’
‘There were about thirty in the centre at the time, almost all women and children or older folk. They managed to get upstairs, where the fire service rescued them. A total of eight were treated for smoke inhalation, with two remaining in hospital. An eighty-nine-year-old woman already in poor health is in intensive care alongside a three-year-old boy.
‘Fortunately, lunchtime prayers had finished a couple of hours before and it wasn’t a Friday. Karen and I will be visiting the imam in charge later, but he’s already said that ironically they were in there because of the trouble brewing in town. The centre has invested heavily in security in recent years.’
‘Speaking of security, do we have any CCTV?’
Sutton smiled humourlessly. ‘It’s funny you should ask that. The CCTV at the front of the building wasn’t working.’
Warren sat up slightly straighter. ‘Really? Can I guess what happened?’
‘Be my guest.’
‘It was broken by a brick on Thursday evening.’
‘Half right, Wednesday evening.’
* * *
Tommy Meegan’s body had been found almost eighteen hours ago, but this was Warren’s first opportunity to visit the crime scene. Even in a small, specialist CID unit like Middlesbury, with its unique role as a first responder to local crimes, most of the legwork was performed by those with the rank of Inspector or below. Warren’s immediate superior, DSI Grayson, seemed to only leave his office to play golf or schmooze with the senior ranks at the force’s headquarters in Welwyn Garden City.
At Warren’s last appraisal, it had been suggested that he needed to practise delegating more. His wife, Susan, had certainly been pleased; Warren’s first few cases at Middlesbury had placed him – and his loved ones – directly in the firing line and she had questioned on more than one occasion why he needed to be so hands-on.
The problem was that Warren missed the excitement that came with solving a case. When he’d moved to Middlesbury three years previously, it had been to further his career. There were precious few DCI opportunities on the horizon in the West Midlands Police and the sudden vacancy at Middlesbury had seemed too good to be true. He’d applied and then accepted the post immediately.
The unit’s unusual position would provide Warren with a perfect mix of both smaller, community-style policing and management, with the safety net of a senior officer directly above him. A couple of years in that sort of environment and he would be ready to move on.
It hadn’t quite worked that way. Even assuming he hadn’t permanently blotted his copybook after the Delmarno case two years ago, he’d realised that he liked Middlesbury. His predecessor, Gavin Sheehy, had once described leading the unit as the best job he’d ever had. Warren had disagreed with Sheehy over much – but he was being won over on that score.
It had been made clear that solving the death of Tommy Meegan was to be Warren’s number one priority and he had interpreted that to mean ‘leave the office and get your hands dirty’.
But not literally. The body might have been removed, but the alleyway was still an active crime scene and Warren wasn’t getting a close look without appropriate precautions. The CSIs were still looking for trace evidence and so gloves and booties weren’t enough, particularly when TV camera crews with zoom lenses were in attendance. The last thing they needed was for some defence solicitor to claim evidence gathering procedures weren’t properly followed and use TV footage to demand that key exhibits be declared inadmissible.
The plastic-coated paper suits were far from ideal attire on a hot July day. The face mask trapped the heat from his breath and within moments he was licking sweat off his top lip. Suddenly his air-conditioned office seemed a lot more attractive…
Stepping out from the police van that he’d changed in, Warren glanced towards the gathered news crews. Thankfully, nobody seemed to have registered his presence. Warren was hardly a celebrity but a few of the local hacks would recognise him and he had no particular desire to have his face splashed all over the Middlesbury Reporter’s online edition, with the attendant excuse to rehash old stories from years ago. Perhaps the face mask had its uses after all.
‘DCI Jones, what brings you out here on such a fine day?’
As always, the jollity of Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison conflicted with the sombre nature of his job. But given what he saw on a daily basis, Warren figured it was probably a survival mechanism. Naturally, the burly Yorkshireman didn’t offer to shake his hand.
‘I’m here to make sure you aren’t cutting any corners, Andy.’
To Warren’s surprise, the man’s eyes – the only part of him visible above his mask – narrowed slightly.
‘It’s not us who’s cutting corners, sir.’
Warren paused before realising what the man was referring to.
‘DetectIt Forensic Services?’
‘I caught one of them using a box of out-of-date saline swabs to take blood samples from the patch next to the body.’
‘How can a saline swab be out-of-date?’
‘That’s exactly what he said. And of course he’s right, but any defence counsel worth his salt would move to have that evidence ruled inadmissible.’
Warren shuddered. ‘What happened?’
‘Fortunately, the victim bled like a stuck pig so there was plenty of blood to go around and the lad hadn’t started taking samples from some of the tiny specks we found further up the alleyway. I got him to fetch a fresh box and retake the swab.’
‘Shit.’ Warren lowered his voice. ‘Is this going to be a problem, Andy?’
The veteran CSI sighed. ‘At the scene I can keep an eye on the newbies and we’re whipping them into shape, but God only knows what happens when the samples go off to the lab. The Forensic Science Service might not have been perfect, but at least we knew who was doing the testing. Some of these new private companies didn’t even exist eighteen months ago. Their only qualification seems to be that they’re cheap.’
Warren felt a tightening in his gut. The thought that such a high-stakes case could be scuppered by a cut-rate CSI with a box of out-of-date swabs wasn’t worth contemplating.
‘Thanks for the heads up, Andy. In the meantime, talk me through what you’ve got.’
‘The victim was probably standing close to those bins when he was stabbed. There’s some spatter consistent with arterial spurt and from the blade when it was pulled out.’ He picked up a tablet computer with a removable plastic coating and started scrolling through images on its screen.
‘See this picture of that bin over there? The angle of the droplets suggests they were probably flicked off the tip of the blade when it was withdrawn. The droplets then continue in that direction—’ he pointed down the alleyway in the opposite direction to the shop front, where a series of numbered markers had been placed on the tarmac ‘—with a pattern consistent with dripping—’ he turned a half-circle on the spot, gesturing back towards the main road ‘—and our victim appears to have crawled in that direction, presumably away from his attacker. He didn’t get far; that big patch of blood behind that bin is where we found the body.’
The blood smears were no more than three metres in length and thick. Warren pictured the victim dragging himself away from the person who’d just stabbed him. Another few metres and he’d have been visible to passers-by in the high street. Could he have survived if somebody had found him and called for help? Without realising, he’d asked the question out loud.
‘That’s the sort of question that can only be answered by a pathologist, sir. But if I had to speculate… it’s doubtful. I think it’s a miracle he got as far as he did.’
Warren felt a brief flash of sympathy. Tommy Meegan had been a deeply unpleasant individual, but in those last few moments he was nothing more than a human being facing death – and probably terrified. Did he feel any remorse for the life he’d led? Warren shook off the feeling and turned to point back at the waste container with the blood spatter.
‘Is that where you think the murder weapon is?’
Harrison nodded. ‘We’ve finished sweeping the area around it for trace and we’re about to get in and start looking for it. Unfortunately, somebody from the nail bar dumped a load of rubbish in there shortly before the owners of the chippy discovered the victim behind their own bin. If the weapon was dumped in there it will be buried under half a ton of hair clippings and fake nails.’
Warren sighed.
‘Great, that screws the hair and fibre analysis.’
Visiting the scene probably hadn’t told him anything that he didn’t already know, and the high-resolution photographs that Harrison promised to send him would tell him far more than his eyes ever could, but it gave him a sense of what had taken place.
‘What about clothing?’
‘It was an arterial cut and he would have been pumping blood under high pressure, so I doubt the killer got away without at least some transfer. We’ll be looking for any discarded clothing. Failing that, find me a suspect and give me access to his laundry bin and shoe collection. We’ll find something.’
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