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any trouble and said that he wouldn’t be a real dad if he didn’t take the boys to the footie. For some of his mates Saturday at the match followed by the chippie was the only time they spent with their kids. I was just glad that we weren’t like that.’

      She paused again, taking a mouthful of her tea, grimacing at the cold temperature.

      ‘Let me get you a top-up, Mrs Meegan,’ interjected Hastings.

      She smiled at him and handed him her teacup, which he carried back to the kitchen.

      ‘Do you think their father’s employment situation helped form the boys’ political views?’ Warren asked carefully.

      Mary Meegan laughed throatily. ‘By “forming their political views”, do you mean “is that why they are nasty racists?”’ She answered her own question. ‘’Course it is. I believed Ray when he said he was keeping the boys away from any trouble at the football, but you tell me where the hell a nine-year-old learns to throw a banana at the TV when a black player comes on the pitch? I threatened to tan Tommy’s backside if he ever used that language again, but Ray laughed and said it was just a bit of fun.’

      Mary Meegan slumped into her seat, as if the wind had been let out of her, and for the first time Warren saw the pain in her eyes.

      ‘Mrs Meegan, do you have any idea who might have attacked your son?’

      Warren wasn’t expecting any great insights, but Mary Meegan was a lot more clued-in than she might at first seem.

      ‘It’s like Jimmy said – take your pick. They think I’m a fool, that I don’t know what they get up to. Until today they’d never really made the news and I don’t think they had any idea how much I know about them.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I don’t exactly bring it up over Sunday lunch – not that I ever see them for Sunday lunch these days.’ The smile disappeared and her bottom lip trembled. ‘I just want my boys with me. The way it used to be.’

      She cleared her throat loudly and fished a handkerchief from out of her sleeve. Warren picked up his own teacup and joined Hastings and the Family Liaison Officer in the kitchenette. Mary Meegan was a proud woman and would want a few moments to compose herself. By the time they returned a minute later, it was as if nothing had happened. She took the fresh cup of tea from Hastings with a grateful smile.

      She pointed at the laptop on the dining table.

      ‘They think I just use that for online shopping. It was an old one that Tommy gave me. But there’s a silver surfer club at the library. One of the boys that helps out upgraded it. Now I can use it for looking at Facebook and surfing the web.’ Her face darkened. ‘I’m not an idiot. I know exactly what they’re involved in. I even follow them on Twitter. I see what people post on there. The language they use… the threats…’ Again, her bottom lip trembled. ‘They used to try and hide it from me – still scared of their old mum,’ she barked. ‘But by the time they’d both been to prison it was obvious. They started showing off their tattoos, horrible things.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s as if they want to be unemployed. They’re supposed to be painters and decorators, but who’d let someone looking like that into their house?’

      ‘So they aren’t working?’

      ‘Not really. Tommy moved down to Romford about five years ago, the last time he was released. He said it was to set up as a decorator – he completed a City and Guilds in prison – as a mate had some work on. But I’m not daft. That part of Essex is full of right-wingers. Jimmy joined him three years ago when he got out and they were supposed to set up a business together.’

      ‘But they didn’t?’

      ‘I think they tried, but they can’t get any work. Of course, they blame the immigrants. They reckon there are too many Poles down there.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe they’re right. But who would you rather invite into your house? A nice young Polish fellow who turns up on time with a smile, or some scruffy English bloke who turns up late covered in tattoos with a mouthful of foul language?’

      ‘And so they hooked up with the local far-right?’

      ‘Yeah, although they never use that term. They call themselves “patriots”.’

      ‘Before today, when was the last time you saw your sons?’

      Again, her bottom lip trembled. ‘It’s been a while. Months.’

      ‘So they don’t visit Middlesbury very often?’

      She shrugged. ‘I think they still have friends up here. Tommy used to see a girl over in Attlee Place, but they split up ages ago.’ The ghost of a smile passed across her face. ‘She’s seeing a black fella now – got a lovely little boy. I thought it best not to say anything.’

      Warren returned the smile. Despite everything, he was warming to Mary Meegan, and he felt more than a little sorry for her. It wasn’t hard to imagine the life she’d found herself trapped in. A man like Ray Meegan couldn’t have been easy to live with. Had she been the victim of domestic abuse? He doubted she’d admit it even now. And she’d had two boys with the man; boys that she loved and feared in equal measures. Boys that she’d tried in vain to steer away from the life their father had chosen.

      It was easy to blame the parents in such circumstances, but was that always fair? Not for the first time, Warren found himself wondering what he’d do in her place. He doubted Ray Meegan was the sort of man who’d let her run off with his kids, and he couldn’t imagine Mary Meegan leaving without them. Having children seemed the easiest decision in the world, but was it always the right choice?

      Suddenly, she grabbed Warren’s hand.

      ‘Please find the man who killed my boy. I know he wasn’t a nice man, but he didn’t deserve that. And now he’s gone I’m afraid of what will happen.’

      ‘Do you feel you’re in danger, Mrs Meegan?’ asked Warren.

      ‘Not me, Jimmy. Despite it all, Tommy was a good influence on him. Jimmy’s easily led and… he can get himself into trouble. Tommy used to hold him back.’

      Warren had read Jimmy Meegan’s file. If that was how he behaved when his older brother restrained him, he dreaded to think what the man would do now that he was gone.

       Chapter 6

      Tony Sutton hated fires. Fortunately, there were no bodies, nevertheless the scene conjured up old memories that he’d rather not dwell on.

      The Islamic Centre was a converted residential property, and luckily for the neighbours was detached. The blaze had done significant damage to the downstairs, with the windows on the ground floor broken, the frames blackened. The smoke that smudged the centre’s sign hadn’t obliterated the racist graffiti scrawled across it. The front door hung off its hinges where the fire service had smashed it open to tackle the blaze behind. It too had graffiti, along with a couple of crudely drawn swastikas for good measure. A white-suited CSI was taking a swab from the paint in the hope that they could match it to any aerosol cans recovered from a suspect.

      Hardwick resisted the urge to hold her nose; the smell of scorched plastic was making her feel nauseous.

      ‘Imam Mehmud seemed pretty worried about the long-term fallout,’ she commented.

      Sutton agreed. ‘It doesn’t look good. When you were in the bathroom, he told me he’s concerned about strangers turning up and using the fire as an excuse to make a point. There are some pretty angry social media posts in amongst the calls for solidarity and prayers for the victims. He’s pretty young and I don’t know if he wields enough authority to stop troublemakers.’

      ‘What about the stabbing? What if it turns out to be a member of his congregation?’

      ‘I don’t know. I’m trying not to think about it.’

      ‘Well we haven’t

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