The Common Enemy - Paul Gitsham DCI Warren Jones

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       It had gone better than he could have hoped for. He’d seen crews from the BBC, Sky News and ITN, all perfectly poised to capture the action when it finally kicked off.

       Untucking his T-shirt, he bunched it up and used the front to wipe the sweat from his shaved head, leaving a red smear on the white of the St George’s flag. He reached up, wincing as his fingers found the cut above his temple. He hoped the TV cameras had caught that. He had no idea what it was that had actually struck him, just that it had come from the crowd of anti-fascists loosely corralled behind the cordon of under-prepared riot police.

       Already he was planning the evening’s tweets and a press release for the website. A two-pronged strategy, he decided: they’d pin the attack on the Muslims and claim that the police hadn’t done enough to protect their right to free speech.

       He touched his head again, another idea forming. The cut was still bleeding, but it was little more than a nick. He’d need to do something about that. If he was going to garner any sympathy on the evening news he’d need some real war wounds.

       He squinted at his watch; he was actually a few minutes early. It had been touch and go with the timing after the police had kept them on the bus. He’d been worried that he’d get to the alleyway too late. Fortunately, the protestors had finally broken through the police line and the party members had scattered every which way.

       He’d found himself running alongside Bellies Brandon and been concerned that he wouldn’t be able to find his way to his rendezvous unseen; his contact had made it very clear that he was to come alone. Fortunately, the fat bastard was so unfit Tommy had soon left him behind.

       A whoop of sirens in the distance finally signalled the arrival of more riot police. Tommy smiled again. Assuming that all had gone to plan and everyone had done as they were told, all the party members should have left the scene long ago. The only fighting should be between the Muslim-lovers and the police. Even the left-wing, mainstream media couldn’t bury that.

       The alleyway remained silent. He pulled the battered Nokia from his back pocket – no new messages. He’d made certain to empty the inbox; he didn’t want to make things too easy for the pigs if he got arrested.

       The lack of any communications irritated him and worried him in equal measure. The promised reinforcements hadn’t transpired, meaning he’d had to scrap some of his speech. And what if his contact had changed their meeting point or the time of their rendezvous? He wished he had his smartphone with him so he could access his email or Facebook, but everyone knew that the little devices would betray you in a million different ways if they fell into the wrong hands. He’d have to trust that any changes to their plans would be sent the old-fashioned way, by text or phone call.

       He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, the adrenaline had made it dry. As excited as he was about the meeting, he hoped it wouldn’t drag on. The beers on the coach that morning seemed a long time ago and he’d worked up a thirst. The landlord of The Feathers was an old mate, sympathetic to the cause. He’d treat them right until the bus arrived to take them home.

       The sound of a boot scraping the tarmac behind him caused him to spin quickly, bringing his hand up into a boxer’s stance. He squinted at the newcomer.

       ‘Why are you dressed like that?’ Tommy asked. ‘What’s that in your hand?’

Sunday 20th July

       Chapter 1

      ‘Tommy Meegan, leader of the British Allegiance Party, found stabbed in the alleyway between the Fry and Tuck chip shop and the Sparkles nail bar.’

      DCI Warren Jones pointed to the mugshot glaring across the crowded briefing room. The face was that of a shaven-headed, middle-aged white man sporting a few days of dirty yellow stubble. The man’s file on the Police National Computer didn’t detail if the missing front tooth was a casualty of the same incident that that had left a three-inch scar on his cheek or the same fight that had re-shaped his nose. The headshot extended to shoulder level, showing the top of a Union flag tattoo poking out of his T-shirt.

      The 8 a.m. briefing was even more crowded than usual, with many of the evening shift still in attendance. The update was the third that Warren had given in the past twelve hours. The snatched sleep between two and five had been supplemented by several cups of strong coffee, but his brain was starting to feel mushy.

      He glanced at the front row, then wished he hadn’t. Ordinarily the only uniform visible in Middlesbury CID belonged to his immediate superior, Detective Superintendent John Grayson, and even he reserved his dress jacket and flat cap for formal events such as press conferences and visits by senior brass. Assistant Chief Constable Mohammed Naseem certainly qualified as senior brass, as did the two chief superintendents, tablet computers resting on their laps.

      Warren took a sip of water and continued.

      ‘Mr Meegan spent thirty-nine years on this planet, with a total of eleven residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure for football hooliganism and racially aggravated assault. For the past three years he has been chief spokesperson for the British Allegiance Party. I’ll not go into too much background detail about that for the moment, I’ll leave that to Inspector Theodore Garfield of the Hate Crime Intelligence Unit.’

      Warren switched slides, immediately noticing a small typo on the second line of the timeline. He cringed inside, hoping nobody else saw it – or if they did, that they were generous enough to see it in the context of almost twenty-four hours on shift.

      ‘These are the facts as we know them.

      ‘At midday yesterday morning a coach containing forty-three supporters of the British Allegiance Party, including Meegan, his younger brother, Jimmy, and other senior members, arrived in Middlesbury after setting out from Romford, Essex. As you are no doubt aware, they were due to hold a protest and march against the proposed Middlesbury Mosque and Community Centre, referred to by some as a “super mosque”.’

      Warren switched briefly to a photograph of twenty or so men posing in front of a single-decker coach, like a touring pub football team. All were white, most with shaven heads, and they sported a remarkable collection of tattoos between them. All wore England football shirts or T-shirts with the stylised version of the Union flag that had been filling the rolling news channels for the past few hours. If nothing else, the British Allegiance Party had brand recognition now.

      ‘They tweeted this along with the hashtag #NoSuperMosque on several of their social media accounts.’ Warren used the laser pointer to circle a face in the centre. ‘There’s Tommy holding the banner with Jimmy, his brother next to him. These are the less camera-shy members; there are a similar number out of shot.’

      He flicked back to the timeline. ‘They were met on arrival by riot control police and led to the agreed rally point. As I am sure you already know, their plans to march down Sparrow Hawk Road, where the current Middlesbury Islamic Centre is located, were blocked by the city council, so they agreed to a symbolic march to the council offices before holding a rally then dispersing. As I’m sure you also already know, the Islamic Centre caught fire yesterday afternoon at the same time that the BAP were holding their rally. I don’t believe in coincidences and so DI Sutton will be running a separate but linked investigation that he’ll brief you on after this one is concluded.’

      Warren took another sip of water.

      ‘The demonstration was supposed to start at midday but was delayed after there were problems clearing the route of protestors.’ Warren moved on quickly. The blame game for what happened later had already started and he wanted nothing to do with it. As far as he was concerned Tommy Meegan’s murder, and the fire, were where the

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