Backlash (15 page)

The two cops hauled him back down to his seat.

‘Siddown y'tosser!'

Kit Nevison thudded back into the chair, feeling weak and ineffective. He knew he needed more dope, more booze . . . a fag, even. Something to tide him over. He spoke pleadingly to one of the cops. ‘True, though, innit? He got treated an' I didn't. Me? Nowt – fuck-all except for this.' He indicated a temporary bandage on his head by means of his two hands which were bound by a rigid pair of handcuffs. ‘I need stitches puttin' in.'

‘You need a humane killer, Kit,' one officer said.

‘Well fuck you,' Nevison hissed, feeling it all welling up again. He hacked up and spat into the officer's face. He stood up again, screaming, ‘I want treatment, I want my fuckin' head doin' now! You set of twats . . .'

Everything became blurred again. Blood seemed to pump into his head, clouding his vision, thumping, thumping – he was aware of movement, aware of a tumbling sensation, heavy weights on him, some sort of slow-motion struggle, all clarity gone.

Basil Kramer adjusted his tie and got into his stride as soon as Makin finished.

‘As you know, Inspector Christie,' he said, ‘this government is one hundred per cent committed to the maintenance of law and order and ensuring equality for all, regardless of race, creed, religion, whatever. We have pumped literally millions into the police service and thousands of new recruits are due to come off the production line soon, so to speak. Lancashire has had a generous allocation of both money and bodies, so it would be extremely ironic if, during our conference, when all policing in Blackpool is of a high profile, the streets were taken over by petrol-bombing yobbos – wouldn't you agree? The press would have a field day.'

Henry waited for the punch line.

‘This is where you come in,' FB cut in. Henry's face remained immobile. His eyes slid sideways to take in the ACC. ‘You have to keep a lid on it all. Tighter than a duck's arse.'

Kramer recoiled visibly at the poetic turn of phrase. Makin allowed herself a minor smile. Donaldson shook his head sadly.

‘My instructions are that you will police the streets hard.' FB slammed a fist into a palm. ‘You will police high profile and you will take no shit from anyone. You will nip all trouble in the bud and crush it.' He tightened his fist.

‘From all viewpoints,' Kramer said, ‘if the streets are not seen to be peaceful during a week when the PM will be making one of his strongest pro-law speeches, we will all lose credibility.'

‘What about the likelihood of public-order situations developing around the Winter Gardens, the conference venue? Surely that'll be the flashpoint?'

‘Not your problem,' FB answered. ‘The Police Support Units drafted in will deal with any disturbances during the day. You are the night shift and that's what we're interested in here. Keeping Blackpool quiet.'

‘Are you expecting trouble like we had tonight all week?' Henry wanted to know.

‘That's what the information suggests,' Makin said.

‘Obviously I'll do what I can––' Henry began.

‘No!' FB stopped him. ‘You will do as instructed. This is not a half-hearted instruction, Henry. I want you to make some plans, go out there and do a job – OK?'

Henry tensed up. Could this be stress surfacing, he asked himself. What would the bastard do if I just got up from here and walked out, went back to my doctor and got signed off again? Just get some other poor sod to do it, most probably.

He stayed put, nodded tightly, cleared his throat and said, ‘I won't be able to do what you say with the staff I have. How many more officers are you going to give me?' He expected zero for an answer and was slightly wrong-footed when FB said, ‘I've arranged for one full PSU to assist you from Blackburn until Friday morning, but you can't have any more. The budgets have all dried up. They'll be here from eight p.m. to four a.m. each night.'

Bloody hell – one PSU, Henry thought jubilantly, that was astounding. One inspector, three sergeants and eighteen constables, plus van drivers and the vans themselves. Better than a kick in the guts. He accepted with good grace.

‘There is one thing nagging at the back of my mind, though,' he said slowly. The others waited for him to continue. ‘And that's the trouble between the Khans and the Costains. I was led to believe it was a dispute between two families. How is it linked to what you've told me?' He looked at Makin for a response.

‘Call me Andrea,' she said in a friendly but businesslike way. ‘We think the whole thing was pre-planned.' She sighed and said, ‘Joey Costain is a member of this new splinter group.'

Henry tried to keep a straight face but ended up guffawing.

‘What's the joke?' FB demanded.

‘Well, it's pretty rich, isn't it? I wouldn't mind so much if Joey could claim pure Anglo-Saxon heritage, but he's a gypsy through and through. Even got the curly black hair to prove it – like a character from D. H. Lawrence.'

‘It's a good point,' Makin conceded. ‘The kind of group we're talking about hates anyone who doesn't fit in with their white-male criteria. Joey isn't a great thinker. My guess is that he's been used by the group as an in to the streets of Blackpool. Once they've used him, he could well be dumped.'

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.'

‘I
t'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 be 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.