Backlash (40 page)

Henry sat on the sofa and looked down at the newspaper which had attracted his attention. He did not touch it. Then he smiled at Makin and Donaldson. ‘Nice here, innit?'

Makin shivered. ‘Gives me the creeps.'

‘It's spooky,' Donaldson agreed. ‘Feels like walking through spiders' webs or ectoplasm.'

‘I think the bastard sat here and read the newspaper then folded it up nice and neat. Because he's a pretty neat operator. The bodies he leaves are a mess, but everything else is neatly tidied up. No loose ends. He's very in control of everything.'

‘And if he did read a newspaper, so what?' Makin asked.

‘Then the fingerprint people go through every single page and pick off any fingerprints and smudges they find, because maybe the guy made a mistake here.'

Makin hid a look of disappointment. ‘Bit thin, isn't it?'

Henry smiled. ‘Wedges have thin ends.'

Harrison returned. ‘Just spoke to one of the Gravesons' friends. They read all the newspapers and when they left they were pretty much scattered around.'

‘I won't say “bingo” yet,' Henry said, ‘because he probably wore gloves, but can you get your SOCO people down here now, please?'

Through the slit Gill had kindly cut in the tape covering her mouth, Roscoe said, ‘I'm sorry.'

Gill had calmed down. Roscoe wanted to keep him sweet. Did not want to do anything further to upset him. Wetting and soiling herself had been bad enough. The smell was atrocious, the discomfort unpleasant, but she was past caring. That was unimportant. Staying alive and breaking free by whatever means were what mattered now.

‘What was that?' he teased.

‘Sorry – so sorry.'

‘You messy bitch.' Gill shook his head sadly. ‘You're the second one who's done that to me. I mean, really, it just confirms everything about females, doesn't it?'

As he talked he moved around the room. Through a minute break in the tape over her eyes, Roscoe could see a chink of light, nothing more.

‘I mean, what the fuck, eh? What the fuck, for example, are you doing pretending to be a detective inspector? That is a man's job. It's not something a woman should even be contemplating. Being a cop is man's work. White man's work, at that. I mean, what member of the public would want a woman or a blackie turning up at their door? No one in their right minds. They want to see healthy, fit, big white guys. Not Pakis or split-arses.'

Roscoe listened to his ravings. The final phrase he used sent a message to her. ‘Split-arses' was a derogatory phrase, used very little now, to describe policewomen. She wasn't aware of any other profession which used the term.

‘Are you a policeman?' she asked.

Gill stopped. He did not respond for a few moments. ‘Why ask that?' he said suspiciously.

‘Because of what you just said – split-arses.'

‘Hm. No. Good try, detective.'

Something in the way he had responded made Roscoe wonder if she had hit a nerve.

‘So why me? Where do I fit in?'

‘You don't fit in. You just came along and I reacted. Otherwise I'd now be sitting in a cell, contemplating suicide.'

‘Where do the other people you've murdered fit in?'

‘Good question – and it sounds grand, this, but it's all part of the master plan. It's like a big chessboard, except it's for real. I'm with white, of course. And there are little battles going on all over the field. Pawn takes pawn. In this real world, pawn kills pawn. I kill people, the black team. Part of a strategy. Guerrilla warfare. A strike here, a strike there, then withdraw. But this is the week when it all changes. Up to now I've been picking them off one by one. The ones who have played their part in the downfall of the fabric of British society. Yes, I'm doing this for the sake of the country, Britain, the heritage.'

‘For Britain? You're murdering people for Britain?' Roscoe was losing it again as she had to listen to the ranting of a mad man.

‘Yes,' he said in total belief. ‘I'm a patriot. I'm going to be part of a movement that saves this country from itself and restores its pride.'

The sea can never be trusted. Sometimes it will keep its victims to itself and they will never be found, sometimes it will return them immediately and other times it will play with them like a cat with its prey, tossing them up, reclaiming them, having fun.

In the case of the body which had been bundled dead over the sea wall, for reasons known only to itself the sea decided to deposit him in almost the exact same spot from which it had taken him when offered. The body was found by a man walking his dog along central beach. The body was wrapped around the foot of one of the stanchions of Central Pier.

There was nothing that could be done to speed up the process. A scenes-of-crime officer was at the house within fifteen minutes, ready to roll. With gloved hands she began to leaf through the newspaper but found nothing to excite or interest. No smudges, nothing. The
Sunday Times
magazine was more interesting and when she held the back page up to the light there were some clear prints in the black ink of an advertisement for an Alfa Romeo car. She found other prints throughout the magazine on its shiny surface and carefully lifted and transferred them onto glass plates, logging each one carefully.

Henry watched, desperate for her to get a move on. He also knew that if he pushed her she would either do a poor job or would fall out with him. He wanted neither to happen. Outwardly, therefore, he remained patient. Inwardly he was paddling like a demented duck.

After finishing with the magazine, she bagged it up, logged it and placed it with the prints inside her bag of tricks.

‘I'll take them straight to fingerprints,' she said. ‘They'll be expecting me.'

‘And you might as well head off back to sunny Blackpool,' Harrison said. ‘I'd love to offer you my hospitality but I do have a murder inquiry to run.'

‘Understood. Thanks for everything,' Henry said dully, wondering if this had all been a waste of time and effort. Do killers sit down and read newspapers? He kept on the positive side by telling himself that if someone can kill another person, in itself a very weird thing, they are capable of doing anything. ‘We'll tootle back.' He looked at Donaldson. ‘And to kill a bit of time, maybe we can start rattling those cages we were talking about.'

‘Yeah – I need some action,' the American responded.

Gill was sitting next to Roscoe, knees drawn up, arms folded round them. He had become quiet, reflective. ‘You see, essentially, this country is white through and through. Dominated by white men with their women tagging along, supporting them.'

Had Roscoe been able, she would have bitten her lip.

‘Just think what we have achieved as a nation. The empire. Subjugating India, almost ruling Africa – and where are we now? The standard of living is shite, we hardly produce any goods and blacks and women are taking over. What's happened?' His voice rose, quivering with hysteria. ‘Everything has been turned on its head, but now it's time to make a stand. Look at you, as a case in point, how the hell did you get to be a detective? And look what they did to the guy who got shoved out for you.'

‘How do you know about that?' Roscoe mumbled. ‘How do you know this?'

That stopped Gill again. ‘Because I do,' he said inadequately.

The journey back was less hectic than the one south. It lacked the imperative. Henry stuck to the speed limits, lost in his thoughts. Once on the M55, heading west, he switched on his radio to hear anything of interest that might be going on in Blackpool. This was how they managed to come into a conversation halfway through between a patrol and communications.

The patrol was saying: ‘. . . white male, mid-thirties. Could have been in since last night. Looks as though he's been beaten up before hitting the water. I'll need CID here, please.'

‘Any ID?'

‘Standby.'

‘It might be the guy who went in last night,' Henry said to his travelling companions. ‘Someone reported seeing three men dumping what could have been a body into the pond, but when the patrol arrived there was no trace of the informant or a body.'

The patrol in Blackpool transmitted again. ‘Found a wallet. Money still in it – driving licence in the name of Terry Baxter.'

In the back of the car Andrea Makin emitted a squeak. She had not been listening to the radio, particularly, but the name made her sit upright.

‘What was that name?' she asked.

‘Baxter – Terry Baxter,' Donaldson said.

Makin slumped back with a groan. ‘Oh my God.'

‘What's wrong?' Donaldson asked.

‘Terry Baxter was the undercover identity of Jack Laws, my DC who was undercover with Hellfire Dawn.'

The body was still on the beach when they arrived in Blackpool, so Henry drove straight to Central Pier and parked on the inner promenade alongside other police cars.

Makin did not hesitate about going down onto the beach. She was a hardened detective and the sight of a body was nothing new, even if it was a colleague. With Henry and Donaldson at her heels she pushed her way through the onlookers, flashing her badge to make them get out of the way. She knelt at the head of the body, curled down and looked at the face of a man who had been seriously battered. It was her officer. She stood slowly, head shaking, then elbowed her way through the crowd and stamped away down the beach, terribly upset. She had no specific destination in mind and found herself walking towards the water's edge, several hundred metres out. Here she stopped, head hung low.

She thought she was alone, but Henry had trailed her at a discreet distance, then come up behind her.

‘Stupid question, I guess, but I take it that's him?'

‘Yeah, stupid question.' She did not look at Henry, not wanting him to see the tears in her eyes.

‘Who knew about him?'

She gulped. ‘Me, you, Karl, FB – God, how the hell did they find out, Henry? Who told them? He was a bloody good operative. If he knew he'd been compromised, or suspected it, he would've pulled out pdq. He can't have been expecting it – so it must have happened quickly, without warning. Somebody must have blabbed.' She spun defiantly on Henry. ‘So who was it?'

David Gill paced the room. Roscoe could hear his footsteps circling her. Around and around. Making her head spin.

‘It's a statement of intent that I'll be making,' he said, very matter of fact. ‘From the people to the government. To the prime minister. He must be made to see the error of his ways. But he is a weak man, it must be said. Swayed left and right, depending on who shouts the loudest. Misguided idiot. I'll be taking the game right to his bedroom door, literally.'

‘Are you going to kill him?'

Gill snorted. ‘I wish. It'd save the country some bloody grief. No, it's much better than that, Janie, I'm going to hit him where it really hurts.'

‘Where's that?'

Gill stopped moving. Suddenly Roscoe could no longer hear him, place him. Had he gone?

Then she felt his hot breath over her nose as he kneeled over her and held his face over hers. His breath smelled awful. There was garlic in it. There was also the odour of his stomach contents.

‘I'll tell you where,' he whispered. Roscoe twitched as he pushed the point of his knife into her chest. ‘And when I've done it, I'll come back and share the victory with you, and then I'll kill you, ever so slowly and delicately.'

Roscoe held her nerve. ‘Where are you going to hurt him?' she asked again.

‘Why, Jane,' he said, pressing the point of the knife into her chest, ‘in his heart, of course – I'm going to kill his wife and unborn child.'

A
t 3 p.m. on Wednesday there were perhaps two hundred and fifty people gathered outside the Berlin Hotel. To Henry, who hated stereotyping, they all looked much like peas from the same pod. Mainly males, aged between sixteen and twenty-five, heads shaven, wearing denims, T-shirts and Doc Marten boots with their jeans tucked in the tops. Their T-shirts bore logos promoting hatred and racism. Their tattoos – and there were many – spread the same message. They were the epitome of the right-wing movement in Britain. Henry hated the sight of them. They made his face curl with distaste, but more sadly, he wanted to punch them.

The street was sealed to traffic while these people were allowed the privilege of getting themselves ready to march up to the Winter Gardens to coincide with a march coming in from the opposite direction led by gay-rights activists.

Despite pleas from many quarters, both marches would be allowed to proceed. Such was the nature of a democratic society.

‘I feel the same,' Donaldson said, seeing Henry's expression.

‘They make me feel physically sick,' Henry said. ‘Come on, let's do it.'

They pushed their way through the gathering protesters who were just starting to clear their throats and practise their chants, winding themselves up in the process. By the time the two officers were in the middle of the crowd, their ears were ringing with, ‘Kill the gay twats! Kill the gay twats!'

Martin Franklands was sitting in the front window of the hotel, looking out onto the street from the dining room. This gave him an elevated view of proceedings. In spite of reassurances not to worry, his insides were constantly gurgling and churning over. He knew he was out of his depth and was struggling to handle the emotional backlash of the two things in which he had been involved over the last day.

Although he supported the ideals of the movement, he was not a true man of action. He was a thinker and a writer. His job was to prepare pamphlets and newsletters, to help in the back room with the admin, to look after the accounts, to be a gofer. He was quite happy to lend his voice to demonstrations, such as this afternoon's show of solidarity (although, he had to admit, the two hundred or so people who had shown up was a pretty poor turn-out). But that was all. He was the one who did a runner if things turned nasty. He was quite happy to tell Paki bastards to get back home and screw his face up into that peculiarly nasty trademark thuggish look of the right wing, but if challenged, he would run a mile.