Dead Right (16 page)

First, she kicked off her shoes and put on the kettle. Then she looked through her collection of different tea varieties and settled on Autumn, a black tea dotted with small pieces of apple, perfect for the drizzly, blustery day. On impulse, she put a pinch of cinnamon in the pot, too. While the tea was brewing, she put on her CD of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s greatest hits, smiling as she thought how much Banks would hate it, then she poured herself a cup of tea and got down to work.

The computer was in her bedroom because her flat was so small. It was the one room where she never received visitors. At least not yet. But she wasn’t going to allow herself to think about DC Gavin Richards right now.

Cup of apple-and-cinnamon-scented tea steaming beside her and “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina” drifting in from the living-room, Susan curled her feet under her on the office chair and logged in. Then she typed in the address from the flyer and clicked her mouse.

The screen remained blank for a long time as the various bits and pieces of the document coming in over the telephone line added up, then suddenly it turned black.

Next, a multicoloured image began to appear, line by line from the top of the screen down, and soon the Albion League’s emblem, a swastika made out of burning golden arrows, appeared in full. Probably, Susan thought, remembering Superintendent Gristhorpe’s words and the Blake song, it was some sort of image of Blake’s “arrows of desire.”

Around the top of the swastika, the words THE ALBION LEAGUE curled in a semi-circle of bold Gothic script.

It took a couple of minutes for the rest of the document to transfer. When it was complete, Susan started browsing through it. “Memory” floated in from the living-room.

Unlike pages in a book, Web pages have an extra dimension provided by hypertext links, highlighted words or icons you can
click on to go to another, related site. At first, Susan ignored these links and concentrated on reading the text. It was much the same as the pamphlet she had seen, only there was more of it.

The first paragraph welcomed the reader to the page and explained that the Albion League was a fast-growing group of concerned citizens dedicated to ethnic purity, freedom of speech, law and order, and the establishment of the true English “homeland.”

After that came a number of links. Some were closely related sites, such as the British National Party’s home page or Combat 18, and some were American or Canadian, such as Stormfront, Aryan Nation and the Heritage Front. They varied from the fairly literate to the downright unreadable, but some of the graphics were imaginatively conceived. Susan had never thought members of white-power groups to be particularly creative or intelligent. She had to remind herself that, these days, you didn’t have to be an Einstein to work a computer. Almost any kid could do it.

She opted for the League’s “News” icon and was soon treated to a number of recent stories from the unique perspective of the Albion League.

The first item concerned the amount of public money being channelled towards the huge new mosque under construction between Leeds and Bradford, and contrasted it with the shocking state of disrepair of most of Britain’s churches.

The second contended that a leading academic had “proved” humans were actually descended from pale-skinned northern tribes rather than from “hairy Africans.”

And so it went on: a Tory MP known for his stand on morality and family values had been surprised by a police raid on a homosexual brothel in Sheffield, wearing only a blonde wig and a tutu; Leeds City Council had voted to rename one of the city’s streets after a black revolutionary “scum” … example after example of government hypocrisy, just deserts and cultural decay.

One story concerned a white schoolboy who had been stabbed just outside the gates of a Bradford comprehensive school by three members of an Asian gang. It was a sad enough tale—and Susan remembered reading about it in the
Yorkshire Post
only a couple of weeks ago—but according to the Albion League, the tragic stab
bing had occurred because the local council was dominated by “ethnics” and by their brainwashed, politically correct white lackeys, who had all known about the school’s problems for years but had never done anything. The victim could, therefore, be seen as “a sacrifice to the multiracial society.” Susan wondered what they would make of Jason Fox’s death.

She paused and took a sip of cold tea to soothe her stomach. The Lloyd Webber had finished ages ago and she had been too absorbed to go into the living-room and put something else on. Though she hadn’t actually learned much more about the Albion League and its members from the Web page, she had learned enough to make her question how she felt about freedom of speech. These people would claim all attempts to silence them violated their basic democratic freedom. Yet given any power at all, they would silence everyone but straight white males.

At the end of the League’s page, Susan found, as with many sites, a hypertext link to the page’s designers. In this case, the name was
FoxWood Designs
.

Curious, Susan clicked on the name. Again she was disappointed. She had expected names and addresses, but all she got was a stylized graphic image of a fox peering out from some dark trees, along with an e-mail address.

Still, she thought, as she made a note of the address, there was a slight chance that if one-half of the team was Mr Fox, then the other half was Mr Wood. And if she could track down Mr Wood, then she might just find
one
person who knew something about Jason Fox’s life. And his death.

As soon as Susan hung up her modem, the telephone rang.

It was Gavin.

“Susan? Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to phone you all morning. I bumped into Jim Hatchley in the station and he told me you were working at home.”

“That’s right,” Susan said. “What do you want?”

“Charming. And I was going to invite you to lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“Yes. You know, that stuff you eat to keep you alive.”

“I don’t know …” said Susan.

“Oh, come on. Even a hard-working DC needs a spot of lunch now and then, surely?”

Come to think of it, Susan
was
hungry. “Half an hour?”

“If that’s all you can spare me.”

“It is.”

“Then I’ll take it.”

“And you’re paying?”

“I’m paying.”

Susan grinned to herself. “Right. See you at The Hope and Anchor in ten minutes.”

III

The old greengrocer’s turned out to be a former corner shop at the end of a street of back-to-backs between Holbeck Moor and Elland Road. The windows were boarded up with plywood, on which various obscenities, swastikas and racist slogans had been spray-painted. Drizzle suited the scene perfectly, streaking the soot-covered red brick and the faded sign over the door that read “Arthur Gelderd: Greengrocer.”

Banks wondered what Arthur Gelderd, Greengrocer, would have thought if he knew what had become of his shop. Like Frank Hepplethwaite, Arthur Gelderd had probably fought against Hitler in the war. And forty or more years ago, before the supermarkets, this place would have been one of the local neighbourhood meeting-places, and a centre of gossip; it would also have provided Gelderd and his family with a modest living. Now it was the headquarters of the Albion League.

Banks and Hatchley looked the building over in the slanting drizzle for a moment. Cars hissed by on Ingram Road, splashing up dirty rainwater from the gutters. The window in the shop door was protected by wire mesh, and the glass itself was covered with old adverts for Omo and Lucozade, so you couldn’t see inside. In the centre was a cardboard clock-face to show the time the shop would next be open. It was set at nine o’clock, and it would probably be set at that time forever.

Sergeant Hatchley knocked with his ham-like fist; the door rattled in its frame, but noone answered. He tried the handle, but the place was locked. In the silence after the knocking, Banks thought he heard a sound inside.

“What do we do?” Hatchley asked.

“Knock again.”

Hatchley did so. Harder this time.

It did the trick. A voice from behind the door shouted, “What do you want?”

“Police,” said Banks. “Open up.”

They heard someone remove a chain and turn a key in a lock, then the door opened.

For some reason, the new occupants hadn’t removed the bell that hung on its pliant arc of metal at the back of the door, and it jangled as Banks and Hatchley walked in. The sound reminded Banks of childhood errands to his local corner shop, the way he used to watch, hypnotized, as Mrs Bray turned the handle on the machine and the bacon swung back and forth in the slicer, making a whooshing sound every time the whirling wheel-blade carved off a slice; he remembered the smoky smell of the cured meat in the air, mingled with fresh bread and apples.

What he smelled when he walked in now soon put such nostalgia out of his mind—burned carbon from the photocopier and laser printer, recent paint, smoke and fresh-cut paper.

The place didn’t even resemble a shop any more. What must have been the counter was covered with stacks of paper—more copies of the flyer, by the looks of it—and a computer hummed on a desk beside a telephone. On the walls were a framed poster of Adolf Hitler in full spate, addressing one of the Nuremberg rallies, by the look of it, and a large image of a swastika made out of burning arrows.

A short young man with lank black hair, antique National Health glasses and a spotty face shut the door behind them. “Always happy to help the local police,” he said with a stupid grin. “We’re on the same side, we are.”

“Fuck off, sonny,” said Banks. “What’s your name?”

The young man blinked at the insult and stepped back a pace. “There’s no need—”

“Name?” Banks repeated as he and Hatchley advanced, backing the young man up against the counter.

The kid held his hands up. “All right, all right. Don’t hit me. It’s Des. Des Parker.”

“We’re just going to have a little look around, Des, if that’s all right with you,” Banks said.

Des frowned. “Don’t you need a search warrant? I mean, I know my rights.”

Banks stopped and raised his eyebrows. He looked at Hatchley. “Hear that, Jim? Des here knows his rights.”

“Aye,” said Hatchley, walking towards the telephone and picking up the receiver. “Shall I do the honours, sir?”

Des looked puzzled. “What honours? What’s he doing?”

“Getting a search warrant,” Banks explained. “In about half an hour we’ll have fifty flatfoots going over the place with a fine-tooth comb. Sergeant Hatchley and I will stay here with you until they arrive. Maybe you’d like to inform the building’s owner—if it’s not you—while we wait. He might want to be here to make sure
his
rights aren’t violated.”

Des gulped. “Mr Motcombe … He wouldn’t like that.”

“So what?”

“What’s going on, Des? Who the fuck is this? Is there a problem?”

The new speaker came out of the back room, zipping up his fly, accompanied by the sound of a toilet flushing. This one looked a few years older than Des Parker and at least fifty brain cells brighter. Tall and skinny, he was wearing black T-shirt, jeans and red braces, and his dyed blond hair was cut very close to his skull. He also wore a diamond stud in one ear and spoke with a strong Geordie accent. Definitely not the lad who’d been in The Jubilee with Jason Fox last Saturday.

“No problem at all,” Banks said, showing his warrant card again. “We’d just like a quick shufty around, if that’s all right with you. And you are?”

The newcomer smiled. “Of course. We’ve got nothing to hide. I’m Ray. Ray Knott.”

“But, Ray!” Des Parker protested. “Mr Motcombe … We can’t just let—”

“Shut it, Des, there’s a good lad,” said Ray with another smile. “As I said, we’ve nothing to hide.” He turned to Banks. “Sorry about my mate,” he said, pointing to his temple. “He’s none too bright, isn’t Des. Few bricks short of a load.”

Banks picked up a copy of the flyer. “What’s this, then, Ray? The Albion League? A new football league, perhaps? Out to rival the Premier, are you?”

“Very funny,” said Ray. But he wasn’t laughing.

“Tell us about Jason Fox,” Banks prompted.

“Jason? What about him? He’s dead. Kicked to death by Pakis. You lot let them go.”

Hatchley, still poking around, brushed against the huge stack of pamphlets on the counter. They fell to the floor, scattering all over the place. Ray and Des said nothing.

“Sorry,” said Hatchley. “Clumsy of me.”

Banks marvelled at him. Full of contradictions and surprises was Jim Hatchley. While he’d pin photos of half-naked women on his cork-board—at least he did before Susan moved in—he hated pornographers; and while he’d join in with lads laughing at racist jokes, and was certainly a casual bigot himself, he didn’t like neo-Nazis, either. Of course, none of it seemed like a contradiction to him. The way he put it, he wasn’t prejudiced, he hated everyone.

“We’re not sure who killed him yet,” said Banks. “Where were the two of you at that time?”

Ray laughed. “You can’t be serious. Me? Us? Kill Jason. No way. He was one of us.”

“So it won’t do you any harm to tell me where you were, would it?”

“I were at home,” Des said.

“By yourself?”

“No. I live with me mum.”

“And I’m sure she’s really proud of you, Des. Address?”

Des, stuttering, told him.

“What about you, Ray?”

Ray folded his arms and leaned against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, big grin on his face. “Drinking in my local.”

“Which is?”

“The Oakwood. Up Gipton way.”

“Witnesses?”

Ray grinned. “Six or seven at least. Local darts championship. I won.”

“Congratulations. What about Sunday morning?”

“Sleeping it off. Why?”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

Banks made some notes, then said, “There was no contact address on your flyer. You’re not a secret society, are you?”

“No. But we have to be careful. We have a position we want to get across, and we know it’s not popular with a lot of people. So we don’t exactly go around shouting about our existence to everyone.”