Rough Justice (18 page)

‘Less is more?’

‘Pretty much, until you’ve been accepted. Just nod and smile and throw a few quid into the bucket when it gets passed around. You’ll be fine.’

‘I appreciate your confidence,’ said Sharpe.

The pub was on the edge of a low-rise housing estate with graffiti-covered buildings and a children’s play area with brightly painted climbing bars, a set of swings and a slide. Three young Asians in parkas sat on a bench sharing a cigarette and looking in their direction as Henby parked the Astra. Two more Asians on BMX bikes were also watching them from the far side of the playground and there were two more at the entrance to one of the blocks.

‘I hope they’re drug-dealers and not car thieves,’ said Sharpe, as he got out.

‘That’s racial profiling if ever I heard it,’ said Henby.

‘They’re not there for the swings,’ said Sharpe. ‘If there’s so many Asians around, why choose to come here for the meeting?’

‘Estates like this are the bedrock of support for groups like England First,’ said Henby. ‘The immigrants move in and the whites that can’t get out resent the newcomers. The local politicians don’t help – they’re more concerned about getting the immigrant vote, so the locals feel increasingly disenfranchised. That’s when the BNP start knocking on doors.’

There were two big men with shaved heads and spider-web tattoos on their necks standing at the entrance to the pub, their hands in the pockets of their black bomber jackets. Henby nodded at them. ‘Hi, guys,’ he said.

They nodded back impassively as he and Sharpe walked into the pub. ‘We’ll grab a drink and take it upstairs,’ said Henby. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’ll get it,’ said Sharpe. He forced his way to the bar. The pub was packed. A jukebox in the corner was playing a Rod Stewart song but it was almost drowned by the buzz of masculine conversation. There was only a handful of female customers, though most of the serving staff were middle-aged women. The bar was so busy that it took Sharpe almost ten minutes to get served. Two men next to him were deep in conversation about the best way of moving from Jobseeker’s Allowance to Incapacity Benefit, and on the other side two teenagers were arguing about which was funnier,
Little Britain
or
Shameless
.

Sharpe carried the pint glasses over to Henby, who indicated a flight of stairs at the far end of the pub. Two more heavies stood there, wearing the same shiny bomber jackets as the men at the door. They moved apart to allow Henby and Sharpe to go upstairs. At the top they were met by yet another heavy, this one with a clipboard. ‘Ray Henby,’ said Henby.

The heavy wrinkled his nose as he scrutinised a list of names on his clipboard, then nodded and looked at Sharpe expectantly. ‘This is Brian Parker. He’s with me,’ said Henby.

‘No problem,’ said the heavy, adding the name to the list.

‘What time’s the man here?’ asked Henby.

‘On his way,’ replied the heavy. He opened the door for them to go through.

The room was almost as big as the bar downstairs, with more than a dozen tables facing a makeshift stage on which a lectern had been set up in front of a huge red and white flag of St George. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of stale sweat. Most of the people there were male, though there were two heavy-set middle-aged women with dyed blonde hair and matching tattoos sitting at one table. There were a couple of dozen skinheads in tight white T-shirts, blue jeans and cherry red Dr Marten boots, drinking bottles of beer, but there were plenty of men in suits who wouldn’t have looked out of place in a bank or an estate agent’s.

‘How come they’re smoking?’ asked Sharpe.

Henby shrugged. ‘I think they can do pretty much anything they want,’ he said. He lowered his voice and put his mouth close to Sharpe’s ear. ‘The two guys downstairs are both in Combat 18. They used to handle security for the BNP until they figured the BNP was going soft. You’ve heard about Combat 18, right?’

‘Eighteen because the one and the eight stand for the first and the eighth letters of the alphabet,’ said Sharpe. ‘Adolf Hitler’s initials. It’s a Trivial Pursuit question, I think.’

Henby chuckled. ‘Yeah, they’re pretty much the armed wing of the British neo-Nazi movement. Carried out a fair amount of arson and assaults in the nineties but they’ve gone quieter now. There’s Brennan.’ He indicated a table in the middle of the room. An overweight man in his forties was sitting on his own with a pint of bitter in front of him. He was wearing a denim jacket and had a Millwall scarf around his neck. He blinked through square-framed spectacles as Henby walked up. ‘Lenny, hey,’ said Henby. ‘This is my mate, Brian.’

Sharpe offered his hand and Brennan shook it. His hand was large but there was little or no strength in the grip. The two men sat down and Henby was soon deep in conversation with Brennan about Millwall FC. Sharpe sipped his lager and looked around. People were still arriving. Most of the tables were full but there was plenty of room to stand. He did a rough head count. There were more than a hundred men, with a lot of handshaking and back-slapping going on.

Sharpe felt a nudge in his ribs. He looked across at Henby, who nodded towards the door. A man in his mid-forties had just walked into the room. Sharpe recognised him from the photographs that Charlotte Button had given him. It was Gary Dawson. He was wearing a dark blue blazer and black trousers and holding a half-pint glass of beer. He was deep in conversation with a man who had a shaved head and a small diamond earring. The pair went to the back of the room, still talking.

A few minutes later the door opened again and two big men in black leather bomber jackets and black jeans, wearing impenetrable sunglasses, escorted a man in his thirties to the stage. He was good-looking with chestnut hair that he kept brushing away from his eyes, a dimple in the centre of his chin, and a tan that came from lying under a foreign sun, rather than a bottle or a tanning centre. He was wearing an expensive double-breasted suit, and a sovereign ring glinted on his right hand. Heads turned to watch as he climbed onto the stage and the two heavies took up position at either side, their arms folded.

‘That’s Simon Page,’ whispered Henby. ‘He’s number two in England First, deputy chairman. He’s in charge of finances, fund-raising and the like.’

‘Did you know he’d be here?’ asked Sharpe.

Henby shook his head. ‘They tend not to announce in advance who’ll be speaking in case word gets out. I knew it’d be a big shot, but I didn’t know that Page would be putting in an appearance.’

Brennan leaned over the table. ‘Have you heard him speak before?’ he asked.

‘Never,’ said Sharpe.

Brennan nodded sagely. ‘You’re in for a treat,’ he said.

Page picked the microphone off its stand and walked around it, like a stand-up comedian preparing to warm up his audience. ‘I don’t know if any of you got a chance to see the news before you came out, but there was a big fire on Friday afternoon, not far from here.’ He pointed off to the right. ‘It was a four-storey house that had been divided up into four flats. Probably in the old days it would have been home to one extended family but those days are long gone. On the ground floor was a family of Nigerians. Turns out they were con artists, sending out emails promising to transfer money into bank accounts and then ripping people off. Oh, and they were all claiming benefit, too. There were six men in the flat and they all died.’

There were cheers from the audience but Page quietened them with his hand. ‘This is serious. People died in that fire. A lot of people died. On the first floor there were seven asylum seekers from Afghanistan. They were all on benefits too. They died in the fire.’

‘Bloody Taliban!’ shouted a skinhead at the front.

‘Well, yes, actually, three of them were former Taliban fighters,’ said Page. ‘But because the Taliban are being hunted down and killed in Afghanistan, they’re able to claim asylum here.’

There were shouts of derision from the crowd and Page quietened them again. ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘It’s not fair that men who kill and maim our troops out in Afghanistan can claim asylum here in the United Kingdom, but that’s the way it is. But seven of them died. There were asylum seekers on the second floor, all from Albania. They were on state benefits, too, even though they were criminals who had jumped bail and fled Albania. The council paid for the flat and had been looking for a house for them. There were five in the flat and they all burned to death.’

There were more jeers from the audience and Page waited before continuing. ‘There were two survivors, though. The English couple who lived on the top floor were totally unscathed.’

The audience cheered. Several skinheads stood up and began to chant ‘ENGER-LUND, ENGER-LUND!’ Henby leaned over to whisper into Sharpe’s ear: ‘The skinheads are QPR Casuals. Hardcore hooligans.’

‘Well, there was a right furore, I can tell you,’ continued Page. ‘The Commission for Racial Equality was up in arms and the British Islamic Council demanded an inquiry. Half the black pressure groups in London were threatening legal action. They can’t understand why the blacks and the Muslims all died and the English couple didn’t get so much as a scratch. There were questions asked in the House of Commons and the pressure groups demanded that the mayor explain why only the English couple survived. Anyway, just before I left the house the BBC had managed to get the fire chief on camera. The interviewer asked him why the English couple had survived while the Africans, Muslims and Albanians had burned to death. Why had only the white couple not died? Was it because the Fire Brigade, like most of the country’s institutions, was inherently racist? The interviewer demanded to know why the white couple weren’t killed in the fire. Well, the fire chief took off his helmet and looked straight at the camera. “Because they were at work,” he said.’

Page stood ramrod straight, his chin up, as his audience erupted. There were cheers and yells and clapping, and half a dozen skinheads were stamping on the floor. Despite himself, Sharpe found himself laughing with them. Page let them cheer for a full thirty seconds before quietening them. ‘All right, that’s a joke,’ he said. ‘And maybe not a good one. But it’s a joke based on what’s really happening to our country. We’re becoming the sort of country where the English worker has to bust his gut and pay taxes to support a flood of foreign so-called asylum seekers and spongers, people who’ve never lifted a finger to help this country.’

The crowd cheered. Sharpe joined in the clapping. He looked over his shoulder at Gary Dawson. He was cheering and punching the air.

Page spoke for more than an hour. It was a clever mix of anecdotes, jokes and serious political points. He was careful not to be overtly racist but several times he strayed into what Part Three of the Public Order Act of 1986 defined as ‘racial hatred’, an offence that could have earned him seven years in prison. England First leaflets were being passed around to push home the message, and the printed material was considerably more inflammatory than Page’s words.

Sharpe smiled to himself: simply being in possession of the leaflet was an offence under the Act. He could see that Page had charisma, and he certainly knew how to work a crowd. He finished his speech with a rousing call for funds, telling the audience they should dig deep into their pockets so that England First could fight the rising tide of immigration. Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, Page was hustled off the stage and through the door.

‘The guy talks a lot of sense,’ Sharpe said to Brennan.

‘If he was a Labour or Conservative politician he’d be prime minister now,’ said Brennan. ‘He’s as sharp as a knife, he’s got a mind like a steel trap, and he listens to what people want. He’s got that boyish Blair thing going but he’s a leader like Thatcher was. I’d vote for him tomorrow if I had the chance.’

The heavy at the door had swapped his clipboard for a red plastic bucket on which had been painted a cross of St George. As people left they were dropping money into it and by the time Henby and Sharpe got to the door it was half full of coins and notes. Sharpe took out his wallet and dropped in a fifty-pound note. The heavy noticed and nodded his thanks. Henby threw in a twenty.

‘Want one for the road, Lenny?’ asked Sharpe, as they walked down the stairs.

‘Yeah, why not?’ said Brennan. ‘About time I had a day on the sick.’

‘Bitter?’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’

‘Ray?’

‘I’ve got to head off, Brian,’ said Henby. He patted Sharpe on the back.

‘Hot date?’ said Sharpe.

‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’ Henby waved goodbye to Brennan and headed for the exit.

As Sharpe was about to make for the bar, Dawson came down the stairs and called out to Brennan: ‘Lenny, how’s it going?’ He came over and shook his hand.

‘I’m in the chair,’ Sharpe said to Dawson. ‘What can I get you?’

Dawson frowned, so Sharpe quickly held out his hand. ‘Brian,’ he said. ‘Brian Parker.’

‘Mate of Ray’s,’ said Brennan, by way of introduction.

Dawson smiled and shook Sharpe’s hand. ‘Gary,’ he said. ‘Gin and tonic, please.’

Sharpe winked and went over to the bar, waving a twenty-pound note to attract a barmaid’s attention.

A few moments later he carried the drinks back to Brennan and Dawson. They were standing in a corner. After they’d thanked him, Dawson said, ‘Haven’t seen you around.’

‘First meeting I’ve been to,’ said Sharpe. ‘Ray thought I might like what I heard, and he was right. That guy Page talks a lot of sense.’

‘Doesn’t he?’ said Brennan.

‘Why isn’t he standing as an MP somewhere?’ asked Sharpe. ‘He’s got that star quality, hasn’t he? Charisma.’

‘Because he tells it like it is, and the major political parties aren’t prepared to do that,’ said Brennan. ‘They want to convince us that multiculturalism is a good thing, rather than the cancer that’s eating away at our society.’