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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Jo Howe
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
AN EXPLOSIVE ASSAULT When a firebomb attack at a Brighton travellers' site kills women and children, Chief Superintendent Jo Howe has strong reason to believe the new, far-right council leader is behind the murders. A CORRUPT LEADER Howe digs deeper into the case and uncovers a criminal ring of human trafficking and euthanasia leading to a devastating plot threatening thousands of lives and from which the murderous politician will walk away scot-free. A DETECTIVE AT BREAKING POINT Unflinching, brutal and disturbingly plausible' KIA ABDULLAH Masterful' S. A. Cosby Unputdownable' A. A. Chaudhuri
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3
FORCE OF HATE
GRAHAM BARTLETT
For all those who come in hope. May we not let you down.
I always tell authors that the story and characters must come first. With that in mind, this is a work of fiction, hence some structures, titles, locations, even some police procedures, have been modified to serve the story and the characters for your enjoyment.
Contents
1
It took all Ajee had to suck in the faintest breath.
The lung-crushing stench pervading the impossibly tight fissure she’d wedged herself into tempted her to succumb to suffocation.
This was the third, or was it fourth, leg of her month-long escape, hidden in pitch-dark trailers. This was meant to be the shortest yet but had cost her tenfold the other trips, but she’d been told it was worth it.
The other journeys, nestled among boxes of offal and seafood, had been unbearable but nothing as revolting as this. There was barely room to blink; the sweat and halitosis of the fifteen or so other migrants seeped into every pore and tainted every gasp of air. It made her wonder whether the job, apartment and papers she’d been promised would be worth it.
Ajee had sensed that they had cleared the port. She’d learnt to read the list and rattle of the lorry’s stops and starts and knew they were now on the open road. The crossing had been rough but nothing like the open boat across the Aegean Sea from Turkey.
The smugglers in Dieppe had told them the journey through England would take three to four hours before they would be dropped off to meet the uncle who would look after them. So why were the brakes hissing so urgently now? And why had the lorry swung so sharply that she had to brace against the walls of her hollow?
Even though she couldn’t see them, the other stowaways’ unease rippled through the trailer. A few panicked voices were hushed by others demanding silence.
It was probably nothing. A broken-down car? A closed road? It would be fine. After all she had been through on her 3,000-mile flee from the city – and people – she loved, why would it all end now?
Then, voices. Official. Muffled but definitely police. Or customs. Soldiers? She’d learnt English whilst studying for her nursing degree at the University of Aleppo so managed to pick up a few words, and they terrified her.
Ajee shuffled away from the crates, praying she was moving to the edge of the trailer not deeper into its core. She had no idea whether this was the smartest or dumbest thing to do but instinct drove her on. All around others were doing the same.
She listened carefully. As she touched the lorry’s canvas walls, the voices became clearer.
‘Can we have a look in the back then?’
‘Mais oui, officer,’ came the reply, a little too loudly for Ajee’s liking.
Her heart trembled and beads of sweat bubbled on her brow.
Footsteps.
She must be low down as they’d sounded right next to her, yet faded off to her left. They’d be heading to the back doors, she guessed, so she must be close to the cab. Low, on the front left side, she decided.
Perfect.
She fumbled in her right-hand jeans pocket. Empty. Oh no. Her left. Oh, please don’t say she’d dropped it. She’d guarded that knife since Istanbul. Having fled the would-be rapist, she’d paid fifty dollars she could ill afford, and now for the first time she needed it. She frantically frisked herself, then, as if Allah was watching over her, remembered the hidden pocket in the lining of the gilet she’d found in France. She heaved a silent sigh of relief and squeezed the cold metal to her calloused palms.
The clank of rods and locks being unbolted snapped her back. Panic was now all around her as her faceless counterparts scurried around. She dared not add to the mêlée by shouting to them to stay still. She knew the game was up.
As the doors were wrenched open, the bright morning sun floodlit the trailer. The reek of bodies and fear must have hit the police officers as they beamed their torches around the cargo.
‘Stay where you are,’ came the shout, then, ‘Charlie Bravo 34, urgent. Charlie Bravo 34, can we have back-up on the A27 westbound by the Amex Stadium. We’ve stopped a lorry full of migrants.’
It was now or never. Once more police arrived, she’d be done for. All those months, and wasted dollars, running from everything she knew. For what? She had to run now, and take her chances, or she’d be sent back to certain death.
She flipped the blade open and stabbed at the canvas. The knife snagged and nearly flew out of her hand, but she gripped it tighter and with all she had, slashed downwards, just enough for her slim frame to squeeze through.
Someone was heaving themselves into the back, shouting, ‘Stay where you are.’
She banked on only two police and surely one would be guarding the driver, so the other would no doubt be focused on those closer to the doors.
She pulled herself up and glimpsed the outside through the tear. A narrow pavement gave way to green fields trimmed with hedges. No police. Euphoria and panic drove her as she shouldered her way through then leapt onto the tarmac.
In three strides she was at the chain-link fence, and in one bound over it. She risked a backward glance to see the police slamming the trailer doors shut and frantically bellowing into their radios, the driver handcuffed by their side.
It wouldn’t be long before they found the cut wall. Hugging the perimeter hedge and crouched on her haunches, she powered away, determined to put as much distance between her and the lorry before they did.
2
Four weeks later
Chief Superintendent Joanne Howe detested these charades.
Under Brighton and Hove City Council’s previous chief executive, Penny Raw, like divisional commanders before her, she’d happily breeze into Hove Town Hall when the mood took her, amble up the open staircase to Penny’s office and, whilst she waited, make small talk with the directors and their PAs.
Since the local election last year when the British Patriot Party had somehow swept to power, everything had changed. First, Penny and her top team were sacked overnight; then, just as quickly, a ready-formed band of fascists took the helm. Now, in a playground muscle-flex, new Chief Executive Russ Parfitt delighted in making her wait in the foyer. It wouldn’t be so bad if he kept to time, but it seemed no coincidence that each week, he sent for her exactly nine minutes after their appointment time.
She tried not to let her anger show and had taken to wearing plain clothes to be less obvious, but within she seethed.
True to form, at 9.09 a.m. Russ’s personal assistant Debbie ran down the open marble staircase mouthing ‘sorry’ as she did so.
Jo walked over to the security barriers and waited for Debbie to zap her through.
‘Morning, Debbie,’ said Jo. ‘Tied up on a call, was he?’
Debbie shrugged. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’
Jo followed her up the stairs in silence, through two more security doors. As Debbie peeled off into the kitchen, Jo entered Russ’s office which, given his bulk, seemed even more cramped than it actually was.
‘Morning, Russ.’
‘Ah, morning, Jo.’ No apology then. ‘Take a seat.’ He’d barely looked up from his phone. Jo waited, wondering how the moons of sweat already darkening his armpits could appear so early on a chilly morning.
These weekly meetings were supposed to be their opportunity to thrash out any political or operational hot bricks so, to the public at least, the two most powerful city leaders could show a united front. In fact, they had turned into Parfitt making outrageous – often unlawful – demands and Jo being the voice of his disappointment. Today would be no different.
‘Jo, I’ve had the Leader of the Council onto me about the travellers who’ve pitched up in both Preston and Stanmer Parks. We’d like them evicted.’
‘When you’ve done what you need to do – as landowners – I’ll ask Gary Hedges to have a look and see what powers we have.’
‘I don’t think you understand,’ said Russ, edging forward. ‘We want them gone.’
Jo held her ground, accustomed to his misogynistic bullying. ‘And when you’ve done your bit, we’ll have a look at ours.’ She glared at him. ‘Understand?’
Russ blinked first and Jo took that tiny victory.
‘Talking of Superintendent Hedges,’ Parfitt continued, ‘Why didn’t he clear the protestors out of the chamber during the council meeting last week? Both the Leader and the Mayor asked him to, but he flatly refused.’
Jo knew this was coming and regurgitated the rationale her deputy, Gary, had given her half an hour earlier. She paused for effect on the words ‘democracy’, ‘rights’ and ‘freedom of speech’, three concepts Parfitt despised. When she finished, he ranted on about the ‘great unwashed’, ‘foreigners’ and the need to look after the ‘decent people’, three groups Jo refused to recognise.
When he’d finished, it was Jo’s turn. ‘As I have told you time and again, we are not your personal army. We will do what is right, within our powers, when it’s necessary. We are no one’s puppets and will certainly not be part of any eye-catching, vote-winning agenda you and this new council might have.’
The chief executive stood, his ruddy jowls quivering.
‘Don’t fucking take me on, little lady. This city is going places with or without you and unless you start toeing the line, I’ll have you removed. Just one call to Stuart Acers and you’ll be gone.’
‘The chief constable doesn’t answer to you.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
Jo stood, grabbed her case, turned for the door then threw a look back.
‘Never threaten me. And I’m no one’s little lady.’ She grabbed for the handle, only to find the door open and the Leader of the Council, Tom Doughty, blocking her exit. He looked over her shoulder, as if she weren’t there. ‘All sorted, Russ?’ he asked.
‘I think so, Tom.’
‘Don’t fucking bank on it,’ hissed Jo, as she barged past the councillor and fled for the outer door before a career-threatening tirade escaped from her mouth.
Jo Howe vowed, not for the first time, to resolve the police station parking once and for all. It would mean forgoing her designated bay that she had just pulled into, but she was sick and tired of seeing the response cars stacked up in front of one another. The inevitable synchronised shunting whenever there was a ‘blues and twos’ shout was a nonsense she should have eradicated months ago.
As she zapped herself in through the back door, her phone buzzed.
‘Hi, Gary. I’ve just parked up. You in the office?’
‘I am and I’m bloody seething.’
‘Whoa. What’s the matter?’ replied Jo as she held a door for a PC who seemed to be heading for the car park in a hurry.
‘Have you seen the chief’s latest?’
‘No. I’ll be with you in two minutes. Hold that rage.’
As she weaved her way through the corridors and up the stairs to the second-floor office they now shared, Jo opened her emails on her phone and scanned the one from Stuart Acers. Whilst it was the usual ill-spelt, hastily thumped out rant, she got the gist of it.
Jo pushed the office door open to see Gary pacing the floor.
‘It’s fucking outrageous. Is it too much to expect some back-up from that wanker?’
‘Maybe this is one of those chats best held with the door closed.’ Jo then poked her head back out and called to Fiona, her PA, to bring in a mug of iron-strength coffee and one of hot water. She eased the door shut.
‘Please, tell me you’ve not replied to him yet.’
‘I tried to call him but apparently he’s in a meeting.’
‘Thank God,’ sighed Jo. ‘Look, we both know what’s going on here. Parfitt is in his ear about the council meeting and he’s snatched at the opportunity to give us another kicking.’
‘Me, not us. He’s having a go at me. My judgement and my bottle, for Christ’s sake. Just because I wouldn’t eject a few gobby objectors – who had a point, I might add. I mean, for fuck’s sake, who’s pulling the strings here?’
‘We both know the answer to that. Rise above it.’
They were each sitting with their back to their respective desks, Jo’s looking like a burglary, Gary’s like a furniture catalogue.
‘He’s the one with no bottle. Never has had. It was probably the only thing Phil Cooke can be proud of as PCC, getting rid of that bastard. Then he rubs salt in by slinking back.’
‘He’s always been more worried about the pennies and politics than real policing, but we have to work with it. There’s no point in grappling with him as, like it or not, he has the upper hand. I haven’t got the energy to take on another chief.’
‘I can’t bloody stand this though. It’s not like he’s even got any experience to draw on.’
‘Lucky he’s as thick as pig shit then.’
Gary looked quizzical.
Jo explained. ‘If he had anything nudging a double-figure IQ he would have at least waited a week or so after Parfitt had a go at me. But he couldn’t wait to sound off, so now we know.’
‘Know what?’
‘That those two time-share a brain and a tiny one at that. We should be cautious about what we say to each of them, for sure, but we can also play their bromance to our advantage.’
‘How?’
‘We do nothing just now, but when the need arises we can have great fun feeding them what we want them to share and watching the fireworks that follow.’
‘Christ, I’d hate to cross you,’ smirked Gary.
‘Very wise.’
3
One week previously
The day she ran from the lorry, the helicopter and sirens had terrified Ajee more than the Macedonian soldiers who guarded the sealed border.
She had skirted the open fields and hid in ditches whenever she felt they were onto her but the longer she remained undetected, the more her confidence grew that they thought they’d trapped everyone in the lorry until help arrived. Surely they’d have spotted the cut in the canvas though.
Over the following three weeks she had surprised herself at how resourceful she’d become since fleeing Syria. In fact, before then. She’d lost everything – her family, her beautiful home overlooking the river, and her nursing career – but somehow she’d not given up. The memory of what had happened to her parents and brother and wondering what became of her boyfriend when Assad’s thugs snatched him off the streets kept her going. If only for their sake.
Life had been good in Aleppo until Assad’s troops and opposition forces entrenched themselves on either side of the city. Since then, to the outside world, the situation had eased but to Ajee, the threat of exploitation and death was ever-present and she lived on her wits.
Hiding among Brighton’s homeless was easier than Ajee could have imagined. She was not the only illegal in their midst and, as she kept herself pretty much to herself, she never attracted the interest of the few police she saw. There were plenty of others whose drunken rants or drugged stupors diverted their attention.
One evening, whilst she was begging outside a Tesco Express on Western Road, her luck changed. She’d been sitting by the cash machine for a couple of hours, never speaking but relying on her pitiful look and the McDonald’s cup to do the talking. Every once in a while, she’d pocket the banknotes the more generous Brightonians had dropped in and nibble on the meal deals those who didn’t trust her with cash gave her.
‘You must be freezing,’ a silky, deep voice said.
Ajee lifted her head just enough to see a pair of black mirror-shined shoes and razor-sharp herringbone trousers. She dared not risk a reply.
‘Can I get you anything?’
Again, she remained silent.
‘It’s OK my dear, I’m just worried about you.’
Ajee struggled with English accents but this voice had a kindness. Friendly. Educated. She braved it.
‘I OK. I well. Allah watch over me.’
‘That’s good. Very good. But you look so cold. Would you like me to help you? Find you shelter. Somewhere to get cleaned up, maybe?’
‘You very kind but I’m OK. Thank you, sir.’
The man bid her goodbye and walked off.
The next evening, he was back. Then the next and the one after that.
A week after that first encounter, George – he’d told her his name a couple of days before – bought her a hot shawarma and chips. Three days later they were chatting like old friends, although Ajee was careful not to reveal where she’d come from or how. George, on the other hand, told her he’d been married for thirty years, and had two grown-up daughters who each had a baby son. He showed her photos of him and a grey-haired lady Ajee took to be his wife, cradling a newborn between them, their rapt joy beaming from the screen.
Now, two days later, he’d persuaded her to go with him to a flat he owned, just for a shower. They had walked for about fifteen minutes, chatting easily, when George stopped outside a tall, converted house in a big square overlooking the sea.
‘Here we are,’ he said.
Ajee backed off, suddenly anxious at her own gullibility. ‘What is this?’
‘My flat, of course.’ He handed her a key. ‘I’ll wait out here. You go and pamper yourself.’
‘I sorry, Mr George. It’s just I …’
‘I understand. Honestly, you can trust me.’
‘Thank you,’ she muttered. ‘You very kind.’
The first-floor flat was sparsely furnished and there was no bed. That suited Ajee, as she had no intentions of abusing George’s kindness by making him feel obliged to let her live here.
The shower was sheer luxury. Shards of scalding water pummelled her grimy skin and the fragrant shower gel and shampoo, which she lathered herself top to toe with, made her tingle with delight.
It was only as she wandered around, towelling herself with the fleecy bath sheet, that she spotted the new clothes draped over an armchair in the lounge. George had not mentioned them, but surely they were for her. There were no signs of anyone else living here, after all.
Ajee slipped on the sports bra, big knickers, slightly roomy black jeans and green Nike hoodie. She felt like a new woman. As she looked in the mirror, she grinned. George must have bought these himself. He had no idea what nineteen-year-old Muslim girls wore these days.
Once she was dressed and had brushed her hair, Ajee wiped over the bathroom surfaces, folded the towel over the rail and bundled up her old clothes – careful to recover what money she’d collected and her knife – then dumped them in the kitchen bin.
She glanced round one last time, scolding herself for wishing she could stay, closed the door and walked down the communal stairs and onto the busy street.
‘Wow, look at you. You look like a new girl,’ said George.
‘You very kind, Mr George. How I repay you? These clothes are, how you say, beautiful.’
‘Stop teasing me,’ he replied. ‘They were the best I could do. A young girl like you shouldn’t be wearing the same clothes day in day out. It’s you who are beautiful.’ Ajee recoiled. ‘Oh my dear, please don’t take that the wrong way. I’m practically old enough to be your grandfather. I just mean you look so much – er – fresher now you’re all cleaned up. Can I buy you something to eat? What do you like? Mando’s?’
Ajee smiled. ‘Yes, thank you, Mr George. I like Nando’s.’
George flagged down a cab and they travelled in silence the short distance to Goldstone Retail Park. When they arrived, he held the door for her as they entered the restaurant. Once Ajee had briefed him on the ordering system, they chose then waited for their food.
Ajee felt more at ease now. She’d been slow to trust since the civil war but, even with her antennae on full alert for anyone who might harm her, she had found nothing but warmth in this quirky Englishman.
‘I know you don’t like talking about where you come from, but what are your plans? Surely you don’t want to live on the street for ever?’
‘No, of course not,’ she said, then paused as their Butterfly Burgers and fries arrived. ‘I train to be a nurse in my country. It was all I wanted since I was a child but I had to leave. Now that will never happen.’ She felt a sting in her eyes and took a deep breath.
‘Never give up on your dreams,’ said George, as he reached over to squeeze her hand. She did not pull away.
A silence hung between them. George seemed deep in thought.
‘My dear. Would you give me a moment? I just want to make a quick call.’
‘But your chicken, Mr George?’
‘I’ll only be a minute.’
Ajee watched him as he slid along the bench seat and out of the booth. He was dialling as he made for the door and she watched him chatting on the phone through the window. A steeliness she’d not seen before flashed across his face. She let it pass and tucked into the food.
When George came back, he was his usual affable self. He sat back down but ignored his dinner.
‘Ajee, look, I might have overstepped the mark but I think I have an opportunity for you.’
She furrowed her brow.
‘A friend of mine has a string of nursing homes across the city. It’s not what you had in mind when you started your studies. This is all old people, dementia sufferers mainly, seeing out their days with care and dignity. Anyway, I just spoke to him and, as I thought, he’s looking for staff.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr George, but I have no papers. I can’t work. They deport me.’ She was practically whispering now.
‘He understands that. He has several girls in your position. The pay’s not great but it’s cash in hand and each of his homes have a few rooms where you can live, free of charge. They even provide your meals.’
‘That is kind but I’m not qualified. I didn’t finish my degree.’
‘My dear, you are more qualified than most. Anyway, why don’t you have a chat with him at least? He can see you later today if you like.’
‘This is all very fast, Mr George.’
‘Sometimes you have to act fast. What have you got to lose?’ For once his smile stopped short of his eyes.
Ajee weighed it up as she mopped up the last of the ketchup with her bap. It’s not like she was fighting off offers of work or somewhere to live. She could trust him. He was right, what was the harm in a meeting? She could always say no if it didn’t feel right.
‘Thank you,’ she smiled. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t seem very – how you say – grateful. It’s just a shock.’
‘Don’t worry. Some things are meant to happen. He’ll collect you from here in thirty minutes.’
‘With you?’
‘I’m afraid not, I have to get back, but the best of luck. I’m sure you’ll get on famously.’ He put a £20 and £10 note on the table and stood up. ‘Take care, my dear. I’ll see you soon.’
Ajee remained seated, the hope of changing luck glowing through her. ‘Yes, thank you. See you soon, Mr George.’
As George had promised, a car pulled up outside Nando’s exactly thirty minutes after he had vanished. The driver was surly, speaking only to confirm her name. That suited Ajee. The last thing she needed was conversation with a stranger. She was already fretting about how much she’d divulged to George, but at least that gave her the chance of a job – a fresh start.
When the car crunched to a stop on the sweeping gravel driveway, she stared in awe at the double-fronted two-storey mansion that threw its shadow across immaculately manicured lawns. The white stippled render and black-stained wooden window frames reminded her of the picture books she’d pored over as a child. English history had been one of her favourite subjects and she’d yearned to live in one of those grand Tudor houses. Could this be the paradise she’d imagined?
Ajee stepped out of the car and closed the door just in time as its wheels spun on the shingle, peppering her shins as it sped away.
She was about to rap on the huge black door when it was yanked open. A skinny woman in a stained white tunic, bearing a badge which labelled her as ‘Peggy Squire – Manager’, glared at her. ‘Can I help you?’
Ajee bowed her head. ‘My name is Ajee. Mr George said I was to meet his friend. He have a job for me.’
Peggy craned her sinewy neck and looked left and right. ‘You’d better come in. Where are your things?’
‘This is all I have,’ she said, her arms out to indicate she was wearing the sum of her worldly goods.
Peggy turned and marched down a long corridor which smelt almost as vile as the lorry. Ajee presumed she was to follow, so closed the door and jogged to keep up. Peggy turned into a doorway on the right opposite a lounge, from which weary cries echoed. Ajee wondered whether she should go and see if someone needed help but thought that might be a little presumptuous.
By the time she caught up, she found Peggy was sitting behind a cluttered desk which barely fitted in the narrow space. Ajee perched opposite on a grey plastic moulded chair which reminded her of school. She tried to ignore the mysterious stain but positioned herself so it would not ruin her new jeans.
‘You want to work here then,’ said Peggy, more a statement than a question.
‘Mr George, he say you might have job for me and we should speak about it. He tell you that, no?’
‘I don’t deal with George. I have enough to do here but I was told you’d be coming. Do you have papers? A passport, ID card?’
‘No, nothing. I lost everything on way to England.’
‘Empty your pockets,’ said Peggy.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard me. Everything on the table.’
Ajee hesitated, then slowly put all her possessions on top of a file on the desk. It didn’t amount to much. A total of £34.76, a few tissues, lip balm, three tampons and her knife. Peggy stared at the switchblade, then at Ajee.
‘What is that?’
Ajee shrugged, stuck for an explanation this scary woman would understand.
‘I won’t tolerate any trouble here.’
‘What is “tolerate”?’
‘Put up. I won’t put up with trouble.’
‘I just work hard.’ Ajee wondered if she was sounding a bit too desperate.
Peggy swept up the cash and knife and indicated to Ajee to pick up the remaining debris.
‘Why you take my money?’ Ajee protested.
‘Call it rent,’ replied Peggy. ‘You start at six tomorrow morning. You will live here. I’ll show you the room. The shifts are thirteen hours, days and nights. The pay is five pounds per hour but we will hold that for you. All your meals will be provided. You will not leave here without permission and an escort and you may not contact anyone from the outside.’
‘But, but—’ Ajee’s head was spinning. A couple of hours ago she’d been feeling like royalty, all showered and pampered, and now this. It sounded like a prison. ‘I think there is some mistake. I will find something else. Thank you, Mrs Peggy, for your time.’
‘There’s no mistake, Ajee.’
A click behind her made Ajee spin round. She’d not heard the man slip in until he locked the door.
‘This is your life now. If you cause trouble or try to leave, we will hand you over to the authorities and you’ll be on the first flight back to whatever hellhole you’ve come from.’
4
One week later
If there was one thing PC Wendy Relf hated more than her crew-mate’s post-curry wind, it was his dad jokes.
Parked in the lay-by between the Palace Pier and the Sea Life Centre on a rare break between calls, all Wendy wanted was to write up the last two burglaries they’d been to – but PC Dan Bilkham, having swerved the paperwork as usual, was practising his stand-up act.
‘Here, you’ll love this one Wend. What do you call a vicar on a motorbike? Rev.’ Dan creased up whilst Wendy just kept typing away on her smartphone.
‘How about this? What did the football manager do when the pitch flooded? Brought on the subs.’
‘Dan, I’m trying to work here,’ said Wendy, but she couldn’t resist a smirk at that one.
‘Charlie Romeo Zero One,’ came the voice over the radio.
‘Zero One, go ahead,’ replied Dan, flipping to professional mode.
‘Charlie Romeo Zero One, can you start making for Al-Medinah Mosque, Brighton? We’re getting reports of a group of youths shouting racist abuse at the congregation as they leave. Reports too of bottles being thrown. If you start making, I’ll find you some back-up.’
‘Roger, on our way. ETA five minutes,’ said Dan.
Wendy flicked on the strobe lights and siren and elbowed her way into the logjam of tourist traffic snaking along the coast road.
‘Move, shit for brains,’ she yelled at the driver of the car in front, who seemed to have been frozen to a standstill by the sight of a speeding police car bearing down on him.
‘You know he can’t actually hear you shout, don’t you?’ checked Dan.
‘Maybe not, but it makes me feel better,’ replied Wendy.
Squeezing through impossible gaps and narrowly avoiding countless oblivious or confused pedestrians and cyclists, in no time Wendy reached the junction with West Street, Brighton’s nightlife hub. Pausing only briefly for the red light, she powered through and dodged the Deliveroo moped scooting down the outside of the line of oncoming traffic.
‘Can we try to keep the number of corpses we leave in our wake to single figures, please? You know my aversion to paperwork.’
‘You should try it one day; you might like it.’
‘What, mowing down innocent road users?’
‘Getting your pen out.’
‘What pen?’
The radio interrupted their banter. ‘Charlie Romeo Zero One, an update for you. We are getting reports of upwards of twenty men now fighting and witnesses are reporting seeing baseball bats and one says an axe. Approach with caution and hold back until back-up arrives.’
Wendy swung the car right into Bedford Place, against the one-way traffic. ‘Did you hear that?’ she said.
‘Which bit?’
‘Something about holding back.’
‘No.’
‘Me neither.’
Her assertive driving and the incessant sirens forced cars onto pavements and into the side roads as Wendy pushed her way up the hill to the mosque. As they approached, the ferocity of the situation hit them. A sea of bodies blocked the road, clashing and charging at each other. Thrown punches, fleeing men, bins and rocks careering through the air snuffed out any thoughts of talking their way out of this one.
Wendy stopped the car as close as she could, resigned to the fact it would probably end up trashed. Not for the first time.
‘Ready?’ she said as she drew her baton.
‘You bet. Stay in sight,’ said Dan as he did likewise and, as one, they threw open their car doors and racked open their truncheons.
‘Let’s go,’ shouted Wendy as both sprinted towards the warring masses, yelling ‘police’ for what that was worth.
In the mêlée, Wendy broadly made out two groups. One consisted of white, fat, red-faced men, most with armfuls of tattoos and hate in their eyes. The other were darker-skinned, fitter men wearing traditional thobes and kofis.
At first glance it seemed the white men were the aggressors, pushing forward and throwing missiles at the mosque; but the other group were more heavily armed, every two or three swinging baseball bats indiscriminately at their opponents.
Wendy knew not to over-analyse the situation, and instead to just do whatever the hell she could to stay alive and stop anyone getting seriously hurt.
She waded in, flailing her baton at any arm holding a weapon, fending off punches and kicks as she pushed through. She’d spun her head to see where Dan was, as much for his safety as hers, when she was jolted forward against a stationary car. Through the passenger window she could see a young woman, terror in her eyes, trying to placate two hysterical toddlers in the back.
Wendy shouted, above the din, ‘It’ll be OK,’ but knew the mum couldn’t hear – and even if she could, she’d know the promise was empty.
Suddenly she caught a glimpse of Dan, his hand gripped round a white man’s throat, propelling him back towards a shopfront opposite the mosque. He was about three metres away but might as well have been thirty, such was the impenetrable crowd between them.
Like a tidal swell, the crowd bulged in Dan’s direction lending Wendy a metre or two of space. At first she thought it was the start of a dispersal. Then, to her horror she saw it for what it was. Half a dozen white men had spotted Dan’s arrest attempt and were charging to their friend’s aid.
‘Dan! Behind you!’ she said, but her cries were swamped by the taunts and roar of the crowd. She strained to keep sight of her crew-mate and grabbed two men twice her size, flinging them out of her path, tears blurring her vision.
‘Fuck off, pig,’ was one discernible insult she picked out. Instinctively she floored the thug with one punch. That created more space and she pushed forward without breaking stride. As she was within a metre of where she’d last seen Dan, the crowd around where he should be suddenly pushed back, running in every direction. Wendy did the opposite, desperate to find her irritating friend, praying he’d moved elsewhere but unseen by her.
In seconds her worst fears were realised and she jabbed the red emergency button on her radio.
‘Charlie Romeo Zero One, officer down, multiple stab wounds. I need ambulance and back-up urgently. Shit, he’s bleeding out.’
There wasn’t much that could persuade Jo to set foot in a hospital, especially the Royal Sussex County where her father had shrivelled to his death, but a stabbed PC in the Intensive Care Unit was an exception. She’d been desperate to visit him from the moment she heard about his vicious attack outside the mosque, but he’d been in surgery most of the night, so this was the first chance she’d had.
When she was buzzed through to the ward, she wondered why she was shocked to see the tangle of wires and tubes and the suck and puff of the machinery by his side. What did she expect?
She nodded at Dan Bilkham’s dedicated nurse, then pulled up a chair next to PC Wendy Relf, who was gently holding her partner’s hand.
‘How is he?’ Jo asked.
‘Oh, hello ma’am. Sorry, I didn’t see you come in,’ said Wendy as she went to stand up.
Jo touched her shoulder. ‘It’s a Jo day for you.’
‘They say he’s stable but the next forty-eight hours are crucial.’
‘Sounds like a stock prognosis.’
They were sitting in silence for a moment.
‘Shall I tell you one of his worst jokes?’ said Wendy.
‘If you must.’
‘Where is the worst place to play hide and seek in a hospital? ICU.’
Jo smiled. ‘That’s truly terrible.’
‘See what I had to work with now?’
‘Have to work with. We can always change your partner when he gets out of here.’
‘Please don’t though.’ Wendy started to cry.
Jo hugged her. ‘I thought you’d say that.’
Jo looked around, humbled by the love and care the staff gave every patient, but she couldn’t shift the thought that this was God’s waiting room.
‘You know, there was real hate in their eyes,’ said Wendy when she’d composed herself.
‘You don’t have to talk about it.’
‘I want to. Dan was so brave. If they’d not stabbed him, they would have attacked all those poor Muslim boys and God knows what they’d have done to them.’
‘But I thought it was them who had the bats?’
‘Only to protect their mosque. And the women and children. Those fucking fascists started it. And did this.’ She waved a hand towards Dan. ‘Pardon my language.’
‘You forget I share an office with Gary Hedges. That’s pre-watershed by comparison. We’ll find who’s behind this, you know. They will pay for it.’
‘Promise?’
‘Pinky.’
Wendy threw her a curious look.
‘Sorry, it’s what I say to my kids. It’s the most solemn vow I can make.’
For the first time Wendy smiled. ‘In that case I believe you.’
As soon as she left the hospital, Jo was straight on the phone to Gary Hedges.
‘This has got to stop, and not just because it’s one of our own.’
‘How is he?’
‘Not good. I take it you have a team investigating it? I want these thugs found.’
‘Obviously, but everyone’s saying it’s the people from the mosque who had the weapons and the white blokes were just protecting themselves.’
‘That is utter bollocks,’ said Jo, oblivious to the stares she was drawing from the crowd at the bus stop. ‘What were they doing there in the first place? And what’s their excuse for stabbing one of our PCs half to death? I’m not having that shit.’
‘I know all that, but have you seen the Chronicle?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I’ll send you a link.’
As she reached her car, her phone pinged with a WhatsApp message. She opened the link and froze when she saw the picture alongside the headline.
‘What the hell are they doing? “PC Stabbed Outside Mosque” might be factually accurate but the picture of the Muslim lad with a baseball bat is bang out of order.’
She started her car and eased out into the traffic.
‘I’ve spoken to the editor. He just said it was the best picture they had from the scene.’
‘Best as in clearest, or best as in it suits their warped racist narrative?’
‘Funny, he wouldn’t elaborate. Have you seen the council comment?’
‘No, I’m driving. Read it to me.’
‘A council spokesman said, “We utterly condemn the violence outside the Al-Medinah Mosque yesterday. This city will not tolerate thugs arming themselves with baseball bats and the like to attack our citizens as they go about their lawful business. We call on the Imam to restore order in his community and turn those responsible over to the police.” And before you ask, no one asked for a comment from us.’
‘No condemnation of racists trying to murder a police officer then? That’s bloody it. I need to talk to Parfitt, he’s got no right to comment on active criminal investigations.’
‘Jo, do you think you should calm down first?’
‘That’s a terrible idea.’
Jo diverted from Eastern Road and took the back streets around the rush-hour traffic, rehearsing in her mind what she would say to the chief executive, determined to look him in the eye and demand an explanation.
She pulled up outside Hove Town Hall and abandoned her car in a police-only bay opposite the front door. Marching through the doors, she took her chance when she saw the security barrier wedged open by a couple of deliverymen trying to manoeuvre a huge cabinet.
‘Excuse me,’ she muttered as she squeezed through and up the stairs, seemingly unseen by the flustered reception staff.
As she entered the executive suite she deliberately did not look into Debbie’s office and hoped she hadn’t spotted her. The last thing Jo wanted was to make what she was about to do seem to be the PA’s fault.
She couldn’t believe her luck when she saw both Parfitt and Doughty were in the chief executive’s office. Two vultures with one stone,she thought.
‘Can you explain this?’ she said as she burst through the door, phone outstretched. Both men looked first startled, then livid.
‘What do you …’ Parfitt started. He looked even shabbier than usual.
‘Do you know where I’ve just come from? The hospital, where one of my PCs is lying wired up to God knows what, having whatever it’s taking to keep him alive pumped into him. Why? Because he was attacked by a mob of racist thugs and almost hacked to death.’
‘And that’s our fault, how?’ asked Doughty with a sickening smirk breaking out.
‘It’s the tone you’ve set so your supporters think they have carte blanche to do whatever they want in this city. And then you underscore it with a press statement which blames the victims. The least you could do is show some support for those trying to keep a modicum of peace.’
‘If your officers are going to disobey orders and put themselves in the middle of a race riot when they are told to hold back, I don’t see how that’s the council’s fault. You need to get a grip and stop your lot acting the hero just to protect the foreigners who think they can bully those who are legitimately protesting,’ said Doughty.
Jo was caught off guard. ‘What do you mean “disobey orders?”’
‘What I said. I’m surprised you don’t know. They were told not to go in.’
‘Who told you that?’
Another smirk that Jo wished she could punch off the council leader’s face, coupled with him tapping the side of his nose.
‘Let me just say, things are going to change round here. Russ here has just come from a very useful chat with your chief constable. They both agree that a new policing style is needed in this city, if we are going to give the voting public what they want.’
Jo glared at Parfitt who just nodded.
‘And,’ Doughty continued, ‘it seems Stuart agrees with us, whether that’s you delivering it or someone else. The choice is yours. You won’t be missed.’
5
One week previously
Ajee’s hunger screamed as she staggered up the stairs at the end of her first shift. She’d survived all day on two pieces of toast, a digestive biscuit and the remains of a chicken leg left by a resident. There had been no breaks to speak of and the couple of times she’d sneaked a sit-down in one of the rooms, Peggy had yelled at her for taking so long.
Perhaps if she’d slept better the night before, she’d feel stronger.
As she finally got to the top floor, she pulled the unmarked door open. The two metres by three windowless room boasted three iron bunk beds, one against each wall, with a narrow walkway down the middle, made smaller still by an army camp bed on which an African girl, about Ajee’s age, now snored.
She’d been told the night before by an Afghan woman that ten of them shared the room but, as there were always at least four on shift, it wasn’t so bad. Ajee begged to differ.
Each bed had a thin sleeping bag and grimy single pillow. The girls seemed to have made some effort to keep their clothes tidy. As it was all work and sleep, none had an extensive wardrobe, but the makeshift washing line, strung across both diagonals, made standing hazardous.
Chipped avocado-green plates were stacked up by the door. To Ajee’s disappointment, any leftovers had already been swiped.
She counted three beds occupied, fewer than last night, so maybe she could get one furthest from the door tonight.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the girl on the camp bed. ‘When do we eat?’
The girl opened her eyes but no other part of her moved. She looked so tired Ajee guessed she couldn’t if she tried.
‘Our meal,’ she repeated. ‘When do we get food?’
‘You eat on your shift. When you finish, you sleep. No eat.’
‘But I’m hungry. I need food.’
‘You must take what food you can when you work. Too late now.’
Ajee’s heart sank. How would she get through the night, let alone the next day, without something inside her?
‘Where can I bath? Shower?’ She could tell the African girl was getting annoyed with her constant questions, but she needed to scrub off the grime of the day.
‘Basin in toilet next door. No bath. No shower.’
Ajee’s mind yearned back to the previous afternoon at George’s flat. She wondered whether she could get hold of George. Surely he would get her out of this; realise what his friend was up to. Then she recalled the flash of ice when he’d implored her to come here. The way his face had hardened when he was on the phone.
It hit her that this was all part of his plan – or someone’s plan at least. Having dodged robbers, rapists and killers across Europe, she’d fallen for the charms of a kindly old bumbling grandad who had lured her into this bar-less prison.
She plonked herself on the bottom bunk by the back wall, laid her head on the rancid pillow and silently sobbed herself to sleep.
6
One week later
Jo darted into a rare parking space on Upper Drive. These visits were her little secret; a promise she made to someone once very dear to her but who could no longer make them himself.
She grabbed the purple irises from the front seat, stepped out of the car, darted between the queuing traffic and walked up to the imposing black front door of Sycamore Care Home.
In the hallway, so you couldn’t miss it, was a large mahogany table with a printed red laminate pinned to the wall above it, instructing All Visitors – Sign In Here. The entrance always looked neat and pristine, but no amount of air freshener could mask the reek of urine that hit you the moment you breathed in. That and the faceless cries and shouts that were the home’s muzak broke Jo’s heart.
She hated providing her real name, but on balance that was better than having to answer awkward questions if she used a pseudonym. A scribbled, barely legible, signature seemed a reasonable compromise.
She unclipped the safety gate at the bottom, then the top of the single staircase – were they even allowed? – then gently tapped the second door on the left. Waiting a beat, she opened it and walked in.
Mary Cooke was slouched in a pink plastic chair, her winceyette sky-blue dressing gown stained with what Jo hoped was today’s breakfast but could have been weeks-old debris. Her head lolled to one side and Jo grabbed a tissue to wipe the drool tracking down her chin.
‘Hello, Mary, it’s me, Jo,’ she said as she squeezed the old lady’s icy hand. ‘How are you today?’
Mary didn’t reply. She never did. Jo wondered whether she’d even registered her being there, but a promise was a promise.
She looked around the room as she sat at Mary’s side. The photos, some sharper and newer than others, catalogued a life well lived. Happy snaps of children and grandchildren frolicking in the sea by Brighton’s Palace Pier. Mary at her only son’s wedding and later shots of one of her grandsons holding a trophy aloft and the other, eyes closed as the strum of his bass guitar seemed to boom through him. Jo had to look away.
It was a small mercy that Mary’s dementia had gripped her before these carefree scenes had shattered a few brutal months ago. To Mary, her happy family was still intact.
Jo watched the rise and fall of the food stains as Mary slept. She had nothing really to say to her but had promised her son Phil she would visit every couple of weeks; just sit and hold her hand and see that all was well.
Jo’s bond with Phil had been stretched by the last year’s events. Given everything that had happened, her instinct was to hide away from anything connected with the Cookes. The guilt and terror those few days had piled on her made restful sleeps a wild fantasy, even now. But the torch she held for him still flickered since their affair sixteen years ago, so, when he’d called her, a week after he was remanded in custody, and begged her to be there for his mother, how could she refuse?
She made a point of never arriving in uniform, and to the staff – who rotated more frequently than football managers – she was a close family friend. To be honest, none were that interested, but some would confide in her over Mary’s health and ask if she needed anything. Probably the hampers Jo dropped in occasionally loosened their tongues more than was appropriate for a non-family member.
After what seemed like an hour but was probably around fifteen minutes, Jo unlocked her hand from Mary’s and set about tidying her room. The staff did the basics – emptied the bin, cleaned round the basin, sluiced the commode – but Jo added the finer touches. Having thrown away the wilting tulips she’d brought last time, she arranged the irises then spruced up the bed, shelves and sink area. Lastly, she freshened up Mary’s neck and dressing gown with a squirt of Chanel Coco Mademoiselle, brushed her willowy grey hair, pecked her on the cheek and left.
Stepping out onto the landing, she caught sight of a carer.
‘Morning.’
The young, wiry Asian girl spun round, eyes like frisbees.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jo. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘It’s fine,’ she replied, as she twiddled her pretty silver double-crescent necklace.
‘I don’t think I’ve seen you before. I’m Jo.’ The girl hesitated then took the offered hand. An awkward moment stretched out between them.
‘And you are?’ Jo prompted.
‘I—I, er. My name is Ajee,’ she replied as she pulled her bony hand away.
‘Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Ajee. I wonder if I could trouble you?’
Ajee looked around as if checking that no one would overhear.
Jo continued. ‘It’s just that I’ve popped in to see Mary Cooke and I wonder if someone could change her robe? She’s spilt something down the one she’s wearing. I’d do it but I’m not allowed to lift her.’
‘Yes, of course. I do it straight away.’
‘Also, I was just wondering. Is Mary OK? You know, is she well?’
‘Yes, yes. She very well.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Jo, finally allowing the flustered carer to go on her way.
Jo walked down the stairs, signed out and breathed in a lungful of air to expel the rancid stench that defined the home. She was relieved her obligation to prisoner AK7061 was discharged for another two weeks.
As was becoming more frequent these days, Russ Parfitt was in the foulest of moods when he stormed through his front door. Whilst, politically, you couldn’t get a fag paper between him and Tom Doughty, the Leader of the Council’s interpretation of the possible was rooted in fantasy.
Today it had all been about introducing by-laws to ban gypsies and travellers from any public space – and he meant any public space; effectively prohibiting them from the city. When Russ had argued that it would be unlawful, unethical and impossible to police, Doughty threatened, not for the first time, to replace him with someone more committed to ‘the cause’.
Russ hoped, for her sake, his wife Heather had his dinner ready and their four- and six-year-old girls were in bed.
He stormed into the open-plan kitchen-diner and saw Heather through the bifold doors reclined on a patio chair, sipping a glass of white wine, phone wedged to her ear. Without breaking stride, Russ dropped his bag by the island unit and marched outside.
Heather’s terrified look when she saw him was matched only by Russ’s thunderous glare. Quickly ending the call, she stood up, spun round and took a step back, all in one movement.
‘Hi, darling. I, er, I wasn’t expecting you home so soon.’
‘So I see. Why can’t I smell cooking?’
‘Oh, I thought … I wondered if you’d like a Chinese tonight.’
Russ turned and went back inside, knowing full well that the offer of a takeaway was cover for spending the day on her lazy arse, quaffing Chardonnay and gassing to the other yummy mummies.
She’d pay for that.
Heather followed Russ in, muttering apologies and pitiful attempts to change the subject.
‘Shall I get on and order?’ she asked.
‘Best you had, I’m starving,’ he replied as his phone rang. ‘Fucking hell.’
‘The usual?’ she checked, but Russ ignored her as he answered the call.
‘Tom. What can I do for you?’ said Russ, hoping he’d masked his irritation.
‘I need to see you,’ said the councillor.
‘What now? I only saw you half an hour ago. Can’t it wait?’
‘I’ll be round in ten,’ said Tom before killing the call.
Russ slammed the phone down on the granite worktop, startling Heather. The council leader’s personal life was an enigma. The two had known each other as young activists but then Tom had gone off the radar, returning as the British Patriot Party’s shining light.
Rumours of him training the youth wing of the English Defence Corps, and some unsavoury blurring of punishments and rewards, were never proved.
Now, it was all work work work, fuelled by an insatiable urge to create a supreme state, akin to Hitler’s, right here in Brighton.
‘Tom’s on his way round. Make yourself scarce and keep those brats away from me.’
‘Shall I still order the food?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Russ as he grabbed his bag and his phone, then stomped off to the study that overlooked the gated driveway.
He collapsed his flabby frame into his favourite leather armchair and fired up his laptop. A quick scan of his emails revealed no breaking disasters since he’d left the office. As ever, therefore, Tom had probably imagined some impending doom on his way home and diverted to shift his paranoia onto his chief executive.
As the Range Rover swung up to the entrance, Russ pressed the remote control allowing the iron gates to grant Tom access. He waited for him to step from the car before he went to open the front door.
‘Russ, thanks for making time for me,’ said Tom, not looking or sounding grateful at all.
‘No worries, come in.’
Tom barged past his host and made his way straight for the study. This was not his first time encroaching here.
‘Beer?’ said Russ in his wake.
‘Please.’
Russ took out his phone, opened his WhatsApp, and punched a demand to Heather for Two Beers.
In less than a minute she tapped on the door and delivered two ice-cold Chang lagers.
They waited until her footsteps disappeared down the hallway.
‘Russ, I’m not having that bitch cop coming and throwing her weight around again. That’s the second time in a week.’
‘It’s not like I invited her.’
‘I don’t care. What I care about is her poisoning this city with her namby-pamby leftie ways. She’s a fucking liability.’
‘In fairness, one of her officers did get stabbed and is on a life support machine. Even we should cut her some slack for the moment.’
‘Bollocks we should. If those two numbskulls were dumb enough to wade in on their own, then they should expect what they got.’
‘But the bloke’s at death’s door.’
‘More fool him,’ said Doughty.
Parfitt wandered to the bay window, trying to process how heartless the councillor could be. He watched helplessly as a ginger tomcat took a dump on his pristine lawn.
‘OK. I’ll speak to Stuart Acers again.’
‘Make sure you do. Anyway, yesterday’s events have brought things into focus for me. We’re not making enough progress.’
‘But …’
‘This druggy, permissive, welcome-all-comers image has got to stop. We are a laughing stock and it’s pissing off decent, normal people. What about their wishes and rights? The people who’ve voted for us. I’ve been going through the budget. Do you know how much we spend on gay rights, black rights, refugee rights, every other bleeding heart versus helping decent, hard-working English people like you and me?’
‘But this new world you want to create has to be a long-term plan,’ and is therefore not urgent,he wanted to add. ‘We have to get people on board, nudge them in the right direction. You’re going to need at least two four-year terms to get anywhere close to your dream.’ How often had they had this conversation?
‘Not good enough. From tomorrow I want direct action. Start by planning to cut all support for the mosques then anything we give to those LGBTQ, or whatever they call themselves, freaks. I’ve got plans for Pride, by the way, whatever the courts have said about us banning it. This year will be the last. No more spending on racial cohesion either. They come to our country, they earn their keep and play by our rules. I want the police to crack down on the filth bags coming and protesting about everything from the weather to the lack of vegan kebab shops. That’s on top of the travellers’ ban you’re on to.’
Russ was speechless. Tom had had these scattergun rants before but this time he sounded desperate. He clearly had no idea change didn’t happen like that. Arguing, however, was not an option. Chief executives, with their £200k salaries, were as disposable as bog roll these days.
He was grateful to see a moped stop at the gates. He zapped the Deliveroo boy in and met him at the front door. Taking the bag of Chinese into the study, he saw Tom lick his lips.
‘Want some?’
‘Go on then,’ said Tom, suddenly much cheerier.
Russ picked up his phone, opened WhatsApp and typed, Two more beers. Two forks.
The ever-reliable Heather was at the door in thirty seconds this time. ‘Open yourself a tin of beans,’ whispered Russ as he snatched the cutlery and bottles, ‘and wipe those fucking tears away.’
When his phone rang, Russ Parfitt’s hangover felt he was in for the long haul.
