The Common Enemy. Paul Gitsham

Curved blade, no serration.’

      Professor Ryan Jordan’s accent was still predominantly American, but decades living in England – married to an Englishwoman – had left their mark.

      ‘What can you tell about the attack?’ Warren had the phone on speaker so he could look at the emailed files Jordan had sent him without getting a crick in his neck.

      ‘It pierced his left lung, catching a rib on the way in. It didn’t reach the heart, but it nicked an intercostal artery. The knife was pulled out without twisting. He’d have bled out in less than a minute. From the shape of the pool of blood under the body and the lengthy smear, I’d say he expired where he finally collapsed. I see no evidence that his body was moved post-mortem.’

      ‘What about his killer. Any ideas?’

      ‘From the angle and position of entry, I would guess someone of a similar height, probably standing face-on.’

      ‘So his attacker would have been covered in blood?’

      ‘No question. Even if he jumped back, I’d say he’d have got a good spattering.’

      Warren really hoped Andy Harrison and his team found the killer’s clothing, only a tiny speck of blood would be needed to tie it to the scene.

      ‘Anything else you can tell me about the weapon?’

      ‘Not a lot, but I’ve photographed the marks on the rib, so I should be able to match any suspect blade.’

      ‘What else have you found? Any defensive wounds?’

      ‘Inconclusive. He had a number of pre-mortem injuries. A cut on his scalp was clearly inflicted sometime earlier, it had already started to bruise. His knuckles also had contusions consistent with fighting, but again they were probably picked up a few minutes before he was killed. Unless there was a pause of several minutes between him meeting his attacker and the final wound, I’d say the injuries occurred during the ruckus in the square. I’ve scraped under his fingernails just in case.’

      Warren thanked him and hung up. The first twenty-four hours of any investigation were crucial. The clock started ticking the moment a crime was committed, as evidence disappeared, memories began to fade and killers continued to cover their tracks. It had been a promising start and a couple more hours remained. He just hoped they could maintain this momentum over the coming hours and days.

       Chapter 8

      Arranging a preliminary interview for all those present at the previous day’s riot was no trivial task. Many of the members of the British Allegiance Party were from East London, or further afield, and those who had managed not to get arrested had returned on the coach late Saturday night. To help process them more easily, Welwyn had sent a minibus full of officers clockwise around the M25 and taken advantage of the generosity of the Metropolitan Police in securing the use of some interview suites. The news of their leader’s murder had shocked most of the BAP members into docility and, to everyone’s surprise, all of those invited to give a statement had meekly turned up first thing on Sunday morning. Anybody with something interesting to say would be interviewed more formally, under caution if necessary, at a later date. Establishing alibis prior to the fire breaking out as well as in the last minutes before Tommy Meegan’s demise were equally important at the moment; Warren was acutely aware that a quick arrest over the fire would go at least some way to making good the mistakes made by the police that day.

      Tracking down the many counter-protestors was more difficult. Those arrested during the riot had already been processed; a few more would no doubt be identified from CCTV footage and picked up later, but the majority had gone home, scattering to all corners of the UK. The press office had released a public appeal for information, but given who the victim was and many of the protestors’ attitudes towards the police, nobody was especially hopeful.

      Nevertheless, there were still plenty of witnesses and potential suspects remaining in Middlesbury to interview, and none of them were happy. Some had spent the night in the cells and a couple were even trying to pin the responsibility for their assorted bumps, cuts and bruises on the police. More than a few of the BAP members were calling foul because they had been thoroughly searched as they left the bus whilst the counter-protestors hadn’t. Perhaps, more than one had suggested, the knife that killed Tommy Meegan could have been confiscated from the outset and a ‘good man’ wouldn’t be dead.

      Many of the counter-protestors arrested at the scene were old hands and knew exactly what to do: namely keep their mouths shut and wait out the custody clock.

      That left Tommy Meegan’s closest friends. Much to Warren’s surprise, Jimmy Meegan, Goldie Davenport and Bellies Brandon had actually stuck around in Middlesbury to be interviewed that afternoon. He suspected the influence of Mary Meegan.

      First up was Harry Brandon.

      ‘He was a good lad. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.’

      ‘Then help us find who did it and bring them to justice.’

      Bellies Brandon was well named. A good few inches under six feet tall, he still weighed well over twenty-five stone. Warren had no idea the kit makers made England football shirts that large; no wonder he’d not been able to keep up with Tommy Meegan when the counter-protestors had broken through the front line and the BAP members had scattered. He was the last person to be seen with Tommy Meegan as the two of them ran off the edge of the CCTV’s field of view.

      ‘Why did the two of you decide to run in that direction?’

      Brandon shrugged and it was all Warren could do not to stare at the ripples and wobbles that flowed across his huge frame.

      ‘Dunno. It all went to shit when you guys let the Pakis and the Muslim-lovers attack us. Tommy started legging it and I followed him, ’cos he knows Middlesbury.’

      Warren had twice reminded Brandon that although the interview was voluntary, he was being recorded and that he might want to consider his choice of language. The sneer on the man’s face left him in no doubt that he was choosing his words deliberately.

      ‘Then what happened?’

      ‘We could hear the fighting behind us. Tommy already had a cut on his head after some bastard threw a stone at him, so we just kept on going.’

      ‘I’m assuming the two of you split up before Tommy disappeared. Can you describe what happened then?’

      ‘I had to stop by the edge of the market square at the war memorial – my asthma’s been playing up lately – and I let him run on.’ Warren let the white lie slide; he couldn’t imagine the huge man being able to trot more than a few dozen paces before his massive weight and smoking brought him to a halt.

      ‘Was that the last you saw of Tommy?’

      ‘Yeah, he kept going down the road between the Marks & Spencer and Next.’

      The protest had taken place in the market square in front of the town hall. Metal barricades had surrounded the BAP members, as they were addressed by Tommy Meegan with a loudhailer. A ring of police had kept protestors to the eastern end of the square, allowing a clear pathway to the BAP’s coach parked at the edge of the bus station.

      After passing between the two department stores, Tommy Meegan would have found himself on the much narrower Ackers Street, lined with smaller businesses. Turning north then took the fleeing man up the road, where a left turn led to the alleyway where he finally met his fate.

      If he’d continued down that alleyway he’d have exited onto Stafford Road, then entered the maze of back streets leading to The Feathers pub where the marchers had agreed to meet for a celebratory drink.

      ‘Did you see anyone else run in the same direction as Tommy?’

      Brandon shook his head. ‘Goldie and Jimmy legged it towards BHS but I don’t think anyone else went