The Common Enemy. Paul Gitsham

      The speaker had emerged from a doorway that Warren assumed led to the bathroom.

      Even without seeing the mugshots that morning, it was clear that this was the brother of the murdered man. Dressed in a white England football shirt and black tracksuit bottoms, he did nothing to hide the tattoos crawling up the side of his neck and covering his sinewy forearms. He stepped forward and Warren caught the whiff of cigarettes and whisky on his breath. He forced himself not to recoil.

      ‘Jimmy Meegan, I presume?’

      The man ignored him.

      ‘Why are you around here, harassing my mum? You should be out there on the streets arresting the bloke that killed my brother.’

      It wasn’t exactly how Warren had planned to open the questioning, but he decided that since Meegan had brought it up, he may as well go with the flow.

      ‘That’s what we are intending to do. Perhaps you could help us with that. Do you have any suggestions about who may be responsible?’

      Meegan stepped even closer.

      ‘Take your pick, there’s fucking hordes of them.’

      Warren had to ask, but he already knew what the answer was going to be.

      ‘The fucking Pakis. The Muslims, the Sikhs, the Jews, the place is full of them. Half the bastards live in this building. Go out there and start arresting them, you’ll find who did it quick enough. Fingerprint them all and you’ll probably solve most of the unsolved crimes in town.’

      Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hastings trying to keep a blank face. The Family Liaison Officer looked bored; no doubt he’d been hearing this all morning. Unfortunately, Jimmy Meegan was only just getting started.

      Warren had dealt with racists a lot over his career. You didn’t spend your early uniform years in such racially diverse cities as Coventry and Birmingham without encountering your fair share of bigots, from all communities. Sometimes it could be dealt with as a public order offence; a verbal warning about use of abusive and racially charged language would usually quieten most of the people he encountered. If that didn’t work, and especially if alcohol was involved, handcuffs and the back of a police van would at least remove them from the scene and ultimately make them the custody sergeant’s problem.

      In circumstances such as this, the heavy-handed approach wasn’t really appropriate. Warren recognised that Jimmy Meegan was grieving the death of his big brother. Furthermore, the dilated pupils, reddening of the nostrils, and the obsessive scratching of his left forearm suggested that a presumptive cocaine test on the traces of powder on the man’s top lip would come back positive.

      Warren chose his next words carefully, but before he could mouth them he was interrupted by an unexpected source.

      ‘I’ve told you not to use that language in this house.’

      Mary Meegan’s voice was rough, but had the edge of one used to being obeyed. Jimmy Meegan’s eyes flicked towards his mother. For a moment he looked as though he was going to protest, before he shrugged and stalked across the room to one of the armchairs, where he grabbed a grey hoodie.

      ‘You know I’m right,’ he muttered. ‘Pigs don’t care about us. They don’t care who killed Tommy. We’re an endangered species in our own country.’ He sounded as if he was about to start again, but his mother silenced him with a glare.

      ‘Boys, we’re going to the pub.’

      Ideally, Warren would have liked to interview them there and then, but he could see that Jimmy Meegan was not going to be any help and he decided he’d rather have him and his two cronies out of the way for the time being.

      ‘Jimmy, I’d like to talk to you later. Do you have a number I can contact you on?’

      Warren tried to make his tone as conciliatory as possible.

      ‘He’ll be here,’ said Mary Meegan.

      ‘And what about you gentlemen? I’m sure you have plenty of information you’d like to share.’

      The two men entering the apartment from the balcony obviously shopped at the same clothing outlet as Jimmy Meegan, and shared his tastes in hair styling and body art. But that was where the similarities ended. The first of the men was hugely obese, his enormous belly straining through the T-shirt. His florid, sweat-spotted face and wheezing made Warren mentally bump him to the top of the interview list, if only so they could speak to him before he dropped dead of a massive coronary. He walked past Warren and Hastings without even looking at them.

      His companion was exactly the opposite, the man looked almost emaciated. A gold earring in his right earlobe matched his right incisor, which flashed as he sneered at Warren. ‘I’ll make sure my assistant contacts your office to compare diaries.’

      Warren resisted the urge to respond in kind. It didn’t really matter if they refused to give their addresses, he recognised both men from the briefing notes he had read that morning. Harry ‘Bellies’ Brandon and Marcus ‘Goldie’ Davenport were well known and could easily be picked up for questioning back in Romford if necessary.

      The police officers waited until the three thugs swaggered out the door, before turning back to Mary Meegan.

      ‘As I was saying, Mrs Meegan, I’m very sorry for your loss and I promise you that my colleagues and I are doing everything we can to catch your son’s killer.’

      The older woman stared at the floor for a few moments without saying anything and Warren debated whether or not he needed to repeat himself. Perhaps a little louder – he’d just noticed the discreet hearing aid.

      ‘Sit down and take the weight off. Can I get you boys a cup of tea?’

      She started to get up. Warren blinked in surprise; he hadn’t expected this. Before he could respond, the Family Liaison Officer spoke up.

      ‘I’ll get it, Mary.’

      As the officer busied himself in the kitchen, Warren mentally changed tack. He’d been anticipating a hostile reception from Mrs Meegan – a woman who it was reported had experienced more than her fair share of run-ins with the police, albeit indirectly through her late husband and wayward sons. An offer of a sit down and a cup of tea was the last thing he’d expected.

      ‘You know, they aren’t bad boys. Not really.’ The old woman’s voice was gravelly and slightly wistful, but it had lost its dreamy quality. Warren detected no slurring and he suspected that whilst Mary Meegan may have had a glass of whisky to settle her nerves, most of the bottle had been consumed by her visitors.

      She indicated towards a picture on the wall. ‘It was him that made them the way they are.’ The photograph of Ray Meegan enjoyed a prominent place above the three-bar electric fire. On the mantelpiece, flanked by yet more porcelain statuettes, a colour wedding photograph showed far younger versions of the man in the portrait and somebody immediately recognisable as Mary Meegan. Whilst Ray Meegan was never what you would call handsome, something that his lank moustache and purple velvet suit hardly helped, Mary Meegan had been a real head-turner back then. Even her thick-rimmed NHS glasses could do little to hide her pretty features; in the same way that the large bouquet of flowers barely concealed her large bump. A shotgun wedding, it would seem.

      ‘I knew he liked a drink with the boys when he went to the football on a Saturday, but it wasn’t until he was arrested that I realised the truth, silly bastard.’ She shook her head. ‘The first time, it was for knocking a policeman’s helmet off. He thought it was all a bit of a laugh. A night in the cells and that was it.’

      She sighed. ‘Or so I thought. The next time he got arrested, it was more serious. He glassed someone in the pub. He claimed it was self-defence. He and his mates were celebrating a win when the losers attacked them.’

      Now her expression turned to derision. ‘I took his word, if you can believe that?

      ‘I went to court expecting