The Common Enemy. Paul Gitsham

– 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 the same way as Tommy.’

      The CCTV footage processed so far backed him up; Tommy Meegan was on his own when he left the square.

      ‘Was the meeting at The Feathers planned in advance?’

      ‘Yeah, the landlord’s a mate of Tommy and Jimmy’s, he used to go to the footie with their old man.’

      ‘You aren’t from Middlesbury, so how did you find your way there?’

      ‘When I got me breath back, I went and hid in a beer garden at the top of the square whilst you lot finally arrested those bastards that attacked us. I tried to phone Tommy…’ For the first time the large man’s façade looked in danger of cracking and he cleared his throat before coughing ostentatiously. ‘I tried to phone Tommy, but he didn’t pick up. Then I phoned Jimmy and Goldie. Neither of them answered either.’

      ‘So how did you find your way to The Feathers?’

      ‘When they reopened the pub’s doors I asked one of the drinkers for directions.’

      So far he hadn’t given Warren very much in the way of new information.

      He decided to change tack.

      ‘I can see that you and Tommy knew each other well. How did you meet him?’

      Brandon scowled. ‘What’s it to you?’

      ‘Look, Harry, my job is to find out who killed your friend. That’s all. The more I know about him, the easier it is for me to picture what happened.’

      ‘Bullshit. You don’t care about Tommy. We’re scum to you.’ He raised a hand. ‘Don’t try and deny it. In the days before those helmet cameras you lot would try and wind us up and then when we stuck up for ourselves, arrest us.’

      Warren said nothing – he’d earned overtime policing such protests back when he was in uniform. The atmosphere had been nasty and brutish. The two sides had hated the police as much as each other, seeing them variously as fascist sympathisers, state-run paramilitaries or members of a big conspiracy to chase indigenous Britons from their historic homeland. Stuck in the middle, arms linked with colleagues to form a human wall, Warren had felt fear. He’d been spat at, hit, and called names he’d had to look up online. Once somebody had even thrown a cup of urine over him.

      It didn’t matter which direction he was facing; the hatred was like a physical force. And you reacted in one of two ways. Either you turned the other cheek and rode it out, or as soon as the opportunity arose, you let go of your comrades, unhooked your baton and waded in. One thing Warren was sure of was that everyone who’d ended up in the back of a police van that day had well and truly earned their seat.

      Nevertheless, he needed to win Brandon’s trust.

      ‘Look, I’m CID. I don’t get involved in that sort of policing. I solve murders. I don’t care what people are supposed to have done. A murder victim is just that, a victim and they deserve justice as much as anyone.’

      Brandon looked down at the table for a long moment, before finally meeting Warren’s eyes.

      ‘I guess I’ve known him getting on for ten years now. At first it was just to say “hello”. He’d travel down to Essex if there was a meeting on. Then he went away for a bit—’ he meant prison ‘—and when he came back he moved down to Romford. We’re about a mile apart. I’m a painter and decorator and Tommy needed some work and a place to stay, so we teamed up. I guess that was about five years ago.’

      ‘You lived together?’

      Brandon scowled. ‘Not like that. He kipped on my couch for a couple of months until he found a flat.’

      ‘Of course, I didn’t think otherwise.’

      Brandon grunted.

      ‘After he moved out, did the two of you stay good mates?’

      ‘Yeah, he repaid the favour a few months ago when me and the missus went through a rough patch.’ His voice cracked slightly. ‘He was an untidy bastard, but it’s times like that you find out who your mates are.’ He paused. ‘He wouldn’t even take any rent.’

      ‘But you aren’t living with him now?’

      ‘No, I got myself a bedsit.’

      ‘Did you still see each other outside work?’

      ‘Yeah, we both like a bit of golf and we used to go and play on a Sunday afternoon.’ He smiled slightly. ‘He was crap.’

      ‘What about Jimmy?’

      Brandon snorted.

      ‘You’d never get Jimmy on the golf course, far more likely to find him in a wine bar with Goldie. Me and Tommy used to take the piss out of him. He had the cleanest overalls you ever saw. God knows what he used to wash them with. I swear, if he wasn’t always on the pull, I’d think he was batting for the other side.’

      ‘So he used to work with you guys as well?’

      ‘Yeah, me, Tommy, him and Goldie.’

      ‘I’m surprised you managed to find enough work, what with all the Poles.’

      If Brandon realised he was being provoked, he didn’t seem bothered.

      ‘Yeah, fucking Europe. Sooner we’re out and can send them all packing the better. How is a man supposed to put bread on the table when he has to compete with that? They use cheap materials, charge half as much and don’t pay fuck all in tax. Half of them just want to use the NHS. There are plenty of good, honest British tradesmen out there, why do we need to bring in foreigners?’

      Warren was beginning to wish he hadn’t broached the subject, but he needed to get Brandon worked up.

      ‘But you weren’t up here for work?’

      ‘’Course not.’ Brandon looked at him scornfully and Warren worried his deliberately clumsy questioning had been too obvious. ‘You know why we’re up here. To stop that fucking super mosque.’

      ‘But what’s so special about Middlesbury? You didn’t march on Dudley or Newham.’

      ‘Some of us did. But Middlesbury is personal to Tommy and Jimmy. They grew up here. Their old lady still has to live here. You’ve seen the town, it’s like fucking Islamabad.’ He leant forward, warming to his topic. ‘You mark my words, it’s a slippery slope. Before you know it the local schools will be serving halal food and teaching the boys and girls in separate classrooms so they don’t offend the Muslims. And what will they be teaching? They’ll