The Common Enemy. Paul Gitsham

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       Chapter 5

      Visiting the newly bereaved was something that Warren never found easy. Today promised to be even trickier than usual.

      To the casual observer, Middlesbury was a quiet, prosperous market town, populated by well-to-do professionals attracted by its semi-rural location, close proximity to Cambridge and Stevenage, and trains that could get you to central London in less than an hour.

      All that was true – the house prices certainly favoured the upper-middle classes – but you only had to scratch the surface of anywhere to see its true character. A closer look showed the town’s real inhabitants, its beating heart.

      Just under half of Middlesbury’s inhabitants earned less than the median adult wage for the UK. The proportion of residents claiming out-of-work or disability benefits were broadly in line with the regional average and the number of households requiring housing benefit was typical for a town of its size. But as is often the case, such raw statistics obscured the real story.

      Three-quarters of Middlesbury’s poorest households lived in a single area, known locally as the Chequers estate – the six tower blocks being named after Prime Ministers from the first half of the twentieth century.

      The name was the grandest thing about Churchill Towers, the ten-storey block that Mary Meegan lived at the top of. Had it not been for the two uniformed officers standing conspicuously at the entrance to the building, Warren would have thought twice about leaving his car unattended in the only parking bay not occupied by either a police car or dumped furniture.

      Warren peered up at the balconies jutting out of the side of the building. Some had washing on clothes horses, a few had pot plants. Most had people staring at him.

      ‘Fuck the pigs!’ spray-painted across the doors completed the montage.

      ‘Ever get the feeling we aren’t welcome here?’ muttered Gary Hastings as he joined Warren.

      The call button for the lift remained unlit and it was only the loud clanking and whining from the mechanism that reassured Warren that the stairs wouldn’t be necessary. He almost wished he’d opted for the exercise when the elevator finally arrived. A potent smell of urine, stale beer and cigarette smoke – somebody had tried to burn the no smoking sticker – engulfed the two men as they climbed into the empty lift. Hastings beat him to the number ten button. Turning so that he could face the doors, Warren felt the soles of his shoes sticking to the linoleum flooring.

      ‘Do you think that’s dog?’ asked Hastings, his face an even sicklier colour under the harsh fluorescent lighting. Warren eyed the sticky brown mess at the edge of the lift. ‘I hope so.’

      Apartment ten-fourteen was a dozen steps down the corridor. The uniformed police officer standing outside greeted Warren and Hastings politely, before ringing the doorbell and stepping to one side.

      Warren didn’t know what to expect when the door opened into the two-bedroom flat that Mary Meegan, her husband and their two boys had lived in since the late Seventies. Before he’d arrived, Warren had been prepared for everything from Nazi memorabilia and a swastika carpet to snarling Rottweilers and St George’s flag wallpaper. Then upon arrival at the tower block he’d feared he’d be stepping into a dwelling from one of those dreadful ‘how clean is your home’ filler programmes that Channel Four seemed so fond of.

      He wasn’t expecting tasteful floral-patterned wallpaper, deep, shag pile carpet and shelves of carefully chosen miniature porcelain figurines. The leather couch was plainly well used, but the polished wooden arms were evidence that the glass drinks coasters weren’t just because Mrs Meegan had visitors. The building around her might be filthy and neglected but she clearly had her standards.

      Mary Meegan was a smoker – that much was evident from the thick crevices that lined her face and the staining of her teeth. Nevertheless, the room smelt of air-freshener and furniture polish. A faint breeze carried the smell of cigarette smoke from the open balcony, where Mrs Meegan no doubt partook of her habit and banished similarly addicted visitors.

      Through the window, Warren could see the backs of two men seated at a metal table, flanked by large earthenware flower pots containing lovingly maintained bonsai trees. Both had shaven heads. Both of them, he’d want to speak to.

      ‘Mary, this is Detective Chief Inspector Jones.’ The Family Liaison Officer was a young man with sympathetic eyes.

      Mary Meegan turned her head slowly, almost dreamily. The FLO flicked his eyes towards the breakfast counter, where a bottle of whisky sat, half empty.

      ‘Hello, Mrs Meegan. I’m DCI Jones and this is my colleague Detective Constable Hastings, we’re part of the team that are investigating the death of your son. We’re very sorry СКАЧАТЬ