The Common Enemy. Paul Gitsham

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      ‘There were a few brothers outside, but they left eventually.’

      ‘What do you mean by brothers?’ questioned Sutton.

      ‘Other Muslims.’

      ‘How did you know they were Muslims if you didn’t know them?’

      Mehmud blinked. ‘Well, they were dressed in thawb with full beards and well, you know, they were Asian.’

      Sutton decided to move on.

      ‘When did you realise the building was on fire?’

      ‘About two-thirty we heard breaking glass out the front. I told everyone to head into the musallah, since it doesn’t have any windows. However, as we went into the hallway, we saw that the area in front of the door was on fire. I told the women to go through the kitchen and leave through the back door, whilst me and the men ran to get the children.’

      The man’s eyes took on a faraway cast.

      ‘The mats in front of the stairs were starting to catch, so I sent the rest of the men upstairs whilst I tried to put the blaze out with a fire extinguisher. And then my wife came back through to tell me that the back door wouldn’t open.’

      He closed his eyes briefly and his voice dropped to a whisper.

      ‘I didn’t know what to do. We couldn’t stay downstairs and I couldn’t put the fire out. So I sent them all upstairs to join the others. We’d called the fire brigade and I figured they’d be able to rescue us from the top floor more easily.’ His voice broke slightly. ‘The smell was horrible. Some of the shoes had caught fire and there was thick black smoke everywhere. Nani couldn’t get up the stairs unaided though, she’s almost ninety, I had to carry her. By the time we got to the top floor she’d passed out and Abbas was having an asthma attack.’

      He looked imploringly at Sutton. ‘Did I do the right thing? Perhaps I should have gone and tried to force the back door open instead. Then she could have got out. But if I’d done that, maybe we’d have ended up trapped downstairs.’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Sutton softly, ‘but I do know that your quick thinking made a big difference. You bought everyone valuable minutes for the fire service to arrive.’

      It was the best he could offer.

      Mehmud smiled his thanks.

      ‘Before we go any further, do you have any thoughts about who might be responsible?’

      For the first time since they’d arrived, the man’s politeness slipped.

      ‘Bloody obvious, isn’t it? A coach-load of fascists and Islamophobes turn up in the town centre and distract the police, then we get torched. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist.’

      ‘We’re keeping an open mind at the moment,’ said Sutton, cautiously.

      Mehmud took a deep breath. ‘Of course, you’re right. I apologise.’

      ‘Have you had any other incidents recently?’ Hardwick took over.

      Mehmud shrugged helplessly. ‘Some graffiti appeared a couple of nights ago. I didn’t have any paint to cover it up. Before that, nothing really. We get on pretty well with the neighbours. I know that some of my brothers and sisters have been insulted in the street, especially if they are wearing the veil, but Middlesbury is a lot better than some places. The community centre hasn’t been attacked in years, not since nine-eleven or the London bombings.’

      Sutton looked at his notes. ‘Can you remember what night the graffiti appeared?’

      He thought for a moment. ‘Wednesday night or Thursday morning, I think. We hosted a meal after sundown to celebrate breaking the day’s fast. I locked up about midnight and there was nothing on the wall then.’

      The same night the CCTV cameras had been vandalised.

       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 СКАЧАТЬ