The Common Enemy. Paul Gitsham

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 be learning the Koran by heart and listening to preachers telling them to destroy the West and earn their seventy-two virgins by blowing themselves up on the underground.’

      Brandon was now in full flow and Warren found himself watching with a disturbed fascination. How much did he actually believe and how much was just hyperbole spouted to justify his unabashed racism?

      ‘Fancy a pint on a Friday night? Forget it, before you know it they’ll be demanding pubs shut down. It’ll be like Iran. Islam will be the biggest religion in the UK within twenty years the rate we’re letting them into the country. They’re breeding like fucking rabbits and converting people left, right and centre. And what do we do about it? We build more mosques and give them free houses and let them use the NHS without paying.’ Brandon leant forward.

      ‘You and me are an endangered species, pal. Look around you. Middlesbury is supposed to be at the heart of England. If anywhere in this country should be full of white people it’s here, but it’s not. It’ll be as bad as Birmingham or Bradford before you know it.’

      The man’s face was bright red and he used the edge of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

      ‘Help me out here, Harry. Who killed Tommy? Point me towards them.’

      Brandon slumped back in his chair, the plastic creaking alarmingly.

      ‘I don’t know. Take your pick. It could have been one of the Muslims or it could have been one of those Muslim-lovers throwing stones and making death threats on Facebook.’ He smirked. ‘Hell, it could even have been a bunch of Polish painters trying to wipe out the competition.’

       Chapter 9

      Marcus ‘Goldie’ Davenport, was another person whose nickname was both unimaginative and descriptive. In addition to his gold earring and incisor, he also sported several gold sovereign rings. Like his friend, Bellies Brandon, he too wore an England shirt, although it was probably one-third the size.

      ‘Can СКАЧАТЬ