The Common Enemy. Paul Gitsham

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       Chapter 12

      Warren’s conversation with Garfield had given him much to think about. The man’s hypothesis about the BAP’s motivations was intriguing. He looked at his watch. It was already after 9 p.m. The first twenty-four hours were over. Every fibre in his body wanted to go to bed, but he decided to speak to the team one last time before he left. It was a bad habit and his wife would tell him off – that was what email was for, she always said – but experience told him that small, important details that might come out in conversation may not be recorded in an email.

      Heading back upstairs, he entered the section of the building allotted to CID. It might have been late on a Sunday evening, but the office was still packed.

      Dusk at this time of year was perfectly timed for the candles outside the Islamic Centre to appear on the late-night news. Earlier in the evening Tony Sutton had tuned the wall-mounted screen at the back of the office to BBC News with the sound turned low. Now he turned it up, switching off the garbled automatic subtitles.

      The crowd featured in the panning shot had been gathering all afternoon, the pile of flowers and soft toys growing taller by the hour. Numbers had swelled after lunchtime prayers as minibuses from other towns brought in more Muslims to pay their respects. They were soon joined by several dozen members of a local church and a nearby Hindu temple showing solidarity with their Muslim neighbours. By mid-afternoon there were at least three hundred people gathered, the crowd representing a mixture of Muslims and non-Muslims, residents of Middlesbury and those who had travelled from outside. Many carried placards bearing the Twitter hashtag #Justice4Muslims.

      ‘I don’t know whether to be pleased at the show of unity across so many faith communities or dismayed by the fact that they seem to be united against the police,’ Grayson had muttered before stomping back to his office.

      The centre was still an active crime scene and surrounded by tape, however the dozen or so officers policing the crowds that had gathered for the candle-lit vigil were trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. It wasn’t working.

      ‘Where were you when those animals torched the place?’ yelled a bearded young man into the face of one of the officers standing in front of the entrance to the community centre’s driveway. To her credit, she didn’t so much as flinch. The man was showboating for the TV cameras, who duly obliged by zooming in.

      ‘Emotions are running high outside Middlebury Islamic Centre, the scene of yesterday’s arson attack that injured eight and left an eighty-nine-year-old and her three-year-old great-grandson fighting for their lives in hospital,’ intoned a grave-looking reporter.

      ‘Crowds have been gathering all day to pay their respects and send their prayers and best wishes to those hurt in the attack. Middlesbury’s close-knit Muslim community are understandably upset and worried by yesterday’s attack but some are also concerned by the wider implications. Imam Danyal Mehmud leads prayers at the community centre.’ The camera panned back slightly, revealing the young imam. He looked sick.

      ‘Can you describe how residents are feeling at the moment?’

      ‘Umm, obviously we are shocked and saddened, and we pray for the recovery of those injured yesterday.’

      ‘What are your thoughts on calls for the officer in-charge of yesterday’s operation to be suspended? Should there be an inquiry into the decision to remove the guard from the Islamic Centre in favour of policing the town centre?’

      Mehmud licked his lips, trying to find appropriately diplomatic language.

      ‘Ask the police why they are spending so much money protecting white fascists marching through our town centre and won’t lift a finger to help innocent Muslims?’ The young man with the beard had somehow pushed his way in front of the camera again.

      The camera-operator nimbly twisted to keep Imam Mehmud in shot whilst blocking the intruder.

      ‘Obviously, we welcome any inquiry into the events of yesterday…’ started Mehmud.

      ‘It’ll be a whitewash,’ interrupted the man with beard again. ‘The police don’t care about Muslims. They never have done. They may as well have given a box of matches to those fascist scum.’

      ‘It should be pointed out that a spokesperson for the British Allegiance Party has categorically denied any involvement in yesterday’s arson attack,’ the journalist interjected hastily.

      ‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they?’ The unknown bearded man was now centre shot again and it was clear that the reporter had been told to go with him.

      Sensing he now had an audience, the man puffed his chest out.

      ‘The government and the police are quick enough to close down so-called hate preachers but won’t touch groups like the BAP who call for Muslims to be locked up or deported and set fire to their mosques or put bricks through their shop windows.’

      Again the reporter interrupted swiftly with, ‘A charge which the BAP deny.’ Her expression froze for a moment, evidently listening to a disembodied producer instructing her to move away from the angry young man before he said something even more defamatory.

      ‘I believe we can go over to our correspondent Steven, who has been joined by Councillor Lavindeep Kaur.’

      The camera cut, but not before the bearded man flashed a handwritten placard bearing ‘#Justice4Muslims’ and started shouting about the ‘fascist police’.