Peter Robinson - Blood At The Root

“I know. But I heard voices, so I thought up an excuse and came up to see what was going on. Part of my brief, after all, to keep my eyes and ears open. Just as well you’d never seen me before.”

“How long have you been undercover there?”

“About five months. Nev trusts me. ‘Rupert Francis’ has an impeccable background with the neo-Nazi movement. BNP, fringe groups, the whole kit and caboodle. He’s even been done on firearms and explosives charges. In addition to that, he’s got a long and varied criminal record. Assault, burglary, drugs. You name it. That’s something Nev also trusts.”

“How would he know about your record?”

Craig sipped some beer from the bottle before answering. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny throat. “He’s got a man on the inside somewhere. West Yorkshire. Some PC or DC sympathetic to the cause. Believe me, there are plenty of blokes on the Job who’d have no ax to grind with Neville Motcombe’s ideas. However he does it, he has no problem checking out criminal records.”

“So it’s you who wants me here, not Burgess?”

“Yes. After I’d seen you, I got in touch with Dirty – with Superintendent Burgess soon as I could. He’s my controller, but with things getting so hot lately we’ve not had the chance for much more than minimal telephone contact. And you’ve got to be really careful over the phone. Anyway, I told him I wanted to talk to you as soon as possible, but I didn’t want to risk doing it locally. Then I thought this would be a perfect opportunity. Know why I’m here?”

“Haven’t a clue,” said Banks.

“I’m helping to organize an international conference on race and IQ, if you can swallow that. Anyway, Superintendent Burgess said not to worry, he’d make the arrangements.” Craig grinned. “In fact, he said he’d enjoy it. You should have heard him when I told him you’d walked right into Nev’s front room. I gather the two of you know each other? You and the super, that is?”

Banks stubbed out his cigarette and sipped some beer. “You could say that.”

“He likes you. Honest, he does. Respects you. That’s what he told me. I reckon he thinks you’re a bit naive, but he was glad to hear it was you on the Fox case and not someone else.”

“Maybe we should start a mutual admiration society.”

Craig laughed.

“Anyway,” Banks asked, “why all this interest in the Albion League?”

“Because of Neville Motcombe and his contacts with known international terrorists. When he left the BNP and decided to start his own fringe group, we thought it’d be a good idea to keep an eye on him.”

Banks sipped some Amstel. “And did he live up to your expectations?”

“In some ways, yes. In others, he exceeded them. The Albion League’s nowhere near as politically active as we thought it would be. As Combat 18 are, for example. I’m not saying there haven’t been violent incidents, there have, and I’ve even heard talk of a pipe bomb to sabotage the mosque opening. Now we know about that possibility, we can tighten security and make sure it doesn’t happen. But mostly, as far as revolutionary action is concerned, they’ve been pretty tame so far. More like a fucking boys’ club than anything else.”

“I wondered about that. What is it with Motcombe and these young boys? Is he gay or something?”

The waiter came over and they ordered two more beers. When he had gone again, Craig said, “No. No, Nev’s not gay. I’ll confess I had my own suspicions when I first met him and he invited me down the cellar to help with his woodwork. Like, come and see my etchings. But he’s not. If anything, I’d say he was asexual. His wife left him. If you ask me, it was because he spent more time licking envelopes than licking her. He’s that kind of person. Power is more important to him than romantic or sexual relationships. The youth thing is just part of his shtick. He actually used to be involved in church groups, youth clubs, that sort of thing. He was even a Boys’ Brigade leader at one time. Always did like paramilitary organizations and uniforms.”

“What happened?”

“He got kicked out for trying to recruit kids to the BNP. Anyway, a big part of his thing is the emphasis on the old British values and virtues: war games in the Pennines, crafts, camping, hiking, survival techniques, a healthy mind and healthy body. That sort of thing.”

“Baden-Powell with swastikas?”

“If you like. He even throws in a bit of environmentalist stuff to hook the greenies. You know – preserve the traditional English village against pollution, that sort of thing. Thing is, to him pollution isn’t only a matter of destroying the ozone layer and the rain forests or what have you, it includes most non-Aryan racial groups. Perhaps Nev’s only saving grace as a human being is that his overriding trait is greed.”

“What do you mean?”

Craig rubbed his cheek and frowned. “Just an observation of mine. Haven’t you sometimes thought that people’s vices are often the only things that make them interesting? As a pure neo-Nazi, Nev would simply be a bore. A sick and dangerous bore, perhaps, but a bore nonetheless. Predictable. It’s the other stuff that’s interesting, the stuff we didn’t expect.”

“Burgess mentioned drugs. Is that right?”

Craig nodded, finished his beer and slid the bottle aside. “Fancy walking?”

“Why not.”

They paid their bill and walked outside. There were still plenty of people on the streets, especially along Albert Cuypstraat, where they walked through the debris of that afternoon’s market – wilted lettuce leaves, a squashed tomato, chicken bones, a piece of cardboard that said “f4.50” on it. The smell of fish still infused the evening air. Now Banks knew why Sarphatipark had felt so familiar. He and Sandra had been there; they had spent an hour or two one afternoon wandering the market stalls.

“Like I said,” Craig went on, “Nev got to trust me, take me into his confidence. I think he liked the fact that according to my criminal record, I didn’t mind doing anything as long as it was profitable. And it didn’t take me long to work out that Nev likes profit more than anything.”

“So it’s money with him, not politics?”

“Mmm, not entirely. Maybe it’s both at the same time, if he can get it that way. If not, then I’d say money comes out distinctly on top. Like I said, Nev’s a greedy bastard. Greedy for power and greedy for cash. First thing I found out when I got involved was that he was organizing some of his younger and thicker recruits into groups of thieves, turning their gains over to him, of course, for the good of the league.”

“And they did this?”

Craig snorted. “Sure they did. Let’s face it, most of these kids are pretty dense. Five or six of them would go into a shop, say, and as soon as-”

“Steaming?”

“You know about it?”

“I’ve heard the term. And I know it’s been a problem for West Yorkshire CID recently. Along with muggings at cash dispensers. I didn’t know Motcombe was behind it.”

“Some of it. I’m sure there are plenty of freelancers out there, too. But what Nev does is he takes these kids’ anger and channels it. He gives them someone to hate. He gives their rage some structure and provides them with real targets rather than nebulous ones. So they end up believing they’re committing theft, assault and vandalism for a good cause. Isn’t that what terrorism is basically all about, anyway? Add a few olde worlde patriotic values, a lot of guff about the ‘true English homeland’ and a bit of green to the mix and it makes them feel like downright responsible and virtuous citizens, the only ones who really care about their country.”