Nick Oldham - Backlash

‘It’s a bit slim — and they are very poor photos,’ Henry said as objectively as he could.

‘Agree,’ Donaldson said. ‘But it’s all we have. Three images of an unidentified person at the scene of three out of nineteen bombings, who could be the same person. If it is. .’

‘The odds of one person being at three out of nineteen attacks are pretty remote,’ Henry said. ‘Unless. .’

‘Exactly — unless it’s the bomber — so I’m willing to go with it. Gut feeling and all that.’

‘Gut feeling isn’t evidence,’ FB said.

‘Very true, sir,’ Donaldson said. He fished out more photos. ‘Charles de Gaulle Airport two weeks ago.’ He handed them round. They were still grainy, but slightly more defined. They showed a male, maybe mid-thirties, medium height, casually dressed, the peak of a baseball cap pulled down covering his face. Henry held one of the new photos up alongside one of the first batch and compared them. He shook his head unsurely.

‘Could be,’ he said, doubtfully.

‘Facial analysts give it a seventy-five per cent nod,’ the FBI man said. ‘Which as far as I’m concerned means the guy is in Europe. Two days later there was a bomb in Paris, one person killed, thirty injured. Jews. Coincidence? Not a chance.’ He looked round the room for someone to defy him. No one did.

‘Anything from flight records, the passenger lists?’ Henry asked.

‘Nothing conclusive. Some things still being followed up.’

‘OK. . say it’s the same guy — where is this leading, Karl?’

‘Maybe nowhere, Henry. Just a warning. Paris isn’t a million miles away. With all this upsurge of right-wing activity, it’s possible this guy might be operating around here. It’s a health warning.’

Henry thought about the large gay community in Blackpool who would be easy targets for a fanatic. ‘OK, I’ll bear it in mind. Can we circulate these photographs around the clubs?’

‘No problem with me — sounds a good idea.’

‘I’ll sort it — get some posters done and sent out to the gay bars for tonight with a warning to be on their guard.’

‘Yeah — do it,’ FB snapped.

‘Is there anything else you can tell me about this guy, Karl? Do the bombs get left in the same sort of packaging? Sports bags, carrier bags?’

‘All different.’

Henry nodded acceptance. He checked his watch. ‘Too late to do anything now because everywhere should be closed.’

‘OK, that’s it for the moment, Henry,’ FB said with finality. ‘Unless anyone has anything more?’ He glanced round the room.

‘Oh, I do, actually,’ Henry said brightly.

FB wilted.

‘Just one thing — this new splinter group. I forgot to ask — do they have a name?’ He aimed the question at Andrea Makin.

‘Yes they do. They call themselves Hellfire Dawn.’

‘It’s the way their twisted minds work.’ Andrea Makin was walking alongside Henry Christie as he descended the steps towards the basement of Blackpool Central Police Station. She matched him step by step. ‘Do you know the rationale behind the name Combat 18, for example?’

Henry had to admit that he did not.

‘It’s a number-letter combination, related to their good leader, Adolf Hitler.’

Henry thought about that. ‘You got me there.’

‘The number one relates to the first letter of the alphabet — A; the number eight refers to the eighth letter.’

‘Which is?’

‘H.’

Henry stopped suddenly on one of the landings. Makin too.

‘A-H?’ he questioned.

She smiled. ‘Come on, get a grip, Henry,’ she said lightly. ‘A is for Adolf and H is for Hitler — hence 18. They are devoted followers of Adolf Hitler and all his fine works and deeds.’

‘It’s a good job he wasn’t called Xavier Zakynthos, then, otherwise it’d be Combat 24–26.’

Makin smiled and ignored him. ‘They just haven’t got round to genocide yet — but on Allport’s Scale they’ve got well off the bottom rung.’

Henry’s simple mind was getting confused now. He knew he should have known something about Allport’s Scale, but in what context he could not remember.

‘What’s Allport’s Scale?’ he asked stupidly.

‘Gordon Allport wrote a book in the fifties about the nature of prejudice. He devised a scale about prejudice which runs from simple avoidance to extermination in extreme cases. Like Hitler and the Jews.’

‘Oh. So, anyway, what does Hellfire Dawn relate to?’ he asked, trying to mask his ignorance with a half-passable question. He waited with bated breath.

‘H is for Hitler — obviously.’

‘Goes without saying.’

‘D is for Disciples: Hitler’s Disciples.’

‘Sad bastards.’ He shook his head. ‘Still, it’s a pastime, though.’

‘Yeah — a dangerous one, don’t forget that. One which doesn’t keep them off the streets.’

‘And Allport’s Scale — where do Hellfire Dawn figure on that?’ He hoped that sounded a reasonably intelligent question too.

‘They believe in extermination, but they’re pretty much round the level of physical attack. In other words they beat people up.’

‘Just what I thought,’ he said knowledgeably, continuing downstairs. ‘Do they have a leader, other than the late, lamented Adolf?’

‘Guy by the name of Vince Bellamy leads the main political group, but we also believe he is the leader of the paramilitary wing, although he denies their actual existence. Very clever individual. Former university professor. Very political animal and has the ear of several right-wing MPs, we believe.’

‘How are they financed?’

‘Don’t know. Sympathetic businessmen, probably. But anyway, Bellamy is a real stirrer. Very motivational in a dark way.’

‘Sounds like Hopper out of a Bug’s Life ,’ Henry chuckled. They had reached the basement.

‘Looks like him too — and he’s got a bunch of grasshoppers around him who’ll do whatever he wants them to do. He’s also a bit like Fagin too, and apparently he does a great Hitler impersonation.’

‘Or maybe he’s more like FB,’ Henry mused, mainly to himself as they approached the custody office.

‘You don’t like him very much, do you?’

‘Is it that obvious? I must be slipping.’

They stopped at the barred door leading to the complex. He turned and looked at Makin. ‘He and I have a pretty sordid history, shall we say?’ Makin’s mouth opened to respond, but before she could ask, Henry was talking into his radio, ‘Inspector to Blackpool — custody door please.’ He leaned on the door as, accompanied by a loud buzz, it was released.

He intended to hold a short interview with the nameless female prisoner he had arrested, just to see if he had some of the old magic left, see if he could get anything out of her before handing the job over to CID. Makin had volunteered to have a look at the woman to see if she could identify her through her extensive knowledge of right-wing activists.

As Henry pushed the door open there was the sound of van doors slamming from the car park and of voices and two constables appeared steering Kit Nevison between them, just back from hospital. He was stitched up and very subdued, like a sleepy baby, compliant and easy to handle. Henry held the door open and allowed the trio in ahead of himself and Makin. Nevison did not even look at him.

Inside the custody office there was a delay caused by a backlog of prisoners. Henry drew Makin to the back of the room.

‘Where does this Bellamy guy hang out?’

‘South London, usually, but not this week. This week he’s right on your doorstep, one of your residents. Set up in hotel in central Blackpool fairly near the Winter Gardens, so no doubt he’ll want to be made to feel safe, involved and reassured.’ Makin smirked as she quoted the words from Lancashire Constabulary’s mission statement.