Nick Oldham - Backlash

‘Yeah — I need some action,’ the American responded.

Gill was sitting next to Roscoe, knees drawn up, arms folded round them. He had become quiet, reflective. ‘You see, essentially, this country is white through and through. Dominated by white men with their women tagging along, supporting them.’

Had Roscoe been able, she would have bitten her lip.

‘Just think what we have achieved as a nation. The empire. Subjugating India, almost ruling Africa — and where are we now? The standard of living is shite, we hardly produce any goods and blacks and women are taking over. What’s happened?’ His voice rose, quivering with hysteria. ‘Everything has been turned on its head, but now it’s time to make a stand. Look at you, as a case in point, how the hell did you get to be a detective? And look what they did to the guy who got shoved out for you.’

‘How do you know about that?’ Roscoe mumbled. ‘How do you know this?’

That stopped Gill again. ‘Because I do,’ he said inadequately.

The journey back was less hectic than the one south. It lacked the imperative. Henry stuck to the speed limits, lost in his thoughts. Once on the M55, heading west, he switched on his radio to hear anything of interest that might be going on in Blackpool. This was how they managed to come into a conversation halfway through between a patrol and communications.

The patrol was saying: ‘. . white male, mid-thirties. Could have been in since last night. Looks as though he’s been beaten up before hitting the water. I’ll need CID here, please.’

‘Any ID?’

‘Standby.’

‘It might be the guy who went in last night,’ Henry said to his travelling companions. ‘Someone reported seeing three men dumping what could have been a body into the pond, but when the patrol arrived there was no trace of the informant or a body.’

The patrol in Blackpool transmitted again. ‘Found a wallet. Money still in it — driving licence in the name of Terry Baxter.’

In the back of the car Andrea Makin emitted a squeak. She had not been listening to the radio, particularly, but the name made her sit upright.

‘What was that name?’ she asked.

‘Baxter — Terry Baxter,’ Donaldson said.

Makin slumped back with a groan. ‘Oh my God.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Donaldson asked.

‘Terry Baxter was the undercover identity of Jack Laws, my DC who was undercover with Hellfire Dawn.’

The body was still on the beach when they arrived in Blackpool, so Henry drove straight to Central Pier and parked on the inner promenade alongside other police cars.

Makin did not hesitate about going down onto the beach. She was a hardened detective and the sight of a body was nothing new, even if it was a colleague. With Henry and Donaldson at her heels she pushed her way through the onlookers, flashing her badge to make them get out of the way. She knelt at the head of the body, curled down and looked at the face of a man who had been seriously battered. It was her officer. She stood slowly, head shaking, then elbowed her way through the crowd and stamped away down the beach, terribly upset. She had no specific destination in mind and found herself walking towards the water’s edge, several hundred metres out. Here she stopped, head hung low.

She thought she was alone, but Henry had trailed her at a discreet distance, then come up behind her.

‘Stupid question, I guess, but I take it that’s him?’

‘Yeah, stupid question.’ She did not look at Henry, not wanting him to see the tears in her eyes.

‘Who knew about him?’

She gulped. ‘Me, you, Karl, FB — God, how the hell did they find out, Henry? Who told them? He was a bloody good operative. If he knew he’d been compromised, or suspected it, he would’ve pulled out pdq. He can’t have been expecting it — so it must have happened quickly, without warning. Somebody must have blabbed.’ She spun defiantly on Henry. ‘So who was it?’

David Gill paced the room. Roscoe could hear his footsteps circling her. Around and around. Making her head spin.

‘It’s a statement of intent that I’ll be making,’ he said, very matter of fact. ‘From the people to the government. To the prime minister. He must be made to see the error of his ways. But he is a weak man, it must be said. Swayed left and right, depending on who shouts the loudest. Misguided idiot. I’ll be taking the game right to his bedroom door, literally.’

‘Are you going to kill him?’

Gill snorted. ‘I wish. It’d save the country some bloody grief. No, it’s much better than that, Janie, I’m going to hit him where it really hurts.’

‘Where’s that?’

Gill stopped moving. Suddenly Roscoe could no longer hear him, place him. Had he gone?

Then she felt his hot breath over her nose as he kneeled over her and held his face over hers. His breath smelled awful. There was garlic in it. There was also the odour of his stomach contents.

‘I’ll tell you where,’ he whispered. Roscoe twitched as he pushed the point of his knife into her chest. ‘And when I’ve done it, I’ll come back and share the victory with you, and then I’ll kill you, ever so slowly and delicately.’

Roscoe held her nerve. ‘Where are you going to hurt him?’ she asked again.

‘Why, Jane,’ he said, pressing the point of the knife into her chest, ‘in his heart, of course — I’m going to kill his wife and unborn child.’

At 3 p.m. on Wednesday there were perhaps two hundred and fifty people gathered outside the Berlin Hotel. To Henry, who hated stereotyping, they all looked much like peas from the same pod. Mainly males, aged between sixteen and twenty-five, heads shaven, wearing denims, T-shirts and Doc Marten boots with their jeans tucked in the tops. Their T-shirts bore logos promoting hatred and racism. Their tattoos — and there were many — spread the same message. They were the epitome of the right-wing movement in Britain. Henry hated the sight of them. They made his face curl with distaste, but more sadly, he wanted to punch them.

The street was sealed to traffic while these people were allowed the privilege of getting themselves ready to march up to the Winter Gardens to coincide with a march coming in from the opposite direction led by gay-rights activists.

Despite pleas from many quarters, both marches would be allowed to proceed. Such was the nature of a democratic society.

‘I feel the same,’ Donaldson said, seeing Henry’s expression.

‘They make me feel physically sick,’ Henry said. ‘Come on, let’s do it.’

They pushed their way through the gathering protesters who were just starting to clear their throats and practise their chants, winding themselves up in the process. By the time the two officers were in the middle of the crowd, their ears were ringing with, ‘Kill the gay twats! Kill the gay twats!’

Martin Franklands was sitting in the front window of the hotel, looking out onto the street from the dining room. This gave him an elevated view of proceedings. In spite of reassurances not to worry, his insides were constantly gurgling and churning over. He knew he was out of his depth and was struggling to handle the emotional backlash of the two things in which he had been involved over the last day.

Although he supported the ideals of the movement, he was not a true man of action. He was a thinker and a writer. His job was to prepare pamphlets and newsletters, to help in the back room with the admin, to look after the accounts, to be a gofer. He was quite happy to lend his voice to demonstrations, such as this afternoon’s show of solidarity (although, he had to admit, the two hundred or so people who had shown up was a pretty poor turn-out). But that was all. He was the one who did a runner if things turned nasty. He was quite happy to tell Paki bastards to get back home and screw his face up into that peculiarly nasty trademark thuggish look of the right wing, but if challenged, he would run a mile.