The Common Enemy. Paul Gitsham

      The knife on the screen had a wicked-looking curved blade made from stainless steel. A blade covered in blood. The handle was made of brass with elaborate engravings in Indian script.

      ‘They’re using acrylate to pull some partial prints off the handle. Hopefully there will be enough reference points for a positive match. They also found a dark blue nylon fibre caught on the edge of the blade. It doesn’t match anything on the victim and they’re trying to exclude contamination from the bin.’

      DSI Grayson cleared his throat, taking over from Warren.

      ‘Confirmation that the leader of the BAP was murdered by an individual from one of our minority communities has the potential to spark rioting or even worse.’

      ‘I thought the BAP were marching against the new super mosque?’ said a middle-aged sergeant on loan from Welwyn. ‘What would one of them be doing with a Sikh knife?’

      ‘The BAP are a threat to anyone who doesn’t fit their notion of what modern Britain should consist of,’ answered Warren, uncomfortable with the man’s usage of the tabloid term ‘super mosque’. ‘There were counter-protestors from lots of different sections of the community.’

      Grayson took over again. ‘We can all imagine the significance of this find – and the need for discretion.’

      He looked around the room, making eye contact with everybody present. ‘I shall repeat what ACC Naseem said yesterday: there will be no contact with the press or the general public without my direct say-so. Any queries are to be directed specifically to the press office. Have I made myself clear?’

      There were nods all around the table.

      * * *

      ‘This is bad news, Warren.’ The two men were sitting in Grayson’s office. ‘You were in that meeting yesterday. That was a clear warning about the future of Middlesbury CID if we don’t solve this quickly. It’s personal for all of us.’

      Warren remained silent. He’d worked for Grayson for three years, and whilst the two men were hardly close, he could see that the older man needed to get something off his chest.

      Grayson stood up, and walked to the window, staring out onto the car park below.

      ‘Tommy Meegan was an arsehole. Part of me is relieved that he’s dead. But the fallout from this could be devastating.’ The man’s shoulders bunched as he gripped the window ledge.

      ‘If it turns out that he was killed by a minority, then it’s playing right into the far-right’s hands. Some of these bastards still want a race war, and now they’re the victims. With the power of social media behind them this could give them exactly what they want.’

      He turned and Warren saw a rare crack in the man’s usual composure.

      ‘The Stephen Lawrence murder was a turning point in this country, I truly believe that. Not just the institutionalised racism charges, Lord knows the police have got a lot more work to do on that score, but for the public’s perception of what it can be like to be black in this country. That poor boy was simply waiting for a bus and those animals killed him, just because they could. It shocked our society, Warren, and made people start to see these racist thugs for what they are. The legacy of that killing was to expose the nasty, filthy underbelly that still exists in some quarters.

      ‘It’s why the BAP have been looking for new targets. We know that every time some so-called Islamist extremist commits an act of terror, the number of attacks on Muslims jumps. If the murder weapon does turn out to be a Kirpan, it’ll be open season on our Sikh community also, and anyone else with brown skin and a beard. Will we see a surge in popularity for groups like the BAP?’

      ‘I’m also worried about copycat killings,’ said Warren. ‘What if we see a rise in vigilante justice? At the moment, the anti-fascist crowd limit themselves to counter-protests; what if the murder of Tommy Meegan is just the first?’

      Grayson was silent. When he eventually spoke again, his voice was quiet. ‘This goes no further than this room, you understand?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘ACC Naseem has asked for a report into the likelihood that this might be the start of concerted action against individual members of the far-right. There are those within the anti-fascist community who publicly state that the laws regarding hate speech and racially motivated violence do not go far enough, and that the police do not have the resources – or the motivation – to deal with the problem. Until last week, the feeling was that these people were all mouth and trousers, but now we’re starting to wonder if there might be real intent behind the computer screens.’

      ‘Shit,’ breathed Warren. ‘That’s all we need, vigilantes taking the law into their own hands.’

      The situation was worse than he’d feared; where would it end? Far-right extremists and overzealous anti-fascists attacking and killing one another would be bad enough, but what about the general public? What about those innocents in the wrong place at the wrong time? Could the hatred between these groups really undo all the progress made since the Eighties?

      Warren vividly remembered the Bradford riots in 2001. On the face of it, modern day Middlesbury was as far removed from the Bradford of a decade and a half previously as one could imagine. But society had changed enormously in that time, not least with the rise of social media. Could Middlesbury really be at the epicentre of a new explosion of violence? The fact that senior officers had gone as far as commissioning a study into the likelihood of such a scenario, told Warren that it was more than idle speculation; no wonder he had been sworn to secrecy. If the media got wind that such a report was being prepared, the headlines would be explosive.

      ‘Maybe I’m overreacting,’ said Grayson. ‘Maybe the progress made since Stephen Lawrence was killed is too great to be derailed by this one act, but I don’t mind telling you, I’m scared, Warren. For Middlesbury and for Britain as a whole. And for my kids.’

      Grayson picked up the photograph that sat on his desk.

      ‘You know my family, Warren. You know it’s personal to me. When our boys started going out in the evening, Refilwe and I would lie awake until we heard them come in. They’re only a quarter black, but you can see it in their features. It would certainly be enough for those bastards to take exception to. We tried to play it down of course, but we still had to talk to them about it: keep an eye out for trouble, don’t react to provocation, and if in doubt run.’ He smiled grimly. ‘All things that my wife is singularly bad at. Touch wood, nothing’s ever happened and we stopped worrying about it so much once they went to university. Things have moved on, we told ourselves. But now…’

      Warren wasn’t really sure what to say. What could he say?

      ‘Catch whoever did this, Warren. And do it quickly. The sooner we get a handle on this, the sooner we can start repairing the damage and perhaps we can avoid disaster for Middlesbury.’