Minds That Hate (22 page)

After twenty minutes sitting astride the branch, Lisa could feel the leaves tickling her neck. Eventually her patience and discomfort were rewarded.
Rathmell moved forward. The other two men moved into view. Lisa began firing shot after shot, grateful for the speed of the shutter. She recognized one of the men and all but dropped the camera. She swayed slightly and grasped the tree trunk. By the time she recovered her balance, the room was empty. The front door opened. Lisa trained her lens on it and managed a few more shots. She scrambled down the tree and was back in her car before the two vehicles left the drive. She snapped the rear number plates as they drove off.

Fifteen minutes later
Gemma Fletcher’s car came down the lane. Gemma was driving with more speed than skill. She slewed into the driveway, almost clipping one of the stone gateposts as she passed in a cloud of dust. Lisa lowered the camera and smiled. Nash had been right. Their revelation of Vickers’ innocence had stirred up a hornet’s nest.

Lisa didn’t bother trying for photos of
Gemma inside the house. She’d seen more than enough photos of Gemma and Rathmell. To while away the time, she switched on the radio and tuned it to Helm Radio.

Billy was angry. He’d wanted to do the fire in the office without interference. It was a good fire. One of his best, but Danny had spoilt it. Why had he shot the man first? It was no fun setting fire to a dead man. But Danny had told him to. Why not just let him burn him to death? He could have done it easily enough. And it would have taken longer. He’d told Danny this. ‘With a bit of luck we’ll be able to hear him screaming. It’s great when they scream. Sometimes when I hear them scream I come in my pants, it’s so good.’

And Danny had looked at him so oddly, as if he was seeing him for the first time. ‘Fuck you, Billy,’ he’d said. ‘You are one sick bastard. Do you know that? No, you can’t burn him to death. I’ve been told. He has to be shot. Get the petrol. Wait for me outside and don’t start messing about until I’m well clear. Then you can do what you like. As long as you torch the place, I don’t care if you stand in the middle of the Market Place stark
bollock naked.’

If Billy hadn’t been allowed his own way at the fire, things had changed quickly. Today, Danny had brought
Mr Jake to see him. Billy was scared of the way Mr Jake looked at you. It made something inside Billy curl up with fright. He knew Danny was afraid of Mr Jake. And nothing frightened Danny. ‘We want you to use your special talent, Billy,’ Mr Jake had said. He put his arm around Billy’s shoulders. Billy nearly wet himself with fear. ‘Tonight. As soon as you can. And make it big. Make it spectacular. Got any ideas?’

So Billy had told him. ‘
Them units, Mr Jake. I’ve had my eye on them. Where the Immigrunts work. There’s lots of flammables in them. They’d go up well.’And Mr Jake had laughed. Billy wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think he’d said anything funny.

‘So that’s what you call them, is it?
Immigrunts. I like that. You know, Billy, I think that’s just the place. Make it good, won’t you. If it’s really good, I’ll pay for you to have free fanny for a month, how’s that?’

Billy’s puny chest swelled with pride. He was being paid. Not in money admittedly.
Only in kind. But that was good enough. He’d never been paid before. Now he was a professional.

Chapter twenty two

Ricky Smart had been busy. Payment arrived that afternoon, courtesy of Jake Fletcher. ‘I want distribution immediately. By that I mean today. You have the goods?’

‘I’ve enough. What you’ve paid for anyway.’

‘Just as well.’

‘I can always get more.’

‘You’d better, and fast. Those were the instructions.’

For a moment Ricky was tempted to argue. Two things stopped him: Jake’s reputation, and the look in his eyes. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told Fletcher. ‘I can get as much as you need, within hours.’

‘Do it.’

‘What, now?’

‘Yes, now. I want a fresh supply by ten tonight. Got that?’

Tonight was going to be immense. Ricky was tempted to ask what it was about, but better not to know. Better to remain ignorant, about this and other things. Like who was paying, was it connected to the fires, shootings and what had happened to
Appleyard. Yes, definitely better not to know.

Jake was speaking to Danny, his voice low, barely above a whisper. ‘Your cue is the fire. As soon as Billy gets it going, I want you to go round the estate. Tell them the immigrants killed Appleyard. Make Appleyard into a hero. Get everybody on the streets. Get them to show that ordinary folk aren’t going to be bullied. If there’s any doubters; deal hard. There’ll be extra gear on offer if you perform well. Got that?’

Danny nodded. Slowly,
skilfully, Jake fanned the flames of Danny’s hatred. By the time he’d finished, the fire burning within Danny was fiercer than anything Billy could set. Fletcher had been told to achieve total breakdown of law and order on the Westlea, to organize a mass protest by the local population following the murder of their favourite leader. How had Rathmell put it? ‘When the dust settles on this uprising we’ll be the ones wielding power round here. We’ll be the ones the locals look to for help and guidance. And you, Jake, will be second in the chain of command: second only to me.’

Fletcher found it difficult to hide his pleasure. Much as Frank
Appleyard had when Rathmell had said the same thing to him. But Jake didn’t know that.

Nash left the office around 6 p.m. Instead of heading home, he drove across town to Becky’s flat. There was no reply when he rang her doorbell so he pressed it again. When he rang a third time without response he was beginning to get worried, until he saw movement reflected in the glass panel. She opened the door. She was wearing a towelling robe and her hair was wet.

‘Sorry, I was in the shower.’ She saw the look on his face. ‘What’s wrong?’

He pulled his copy of the Gazette from his pocket. ‘Did you think that would help?’ His voice was raised in anger.

Becky flinched. ‘Let me see. I haven’t read it yet. You’d better come in, as long as you stop shouting.’

‘I’m not shouting,’ he hissed. ‘And why do you need to read it? You wrote it, for God’s sake. Look! There’s your name on the by-line. Becky Pollard. That is you, isn’t it?’

She winced again. She wasn’t sure which was worse, the shouting or the sarcasm. She took the paper and began to read. As she got towards the end her expression changed, darkened with what?
Anger, embarrassment, shame? Nash couldn’t be sure.

She lowered the newspaper and looked him in the eye. ‘I didn’t write this.’ The denial was flat, emotionless, in contrast to his pent-up fury. ‘None of this last bit was in the piece I sent in, and the headline isn’t mine.’

‘So why has it got your name on it?’

Instead of replying, she took his hand and dragged him into her study. She switched the computer on. The room was crowded, even with only two of them in it. She went into her e-mail file and selected sent items. ‘There! Read that.’

Sure enough, her copy held none of the political overtones that had appeared in the paper. Nash leaned over to view the article as she’d presented it. They were standing close together. He smelt the fresh, clean scent of her. His head swam. His pulse raced. ‘Becky, I’m sorry. I thought, well, I don’t know what I thought. I was angry. I thought you’d done the dirty on me. It felt like a betrayal.’

She was staring straight ahead, stony-faced. He turned her towards him. ‘Will you please forgive me?’ He pulled her roughly to him and began to kiss her with an intensity that surprised even him. As he felt her respond, he slid his hand to the waist of her robe and undid the belt. He reached for her, to caress her, hearing her moan gently. Then she thrust him away, and turned her back on him. ‘No, Mike,’ she told him firmly. ‘Not until I’m sure. Sure that you’re free of ghosts. Two’s enough in one bed.’ She was glad he couldn’t see the expression on her face. Glad he couldn’t tell how hard she’d to fight her own desire. Knew she dare not look at him. If she saw one hint of sadness, of unhappiness in his face, the temptation to give way would be too much.

She was still trying to recover her composure when Nash’s mobile rang. She turned to look at him as he answered the phone. Within a second Becky saw by his expression the news was bad. He was already halfway out of the room before he rang off.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Trouble! On the Westlea. Two industrial units blazing and a mob stoning the fire brigade. I have to get over there.’

Becky reached her bedroom door. She left it open and picked up her bra. ‘No, Mike. We have to go. Give me two minutes.’ She flung the robe on the bed and Nash had a swift glimpse of her lovely figure. She emerged seconds later, fully dressed. ‘By the way, I do forgive you.’

She picked up her camera on the move. ‘Come on.’ She held the door open for him.

Billy had made all his preparations with care. The unit contained a company making plastics. Plastic burned well. That was all he knew about plastics. He wasn’t aware that if plastic caught fire, the flames would move faster than a man could run. Such technicalities were far beyond Billy.

He lined up his bottles. Wine bottles filled with petrol. The corks replaced with cotton wool. He’d seen criminals on
telly picking locks to enter buildings. Billy didn’t rate that much. He simply smashed the glass panel in with a lump of wood he found lying in the yard. The burglar alarm went off. It didn’t bother him. In a few minutes they’d have more to worry about than a break-in.

Once he was inside, he went into the small offices huddled in the corner. There was a short corridor with toilets to one side, a small reception area, a general office and the manager’s office. Billy lit one of the wicks, opened the manager’s door and tossed the first of his petrol bombs inside. He repeated the process in the general office and reception. The corner containing the door he’d entered by was now effectively sealed
off. Billy didn’t realize, or perhaps he was beyond caring. He looked at the rows of shelves containing stacks of plastic sheeting. Then he saw a collection of bins in the opposite corner, close to the roller-shutter door. The first one he came to was half full of liquid. Billy didn’t recognize the smell. He paused. Would it burn? Worth a try. He lit another wick and tossed the bomb inside.

Danny watched Billy enter the building. He was standing no more than fifty yards away, alongside Jake Fletcher. It gave them an excellent view. ‘Right, go get your troops to stir the mob up. As soon as Billy’s out, and the fire catches hold, I’ll dial the fire brigade. They’re your first target. They’re bound to call the police for protection. That’s when you must change your attack. The pigs are our main target. Remember they’re the ones who did for Ronnie.’

Danny set off towards the garages, where the
Juniors would be gathered. They’d had their gear – now they’d have to earn it. The bonus would come later. Danny had only taken a few steps when there was a terrific explosion behind him. He spun round. At first he thought somebody had shot Jake. Fletcher was lying on his back, near where Danny had left him. Then he realized the sound had been too loud for a gunshot. He turned to his right and stared in horrified disbelief.

Half of the single-skin brick wall had been blown out. Fire was already engulfing the building. ‘Billy!’ Danny’s cry was choked as he saw his brother emerge.

Billy stood in the centre of the hole. His eyes, crazed as if by drugs, stared straight at Danny. But Danny knew Billy couldn’t see him. His head flung back and he bellowed a huge shout of triumphant laughter. Laughter that turned into a scream. Billy staggered and Danny saw with fresh horror that the whole of his back was alight. Not just alight, but an inferno. His clothing had been melted to his skin. Billy was a human torch. Before Danny could move or say anything the fireball reached out and consumed its creator. Danny saw Billy disappear, engulfed by a wall of flame. He heard a long, piercing scream of pure and absolute agony. Then there was silence. Silence; broken only by the muffled ringing of the burglar alarm and the intensifying crackle of the flames.

Jake sat up. He’d been blown off his feet by the blast. He shook his head, trying to clear the ringing sound, then realized it was the alarm. He swallowed and his hearing returned. He looked round for Billy. There was no sign of the youth. Danny too had disappeared. Within minutes Fletcher heard a fresh sound: the sonorous wail of sirens. He watched the appliances screech to a halt. The unit where Billy had set the fire was beyond rescue. The firemen would have their work cut out to save the other buildings. As they were deploying, Fletcher saw a knot of spectators forming a short distance away.

He moved towards a bank of trees and scanned the crowd. He saw several faces he recognized. Young faces. Vicious faces. Danny had roused the
Juniors. Now they were moving amongst the onlookers; turning a crowd into a mob. He heard a sound, the swell of discontented chatter. Soon he recognized anger in the noise. Then a man reached down and seized a piece of broken paving slab. He threw it.

It was pure luck that the stone found its target. Even luckier for the fireman, his helmet took the brunt before he pitched forward, stunned by the blow to the head. The crowd began looking for missiles. There were plenty about. Singly at first, then in a more concentrated bombardment, the stones and pieces of wood began to rain down amongst the fire crews. One of the
mob sneaked up to the rearmost appliance and sliced through the hoses. Water spewed around the engine. The jet that might have saved a building died to a trickle. Fletcher heard more sirens. This time it would be the police. There weren’t sufficient in Helmsdale to contain this mob, whose numbers were growing by the second, too many to count. Jake guessed there to be over eighty.

Becky pointed into the distance at the plume of smoke. ‘Look at that. That’s a hell of a blaze.’

Nash took his eyes off the road for a split second. ‘Well organized.’

She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Every attack, whether it’s a shooting, knifing or arson, seems carefully timed to interact with our investigation.’ He glanced sideways and saw her look of surprise. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? It’s all being carefully orchestrated.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘When we get there? Not much I can do. There’s
Viv and me plus half a dozen uniforms until reinforcements arrive. Try and protect the fire brigade, that’s about it.’

‘Be careful.’

‘Listen to your own advice then. Keep well back. I don’t want to have to spend all the time trying to protect you.’

‘I can take care of myself.’

‘Not against a mob you can’t. At least I’m armed.’

‘You’re not planning to use it, are you? Your pistol, I mean?’

‘Not unless I have to. I don’t like the bloody things. Using it would be the last resort.’

They were still almost a mile away from the industrial estate when Nash heard the sirens. He glanced in his rear-view mirror and saw the flashing red and blue lights. He pulled to one side and watched as the trio of vans swept past. ‘Your men are quick,’ Becky said.

‘Aren’t they just.’ Nash pulled the car to a standstill. ‘Except that those men aren’t from Helmsdale.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Helmsdale hasn’t enough men to fill one of those vans. They’re from Netherdale.’

‘But if you’ve only had chance to get across town, how come they’ve arrived so quickly?’

‘That’s a very good question. An extremely good question. Not the first time I’ve asked myself that.’

‘Care to explain?’

‘Later, perhaps, when the dust settles. Anyway, I reckon those guys will sort the trouble out. No need for us to hurry. When we get there, we’ll park a discreet distance from the action. I’d like you to take plenty of photos.’ He reached for his phone. ‘Tom, Mike Nash. Your men are here in Helmsdale.’ Apart from the occasional grunt, he made almost no further contribution to the call.

They arrived at the industrial estate and Becky started to record the scene. ‘Have you got the timer record facility in use?’

‘I never switch it off.’

‘Good. I want some close-up shots, please.’

‘No problem. It’d be difficult if the mob was wearing masks or hoods.’

‘I’m not interested in the mob. I want you to take photos of the police.’

Becky lowered the camera and stared at Nash. ‘You’re joking?’ Then saw the expression on his face. ‘You’re not joking.’