Catalyst (9 page)

“Thank you,” he boomed.

The group broke into spontaneous applause, the majority rising to their feet. As the noise died down, the Branch President rose from his chair and walked to the front to shake the speaker's hand.

“Thank you so much, Arnold, for that amazing talk,” said George Holland, as Arnold left the small stage and returned to sit with the rest of the group. “Not sure how anyone could follow that, but we must try because we have another exciting item before we get our prescriptions filled at the Dog and Duck. Any other business. Has anybody got anything?”

There were a few calls of ‘no' around the room as people started to rise from their seats. George held up both hands to stop the exodus.

“Just a moment, please. I have just one item. Thank you.”

They all sat down again, some with muted grumblings.

“Irene and I would just like to share with you our experience in Cullen Field today.” Irene joined him on the stage and they sat down on a couple of chairs facing the group. “We won't take more than a few minutes of your time, but we think this is important.” He turned to his wife. “Do you want to start?”

Irene nodded. “Okay. Well, we went to the mall this morning to do our two-week shop and, in a nutshell, we just didn't recognise the place. People were friendly and open; the precinct was just full of shoppers; coach loads of them, all lively and happy. The Food Hall was full as well, and people were taking their time – there was none of that rushing in and out. It was like a different place. We're planning to go back later this week when we can spend more time there – perhaps a full day.”

“So the press weren't exaggerating,” said someone at the back. “It really is like a street party?”

“Well, we only went to the shopping centre today,” said George. “But we had a good look round in there. Usually, like most of us in the room I think, we just get what's on our list from the Food Hall then get out quick. But today we went right through to the other end where they've got cafes and craft shops and a village green, no less.”

“And we met some really nice people,” put in Irene. “A couple in the Food Hall then some more in the café. In fact, the place was full when we went in, so these four people on this table invited us to pull up a couple of chairs and join them.”

“And is this all because they've got rid of these three brothers?” asked someone else.

“It would seem so,” said George.

There was silence for a few moments, followed by a number of whispered side conversations.

“We just thought we'd let you know,” said George. “It seems like it's not a no-go area any more, just a really nice place to shop and look around. Questions, comments, anyone?”

“Are you saying, George, that the people on the estate are actually
glad
about these murders?” The question came from Clive Taylor, the 3AF Treasurer.

“I think, Clive, they are glad these three lads are no longer around, so if that's the same thing, then I guess the answer's ‘yes'.”

“But that's barbaric!” said a lady at the back of the room, and then, suddenly doubting herself, “isn't it?”

“I don't think it is, Emily, in the sense that, as I said to Clive, they're just glad the problem – or the biggest part of it – has gone away. Honestly, you just wouldn't believe the atmosphere there. It's a real eye-opener. I think Irene and I genuinely felt that everyone in Cullen Field was tarred with the same brush – were like the crowd that invades us every few months or so. But when you hear them talking, we've got off really lightly. It was the same every night over there – police, ambulances, sirens going all the time – well, we've all heard them, haven't we? And in the last week or so since the deaths – nothing at all, except a few minor incidents which they've dealt with themselves. They say that the only police on the estate since the deaths have been those working on the case.”

“But it was only three people,” said someone else, “so how come it can make all that much difference? I mean, the last time we had some trouble there must have been at least fifty of them.”

“Apparently the Bradys were notorious for planning virtually all the disturbances. They say that last one, on the night of the murders, was carried out like a military operation. Different groups all set up to do different things to create the most damage and chaos. It was all planned with – well, as I say – military precision. So getting rid of the ringleaders seems to have stopped the rot, for now anyway.”

There was a momentary silence.

“And another thing,” said Irene, “they talk about this man who did it like he's a super-hero, the ‘Caped Crusader' or something. They all said they hoped he was still around, and they think that's what might be curbing the other trouble-makers. That, and the fact that people seem to be more prepared to confront any problems. Actually, I think that's all part of the same picture – it's like they now dare go out to tell these kids off, because this person's watching them from round the corner. The kids might very well be thinking that as well.”

“Excuse me, Irene, but shouldn't that be ‘
Capped
Crusader'?” asked the Branch Secretary.

“Thank you for that incisive contribution, Fred,” George laughed, along with everyone else.

“Well, good luck to him, I say,” said Emily. “I hope they don't catch him. If he's done Cullen Field a favour, then he's done us one as well.”

Others nodded in agreement, and Arnold Danby raised his hand to speak.

“Yes, Arnold,” said George.

The Squadron Leader got to his feet.

“During nearly a lifetime in the military, I like to think that I have been fighting for what is right and for the upholding of the law – international law in my case. But more important than the law is justice. It seems to me that, in the space of less than an hour, a single person, now being hunted as a triple murderer, and whose freedom – and, effectively, whose
life
– will end when he is caught, has put to rights something that all the agents of the law have abjectly failed to do for God knows how many years. Isn't it ironic that justice, it seems, has finally been done, and the law is such that it will now punish the person who achieved it?”

For the second time that evening, Arnold Danby sat down to enthusiastic applause.

Andrew Donald sat motionless, his eyes widening with increasing disbelief and scepticism.

“Jesus, hold it right there!” he said, interrupting Tom whilst he was in full flow. “Have you ever visited the planet earth, by any chance? This is the
real
world, for God's sake. That's just pure fantasy. We have a legal framework to comply with, or had you forgotten? None of what you have said – or very little of it – falls inside that.”

“I'm not suggesting we should operate outside a legal framework,” said Tom. “Give me some credit, Andrew, how could I possibly be suggesting that? But the legal framework didn't just happen; no-one came down a bloody mountain with it on tablets of stone – well, not in its current format, anyway.
We
put it together. Governments and their advisors. And it's been developed and modified constantly through the centuries in response to natural and manufactured shifts in human needs and standards. What met the requirements of the people a hundred years ago would be mostly unacceptable today. The framework of the law is evolving all the time. We just need to shift it out of second gear – and up into about seventh!”

“But you're not talking evolution, you're talking about… ”

“A sea change. A quantum leap. A giant step for mankind. Don't worry, Andrew, I'll write the speeches.”

“But, much as I hate to say this, things have moved recently on that front. The government
are
making progress; a quarter less drug crimes; a fifth fewer carrying weapons. Things are improving.”

“Have improved,” corrected Tom, “not ‘are improving'. There's a difference – a big difference.” He paused.

“Go on.”

“Those figures are twelve months old,” said Tom. “We've seen no further change in that time. Exam's over – pens down, no more writing. The papers have been marked. And you won't find anywhere in the world where twenty or even twenty-five percent gets you a pass. Twenty-five percent is an abject failure. Put it another way – they've been seventy-five percent
un
successful, after nearly nine bloody years, for goodness' sake!”

“Good spin, Tom, but there's a wealth of opinion out there that says they've done as good a job as they could. I don't necessarily disagree with that, in fact. You can't compare it with an exam, surely. There aren't a hundred percentage points out there to be had. I'm not sure it's a good idea – in fact, I
am
sure it's a
bad
idea – to try to take apart the government's record on tackling antisocial behaviour. We'll shoot ourselves in the foot with that one.”

“Totally agree,” said Tom. “What I'm saying though is that, in spite of the efforts, and actual progress, made by the government, there remains three-quarters of what is still regarded by millions of people as the biggest single domestic issue still to be addressed. And don't forget, those are national statistics; they don't tell the story of where things have got worse, in the FSIAs. What they have done, however laudable, has simply not been enough, and is having no further impact on the issue. I repeat, twenty-five percent success equates to seventy-five percent failure. In mathematical terms, at least.”

“Okay,” said Andrew, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I agree with your rationale for focusing on this as one of the main priorities of the manifesto, and I really do like the spin on those percentages. But we are
not
going to directly challenge them on their record on this issue. As I see it, the only way we can use that spin is to be very specific about what
we
propose to do to address the remainder of the problem. And, I agree it's got to be radically different from what's in place now. But you'll have to work hard to convince me that what you've just outlined is the way to do it. It certainly isn't the
only
way.

“However, let's not lose those thoughts; I'd like you to put a bit more meat on the bones and look at the
very significant
” – he drew out the words – “hurdles to be jumped before we sprint for the line. Okay?”

“Okay, Andrew,” said Tom, like a little boy who has just been told he can go out to play, but not near the main road. “I'll try and find some time to start on it today.”

“Hold on, Tom, there's no rush. We won't be talking about it again until I see the final outcome of this Brady affair. I want to see for myself its effect on urban hysteria, given it was that which enticed your revolutionary instincts out of hiding.”

Jo was already at her desk when David arrived. She handed him a sheet of paper and followed him into his office.

“I've told the guys to hold off on the records search, sir,” she said. “They won't find anything. Mrs Deverall did get harassed by the gangs but chose not to report it.”

David raised his eyebrows with the unspoken question.

“Because it seems that reporting something to the police was the reason she got targeted in the first place.”

David's eyebrows dropped and his whole body seemed to sag. “Jesus,” he sighed, then looked at the sheet Jo had handed him. “What have we got here?”

“Quite a bit of stuff came in late yesterday afternoon after I'd left to see the Ambroses. That's just a summary.”

“Okay, how did the interview go last night?”

“Well, they said Mrs Deverall was harassed by the gangs, although not the Bradys directly, to the extent that she twice tried to take her own life.”

“Jesus,” said David, again.

“Apparently, she then became ill after her second attempt and that's when the carer made his first appearance. He started making regular visits and soon after that she moved out to stay with friends. That was last October. They couldn't give me much of a description of the man, just that he was tall, very upright. So we won't be able to say for certain whether it was the same man who paid her rent.”