Minds That Hate (5 page)

‘We all know there’s too many
Immigrunts on the Westlea.’

A growl of anger emphasized their agreement.

‘Now we’ve chance to get shut of them.’

‘How we
gunna do that, Dan? There’s hundreds of ’em.’

‘Shut up and listen. Then you’ll find out, won’t you? Here’s the job. We make life so fucking miserable for them they’ll be queuing up to get the first bus out.’

‘How, Dan?’

‘Never mind how. Are you up for it?’

‘Too right.’

‘The best bit is
, there’s others think like us. We’ll even get re-fucking-warded.’

‘What you mean?’

‘We’re going to get free gear. Good shit too. All we’ve to do is earn it.’

‘What! By getting shut of the
Immigrunts?’

‘You got it.’

‘I’d do it for nowt.’

‘I’m in if there’s free stuff.’

‘Me too.’

‘And me.’

‘I’m in.’ A dozen voices chimed their agreement.

‘When’s this going down?’

‘We wait for a sign. Billy’s going to torch a gippovan. We start after that.’

Chapter five

Billy waited patiently. He was ready. As soon as the caravan was in darkness and quiet, that was his cue.

His hold on reality had always been precarious. A good psychiatrist might have saved him. But Billy had never been treated. That wasn’t the way things happened. No one realized how close he was to being psychotic; the thin dividing line between normality and a psychopath. It needed only a small push to send Billy over the edge. Setting the caravan fire took Billy to the brink. As he lay in the hedge-back watching it burn, watching the gas bottles exploding high into the night sky, he teetered on that edge.

Then, as he masturbated towards a climax, the caravan door burst open. For a second Billy froze, unable to comprehend what he was watching. A burning ball fell to the ground and rolled over, before coming to rest in a pyre of smoke and flame. As recognition came, Billy knew beyond doubt that what he’d watched had been a human being. Now a human torch that burned even brighter than the blazing caravan beyond.

As Billy lay spent and gasping, his mind plunged into an abyss of darkness. There could be no return. The last vestige of his sanity was destroyed in that instant, gutted as completely as the caravan.

Nash’s sleep was disturbed by the wailing of sirens. He stirred, but as their
clamour faded, he dropped back to sleep.

Later, his mobile rang. ‘Nash,’ he growled.

‘Mike, it’s Clara. I’m on Netherdale Road. There’s been a caravan fire; completely gutted. I’m with Doug Curran. He reckons it’s arson.’ Clara’s voice quivered with distress. ‘There’s at least one dead. We found a body outside the van; burned to a crisp, completely unrecognizable. There may be more inside, but we can’t get near. Mike, the bloody thing’s just melted.’

‘I’ll be as fast as I can.
Whereabouts exactly?’

Nash wondered how a crowd of onlookers could have gathered at such an early hour. Did they lie awake, waiting for the sound of sirens?

He ducked under the incident tape and paused for a brief word with Sergeant
Binns.

‘Clara’s over there, with Curran.’

Binns pointed towards the first of three fire engines. ‘She’s pretty shaken.’ Binns paused. ‘She’s not the only one.’

Nash had to pass the caravan to get to Clara. The van was a hot, smoking shell of twisted metal and melted
fibreglass, testimony to the ferocity of the blaze. Alongside it a dark tarpaulin sheet covered a shapeless bundle he knew would be a body. His nose wrinkled in revulsion as he recognized the sickly, cloying smell of burnt flesh.

He nodded to his sergeant and the chief fire officer.
‘Any more news?’

They shook their heads.

‘Clara, go to the travellers’ amenity site. Find the local headman. Get him out here ASAP. We need to know whose van this is. Was,’ he corrected himself. ‘And how many were inside.’

He turned to Curran. ‘Clara said you think it was arson?’

‘Yes,’ Curran answered heavily. ‘Caravan fires are very rare. The odds against one going up are long.’

Nash looked across to where Curran’s men were playing hoses over the wreckage.
‘Anything more positive?’

‘We’ll have to wait on forensics, but come and have a look at this.’

Nash followed Curran. Closer to the caravan, he could feel the heat from the smouldering wreck. Curran pointed to the ground. Nash could see a broad streak of scorched grass leading to where the gas bottles had been stored.

Curran looked at him and was about to speak when he saw the faraway expression on Nash’s face. He’d never seen that look before, but had heard
Mironova describe it. What was it she called it? ‘Thinking, do not disturb’, that was it. He waited in patient silence.

For Nash’s mind’s eye, the darkness intensified. He crouched in the bank of bushes, waiting. He would have to wait, to avoid detection. As soon as the caravan’s occupants had switched the lights out, as soon as they were settled for a good night’s sleep; then he could move. He’d ensure their sleep was eternal. At last, the lights went out; his signal for action. ‘This is it,’ Nash murmured to himself. ‘You’ve waited; now you can do what you came here for. They’ve gone to bed. Now you must creep ever so quietly, closer and closer.
Now for the tricky bit. You’ve to disconnect the fuel lines and open the valves on the cylinders, all without making enough noise to disturb those inside; your target, your victims. You’ve done that, now the rest should be easy. Sprinkle the petrol you’ve brought onto the ground. When you’re far enough back, simply strike a match and toss it onto the ground. Whoosh! Instant inferno! What now? Did you wait and watch? Enjoying the tragedy you’ve created? Glorying in it? Why? What had they done to hurt you? Was it a grudge? A dispute? Had they crossed you in some way? Or worse.’ Nash chilled at the thought. ‘Are you a psychopath? In which case, nobody’s safe.’

Nash was closer to guessing the motive than he realized. Which, given the confused state of Billy’s mind, was quite an achievement. Not that it helped.

Back at Helmsdale, Clara sat opposite Nash as he phoned Tom Pratt. They could still smell smoke from their clothing. ‘The van belonged to a family named Druze. The leader of the local tribe reckons we’re looking for three bodies.
Druze, his woman and a girl; six years old.’

‘What’s Curran say?’

‘He says it’s arson. Mexican Pete and the brigade forensic team are on site. We’ll have to wait for their reports.’

‘Nothing we can do it the meantime?’

‘Appeal for witnesses, but that’s probably useless.’

‘I’d better tell our new DCC.’

‘You might ask him how he thinks closing Helmsdale would have prevented it.’

‘I would if I thought it’d do any good. How’s Clara?’

‘Pretty shaken. She was first on the scene.’

‘She’ll cope. She’s tough and professional.’

Nash put the phone down. ‘Tom thinks you’re a tough old boot,’ he told her. ‘Reckons you’re like an old pro.’

Mironova
glared at him, distress in abeyance. ‘I bet he didn’t say anything of the sort,’ she snapped.

Nash smiled.
‘Not exactly.’ He repeated Pratt’s actual words. ‘Now, would the tough old boot like a coffee?’

Rathmell was watching the local TV news when his phone rang. ‘Carl, it’s Frank Appleyard. Have you seen the report about the incident at Helmsdale?’

‘I was watching it on TV when you rang; terrible tragedy. One I’m sure would never have happened if the family had stayed in the
travellers’ site.’

‘My thoughts exactly.
However, that wasn’t why I rang. I have everything set up for our campaign. I’ve handed over the first part. We need to make arrangements for the remainder.’

‘When?’

‘As and when they carry out each assignment, a sort of productivity bonus.’

Rathmell
laughed. ‘That sounds appropriate. Give me twenty-four hours to make the arrangements. We also need to talk about next week’s meeting.’

‘Whereabouts?
At your house?’

‘That would be inconvenient. My wife is in residence, and the less she knows about what’s going on the better.’

‘Where, then?’

‘I know the ideal spot. For the moment it would be better if we avoid being seen together until after next Friday.’

Gemma’s
mobile rang. She glanced at the display. If it had been anyone else she wouldn’t have answered. ‘I’m about to go into a meeting. What is it?’

‘Not on the phone. We need to meet ASAP. When are you free?’

‘After work. Usual place. I can get there by six?’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

This time Tucker was prepared. As soon as he saw Gemma’s car turn onto the moor road he stopped and reversed onto the verge. He got out of the car and balanced his binoculars on the wall. He lit a cigarette, wondering how many he’d get through before the end of his vigil.

Nash had the radio on. He heard the news announcer read a statement from the Home Secretary on the subject of the prison service.

‘In view of the current level of overcrowding, all inmates whose sentence is due to end within the next three months will be released immediately. This will apply whatever their offence or the original length of sentence. The Shadow Home Secretary and spokesmen from other opposition parties condemned the move as an indictment of government policy. Calls for an emergency debate are expected to be tabled during Prime Minister’s question time.’

Nash paused, razor in hand. One effect would concern him directly. Vickers would be out within days. He was still pondering when he reached Helmsdale.

Clara looked up from the report she was reading. ‘There’s been another arson attack. Or an attempted one.’

‘Not another caravan? Anyone hurt?’

Clara shook her head. ‘No, this time it was a house, fortunately unoccupied. A woman feeding her baby during the night raised the alarm.
Only superficial damage.’

‘Where was this?’

Clara glanced down. ‘Number thirty-two, Grove Road.’

‘Isn’t that
—’

‘Gary Vickers’ house.’

They were still considering this development when the phone rang. It was Pratt. ‘Did you hear this morning’s news, Mike?’

‘You mean about prisoners being released early?’

‘Yes. Well, I’ve just had word. Vickers will be out on Friday next.’

‘That’s the last thing we want. He’s going to need round-the-clock protection, Tom.’

‘I don’t see that. He chose to come back to Helmsdale.’

‘Maybe, Tom, but that was before last night.’ He explained about the fire. ‘This situation’s impossible. We can’t leave Vickers unguarded. King’s attitude means we
can’t draft anyone in. Given Vickers’ record, leaving Clara to guard him is out of the question.’

Pratt agreed. ‘It’s a bloody shame Pearce is on leave. All I can suggest is I lend you a DC from
Netherdale.’

‘It would help if you can supply someone to baby-sit during the day. I’ll do the night shift until
Viv comes back.’

‘I could always go over King’s head and ask the chief.’

‘That would prove King’s point. It’d set his back up even more. Besides, we can’t prove the fire was directed at Vickers. It could be a random act of vandalism.’

They were unaware of a conversation taking place elsewhere.

‘Jake, how did it go?’

‘Danny sent Billy. Somebody must have spotted him. He’d to scarper when the fire brigade rolled up.’

‘Shit! I wanted that place destroyed.’

‘Don’t worry, Gem. I’ll get him to try again.’

‘You don’t understand, Jake. He’ll be out in a few days.’

‘Even better: next time we’ll torch the house with him in it.’

‘Tucker speaking.’

‘I’ve got the information you asked for.’

‘Fire away.’

‘The vehicle is registered to
Mrs Vanessa Rathmell, of Houlston Lodge, Helmsdale.’ Tucker whistled. Sometimes a journalist has to pay a lot for information. Sometimes the information is worth the outlay. Tucker knew this was worth every penny.

Now he’d a decision to make. Should he follow
Rathmell and the adultery angle, or continue to follow Gemma for more background on the Vickers case? He’d been tipped off by a contact at Felling that Vickers was due out. What intrigued him was the planned return to his home, almost unheard of for a convicted sex offender. There was a human interest angle in Vickers’ tale.

On the other hand, there was
Gemma Fletcher’s adultery with the local MEP. Elected as an Independent, Rathmell had shown little inclination to either wing of the political spectrum. Despite that, there were rumours that Rathmell held strong views on immigration and race. Tucker thought there’d be more mileage in pursuing Rathmell. It was no secret that Rathmell relied on his wife’s money. It was also known that Vanessa Rathmell’s family were staunch Catholics, certainly where divorce was concerned. They were also intensely private and wouldn’t take kindly to their name being splashed across the tabloids. First he’d research the man. This involved scanning newspaper files and reading his speeches and press announcements. Not a task Tucker looked forward to with enthusiasm.