The demonstration outside the Union Hall in Islington was smaller than Hanlon was expecting but much more unpleasant. She had done her share of demo policing but they had been for big events, attracting thousands of protestors. This was very low-key. The fact that Schneider was unknown, the leader of a small, albeit controversial party, from a state few people could find on a map, certainly helped.
There were maybe twenty or so protesters with slogans such as Smash Fascism, Schneider = Hitler, Racism, Nein Danke. They stood pushed up on the pavement under a watery autumn sun inconveniencing passers-by.
‘There he is!’ A cry went up as Schneider and his people climbed out the black Range Rover that had been loaned to them. The chants and abuse increased in volume.
Gower had said that he had two armed protection officers ready and waiting, should the need arise. Hanlon found this slightly pointless, what was she supposed to do if someone just, for example, shot Schneider? Stand and wait for them to do something?
But, as always, the immediacy of action drove any worries or doubts from her mind. Gower had told her they’d be photographing faces to compare them against the database of known violent political activists. Again, she thought this would probably come in useful only after the event. It wouldn’t help right now.
An egg hurled by a screaming girl demonstrator brushed past Hanlon’s head and exploded over the bodywork of the car.
Hübler and Schneider followed Hanlon, Schneider with a hard, tight smile fixed on to his face as they marched toward the doors of the venue.
There were about half a dozen police in hi-vis jackets controlling the protesters, more than adequate to stop any direct attack, but there was obviously nothing they could do about the abuse.
‘Fascists!’
‘Nazi bitch, I hope you get raped!’
‘Fascist whore!’ This one directed at Hanlon by a pretty dark-haired girl with a pierced nose and green streaks in her hair.
Most of the abuse was directed at Christiane Hübler and Hanlon and most of it was graphic threats of rape, a lot of it from women. They seemed to hate them more than Schneider.
Hanlon was used to being abused by mobs from her early days as a uniform in riot control or football duties, but this was different. There was a visceral hatred that twisted the faces of the protestors into snarling animal masks of aggression.
As they neared the steps to the venue a girl and a man broke through past the police and ran at Hanlon and Schneider.
Two of the uniforms grabbed the man, who was shouting and kicking, trying to shake off the burly officers hanging on to him, one on each arm, as he shouted at Schneider.
‘Fascist scum!’
He was white, with dirty brown matted dreadlocks, blue and green tribal tattoos visible on his neck.
The girl was the one that she had noticed earlier, the one with the streaks of colour in her very dark, short hair. Hanlon noticed that she was startlingly attractive. She blocked Hanlon’s path and drew her head back. Momentarily Hanlon thought she was going to headbutt her but then she darted her head forward and spat in Hanlon’s face.
Hanlon twisted her body, dropping her left shoulder down, and the spittle struck her right shoulder. With the two police wrestling with the girl’s accomplice and the general confusion of the situation, Hanlon retaliated. Before she really knew what she was doing, she had straightened up and driven her balled left fist in a very short vicious hook into the solar plexus of the girl. The spittle landing on her jacket had enraged her. It disgusted her.
The girl doubled up in pain then looked at Hanlon with an expression of almost feral rage.
‘She assaulted me,’ she screamed, pointing at Hanlon. ‘Arrest her!’
Hanlon looked at her more closely now. Her eyes had an almost almond shape to them and her accent was genteel Scottish, she guessed Edinburgh. She was expensively dressed in a cashmere jacket and scarf, her skirt was very short and she had excellent legs. Her boots were high quality suede.
Fortunately for Hanlon there was no press and the attention of the protestors and their ubiquitous camera phones was mainly on the bald guy and the police.
‘Pig scum!’
‘Smash the fascists!’
‘Come on.’ Christiane Hübler pulled her arm, her voice urgent. ‘Inside.’
She practically dragged Hanlon into the building and the doors closed behind them as another couple of eggs smashed on the glass followed by a dull thud as a bag of flour landed.
Schneider calmly wiped some spit off his cheek with a tissue and binned it. He smiled and waved at the protestors through the doors.
He turned to Hanlon. ‘I saw what you did’ – he wagged a finger – ‘naughty, naughty. Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted, but we have to be seen to behave. Now, if this were Saxony or Hamburg, well, things would be different, but please,’ he smiled to show he wasn’t really cross, ‘no attacking anyone. Well, not unless I ask you to.’
A fresh wave of inaudible abuse burst from the protestors outside. He looked at the mess on the door.
‘If you added sugar, you could make a cake,’ he said, pleasantly.
A couple of security men from the Union Hall took up positions by the door as three men wearing suits appeared in the lobby to greet them.
‘Hi, I’m Paul Samuels,’ said one of the suits, shaking Schneider’s hand. ‘Let me take you inside, get you freshened up. We kick off in about an hour, hopefully that lot will go away now you’re inside…’
He took Schneider by the arm and they drifted away, leaving Hanlon and Hübler in the lobby.
Hanlon looked at Hübler who was staring at her in irritation.
‘If you attack the demonstrators you play their game. You of all people should know that.’ She shook her head. ‘It was very unprofessional of you.’
‘It was self-defence,’ countered Hanlon. ‘She could have had a weapon.’
Hübler smiled bitterly. ‘Well, I suppose so. But welcome to our world, DCI Hanlon, you’ll have to get used to a lot of abuse, I’m afraid.’
Hanlon thought, actually just now was almost certainly the high point of the difficulties that she’d foreseen. The House of Commons lunch would be a breeze and then he’d be off to Oxford and out of everyone’s hair.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Hanlon, ‘I’m used to people not liking me.’
‘I’m sure that’s the case,’ said Hübler acidly, ‘but at least Wolf and I have the consolation that history is on our side, as is the side of right.’
Hanlon’s chilly, grey-eyed gaze met hers. ‘Me too,’ she said.