By the time he got outside, she was swinging herself into an old Land Rover, arse first, hands clinging to the top of the doorframe.
‘You follow me. Where’re you parked?’
‘Just round the corner.’
The Land Rover was covered in dents and had a ripped tarpaulin on the back. He made a mental note of the number plate, just in case they got caught up in an unexpected swarm of beaten-up farm vehicles on the way to Batley.
They left Cleckheaton and headed along a series of brightly lit main roads. She drove with a combination of relative caution and suicidal cornering, as if she disliked high speeds but was equally reluctant to touch the brake pedal. It didn’t look like the Landy had much in the way of suspension, either. From a safe distance behind, he could see her bouncing around on the driver’s seat as she lurched up and down the gears.
On they went, and it wasn’t clear to him at what point they’d left Cleckheaton. It was a strange kind of landscape, piecemeal and uncoordinated, neither urban nor rural. Pockets of housing sat alongside industrial buildings, old and new, nothing too large, and nothing very distinctive. Then there were stretches of farmland and open countryside. You came on them unexpectedly, as if you’d suddenly been transported fifty miles north into the Dales, only for another huddle of industrial units or a makeshift lorry park to come into view, shattering the illusion.
It was a ten-minute drive to Batley. He glanced at his messages. The teams had been out all afternoon, and Gwyn Merchant was now busy relaying the results, which were mainly that no one in West Yorkshire knew anything about Craig Shaw. All the individuals even remotely identified as potential suspects had been traced, interviewed and eliminated from the inquiry. Nothing was getting flagged up for further investigation. Gwyn was certainly efficient. No sooner had a new line of enquiry been identified, it seemed, than the lead had been followed up and discounted.
They passed the Batley Variety Club, the most famous cabaret venue in the North. He remembered the stories from when he was a kid. Every local musician that his parents knew claimed to have been in the house band when Louis Armstrong had played at the Varieties, and for Tom Jones, Roy Orbison, Neil Sedaka… Tony and him used to joke that if they’d all really been there when Armstrong came, there’d have been enough musicians to fill the club, never mind the orchestra pit.
He slowed down to see what had become of it.
‘A bloody gym!’
A mile or two further and Rita took a sharp left at twenty miles per hour. They entered a housing estate, the main avenue curving gradually up the valley side. It was the kind of council estate where he’d spent many hours as a copper: door-to-doors, domestic disputes, chasing up likely suspects, most of whom lived in places exactly like this. He remembered the sofas on the front lawns, the odd car on bricks, scary young kids with red faces waiting to cheek you off.
There were no cars on bricks here, though. Lots of cars, but good, solid stuff, decent family motors, right up to the odd Merc.
Rita came to an abrupt stop. By the time he’d parked behind her and got out, she was already leaning against the Land Rover, rolling a cigarette.
‘Need a quick smoke.’
‘Really?’ He looked around. ‘That bad, is it?’
‘This estate? Nah, one of the good ones. And the jewel in the crown,’ she added, nodding over her shoulder, then cupping her hands against the wind as she flicked her lighter, ‘is the Brown Cow. Ironic, eh?’
‘Is it?’
She took a long draw on her cigarette. They both watched as the smoke descended in a loose cloud around them, then disappeared in a single gust of wind.
‘The Brown Cow. It’s what the Cullens call me.’
‘Famous in these parts, are they?’
‘You might say that. Hold on.’
She took a long, long drag.
‘I dunno about threatening Lisa Cullen’s boyfriend, but I wouldn’t go round threatening Ma and Pa Cullen without a bloody good reason,’ she said, before tossing the cigarette into the gutter with disgust.
With that she turned and marched towards the pub, the movement of her shoulders now just a little exaggerated.
The pub had been built in the sixties, at the same time as the estate. And it was in the same style. Squat and dull, with wooden panels beneath the windows, the rest of the walls prefab concrete. The reinforced glass door boasted a bright green poster announcing the week’s entertainment.
Race Nite – Tuesdays
Karaoke – Wednesdays
Bingo – Thursdays
She pulled the door open. Just inside was another sign:
YOU ARE NOW ENTERING A DRUG-FREE ZONE. RESPECT.
‘We’re to believe that, are we?’ he whispered as they stood there and took in the surroundings.
‘You ain’t seen nothing. Come on.’
The main lounge was comfortable enough, with a pool table and dart board to one side, tables and chairs on the other side, and a long bar lined with lager pumps at the back. No real ale in sight. It wasn’t the kind of place that would have attracted him, but it wasn’t unpleasant.
There were a couple of dozen drinkers, well-inked young lads, some older blokes in baggy jogging pants, one or two in work clothes and boots. And every one of them watched, pint in hand, as the odd couple made their way through to the bar.
It was not until they got there that Joe realized: apart from Rita there was only one woman. She was standing on the other side of the counter, and she didn’t look happy to see them.
‘Evenin’,’ Rita said.
‘She’s not here,’ the woman said.
‘Joe, this is Karen Cullen,’ Rita said. ‘Pleased to see you too, Karen!’
Karen Cullen was in her fifties, short, trim, with spiky, inch-long dyed-blonde hair. She was not ugly, but her expression was. Joe knew it well. The expression of someone who spends their life on the hardened edges of life, where an air of tight-lipped nastiness is the best way of facing the day-to-day. Over the years he’d developed a kind of sympathy for people like this, especially women; once you got them into the interview room their vulnerabilities poured out of them like water from a tap.
‘Who’s not here?’ he said, pushing his warrant card part-way across the bar as discreetly as he could. ‘Joe Romano, Leeds CID.’
‘Lisa, who do you think? We heard. Boyfriend’s dead. Now you lot’re here causing more trouble for her.’
‘When did you last see her?’
The woman sighed. She looked at Joe, and just for an instant the hardness receded.
‘’Bout teatime. She came, told us and went.’
‘Did she say anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Craig Shaw,’ said Rita. ‘He’d been getting some aggro. That’s what we heard.’
‘Aye well, comes with the job, you’d’ve thought.’
‘You’d’ve thought?’ Rita said, and got a faceful of silent derision for her trouble. ‘OK, we’ll have a word later. Is the big man around?’
‘League meeting in the back.’
‘Right, let’s go.’
Joe already knew better than to argue. But then:
‘One thing, Mrs Cullen. You’ve got a regular race night. It’s a while since I’ve seen that. Was there one last Tuesday?’
She nodded.
‘Who operates the machine?’
A deep knowledge of the pubs and clubs of northern England had always been a Romano speciality. Race Night: randomized simulations of horse races played on a special TV screen, with punters betting on the outcome. Back when Joe and Tony were doing the clubs it had been pretty common, just like bingo and second-rate singers doing their worst with Elvis and Glen Campbell.
‘We do. It’s not a machine these days. It’s all on DVD.’
Joe nodded and looked around for Rita, who was standing close by, waiting for him.
‘Very impressive,’ she whispered as she led him down a short corridor off the main lounge. ‘You’ve got a certain way with the ladies! French chick at the university. Now Karen? For your information, that was Karen Cullen at her warmest. I can hardly get a word out of her normally.’
‘It’s the subtle undercurrent of machismo. Anyway, what’s the League?’
She stopped, grinned like an idiot, and cleared her throat:
‘The EPL. It’s Bengali for Bunch of Dickheads. Come on.’
The door was open a couple of inches. On it a hand-written poster:
ENGLISH PATRIOT LEAGUE, MEMBERS’ MEETING, PRIVATE.
With what felt like untypical delicacy, Rita edged the door open and they slipped inside.
It was not a very large room. Four rows of chairs, about twenty people of varying ages sitting there. At the front a tall man was standing behind a table, addressing the audience. He was well built and had thick black hair with just a few streaks of grey. He wore a blue-and-white striped shirt and white braces, which gave him the air of an old-fashioned schoolteacher, the kind you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of.
He paused as the door opened. The room fell silent. But only for a second or two.
‘That’s the problem,’ he continued. ‘They call us racist, but what kind of company employs one hundred per cent Asians? One hundred per cent Muslim?’
‘A racist one!’ someone shouted.
Murmurs of agreement arose.
‘Danny Cullen, I assume?’ Joe whispered.
Rita nodded. Her arms were now folded, and she’d assumed a position that was somewhere between arrogance and Suzi Quatro cock-rocker defiance, that pouty look that had sent him delirious as a kid.
Meanwhile, Mr Cullen was looking in their direction. He opened his arms wide.
‘Sergeant Aktar. Glad to see you. I wonder what the official police line is on an employer favouring one racial group to the exclusion of all others?’
‘Is that really your name?’ Joe whispered.
‘It’s Rita Hridi Scannon-Aktar,’ she whispered back. ‘He’s got Google. He thinks he’s clever. Thing is, I’ve got his full name and his knob size.’
‘His what!’
But when he turned to her, she’d ignored Cullen’s jibe completely and had gone over to sit down on the low wall by the door. Everyone in the room was now looking at Joe. He wondered whether he should say a few words about employment law. Fortunately, Cullen called for attention and continued his speech, and Joe went to sit next to Rita at the back.
‘You see how much help the constabulary are when it comes to enforcing racial fairness?’ Cullen said. ‘I bet there’s a few people here tonight wouldn’t mind working as cab drivers. It’s still a good living. Steady. Better than Uber, I’ve heard. But the private cab firms are run by Asian families and they never advertise. Never have any vacancies. All the licences are taken. You get a taxi in Batley tonight, or up in Birstall. Who’s gonna be driving you?’
The audience told him exactly who. As the racial epithets grew in number and offensiveness, Joe felt the urge to intervene, if only for Rita’s sake. But when he glanced at her, she gave him a wink. She was loving every second of it.
Sensing that her Batley-Bangladeshi skin was thick enough to take anything the English Patriot League could throw at her, Joe relaxed and checked his messages. Gwyn wasn’t hanging about. He’d scheduled a pathologist’s examination of Craig Shaw’s remains for the following morning. The car was already in safe storage, a forensic inspection booked for tomorrow. Things were moving quickly.
He sat back and let the meeting wash over him.
‘They’ve got a website,’ Rita said. ‘It’ll pass the time.’
He found it easily enough on his phone. The English Patriot League. It had a simple but surprisingly professional layout:
Were they? he asked himself as his finger was drawn to the final item:
Drugs create a desperate cycle of dependency. They destroy families, wreck careers and turn our streets into no-go areas. Criminal gangs operate right under the noses of the police, who can’t – or won’t – put a stop to them.
Not long ago police inaction was also widespread in Northern Ireland. The Republican Action Against Drugs (RAAD) decided to do something about it. Operating with the IRA’s approval, RAAD offered amnesties to local drug dealers, and if they refused, they were shot in the arms or knees, their houses firebombed. It was extreme. But was it more extreme than letting the cancer of the drug culture grow and overwhelm your own community? Your own children?
The EPL is proud to be ‘vigilante’. We seek out drug dealers wherever they are. We pressure the authorities to take action, to safeguard our towns and villages, and to put criminals behind bars. When we believe it is necessary, we also confront dealers ourselves.
Do we have a choice? Perhaps we should do nothing, until every inch of our country has become overrun with dopers, spice zombies, crackheads and the low-life scum who make a fortune out of this misery. The philosopher Edmund Burke said, ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing’.
We say: confront the problem. And remember, many drugs networks are controlled by foreign criminals who are here illegally. Just another reason to join the EPL and help us fight for a better England!
Joe swiped the page closed and turned his attention to the man in braces, who was still talking.
‘He keeps mentioning Birstall,’ he said to Rita, who was busy playing with her phone. ‘What is it, two, three miles away? Is there any connection?’
They both knew what he meant. The murder of the local MP by an English nationalist extremist a few years back. It had happened in Birstall. Right up the road. Next town along.
‘We don’t think so. The bloke who did it was a loner. Mental case. We looked at it from absolutely every angle. We don’t think he knew Cullen at all.’
‘Were you on the case?’
‘Yeah. Mainly background checks, looking at idiots like Cullen. Looking really, really hard. I mean, we went fuckin’ ape. Threw everything at it. And let me tell you, there’s a lot of racist idiots about.’
Joe thought about it.
‘This is Cullen’s show, right?’
‘Yeah. Him and some creep they call the Professor. He writes the stuff for the website. Real name Leo Turner. Fancies himself as a bit of an intellectual.’
‘That’ll explain the Burke quote. Is he here tonight?’
She raised her head, scanned the heads there for a second.
‘Can’t see him. Turner runs a group up at Cleckheaton Library that they’re always trying to ban. Racism but with fancy words. And sexism. The Lobster Pot. That’s the name of the group.’
‘I’ll check it out.’
They chatted sotto voce about local right-wing groups, until Joe couldn’t resist it any longer.
‘Come on, then. Tell me about his cock.’
She froze, eyes ablaze, looking right at him. Then, with no warning, she exploded into deafening laughter, falling forwards, hands on her knees, snorting until she sounded ready to choke.
By the time she’d got her breath back the entire room had turned to look. The two of them sat there, like naughty schoolchildren, not quite knowing what to do.
The meeting didn’t last long after that. The issue of taxi drivers was discussed some more. There were a few calls for action, a spontaneously hatched plan for a patriotic crusade against the local private-cab sector. But these were voiced half-heartedly, and with glances back to the two giggling police officers at the rear, whose presence was still a mystery.
Then people began to stand, ready to leave. Danny Cullen did his best to maintain some kind of authority, shaking people’s hands, the odd word of wisdom in someone’s ear, an arm around a shoulder. But as he did so, he too was unable to stop himself glancing towards the back of the room.
Finally, only three members of the English Patriotic League remained: the leader himself, and two large men, both as tall as Cullen, but wider. One was in his mid-twenties, the other perhaps touching forty. Both had shaved heads. They wore black trousers and plain white shirts, bouncer style, their shirts straining around their middles and emphasizing the overall bulk of their upper bodies, which managed to be simultaneously muscle-packed and obese.
‘Just a few questions, Mr Cullen,’ Joe said as he showed Cullen his warrant card. ‘I think we can do without the personal security.’
Cullen shook his head.
‘Not security, officer. Witnesses.’
‘All right Daz, Ranksy? Good to see you!’ Rita said in her best West Yorkshire accent, grinning at the two witnesses.
The two men gave her the tiniest flicker of acknowledgement, then returned to the serious business of witnessing.
‘Fair enough,’ Joe said, noticing that Rita was now standing back, looking amused. ‘Mr Cullen, you had a visit today from your daughter Lisa. Why was she here?’
Cullen took his time. Even now, deprived of his adoring crowd, he retained a certain charisma. Was it simply his size, his paternal manner, his stripy shirt and braces? Joe couldn’t quite work it out.
‘Inspector Romano…’
‘Detective Sergeant.’
‘Beg your pardon. Sergeant Romano. We know why she was here, don’t we? Her boyfriend was killed. Craig Shaw. He was a drug dealer.’
‘And?’
‘And you’ve no doubt heard about the League’s position on drugs. So now we’re under suspicion.’
‘Did you know him? You know his name.’
‘Never met him.’
‘You, gents?’ Joe asked.
Daz and Ranksy shook their heads.
Rita exhaled so volubly that all four men turned.
‘Ranksy!’ she said, somewhere between a guffaw and a shriek of exasperation. ‘I’ve bloody seen you with him. I drove past, I honked my friggin’ horn. Batley town centre, behind the BetFred’s? You were standing there, leaning into his Beemer, giving him the whole finger-wagging bit!’
The younger man’s blank expression never slipped.
‘Skinny kid?’
‘That’ll be the one!’
Ranksy shrugged. ‘We had a little chat, yeah.’
‘So now,’ she continued, ‘you’re, like, even more of a suspect in a murder investigation! Come on, fellas. We don’t think you did it. Just help us out a bit, eh? No one’s dragging you down the nick, are they?’
We don’t think you did it. Joe logged that one for further discussion. Rita certainly liked to jump in and get her side of things across. Not his style.
‘Mr Cullen,’ he continued, ‘can you tell us what your daughter said today?’
Cullen nodded. ‘Nothing much. She told us what had happened.’
‘Time?’
‘Around four-thirty.’
‘What was her frame of mind?’
‘She was distressed, obviously. I told her to stay here for the night, longer, if she wanted. But she wouldn’t. She left a bit later.’
‘Has there been any tension between you? I mean, about her boyfriend?’
Cullen took a deep breath and opened his arms.
‘Yes, officer, there has. We are against everything Craig Shaw was doing. Let’s get that straight. But she’s our daughter. We stand by her. Now and forever.’
‘Family first,’ Daz whispered, to no one in particular. Everyone ignored him.
‘You stand by her? Degree in Media and Communications, isn’t it?’
Cullen nodded with pride.
‘Tuition fees? Accommodation? Living expenses? Would there be receipts for any of that?’
Joe counted to five while Cullen failed to answer. Then:
‘Tuesday evening? Where were you all? Let’s start with you, Mr Cullen.’
‘You don’t need to start with me. We were together, at Cleckheaton Library, the three of us.’
‘At the Lobster Pot?’
Cullen was now trying to conceal a frown, and not making a good job of it.
‘Yes. Modern society. A fresh view. A discussion group. And if there’s anything else we can help you with, Sergeant, I can let our solicitor know.’
‘Danny, you’re shitting me,’ said Rita. ‘We’re having a word, is all!’
Cullen straightened his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height.
‘I’m just being careful. Right-wing extremists, that’s what they call us. Anyone who even dares to raise these issues is a racist. Have you seen the rings they ran around Tommy Robinson? You’re surprised we want a lawyer here?’
Joe and Rita looked at each other. It was time to go. But Cullen wasn’t done.
‘Racists. Vigilantes. Extremists. That’s the press we get. And why is that?’
‘Because,’ Joe said, if only so Rita wouldn’t have time to say anything, ‘that’s how things like this are often perceived? Racism hiding behind reason?’
Cullen’s eyes widened a fraction.
‘Yes, reason. You heard what I said about the taxi firms? It’s the truth, the reality for the white working class. Every word I said. We’re the racists, though, just because we say it.’
With that, Joe and Rita were done.
‘Last thing, officers,’ Cullen said as they were turning to leave. ‘Grooming gangs. Where’ve the police been on that, in the last few years?’
‘Getting convictions, dick,’ Rita said. ‘Meanwhile your mate Tommy’s doing his best to bring trials down, the twat!’
Joe put himself between Rita and Cullen.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said, trying to marshal her towards the door without actually touching her.
‘It’s not blood on the streets,’ Cullen called after them. ‘It’s semen. Asian semen!’
She spun around, slamming into Joe, who took the opportunity to bundle her out through the doorway.
‘Keep walking,’ he whispered as he shoved her along.
They made their way through to the main bar.
‘Are you all right? Fancy a quick one, take the edge off?’
‘In this place? You must be joking!’ She lowered her voice. ‘Shit, we’ve still got to interview vinegar tits.’
‘I can do that.’
‘All right. I’ll write up the notes for Danny. You do his wonderful spouse, and we’ll swap emails later. OK?’ It wasn’t a question. She was already turning to leave. ‘Speak first thing tomorrow, see where we’re at.’
With that she was gunning for the door. And there was no roll in her shoulders now.
Joe turned and leant on the bar. He looked down the line of lager pumps, and eventually spotted one for Tetley’s Bitter. Keg not barrel, but it was marginally better than nothing. Or lager.
Karen Cullen resolutely avoided eye contact as she served him. He let the awkward silence run on, knowing that she’d have a word or two to impart when she handed him his drink. It was like a little silent drama awaiting its even smaller denouement.
As the beer rose steadily up the side of the glass, an old man shuffled across and stood a few feet away, waiting to be served. He wore a faded duffle coat and a baseball cap, and his beard was grey but streaked with orange tobacco stains around the mouth. He could have been fifty or eighty, it was hard to tell. Whichever, it looked like he’d spent most of that time leaning against bars just like this one.
‘Evenin’,’ Joe said.
The man looked surprised, but only for a second.
‘Evenin’ to you,’ he said, holding up his empty glass as if it was merely a way of greeting someone. ‘And a fine one!’
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Joe.’
‘Andrew.’
‘What you having, Andrew?’
Karen Cullen looked on with sour-faced suspicion as she grabbed another glass. She knew it was bullshit, but what could she do?
‘Are we chasing?’ Joe asked.
Andrew thought about it, cocking his head to one side as he considered the proposition.
‘A small Jameson’s? That’d be grand.’
Joe nodded to Karen. The whiskey was served with the same cynical scowl.
‘On your own?’ Andrew asked, before bringing his pint glass carefully up to his mouth and sinking a couple of inches.
‘Well,’ Joe said, ‘I was supposed to be having a drink with my daughter. But we had a bit of a row. Screaming blue murder she was! They grow up fast, young girls. And they never stop shouting!’
With that he buried his face in his Tetley’s and waited.
Andrew’s rasping breath developed into a chuckle.
‘He’s not wrong there, is he, Karen?’
Joe looked at the landlady, who hovered nearby and was doing her best to ignore them both.
‘Just like little Lisa! She tore the bloody place down! Hammer and tongs!’
‘What, today?’ Joe asked.
‘Aye, this afternoon!’
Andrew’s face was screwed up now, the whole thing wildly amusing to him. But Karen was pinning him with an expression of hardly disguised loathing. He got the message soon enough, took both drinks, nodded his thanks to Joe and shuffled back to his table over by the wall, out of the landlady’s range.
‘How old is Lisa?’ he asked when the old man had gone. ‘What, twenty-one, twenty-two?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Craig Shaw was twenty-five. You ever meet his mum?’
She shook her head.
‘Decent woman. The father was never involved. She did it all on her own. Do you know what she’s telling herself now?’
She shrugged.
‘She’s telling herself that it’s all her fault,’ said Joe, putting his pint down. ‘She brought him into the word, raised him on her own, and he turned out to be some second-rate drug pusher who got torched in a bloody Toyota Corolla. Her Toyota Corolla, actually.’
‘That’s drugs for you, eh?’
‘Lisa was living with him. She was involved. What if there’d been two bodies in that car?’
She took her time.
‘It’d be the end of my life.’
He gave it a second.
‘Help me, then.’
She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t anybody from here.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. I know it.’
‘Shall I tell his mum that? You just know it? Jane, she’s called. Jane Shaw.’
‘It’s none of my business.’
‘It could’ve been. So easily.’
She tried to look away. But he held her stare.
‘Give me a mobile number,’ he said. ‘Somewhere I can reach you, in confidence.’
He struggled to finish his beer, which was so cold that he could have been drinking chilled piss and never noticed. But when he left the pub there was a Tetley’s beermat in his pocket, with a number written on it in Biro. Below the number: Text first.