‘And Allport’s Scale — where do Hellfire Dawn figure on that?’ He hoped that sounded a reasonably intelligent question too.
‘They believe in extermination, but they’re pretty much round the level of physical attack. In other words they beat people up.’
‘Just what I thought,’ he said knowledgeably, continuing downstairs. ‘Do they have a leader, other than the late, lamented Adolf?’
‘Guy by the name of Vince Bellamy leads the main political group, but we also believe he is the leader of the paramilitary wing, although he denies their actual existence. Very clever individual. Former university professor. Very political animal and has the ear of several right-wing MPs, we believe.’
‘How are they financed?’
‘Don’t know. Sympathetic businessmen, probably. But anyway, Bellamy is a real stirrer. Very motivational in a dark way.’
‘Sounds like Hopper out of a Bug’s Life,’ Henry chuckled. They had reached the basement.
‘Looks like him too — and he’s got a bunch of grasshoppers around him who’ll do whatever he wants them to do. He’s also a bit like Fagin too, and apparently he does a great Hitler impersonation.’
‘Or maybe he’s more like FB,’ Henry mused, mainly to himself as they approached the custody office.
‘You don’t like him very much, do you?’
‘Is it that obvious? I must be slipping.’
They stopped at the barred door leading to the complex. He turned and looked at Makin. ‘He and I have a pretty sordid history, shall we say?’ Makin’s mouth opened to respond, but before she could ask, Henry was talking into his radio, ‘Inspector to Blackpool — custody door please.’ He leaned on the door as, accompanied by a loud buzz, it was released.
He intended to hold a short interview with the nameless female prisoner he had arrested, just to see if he had some of the old magic left, see if he could get anything out of her before handing the job over to CID. Makin had volunteered to have a look at the woman to see if she could identify her through her extensive knowledge of right-wing activists.
As Henry pushed the door open there was the sound of van doors slamming from the car park and of voices and two constables appeared steering Kit Nevison between them, just back from hospital. He was stitched up and very subdued, like a sleepy baby, compliant and easy to handle. Henry held the door open and allowed the trio in ahead of himself and Makin. Nevison did not even look at him.
Inside the custody office there was a delay caused by a backlog of prisoners. Henry drew Makin to the back of the room.
‘Where does this Bellamy guy hang out?’
‘South London, usually, but not this week. This week he’s right on your doorstep, one of your residents. Set up in hotel in central Blackpool fairly near the Winter Gardens, so no doubt he’ll want to be made to feel safe, involved and reassured.’ Makin smirked as she quoted the words from Lancashire Constabulary’s mission statement.
‘If I’ve got anything to do with it,’ Henry growled, ‘he’ll be unsafe, uninvolved and totally unassured — if there is such a word.’
In interview room 2 they sat awaiting the arrival of the nameless prisoner who was, at that moment, consulting with the duty solicitor. Henry had a sealed double pack of tapes in front of him, together with the necessary paperwork he was obliged to hand over to the prisoner at the end of the interview which explained her legal rights.
There was silence, but not uneasy, between him and Makin. He gave her a pallid smile, which she returned.
‘How long will you be up here?’ he asked, making conversation.
‘How long is a piece of string? As long as your ACC wants me to stay, as long as I have something to offer.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘At the conference hotel.’
‘The Imperial?’ Henry said, surprised.
‘Basil fixed a room up for me.’
Ahh, Basil, Henry thought. ‘Nice,’ he said.
Makin turned in her chair to look squarely at Henry. ‘I’m fascinated by your relationship with FB. It’s as though you can say almost anything to him and get away with it. It’s unheard of.’ She sounded amazed, impressed, almost.
‘Not true. I can’t say anything to him and get away with it. After all, he’s an ACC and I’m only an Inspector. But our joint past does give me certain rights, I suppose. What it boils down to is that I hate him and he despises me, it’s a very balanced thing.’
Makin’s lips pursed thoughtfully. Her eyes roamed his face.
‘You married?’ she asked out of the blue.
‘No — What?’ he spluttered, suddenly very hot under the collar. ‘Why?’
‘Just wanted to know.’ She smiled.
The interview-room door swung open and the female prisoner sauntered in cockily, followed by the duty solicitor. Henry exhaled with some relief. He shot Makin a quick, troubled glance and turned his attention to the job in hand. Something he felt more equipped to deal with than Makin’s highly personal questions.
The tapes were running. For their benefit Henry had introduced himself, as had Andrea Makin and the duty solicitor. The only person not speaking was the prisoner. Henry shrugged when she refused to talk and cautioned her to the letter. He asked if she understood the caution. She blinked blandly at him, made no movement and betrayed no body language, other than indifference. Henry almost smiled. He loved the ‘no response’ interview to bits, especially these days when it had been made explicit that a person’s defence could be harmed if they did not say something during an interview which they later relied on in court. In the past, too many defendants had used the ‘ambush’ defence and got away with things unfairly. Now the defence was obliged to reveal all before any proceedings, just like the prosecution had always had to do.
It amused Henry that people still thought they could get away with saying nothing. Still, it was their prerogative. She could stay dumb for as long as she wanted because Henry would just throw the allegations at her. If she chose not to respond, it was her hard luck and bad judgement.
‘My client has decided to remain silent during the interview,’ the solicitor said. He looked annoyed at her decision. Henry guessed he had told her to speak and give her side of the story. She obviously had not taken this advice.
‘Fine,’ Henry said. He went into his opening gambit. ‘So far you have declined to reveal your name, address and date of birth. I hope you realise the fairly immediate implications of this for yourself. You have been arrested for several serious offences — possession of petrol bombs, as well as on suspicion of causing damage by fire, which is arson, serious public-order offences and the attempted murder of a police officer. If you do not reveal your personal details, your fingerprints will be taken, by force if necessary, and, should you be charged with these offences, don’t even begin to think that bail will be considered. It won’t.’
‘I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself here, Inspector. The question of bail is not a matter for you, but for the custody officer,’ observed the solicitor.
‘I am simply letting your client know the harsh realities of the course of action she seems intent on taking.’
‘That is very kind of you, Inspector, but she is already fully aware of the implications. I have already outlined them.’ The solicitor scribbled down some notes.
Before Henry could continue, Makin said, ‘Could I just say something?’
Henry sat back. ‘Fire away.’
Makin addressed the solicitor. ‘I think it would be wrong of me not to appraise your client of the situation in terms of her identity before we proceed. I know her name.’
The girl, who had been sitting fiddling with her fingertips, raised her face sharply. Her eyes darted between Henry and Makin. The colour drained from her face to match that of the white zoot suit she was wearing.
‘You are Geri Peters, aren’t you?’
Her face cracked into a flood of tears.