Backlash

Seven

The pleasure was short lived. It lasted all of the four strides it took Henry to walk out of the custody office and turn left into the dingy corridor leading to the stairs and lift. It lasted until he came face to face with ACC Fanshaw-Bayley who was storming down in the opposite direction.

Henry came to an abrupt standstill. FB scowled angrily at him, his mouth a tight line, his eyes ablaze. The silence was short and sour. Just long enough for Henry’s Adam’s apple to rise and fall.

FB’s voice, initially, was measured and precise in its tone. ‘When I ask a lower-ranking officer to come in and see me, I expect him to drop everything and come in straight away.’ Then he erupted, having kept his cool for long enough: ‘I do not expect to be kept waiting for almost three-quarters of an hour! Do you understand, Inspector?’

The hairs on the back of Henry’s neck crawled like a mass of insects on his skin. He could feel redness creeping up under his collar. His nostrils dilated. He was aware that Dermot Byrne was now standing in the corridor behind him, witnessing this very public dressing down. He managed to keep his voice controlled. ‘I understand.’ However, he could not manage to add a respectful ‘sir’.

‘I am not fucking accustomed — ’ FB continued with the tirade, seeming not to have heard Henry — ‘to having lower-ranking officers taking the piss out of me. I’ve a bloody good mind to put you on paper for insubordination.’

‘Could we possibly do this elsewhere?’ Henry asked mildly. To say the least, it was very poor management practice to bollock people in front of others.

‘I’ll decide where and when I speak to you,’ FB raged at this insolent suggestion. His face was crimson. He was trembling. In passing, Henry half-prayed that FB’s heart would explode, but realised it was unlikely, and he had no desire to give the man the kiss of life.

Henry shook his head. ‘I’ll be in my office,’ he said stiffly, ‘and you can speak to me there if you wish — but I will not be spoken to by anyone like this in a corridor with other people watching. It’s embarrassing — and not just for them.’ He brushed roughly past the smaller, rounder, man before another word could be uttered, and bounded up the stairs three at a time. He was on the ground floor before FB could formulate a response.

He virtually booted open the inspectors’ office door. It crashed back on its hinges, smashing against the cabinets behind it. Henry stormed in and slammed the door shut behind him.

‘I do not have to put up with this kinda crap,’ he said through his teeth and threw his heavy leather public-order gloves across the room.

Slumping into his chair, he began to unfasten his boots, drawing out the long laces, muttering angrily at the same time. ‘I do not have to do this, for Christ’s sake. I don’t have to put up with the likes of him.’ He yanked the boot off and threw it against a locker. It stuck for a moment, then thudded to the floor like an injured crow. He started to untie his other boot and by the time it was unfastened, much of his annoyance had dissipated. He removed the boot slowly and lobbed it gently across the room where it fell against its companion.

Henry stood up and began to peel off his outer layer of clothing: the public-order overalls which he rolled up and placed on the desk. The uniform underneath was now even more creased than when he had initially put it on. The white shirt was grubby and sweat streaked around the collar and cuffs.

‘Shit,’ he said, sitting down and putting his elbows on the desk. He dropped his head into his hands, intending to spend some quality time feeling sorry for himself.

The office door inched open. Henry looked up, wiping his grimy face, expecting the row with FB to continue. But it was Dermot Byrne bearing a mug of steaming tea and Henry’s now very scuffed uniform shoes which had been left in the carrier.

‘Thought you might like these.’

‘Thanks, Dermot.’ He took a sip. Hot and life saving, it tasted superb.

Byrne placed the shoes neatly on the floor and stood on the opposite side of the desk, nervously realigning the correspondence trays so they were edge to edge with the desk as he spoke. ‘If it’s any consolation, I thought he was bang out of order. . if you don’t mind me saying so. He had no right to speak to you like that.’

‘He does and says what he wants and everybody’s expected to roll with it. That’s FB. It’s just that I’m too long in the tooth now to be taking crap like that. There’s nothing he can really do to me, so he can get stuffed.’

‘He’s an ungrateful bastard,’ Byrne said with feeling.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ he said back-tracking sharply. ‘Nothing. Anyway, you must be finding it hard, Henry, coming back to this — thrown in at the deep end — and your job given to someone else. . and a woman at that.’

A big sigh escaped Henry and he said, ‘At least she seems capable.’

‘Still a woman, though, doing a man’s job.’

Henry shrugged. ‘That’s life — especially these days.’

Byrne shook his head, saddened by the state of affairs. ‘I’m surprised FB gave your job to a woman, actually, after all the shit he’s been through recently.’ He was alluding to the Employment Tribunal FB had faced recently, accused of sexual harassment which had never been proved.

‘Maybe that’s exactly why he did it, to show he still believed in fairness and equality.’

Byrne opened his mouth to say something but the office door opened revealing FB. With a flick of the thumb he gestured for Byrne to get lost and leave the room. He came in, closed the door softly behind him, leaned against it, hooded eyes on Henry.

‘You and me need to talk,’ he said. ‘I take your point about the corridor being an unsuitable place for a bollocking, but I still stick to what I said, even though I could have phrased it more. . eloquently. I am a very busy man this week and I don’t have the time to be waiting around for anybody, let alone a bloody inspector.’

‘And this inspector is also very busy — in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Henry was determined to stand his ground. ‘A whole bloody council estate has been hit by a riot, an officer is lying critically injured in hospital and I’ve just arrested someone who was carrying petrol bombs who may, or may not, be the one who burned Dave Seymour. I’ve got one bloody big problem out there and it needs policing — sir.’ Henry had decided he’d spent too many years bending over backwards and being used by FB and he’d had enough of it. ‘And if you think that by bunging me back into uniform that life’s a gas, then think again, boss. This is the sharp end and it hurts. CID is a piece of piss compared to this.’

FB had been pacing the office as Henry spoke. He stopped right in front of him and rocked on the balls of his feet while considering his response. He clicked his tongue. ‘I’ll let it go this once, but that’s it. I’m bearing in mind your little “problems” — ’ he tweaked the first and second fingers of both hands to parenthesise the word — ‘and that this is your first day back and you’re struggling a bit. But that’s it. Now there’s no quarter. I’ve let you blow off steam and have a go and if you speak to me like that again in any forum, I’ll cut you off at the knees. Understand?’

Henry said nothing.

‘Good — what you’ve also got to realise is that I want everyone on the ball and responding because I’m under severe pressure this week — pressure that would just pop you — and I don’t need anything else on top of it, like insubordinate subordinates. Get me? This is where it starts.’

This time Henry gave a curt nod.

‘Good.’ FB inhaled, suddenly aware he’d been holding his breath. ‘Now come with me. I didn’t ask you to come in to see me on a whim. There’s people I need you to meet.’

He led Henry wordlessly through the corridors and into the lift. On the seventh floor Henry followed him into what had once been the officers’ mess and was now a lounge for everyone to use, even the riff-raff. Except this week it had been commandeered by FB for use as his gold command post.

There were two men and a woman inside the room, sitting, talking quietly, drinking coffee. They looked up when FB and Henry came in.

‘You already know Karl Donaldson,’ FB said, waving dismissively towards the nearest and biggest of the three.

Donaldson got to his feet, smiling his big, toothy, Yank smile. His big paw of a hand shot out towards Henry, who was also beaming with surprise. They shook hands warmly. Henry felt a surge of pleasure as his eyes took in the vision of his buddy.

‘Karl — good to see you.’

‘And great t’see you, H.’

Donaldson was assigned to the FBI office in London where he was a legal attache. He was no longer a field agent as such; his job was to act as liaison between US law enforcement and British and European police forces. Most of his work was taken up with the Metropolitan Police. He and Henry had met several years earlier when they had been investigating links with American mob activity in the north of England. Since then their working relationship had continued sporadically, but their friendship had blossomed. Donaldson had even married a Lancashire policewoman now working in the Met. Henry and Donaldson had not actually seen or spoken to each other for some time due to the former retreating into a hermit-like shell during his bout of sickness.

It was Donaldson Henry had seen earlier that evening in FB’s car as it had pulled away from the Imperial Hotel. He had intended to catch up with him then but the riot had slightly diverted him.

‘What are you doing up here?’ Henry asked him. Their warm handshake continued as the question was posed.

‘That’s what we’re coming to,’ FB interrupted brusquely, bringing the friendly greeting to a stony close. FB did not have a great deal of time for Donaldson who, for several reasons, tended to rub him up the wrong way. Henry and Donaldson completed their handshake. The American gave a sly wink. The feeling between the American and FB was mutual — he couldn’t stand the prick.

The other man and woman in the room got to their feet.

FB indicated the woman with a pleasant, open-handed gesture, totally opposite to the crooked finger he had pointed at Donaldson. In fact his whole manner had changed as he introduced her. He became slick and smooth, almost reptilian and very attentive. It was screamingly obvious he would have liked the opportunity to get into her panties.

‘This,’ he said sweetly, ‘is Detective Superintendent Andrea Makin, Met Special Branch. Andrea, this is Henry Christie, the night inspector.’ As FB’s eyes left her, they changed from languid pools of passion back to hard chunks of ice.

Makin smiled and proffered her hand, which Henry shook. He nodded pleasantly and gave her the once over — discreetly — but did not feel too sexist by his actions because she did exactly the same to him. Henry had only the most fleeting chance to take her in before returning to business, but he liked what he saw. A tall, rangy woman, with a lovely face — wide nose, full lips — and a body which he knew instinctively would be in tip-top shape under the practical, well-tailored suit she wore. He put her in her late thirties — the minimum she would have to be, realistically, to have achieved her rank, unless she was a high flier.

‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Same here ma’am,’ he responded formally, almost clicking his heels and kissing the back of her hand.

‘And this,’ FB said — a slight trace of annoyance in his voice because he had picked up the exchanged glances between Henry and Makin, ‘is Basil Kramer, MP, who I’m sure you’ll have heard of.’

Henry turned his attention to Kramer: early thirties, cool, suave, plausible and impeccably dressed. Henry had heard of him, as had most of the population of England and Wales. At least those who possessed a TV set.

Kramer was extremely rich, having inherited the family business in his late teens following the death of his father and then doubling its already massive profits within five years, making it a leading global clothing manufacturer. Then, bored with business, he turned with equally spectacular success to the murkier world of politics. He was a bachelor, reputed to have dated and bedded several high-profile, but legally available females. Even in Henry Christie’s self-woven cocoon, he had heard of Basil Kramer. The man with the potential to go all the way. The young flier who, having been given the chance to fight a by-election three years earlier in a constituency which was blatantly anti-government had, by dint of his charm and endeavour, turned round a massive loss into a tiny majority and become an MP at the first attempt and in so doing he had become the prime minister’s blue-eyed boy and chief spin-doctor into the bargain.

He had all the necessary attributes to go far: boyish good looks, charisma, credibility, a fine brain and, unusual in a politician, the ability to actually answer direct questions with apparently direct answers. If the press wanted a soundbite on any subject, Basil Kramer obliged. If the government needed spin, he provided it. And if Jeremy Paxman wanted a TV lashing, Kramer was the man to crack the whip.

He had become the PM’s right-hand man. It was rumoured in hushed tones that it was Kramer, not the PM, who ran the country.

They shook hands. Kramer flashed Henry a winning, professional smile. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Inspector. I know you’ve been extremely busy for the last few hours. . even just arrested someone, I hear?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Good to know the streets of Blackpool are in such capable hands — at least this week, anyway.’

‘Thanks.’ Little did Kramer know that Henry’s hands felt about as safe as a sieve.

‘Very unfortunate about your colleague, Mr Seymour,’ Kramer said, adopting the correctly sympathetic tone of voice.

Henry’s heart crashed to his stomach. He spun to FB, his face betraying his anxiety.

FB held up two hands, palms out, in a calming gesture. ‘No need to worry — he’s still alive,’ the ACC said quickly. ‘Grab a coffee, Henry. Then take a seat.’

He did as bid, then sat in one of the low, comfortable leather chairs — remnants of the good life of the officers’ mess — and sniffed the aroma of the coffee. It was real, filtered, very strong. He took a sip. The caffeine hit the spot immediately.

Henry looked expectantly at the four faces, waiting for one of them to begin.

‘I think you should kick this off, Andrea,’ FB said to Makin.

She cleared her throat. ‘OK.’ She sat down opposite Henry and leaned towards him. ‘One of my specific responsibilities is to keep a check on the activities of extreme right-wing organisations and their members. It’s pretty much my main job, actually, because they are increasingly active, mainly on the back of the Nazi movement in Germany which is very powerful at the moment. Their British counterparts do tend, on the whole, to be less inclined to violent action, even though they promote and support it through their literature and rallies. That said, they are a very organised and nasty bunch of individuals driven by a warped philosophy aimed primarily against black and Asian people, lesbians, gays, Jews — the last group probably inherited from the Germans.’

‘Who are we talking about here?’ Henry asked

‘The Right Wingers, the National Socialist Party, the One True Race and Combat 18 among others — but those are the main players.’

Henry had heard of them all. Thoughts and images of them made the corners of his mouth twist down in distaste. It made him sad and angry that such groups could exist and thrive in Britain, but they did. They prospered.

‘All thoroughly bad, but why are you telling me this?’

FB uttered a short ‘Tch!’ intimating that Henry should have automatically made the connection already. Actually he did have an idea where it was leading, but wanted someone else to say it. He kept his eyes firmly on Makin and pretended not to have heard FB.

‘Conference week,’ she said patiently.

Henry nodded.

‘I’ve had an undercover cop working in some of these groups for the last three years — a pretty hairy job, as you can imagine,’ Makin said. Henry could imagine. He had been undercover several times. It was not glorious or pleasant. It was an awful job which wrecked nerves and marriages. ‘Two years ago there were big ructions in the top level of the Right Wingers. Their leaders fell out big style. The issue was that some of them believed the Wingers had become soft. Not enough direct action going on. All the right words being spouted, all the right-wing posturing being done, but the only thing that was happening in a co-ordinated manner was football violence, and even that was pretty poor. Some people in the Wingers wanted more — much more.’

‘Such as?’ Henry asked.

Makin cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably. ‘Forgive the use of the language, this is their terminology: they wanted Paki bashing; they wanted queer bashing; they wanted racial hatred and tension stirred up endlessly; they wanted Jews harassed — and the Wingers were not delivering. In essence, a lot of the people wanted to provoke a race war.’

‘So there was a split?’ Henry suggested.

‘Spot on.’ Makin clicked her forefinger at Henry. ‘And then for a short, intense period there was violence on the streets — but it was between themselves. Power struggles. Beatings, counter-beatings. The Right Wingers were in disarray.’

‘It was in the newspapers,’ FB chipped in.

Henry remembered reading it. Such a long time ago — two years.

He glanced at FB and then at Basil Kramer. The latter had not spoken or tried to say anything while Makin was speaking. Henry admired him very slightly for that — but only slightly, because he did not like politicians. However, he knew that most would have tried to hog the limelight, whatever the forum. His eyes returned to Makin who was massaging her face and yawning.

‘Yeah, it hit the papers,’ she said. ‘Bit of a nine-day wonder as far as the media was concerned, but it threw up lots of useful intelligence for us because people were arrested left, right and centre for assault. Then it all went quiet. The Right Wingers regrouped and a splinter group began to get their own act together. They consisted of the more militant-minded ex-Wingers. They got their strategy together and from that came their plan and from the plan came action. They are well organised. Tight little cells all on a need-to-know basis. I put an undercover cop in, but it’s been difficult to get much information.’ She stopped.

Henry blinked dumbly, waiting for her to continue.

‘So the information that’s come to us is very late and caught us on the hop because things have already started to happen on the streets.’

‘The disturbances you’ve been quelling tonight,’ Kramer said.

‘Yes.’ FB grunted. ‘They’ve already kicked off on our patch.’

Makin said, ‘The information we have received is that this new splinter group has decided to use conference week to bring their cause to the streets and in their words — “Blackpool is gonna burn this week”.’

Makin wrapped her fingers around her left knee and smiled at Henry.

Occasionally he had a flash of clarity, usually accompanied by extreme anger. Like for instance, just then, just for a moment. Everything up to that point had been a meaningless jumble. A whirl of multi-layered, slow-moving images, colours and pain. Nothing seemed to make any sense. Even his own voice had sounded strange to him: deep and inhuman as it responded to the distorted sounds coming from other people’s mouths. It had been awful.

Suddenly it cleared. Like a gate opening. Like the beam of a searchlight in the night sky. Almost like the light of God.

And here he was, knowing exactly what had happened over the last few hours, where he was, why he was here and how long he had been waiting for treatment, flanked by two burly uniformed cops in the A amp;E department of Blackpool Victoria Hospital.

‘Hours!’ he blurted unexpectedly, making both cops jump. He twisted round and tried to get to his feet. ‘I’ve been waiting friggin’ hours — yet that bastard cop got treated right away. All patched up and nice, the twat! Not me. Nooo! A second-class citizen, me. Kit Nevison — cunt and troublemaker. You don’t care about me, do you? A junkie. Out of work. Out of fuckin’ money!’

The two cops hauled him back down to his seat.

‘Siddown y’tosser!’

Kit Nevison thudded back into the chair, feeling weak and ineffective. He knew he needed more dope, more booze. . a fag, even. Something to tide him over. He spoke pleadingly to one of the cops. ‘True, though, innit? He got treated an’ I didn’t. Me? Nowt — fuck-all except for this.’ He indicated a temporary bandage on his head by means of his two hands which were bound by a rigid pair of handcuffs. ‘I need stitches puttin’ in.’

‘You need a humane killer, Kit,’ one officer said.

‘Well fuck you,’ Nevison hissed, feeling it all welling up again. He hacked up and spat into the officer’s face. He stood up again, screaming, ‘I want treatment, I want my fuckin’ head doin’ now! You set of twats. .’

Everything became blurred again. Blood seemed to pump into his head, clouding his vision, thumping, thumping — he was aware of movement, aware of a tumbling sensation, heavy weights on him, some sort of slow-motion struggle, all clarity gone.

Basil Kramer adjusted his tie and got into his stride as soon as Makin finished.

‘As you know, Inspector Christie,’ he said, ‘this government is one hundred per cent committed to the maintenance of law and order and ensuring equality for all, regardless of race, creed, religion, whatever. We have pumped literally millions into the police service and thousands of new recruits are due to come off the production line soon, so to speak. Lancashire has had a generous allocation of both money and bodies, so it would be extremely ironic if, during our conference, when all policing in Blackpool is of a high profile, the streets were taken over by petrol-bombing yobbos — wouldn’t you agree? The press would have a field day.’

Henry waited for the punch line.

‘This is where you come in,’ FB cut in. Henry’s face remained immobile. His eyes slid sideways to take in the ACC. ‘You have to keep a lid on it all. Tighter than a duck’s arse.’

Kramer recoiled visibly at the poetic turn of phrase. Makin allowed herself a minor smile. Donaldson shook his head sadly.

‘My instructions are that you will police the streets hard.’ FB slammed a fist into a palm. ‘You will police high profile and you will take no shit from anyone. You will nip all trouble in the bud and crush it.’ He tightened his fist.

‘From all viewpoints,’ Kramer said, ‘if the streets are not seen to be peaceful during a week when the PM will be making one of his strongest pro-law speeches, we will all lose credibility.’

‘What about the likelihood of public-order situations developing around the Winter Gardens, the conference venue? Surely that’ll be the flashpoint?’

‘Not your problem,’ FB answered. ‘The Police Support Units drafted in will deal with any disturbances during the day. You are the night shift and that’s what we’re interested in here. Keeping Blackpool quiet.’

‘Are you expecting trouble like we had tonight all week?’ Henry wanted to know.

‘That’s what the information suggests,’ Makin said.

‘Obviously I’ll do what I can-’ Henry began.

‘No!’ FB stopped him. ‘You will do as instructed. This is not a half-hearted instruction, Henry. I want you to make some plans, go out there and do a job — OK?’

Henry tensed up. Could this be stress surfacing, he asked himself. What would the bastard do if I just got up from here and walked out, went back to my doctor and got signed off again? Just get some other poor sod to do it, most probably.

He stayed put, nodded tightly, cleared his throat and said, ‘I won’t be able to do what you say with the staff I have. How many more officers are you going to give me?’ He expected zero for an answer and was slightly wrong-footed when FB said, ‘I’ve arranged for one full PSU to assist you from Blackburn until Friday morning, but you can’t have any more. The budgets have all dried up. They’ll be here from eight p.m. to four a.m. each night.’

Bloody hell — one PSU, Henry thought jubilantly, that was astounding. One inspector, three sergeants and eighteen constables, plus van drivers and the vans themselves. Better than a kick in the guts. He accepted with good grace.

‘There is one thing nagging at the back of my mind, though,’ he said slowly. The others waited for him to continue. ‘And that’s the trouble between the Khans and the Costains. I was led to believe it was a dispute between two families. How is it linked to what you’ve told me?’ He looked at Makin for a response.

‘Call me Andrea,’ she said in a friendly but businesslike way. ‘We think the whole thing was pre-planned.’ She sighed and said, ‘Joey Costain is a member of this new splinter group.’

Henry tried to keep a straight face but ended up guffawing.

‘What’s the joke?’ FB demanded.

‘Well, it’s pretty rich, isn’t it? I wouldn’t mind so much if Joey could claim pure Anglo-Saxon heritage, but he’s a gypsy through and through. Even got the curly black hair to prove it — like a character from D. H. Lawrence.’

‘It’s a good point,’ Makin conceded. ‘The kind of group we’re talking about hates anyone who doesn’t fit in with their white-male criteria. Joey isn’t a great thinker. My guess is that he’s been used by the group as an in to the streets of Blackpool. Once they’ve used him, he could well be dumped.’

Henry nodded. ‘Interesting. If you’re right, then someone must know about the problems between the Khans and the Costains and the fact that there was trouble waiting to happen. .’ Henry’s musings brought silence to the room. He glanced round at the four of them. ‘There’s the distinct possibility of loads more trouble. The Khans won’t let things lie and the Costains are likely to keep pushing the white kids on the estate to keep rioting. . could be a bloody hectic week.’ And suddenly twenty-one extra cops did not seem very many. Added to the few he had, who also had the rest of Blackpool to look after, it was an inadequate number.

He swore under his breath, uttered a short laugh and smiled in Karl Donaldson’s direction. The American had said nothing for some time. ‘But what makes me even more worried,’ Henry admitted, ‘is what you’re doing here, Karl. I presume you have more to tell me?’

Donaldson licked his lips and nodded. He glanced at FB and raised his eyebrows. FB gave him the nod to continue. ‘Unfortunately, yes, and it could be even more of a nightmare than street rioting.’

The woman prisoner Henry had arrested sat numbly in the small cell, crying.

The flap in the cell door crashed open and an officer’s face filled the rectangular space. He did not say anything, just looked in. The prisoner wiped her eyes and stared defiantly at him.

‘I just wanted to know what you looked like,’ the officer said. ‘Just wanted to know what the person who half fried one of my colleagues looked like.’

The young woman’s shoulders slumped.

‘The one who nearly killed a cop. . or who might have killed a cop, because he might die yet.’

The flap slid back up and the catches banged into place. The officer — whoever it was — had gone. The prisoner flew to the door, smacking her hands and feet against it, screaming words which were lost behind the heavy metal panelled door and which could not be heard down in the custody reception area because it was too far away, down too many steps, around too many corners. . and no one would have really cared anyway.

‘There’s been a spate of bombings across the States over the last six years,’ Donaldson said, ‘aimed at minority groups — gays, blacks. . you name it. Twenty-one bombs and over thirty people have been killed.’

FB stifled a cough. All eyes turned to him for a moment, then went back to Donaldson who visibly bristled but tried to ignore the interruption. He knew FB held the world’s premier law enforcement agency in very low esteem.

‘As happens with these things, it took a while for connections to be made. It was only by the time the third bomb exploded that we realised we had a serial killer on our hands, but his infrequency of attacks and the fact that they have been all over America have made it virtually impossible for us to apprehend him. The bombs get better and better and more people get killed and injured each time.’

‘Presumably you must have some ideas about him,’ Henry said.

‘Yeah. Hazy, cloudy ones, but yeah.’

‘Such as?’

‘We went all the usual routes: undercover operations into right-wing organisations, covert operations, overt operations, busts left, right and centre — mainly right, of course,’ he slid in and got a titter of laughter. ‘But we got nothing. No hints, no whispers, no names, not a damn thing. . so we think he’s a lone wolf, classified as the new offender model terrorist.’

‘Making it virtually impossible to catch him,’ Henry said, knowing about the model referred to.

‘And making you look like nob-heads into the bargain,’ FB contributed destructively.

This time no one looked his way. There was a beat of embarrassed silence.

Donaldson reached for the briefcase by his side. He took out a series of grainy, indistinct black and white photographs, handed them round the room. ‘These are from CCTV cameras in three locations: Miami, San Francisco and LA. We think they’re of the same man. Our facial analysts are seventy per cent sure it is the same guy. Caught on camera just minutes before bombs exploded in these cities.’

‘It’s a bit slim — and they are very poor photos,’ Henry said as objectively as he could.

‘Agree,’ Donaldson said. ‘But it’s all we have. Three images of an unidentified person at the scene of three out of nineteen bombings, who could be the same person. If it is. .’

‘The odds of one person being at three out of nineteen attacks are pretty remote,’ Henry said. ‘Unless. .’

‘Exactly — unless it’s the bomber — so I’m willing to go with it. Gut feeling and all that.’

‘Gut feeling isn’t evidence,’ FB said.

‘Very true, sir,’ Donaldson said. He fished out more photos. ‘Charles de Gaulle Airport two weeks ago.’ He handed them round. They were still grainy, but slightly more defined. They showed a male, maybe mid-thirties, medium height, casually dressed, the peak of a baseball cap pulled down covering his face. Henry held one of the new photos up alongside one of the first batch and compared them. He shook his head unsurely.

‘Could be,’ he said, doubtfully.

‘Facial analysts give it a seventy-five per cent nod,’ the FBI man said. ‘Which as far as I’m concerned means the guy is in Europe. Two days later there was a bomb in Paris, one person killed, thirty injured. Jews. Coincidence? Not a chance.’ He looked round the room for someone to defy him. No one did.

‘Anything from flight records, the passenger lists?’ Henry asked.

‘Nothing conclusive. Some things still being followed up.’

‘OK. . say it’s the same guy — where is this leading, Karl?’

‘Maybe nowhere, Henry. Just a warning. Paris isn’t a million miles away. With all this upsurge of right-wing activity, it’s possible this guy might be operating around here. It’s a health warning.’

Henry thought about the large gay community in Blackpool who would be easy targets for a fanatic. ‘OK, I’ll bear it in mind. Can we circulate these photographs around the clubs?’

‘No problem with me — sounds a good idea.’

‘I’ll sort it — get some posters done and sent out to the gay bars for tonight with a warning to be on their guard.’

‘Yeah — do it,’ FB snapped.

‘Is there anything else you can tell me about this guy, Karl? Do the bombs get left in the same sort of packaging? Sports bags, carrier bags?’

‘All different.’

Henry nodded acceptance. He checked his watch. ‘Too late to do anything now because everywhere should be closed.’

‘OK, that’s it for the moment, Henry,’ FB said with finality. ‘Unless anyone has anything more?’ He glanced round the room.

‘Oh, I do, actually,’ Henry said brightly.

FB wilted.

‘Just one thing — this new splinter group. I forgot to ask — do they have a name?’ He aimed the question at Andrea Makin.

‘Yes they do. They call themselves Hellfire Dawn.’