‘Did you get the information Mr Mackenzie asked for?’ asked Fry.
Callaghan tapped a folder.
‘It’s all here.’
An EMSOU intelligence officer had compiled a report on right-wing activities in the south-east fringes of Derbyshire.
‘There’s an active BNP unit in the vicinity, you know,’ said Callaghan.
‘BNP? Seriously?’
‘They’re very small in numbers, but they’re still out there campaigning. The BNP leadership is trying to present an image of themselves as a legitimate political party, so most of the time they stay on the correct side of the law. But there are always a few loose cannons who go on a freelance mission.’
‘And they may have headed to Shirebrook?’
‘It’s an obvious target for them, given the cultural mix. In the past, many of their meetings have been held at a pub in Shirebrook.’
‘How many people attended these meetings?’
Callaghan checked the reports.
‘Oh, forty or fifty. Not much more.’
‘Most pubs around here get twice as many as that for a quiz night,’ said Fry.
They were turning off towards Shirebrook, passing a hand car wash under the canopy of an old petrol station, just like the one Krystian Zalewski had worked at. You could get a wash, wax and dry from £5. Fry noticed the car wash was open seven days a week. How many staff did they need for that? Or did these men work every single day?
Frowning, Callaghan was still looking at her.
‘Obviously we can’t tolerate organisations like the BNP,’ she said. ‘But we have to be careful, Jamie. If you say anything publicly, you’re liable to be subject to a complaint under the Police Conduct Regulations or the Code of Ethics.’
Callaghan sighed. ‘Always by the book. Okay, just between you and me then, the BNP were infiltrated by members of the Metropolitan Police’s undercover intelligence unit. They weren’t just there to observe, either. They worked actively to disrupt target organisations.’
‘With black propaganda?’
‘I imagine so.’
Fry shrugged. ‘Well, that means we can’t necessarily believe what we hear. It may be misinformation.’
‘Sometimes it feels as though our hands are tied by rules and procedures,’ said Callaghan.
‘That always seems to be the way. But there’s a reason for it.’
Callaghan paid no attention.
‘Look, there’s an incident logged here, not far from Shirebrook. A group of activists were brought in because they’d been handing out leaflets — there had been complaints from the public about them — which was considered to be inciting race hatred. The local cops sat them down and were nice to them, made them a cup of tea and all that. The trouble is, the legality of the wording on their leaflets was open to interpretation, so it had to be passed upstairs.’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, they couldn’t be detained while that process went on — we all know it can take for ever to get a legal decision. So they were asked to leave their remaining stock of leaflets at the station. They refused. In the end they went back to their pitch in the town centre and handed out a different leaflet. There was nothing anyone could do about it. And that’s typical, Diane.’
‘I know. But there are ways of dealing with organisations like that.’
‘Oh, yes, there’s a bit of management jargon shoved in here,’ said Callaghan. ‘Do you want to hear it?’
‘If you must?’
‘It says here: “We rely on communities to identify suspect individuals, and we work through multi-agency support systems to contain any potential threat.” In other words, we’re hoping someone else will do the job.’
As they entered Shirebrook, Fry noticed flags flying from the lampposts on a business park. The red Cross of St George on a white background — England flags.
She had switched off and was no longer listening to Callaghan as she drove. She had never told him about her experiences growing up in the Black Country. In fact, Fry had never told anyone about it.
Being a foster child had been bad enough, moving from one place to another with Angie because foster parents found her too difficult to deal with. After Angie ran away and disappeared from their home in Warley, Diane had become close to a foster brother a couple of years younger than her. Vincent, a quiet boy born to an Irish mother and a Jamaican father, had been adopted by their foster parents, Jim and Alice Bowskill, and had stayed with them when Diane went off to do her degree and start a career in West Midlands Police.
Life was tough for a mixed-race boy back then. At school, she’d done her best to defend him from the racist bullies. But the racism and bullying had pushed Vince in the direction many boys went. He’d made the wrong friends, been attracted to a way of life the Bowskills deplored. His life had fallen apart, despite their best efforts.
Maybe there was no easy way for a boy like Vincent Bowskill to fit into society when everyone had to be put into a category. It had broken her heart when she lasted visit Vince in his dingy flat in a tower block in Perry Barr, with signs of drug use lying around his sitting room, including a crude crack pipe, converted from a Ventolin asthma inhaler.
And Fry had not forgotten the role played by the right-wing extremists. Then it had largely been the National Front, with its opposition to inter-racial marriages and their slogan known as The Fourteen Words: ‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.’
Since those days, there had been a multitude of spin-off organisations. There were new issues for them to campaign. Anti-Muslim, anti-immigration, anti-EU. Their continued existence created a deep anger in Diane Fry that she was fighting very hard to keep contained.
‘And what about the pre-planned operation?’ asked Callaghan as they drew into Shirebrook market square. ‘The raid is scheduled for tonight, isn’t it?’
‘We don’t say a word until after the raid,’ said Fry. ‘Not a mention of slave trafficking, or we could jeopardise the whole operation. The Czech gang are still under surveillance and we can’t risk alerting them.’
‘No, we wouldn’t want the Drenko family to escape.’
‘Not after all this time and effort.’
Fry parked the Audi and switched off the engine. Slave trafficking. It had been a big and complex enough inquiry for the Major Crime Unit already, without the murder of Krystian Zalewski complicating the issue.
She wondered what else could go wrong in Shirebrook that would make her job even more difficult.
19
Up the hill above All Saints Church in Bakewell was the Old House Museum. Wattle and daub walls, a vast open fireplace, and a Tudor toilet. And near the museum, on a narrow back street, was the address of Mr Evan Slaney.
Ben Cooper sat and waited in the Toyota until he saw Gavin Murfin’s green Skoda pull into the road. Murfin had trouble finding somewhere to park and had to walk down from about a hundred yards up the hill.
‘Why are these towns always built on hills?’ complained Murfin when he reached Cooper.
‘It’s the Peak District,’ said Cooper. ‘Where else would you build them?’
‘I’m surprised people don’t grow up with one leg longer than the other. They must always be on a slope.’
‘Come on, Gavin. We’re going to talk to Mr Slaney. He’s Annette Bower’s father, okay?’
‘Got it.’
Evan Slaney’s cottage was surprisingly small, with tiny windows on to the street that were overshadowed by the surrounding buildings. It was also crammed with furniture and antiques. Cooper first thought of it as bric-a-brac, but he could tell from the sheen and the careful placement that they were probably quite valuable.