and Warren found himself watching with a disturbed fascination. How much did he actually believe and how much was just hyperbole spouted to justify his unabashed racism?
‘Fancy a pint on a Friday night? Forget it, before you know it they’ll be demanding pubs shut down. It’ll be like Iran. Islam will be the biggest religion in the UK within twenty years the rate we’re letting them into the country. They’re breeding like fucking rabbits and converting people left, right and centre. And what do we do about it? We build more mosques and give them free houses and let them use the NHS without paying.’ Brandon leant forward.
‘You and me are an endangered species, pal. Look around you. Middlesbury is supposed to be at the heart of England. If anywhere in this country should be full of white people it’s here, but it’s not. It’ll be as bad as Birmingham or Bradford before you know it.’
The man’s face was bright red and he used the edge of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
‘Help me out here, Harry. Who killed Tommy? Point me towards them.’
Brandon slumped back in his chair, the plastic creaking alarmingly.
‘I don’t know. Take your pick. It could have been one of the Muslims or it could have been one of those Muslim-lovers throwing stones and making death threats on Facebook.’ He smirked. ‘Hell, it could even have been a bunch of Polish painters trying to wipe out the competition.’
Marcus ‘Goldie’ Davenport, was another person whose nickname was both unimaginative and descriptive. In addition to his gold earring and incisor, he also sported several gold sovereign rings. Like his friend, Bellies Brandon, he too wore an England shirt, although it was probably one-third the size.
‘Can we be quick about this? I need to get back home to feed the cat.’
Davenport’s face was inscrutable and Warren couldn’t tell if he was being serious or facetious.
‘It’ll take as long as it takes, Mr Davenport. After all, we don’t want to miss something that could let your friend’s killer go free.’
Davenport sighed his acquiescence.
Much of his story matched that of Bellies Brandon, so Warren focused on the small details. Davenport enjoyed the audience.
‘I’m a pacifist, me. I wasn’t going to get involved in any violence. I was just there to exercise my freedom of speech. So when the police let the protestors attack us, I left quickly.’
‘Where did you go when you left the square?’
‘Me and Jimmy headed past the war memorial then towards BHS.’
‘Did you go into the shop?’
‘Nah, ’course not. They’d pulled the shutters down, probably to stop the muzzers and the soap-dodgers from nicking stuff, you know what they’re like.’
‘So where did you go?’
‘Down the alleyway and onto the street behind.’
‘Did Tommy and Mr Brandon follow you?’
‘No, we split up at the war memorial. Bellies is too fat to run, so Tommy left him and headed towards Marks & Spencer.’
‘Do you know where he went after that?’
‘I reckon he probably cut through into the backstreet, but we were ahead of him and didn’t see him again.’
‘And that was definitely the last time you saw him?’
‘I just said that, didn’t I?’
‘OK. Did you see anybody else in the street or around the area?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Where did you go after you cut past Marks & Spencer?’
‘BHS,’ Davenport corrected.
Warren acknowledged the correction.
‘We went through another alleyway next to a key-cutter’s and then headed towards the pub.’
‘Which pub was that?’
‘The Feathers.’
‘And you went straight there.’
‘Yeah, pretty much. Jimmy led the way, he knows the area.’
‘Do you know roughly what time you arrived?’
‘No, I wasn’t wearing a watch.’
‘Were you the first to arrive or were there others there already?’
‘We were pretty much the first.’
‘Do you know when everyone else arrived? Was anybody late?’
‘Most everybody else arrived at the same time. Bellies got lost and came in last.’
‘How long did you stay for?’
‘We were supposed to be there until about nine, then catch the coach back home. The beer was flowing and they’d laid on food. It was the shittiest chicken Kiev I’ve ever eaten, even Bellies didn’t finish it.’
Warren looked over his notes. Despite his attitude, the man had been helpful. A picture of Tommy Meegan’s movements in the hours before his death was being built, but it was slow going. Large gaps remained and they had yet to identify any concrete suspects.
With that, he turned off the tape recorder and thanked Davenport for his time. The man merely grinned.
Up close the similarities between Jimmy Meegan and his brother were even more striking. It was strange what death did to a person; if anything, Tommy looked younger.
Warren scrutinised the man sitting opposite him. His eyes were still bloodshot and the edges of his nostrils inflamed, but his pupils weren’t dilated and the nervous energy that he’d radiated that morning was gone. It would seem that he wasn’t high on cocaine at the moment; leaving him until last had probably been the right decision.
What remained was the anger; it seemed to infuse the very air.
Warren decided not to repeat his condolences. They’d been thrown back in his face that morning and he saw no reason to start the interview on a negative note. It was likely to go sour all on its own.
From the outset, Meegan made it clear that he regarded the interview as a waste of time, and that he thought Warren was only going through the motions.
‘Why don’t you tell me who you think killed him?’
Warren knew exactly where this would go, but he might as well get it out of the way now.
‘Take your pick. Look at anybody who was behind that pathetic line of nancy boys you sent to protect our right to free speech.’
‘There were a lot of people there, Mr Meegan, was there anyone that you recognised that may have been involved? Perhaps we could review some of the CCTV footage.’
‘Are you taking the piss? None of those fucking cowards were man enough to show their faces.’ He pointed a finger at Warren. ‘I tell you what you lot need to do, you need to arrest anybody that turns up at these things with their face hidden. What have they got to hide?’ He turned the finger back towards himself. ‘I’m fucking proud of what I am. You won’t ever catch me wearing a mask.
‘It’s like those burqas. We don’t let people wear helmets when they go into the garage or the bank, we should make them take off their masks. Who in their right mind lets someone dressed