Dead Right (15 page)

It was a miracle he managed to make himself heard with the band making so much bloody noise. Some of the older members, chronically unemployed factory workers and ageing skins, had settled into a far corner, as far away from the source of the racket as possible. What did they expect, Craig wondered, the Black Dyke Mills Band playing
Deutschland über Alles
or Wagner’s
Ring
cycle? It was the rock bands that got the kids in,
and
got the message across through sheer volume and repetition.

The real trouble with this gig, Craig thought as he looked around, was that there was no chance of a bit of nooky. For some
reason, girls didn’t have much to do with white-power freaks, and most of the kids, in turn, seemed content enough with a celibate existence, fuelled by sheer race hatred alone.

The only females Craig could see tonight were a few peroxide scrubbers, like superannuated biker-girls, hanging out with the older crowd, and a table of skinny birds with shaved heads and rings through their noses. He sighed and drank some lager. Can’t have everything. A job’s a job.

The music stopped and the singer said they were going to take a short break. Thank God for that, thought Craig. Trying to keep one eye on Motcombe, he turned to the three skins at the table with him.

Christ, he thought, they couldn’t be more than sixteen. One of the Leeds cell-leaders had spotted them causing a bit of aggro to a telephone box on their way home from a football match. He had joined in with them, then invited them to the show. Thick as two short planks, all three of them.

“What did you think of that, then?” Craig asked, lighting up.

“Not bad,” said the spotty one, who went by the name of Billy. “I’ve heard better guitar players, mind you.”

“Yeah, well,” Craig said, with a shrug, “they’re pretty new, need a bit more practice, I’ll admit. See, with this lot, though, it’s the words that count most. Trouble is, most rock bands don’t really pay any attention to what they’re saying, know what I mean? I’m talking about the message.”

“What message?” the slack-jawed one asked.

“Well, see, if you were listening,” Craig went on, “you’d have heard what they were saying about that we should send all the Pakis and niggers back home and get this country on its feet again.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Billy. “‘White’s white, black’s black, we don’t want ’em, send ’em back.’”

“That’s right.” Craig smiled. “So you
were
listening. Great. That’s what I mean, Billy. Most rock music is self-indulgent crap, but this is real music, music with a purpose. It’s truth-telling music, this is. It tells it like it is.”

“Yeah,” said slack-jaw. “I think I see what you mean.”

In your fucking dreams, thought Craig. From the corner of his eye, he saw Motcombe about five tables away whispering in
someone’s ear. He couldn’t make out who it was. How many irons did this one have in the fire? Even though the band had stopped playing, music still blared out of a sound system and the level of conversation was loud.

“So what do you think?” he asked. “The message?”

“Well, yeah,” said pointy-head, speaking up for the first time. “It sounds all right. Send ’em all back, like. I mean, it sounds good to me.” He grinned, showing bad teeth, and looked around at his friends. “I mean, kick the fuckers out, right? Eh? Send the black bastards back to the jungle. Kick the fuckers out.”

“Right,” said Craig. “You’ve got it. Thing is, there’s not much a person can do by himself, all alone, if you see what I mean.”

“Except wank,” grinned slack-jaw.

Ah, a true wit. Craig laughed. “Yeah, except wank. And you don’t want to be wankers, do you? Anyway, see, if you get organized, like with others who feel the same way, then there’s a lot more you can achieve. Right?”

“Right,” said Billy. “Stands to reason, don’t it?”

“Okay,” Craig went on, noticing the band picking up their instruments again. “Think about it, then.”

“About what?” Billy asked.

“What I’ve just been saying. About joining the League. Where you get a chance to
act
on your beliefs. We have a lot of fun, too.”

A screech of feedback came from the amp. Billy put his hands over his ears. “Yeah, I can see,” he said.

He was clearly the leader of the three, Craig thought, the Alex of the group; the others were just his droogs. If Billy decided it was a good idea, they’d go along with him. Craig noticed Motcombe glance around the room then walk out of the fire-exit at the back with one of the Leeds cell-leaders. He stood up and leaned over the three skins. “Keep in touch, then,” he said, as the music started again. He pointed. “See that bloke at the table there, over by the door?”

Billy nodded.

“If you decide you want to sign up tonight, he’s the man to talk to.”

“Right.”

He patted Billy on the back. “Got to go for a piss. See you later.”

Casually, he walked towards the toilets near the front door. The band had started their tribute to Ian Stuart, late leader of Skrewdriver who, Blood and Honour claimed, had been murdered by the secret service. And now the Albion League had a martyr on their hands. He wondered how quickly someone would write a song about Jason Fox.

Anyway, the toilets were empty, and most people were either talking loudly or listening to the band, so no-one saw Craig nip out the front door. Not that it mattered, anyway; the room was so hot and smoky that no-one could be suspect for going out for a breath of fresh air.

Instead of just standing there and enjoying the smell of the cool, damp night, he walked around the back of the building towards the big car park. Glancing around the corner, he saw Motcombe and the Leeds skin standing by Motcombe’s black van talking. The car park was badly lit, so Craig found it easy enough to crouch down and scoot closer, hiding behind a rusty old Metro, watching them through the windows.

It didn’t take long to figure out that they were talking about money. As Craig watched, the Leeds skin handed Motcombe a fistful of notes. Motcombe took a box out of his van and opened it. Then he placed the bills inside. The skin said something Craig couldn’t catch, then they shook hands and he went back inside.

Motcombe stood for a moment, glancing around, sniffing the air. Craig felt a twinge of fear, as if Motcombe had twitched his antenna, sensed a presence.

But it passed. Motcombe opened the box, took out a handful of notes and stuffed them in his inside pocket. Then he squared his shoulders and strutted back in to work the crowd again.

FIVE

I

“The Albion League,” said Gristhorpe in the boardroom on Wednesday morning, his game leg resting on the polished oval table, thatch of grey hair uncombed. Banks, Hatchley and Susan Gay sat listening, cups of coffee steaming in front of them. “I’ve been on the phone to this bugger Crawley for about half an hour, but somehow I feel I know less than when I started. Know what I mean?”

Banks nodded. He’d spoken to people like that. Still, some had said the same thing about him, too.

“Anyway,” Gristhorpe went on, “they’re exactly what they sound like in their pamphlet—a neo-Nazi fringe group. Albion’s an old, poetic name for the British Isles. You find it in Chaucer, Shakespeare, Spenser and a lot of other poets. Anyway, according to Crawley, this lot took it from William Blake, who elevated Albion into some sort of mythical spirit of the race.”

“Is this Blake a Nazi, then, sir?” Sergeant Hatchley asked.

“No, Sergeant,” Gristhorpe answered patiently. “William Blake was an English poet. He lived from 1757 to 1827. You’d probably know him best as the bloke who wrote ‘Jerusalem’ and ‘Tyger, Tyger.’”

“‘Tyger tyger, burning bright’?” said Hatchley. “Aye, sir, I think we did that one at school.”

“Most likely you did.”

“And we sometimes used to sing the other one on the coach home after a rugby match. But isn’t Jerusalem in Israel, sir? Was this Blake Jewish, then?”

“Again, Sergeant, no. I’ll admit it sounds an ironic sort of symbol for a neo-Nazi organization. But, as I said, Blake liked to
mythologize things. To him, Jerusalem was a sort of image of the ideal city, a spiritual city, a perfect society, if you like—of which London was a pale, fallen shadow—and he wanted to establish a
new
Jerusalem ‘in England’s green and pleasant land.’”

“Was he green, then, sir, one of them environmentalists?”

“No, he wasn’t.”

Banks could see Gristhorpe gritting his teeth in frustration. He felt like kicking Hatchley under the table, but he couldn’t reach. The sergeant was trying it on, of course, but Hatchley and Gristhorpe always seemed to misunderstand one another. You wouldn’t have thought they were both Yorkshiremen under the skin.

“Blake’s Albion was a powerful figure, ruler of this ideal kingdom,” Gristhorpe went on. “A figure of which even the heroes of the Arthurian legends were mere shadows.”

“How long have they been around?” Banks asked.

Gristhorpe turned to him, clearly with some relief. “About a year,” he said. “They started as a splinter group of the British National Party, which turned out to be too soft for them. And they think they’re a cut above Combat 18, who they regard as nowt but a bunch of thugs.”

“Well, they’re right on that count,” Banks said. “Who’s the grand Pooh-Bah?”

“Bloke called Neville Motcombe. Aged thirty-five. You’d think he’d be old enough to know better, wouldn’t you?”

“Any form?”

“One arrest for assaulting a police officer during a BNP rally years back, and another for receiving stolen goods.”

“Any connection with George Mahmood and his friends?” Banks asked.

Gristhorpe shook his head. “Other than the obvious, none.”

“Surely the Albion League isn’t based in Eastvale, sir?” Susan Gay asked.

Gristhorpe laughed. “No. That’s just where Jason Fox’s parents happen to live. Luck of the draw, as far as we’re concerned. Their headquarters are in Leeds—an old green-grocer’s shop in Holbeck—but they’ve got cells all over West Yorkshire, especially in places where there’s a high percentage of immigrants. As I said
before, they’re not above using the yobs, but there’s also that element of a more intellectual appeal to disaffected white middle-class kids with chips on their shoulders—lads like Jason Fox, with a few bob’s worth of brains and nobbut an a’porth of common sense.”

“How strong are they?” Banks asked.

“Hard to say. According to Crawley there’s about fifteen cells, give or take a couple. One each in smaller places like Batley and Liversedge, but two or three in a larger city like Leeds. We don’t really know how many members in each cell, but as a rough estimate let’s say maybe eighty to a hundred members in all.”

“Not a lot, is it? Where does this Motcombe bloke live?”

“Pudsey, down by Fulneck way. Apparently he’s got a nice detached house there.”

Banks raised his eyebrows. “La-de-dah. Any idea how they’re financed—apart from receiving stolen goods?”

“Crawley says he doesn’t know.”

“Do you believe him?”

Gristhorpe sniffed and scratched his hooked nose. “I smell politics in this one, Alan,” he said. “And when I smell politics I don’t believe anything I see or hear.”

“Do you want Jim and me to have a poke around in Leeds?” Banks asked.

“Just what I was thinking. You could pay the shop a visit, for a start. See if there’s anyone around. Clear it with Ken Blackstone first, make sure you’re not treading on anyone’s toes.”

Banks nodded. “What about Motcombe?”

Gristhorpe paused before answering. “I got the impression that Crawley didn’t want us bothering Mr Motcombe,” he said slowly. “In fact, I think Crawley was only detailed to answer our request for information because they knew down there that we’d simply blunder ahead and find out anyway. The bull-in-a-china-shop approach. He was very vague indeed. And he asked us to proceed with caution.”

“So what do we do?”

A wicked grin creased Gristhorpe’s face. “Well,” he said, tugging his plump earlobe, “I’d pay him a visit, if I were you. Rattle his chain a bit. I mean, it’s not as if we’ve been officially warned off.”

Banks smiled. “Right.”

“One more thing before you all go. These letters at the bottom of the Albion League’s flyer.” Gristhorpe lifted the pamphlet from the table and pointed. “
Http://www.alblgue.com/index.html
. Now you all know I’m a bloody Luddite when it comes to computers, but even I know that’s a Web page address. Don’t ask me what a Web page looks like, mind you. Question is, can we do anything with it? Is it likely to get us anywhere? Susan?”

“It might do,” said Susan Gay. “Unfortunately, we don’t have access to the Internet over the station computers.”

“Oh. Why not?”

“I don’t know, sir. Just slow, I suppose. South Yorkshire’s even got their own Web page. And West Mercia.”

Gristhorpe frowned. “What do they do with them?”

Susan shrugged. “Put out information. Community relations. Crimestoppers. Chief Constable’s opinion on the state of the county. That sort of thing. It’s an interface with the community.”

“Is it, indeed?” Gristhorpe grunted. “Sounds like a complete bloody waste of time to me. Still, if this Albion League thing’s worth a try, is there some way you could have a peek? Or should I say surf?”

Susan smiled. “Browse, actually, sir. You surf the Net, but you browse the Web.”

“And is there any wonder I’ve no patience with the bloody machines?” Gristhorpe muttered. “Whatever you call it, can you get a look at it?”

Susan nodded. “I’ve got a hook-up from home,” she said. “I can certainly give it a try.”

“Then do it, and let us know what you find. Alan, did those lads from West Yorkshire find anything on Jason Fox’s computer?”

Banks shook his head. “Clean as a whistle.”

“Clean as in somebody washed it?”

“That’s what they said.”

Gristhorpe grimaced as he shifted his bad leg and shook it to improve the circulation before standing up. “Right then,” he said. “That’s about it for now. Let’s get cracking.”

II

Susan enjoyed the unexpected surprise of being able to go home during working hours, even though she knew she was there to work.