"He that will not reason is a bigot,
He that cannot reason is a fool,
He that dares not reason is a slave."
--William Drummond
"What a night," muttered PC Galbraith to his partner, as he nosed the area car past yet another smouldering piece of wreckage that had once been an S reg blue Toyota.
"Hope we don't see it repeated," said PC Kamen.
"Yeah, or the neighbourhood's going to run out of cars."
The windows of the police car were kept firmly shut in a vain attempt to keep out the smoke which lingered about the narrow, red brick lined, debris - strewn back streets of Glodwick Road in Oldham, Greater Manchester like a guest who'd outstayed his welcome.
The police also needed the windows up to try to keep out the occasional shouts of racial abuse coming from the mouths of the Asian and Muslim residents whose cars, homes and businesses had been wrecked in the previous night's violence.
Behind them, a glass shattered in the path of the police van following them. The van swerved to avoid the broken glass, continued on its way behind the area car. The torrent of filth from a throat driven by frustration to futile swearing faded behind them.
"Tango Sierra 394 from Tango Sierra 217," PC Galbraith said. "394, you okay there?"
"394 receiving," said the van driver. "We're all right, 217. Thanks for the concern. No damage. Continue along the patrol route. We'll continue to follow and monitor the situation."
PC Galbraith hung up the mike, returned his attention to the road ahead. The narrow, cobbled road was littered with fragments of brick, broken glass, wood and unidentifiable litter; but the streets were, for the first time in nineteen hours, quiet. Nobody wanted to come out of their homes to play, like they did last night. In a way, it was a blessing not to see any faces at all; but PC Galbraith knew better.
"They're inside, right now," he said to PC Kamen, "probably mixing up tonight's batch of Molotov cocktails for the reprisals."
PC Kamen looked out of the window; an Asian businessman he recognised emerged from his home just long enough to make an obscene gesture, then ducked back inside.
"He ran the greengrocer's in Salford Lane," PC Kamen said. "What was his name?"
"Singh," PC Galbraith replied. "Poor bastard. The mob hit his place first, and they hit it hardest. There's nothing left of it."
"Well," PC Kamen said, "it's going to be slow business for him for a few days."
"Tango Sierra 217 from Tango Sierra," came the voice of Control over the RT. PC Galbraith picked up the mike. "217 receiving," he replied.
"217, those firearms you recovered last night," Control said. "Where did you say you found them again?"
"Haven't you received my report?" PC Galbraith asked.
"We have," came the reply. "You're being asked to confirm what you said."
"Back of Bannerjee's in Waterloo Road. Why d'you ask?"
"Report to DI Warburton as soon as you've completed your patrol, 217. He wants an urgent word with you."
"Understood," said PC Galbraith, hanging up the mike. He turned to PC Kamen. "Wonder what that was all about?"
Bacon sizzled in the old frying pan, raising a cloud of smoke which filled the spacious kitchen. Expert hands tapped an egg on the side of the pan, poured its contents into the shallow pool of hot cooking oil; it began to whiten immediately.
"How do you like them, Helen?" asked the cook.
"Easy over, Simon," replied Helen, from the next room. "Just one egg today. I don't want to put on weight."
"One egg, easy over it is," said Simon Croft, dodging a small explosion of searing fat from a piece of bacon. He turned down the heat a bit, glanced over at the fridge and wondered whether or not he ought to break into the fresh pack of sausages he'd bought Friday.
The phone rang. "I'll get it," said Helen. The ringing presently stopped. Simon carried on with his work, turning over the egg.
There was the soft padding of someone walking barefoot on linoleum. Simon turned, saw Helen approaching him in her pink terylene robe, the handset in her hand.
"It's for you," she said. "I'll take over."
Simon took the handset from her. "Hello?" he said, as he wandered into the dining room.
The speaker had a broad Lancashire accent. "Hello, Simon, this is Johnny. Johnny Warburton. How's things for you in Wales? Sheep not bothering you too much?"
"Johnny! Hi! We're all right here, but there's no sheep any more. They're all burning on a pyre in Anglesey because of the foot and mouth."
DI Warburton laughed. "So how are you anyway? It's been ages. Did you get your promotion?"
"I did," Simon replied. "I'm now a Detective Sergeant. North Wales CID."
"Brilliant," DI Warburton replied. "Always knew CID was the better career path for you."
"Thanks for the commendation, Johnny," Simon said. "I think it was your good word for me that tipped the balance, by the way. I owe you one."
"Yes, well, I'm sorry to say that's what I'm calling about. Something's cropped up here. It's important, and I hear it's right up your street. Yours and Helen's."
Simon stood impassively listening as the Detective Inspector sketched out the case. His forehead furrowed slightly. "What do you want me to do?"
"It's a handgun, and that's all I know," said PC Galbraith. "I'm not rated on handguns."
DI Warburton sat across the desk from the PC, leaning forwards, steepling his hands. "I understand. Tell me again, in detail, what you were doing last night at the time of the incident. When you came across the cache of weapons behind Bannerjee's."
"I was pursuing a suspect down Waterloo Road," PC Galbraith said. "This suspect had just thrown a Molotov cocktail against the back of Unit 660. I called him out; he fled; I gave chase.
"I ran around the back of Bannerjee's after the young man, and I heard the two gunshots. I called it in on my RT, and waited for backup. There were no further gunshots in the area after those two, but I stayed under cover until backup arrived. They were just around the corner."
"Were the perpetrators still there when you finally did make a move?" asked DI Warburton. "The suspect, and the shooter?"
"What makes you think there was someone else?"
"Because a suicide would only have made one gunshot," DI Warburton snapped.
PC Galbraith thought about his next words a moment. "Well, sir, I couldn't really see anyone in the back street when I entered it. Presumably, the perpetrators had got away.
"We discovered the handguns lying in a pile of what looked like debris of some sort. The Scientific Unit are examining those remains now. But only one of the guns looks like it had been fired. It was the only one still warm."
"The Scientific Unit has been working on identifying them all night, and we've managed to identify them both," DI Warburton said. "The serial number of the first one had been filed off. It looked like one of a shipment of handguns that made their way into Manchester about six months ago, found their way into the hands of street gangs. Never fired, and the ballistics report confirms why. The rounds were duds; one of them had jammed in the chamber.
"The other one, the one that fired twice, is very interesting," DI Warburton continued, "because if the scoring on the rounds is any indication, is isn't the first time the gun's been fired." He reached into a drawer in his desk, took out a thick manila dossier, slid it across the table. PC Galbraith opened the file, looked at the top sheet.
"Remember this case?" DI Warburton asked. "The report shows you dealing."
"Yes sir," PC Galbraith replied. "A gun-related multiple murder, possibly a gangland hit. My partner at the time thought it was drug related, although no actual drugs, paraphernalia or residue turned up at the scene."
"We've had so many firearms offences in Manchester it's difficult to keep up with them," DI Warburton replied. "But this one is a special case."
"In what way, sir?"
"I think it's something to do with some sort of weird new religiously - motivated vigilantism that's been seen springing up all over the world. It started in America, and like crack cocaine, I think it's finally made its way over here."
"What can I do about it, sir?" asked PC Galbraith. "I thought CID had taken it over."
"We only need you to give us more information about the shooting, that's all," DI Warburton said. "We've already called in your former partner, to expand on his report.
"You'll be liaising with a colleague of mine. He's coming up here from North Wales to work on the case. I'll want you to go over every single detail of your report of the incident with him. He'll be arriving in town tonight."
"He's serious," Helen said, as she watched Simon wrestle with his suitcase. "Armed nutters in Manchester, and he picked you to handle the case."
"Exactly," Simon Croft said. "He's working on getting a team together to bust these wackos in Manchester. He's looking for at least two officer grade policemen who can go on detached duty, and who have full firearms handling ratings. There is every possibility that I may need to go into this situation armed."
"Bloody hell, Simon," Helen said. "Look, be careful, okay? That's all I'm saying."
"I'll try my best," replied Simon. "Now give me a hand closing this case. Oh, and when this is done, I've got a couple of phone calls to make."
"Who to?" Helen asked.
"There's one chap in the Northern Ireland force who I've heard has expressed an interest in sorting out these nutters," Simon said. "And there's one other person I have to ring, before I go. I am certain he will want to be in on this."
"You're not thinking who I'm thinking, are you?" Helen asked. Simon nodded.
"You've got to be joking," Helen said. "He's a civilian! Where will he fit in? You'll be on duty, and he won't be able to carry a weapon or travel around with you."
"I'm sure he'll manage something," Simon said, as the suitcase finally closed. With a grunt, he snapped the clasps together, and stood over the suitcase to catch his breath for a moment.
"Okay, Helen," he said. "Pass us my mobile."
Chandra put the phone down, turned to look at the three people around the table in the empty cybercafe.
"Scruff, this is the hardest thing I've ever done," he said, "but I've got to go back home."
"Oldham," Scruff replied. "It was only a matter of time. I knew it. Chandra, I am so sorry."
"I know," Chandra replied. "You're now in charge of the Posse. Take good care of them."
"Thanks," Scruff said. "Make sure you come back to us, all right?" Arjuna smiled. "I will. I hope."
Next to Scruff sat Artemis, nursing her black coffee and her hangover simultaneously. She'd been up all night clubbing at Cream. She turned bleary eyes to face Chandra and frowned. "Is it bad?" she asked, her voice thick and phlegmy.
"Worse," Chandra replied. "The bastards burned down my Uncle's store. I've got to go and help him; he's the only family I've got."
The posse fell silent for a long moment, each pondering the ramifications of this grim news.
The chirp of a mobile phone broke the spell; the third party, the Posse's guest, apologised and fished the Nokia phone out of his pocket. He glanced at the text message, then showed it to the others. Someone had sent him the sign for Allies.
"It's an email," Scruff said. "Open it."
The guest opened the email, glanced through it, frowned, looked up at the gang facing him. All eyes were on the guest as he deleted the message and put the phone away in his coat pocket.
Libra, the guest, smiled, looked at Arjuna. "We'll take my car."
By: Fiat Knox
Copyright © Fiat Knox, 2001