A Place of Safety

The phone rang. Alexia yawned.

‘You gonna get that?’ said Steve.

Alexia sighed. No doubt another tip-off about the Harvest Festival at Mary of the Sacred Heart. Only the fourth that day.

‘Alexia Dee,’ she said.

‘Go on a website called The Spear of Truth,’ said the voice.

‘Can I take your name, sir?’ she answered.

‘Just do it.’

The line went dead.

‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Alexia.

Steve leaned over her, his breath raspy. ‘Well?’

‘Crank call,’ she said.

He moved even closer, grimacing, and she could smell the onions he’d eaten earlier on his mid-morning kebab.

‘Jesus,’ she muttered, and went into her search engine. The Spear of Truth.

It was a white-power site, all black and white pictures of 9/11 and ugly close-ups of Abu Hamza. She scrolled past the edited highlights of ‘The Nuremberg Rally’ until she reached the daily discussions forum. Then she saw it. A post from someone calling themselves Snow White.

‘Bloody hell.’

‘What?’ shouted Steve.

‘If this is true,’ said Alexia, ‘we’ve just got a fantastic story.’

Chapter Four (#ucf1c22e8-1e04-5f02-9668-6a9fb61ff26b)

Lilly pushed open the door of Luton East Police Station. The reception was bare except for three metal chairs bolted to the tiled floor.

She turned to Milo. ‘Not very comfy, I’m afraid.’

‘Have you ever been arrested in Sarajevo?’ he asked.

‘That’s a pleasure that has so far eluded me.’

‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘this is palatial.’

A WPC in her early twenties ushered them through to the custody suite. Her skin was clear, her hair sleek, pulled back into a neat ponytail. Lilly’s hand instinctively went to her own messy bird’s nest.

‘It’s chaos in here,’ said the WPC. And she was right. The benches were full of prisoners waiting to be processed. Coppers milled around waiting for interview rooms to become free. Two men pushed against the sergeant’s desk and clamoured to be heard. One had a gash across his forehead, blood running down the bridge of his nose.

‘Luton Town at home,’ said the WPC by way of explanation.

The desk sergeant was trying to note down their details but the injured man was waving his hand in front of his face. A few fat drops of blood splashed onto his friend and he howled in protest at the red stains on his cream jumper.

‘Fucking Stone Island, this is,’ he shouted.

‘River Island, more like,’ said the injured prisoner.

The sergeant shifted in his seat. He was trying to keep his patience but Lilly could see it was wearing thin.

‘How long are you going to keep us here, mate?’ The man pulled on the sleeve of his jumper. ‘I need to get this in the wash.’

The sergeant didn’t even look up. ‘As long as it takes.’

‘I’ll sue you if it don’t come out,’ said the man.

The sergeant sighed. ‘I’m sure you will.’

‘And I need to get up the hospital,’ said the injured man, sending another arc of blood across the desk.

‘The FME will be here in five minutes,’ the sergeant said.

‘I ain’t seeing no fucking police doctor.’

The sergeant shrugged. ‘Then you’ll bleed to death, mate.’

The man turned towards Lilly and she could see that half his face was ferrous with blood. ‘Did you hear that?’ he shouted at her. ‘You’re a witness. He threatened to kill me.’

Lilly smiled. ‘He didn’t actually say that.’

‘He fucking did.’ He turned to his friend. ‘Didn’t he just say that?’

‘Call yourself a brief,’ he shouted at Lilly. ‘Whose fucking side are you on?’

Milo placed a protective arm in front of Lilly. ‘Leave her alone.’

The injured man leered at him, his face grotesque. ‘You want some, do you?’

If Milo didn’t understand the term, he certainly appreciated the tone and stood firm, keeping direct eye contact.

‘Don’t abuse this lady. None of this…’ Milo spread his arm towards the man’s wound, ‘is her fault,’ he said calmly but firmly, threatening them with his eyes.

The man with the stained sweater patted his friend on the shoulder.

‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘It ain’t worth the bother.’

The injured man shrugged off the hand, his shoulders still square, his neck pulsing.

‘He’s only a fucking Polack,’ said his friend.