Dawson tapped twice and the door was opened immediately, as though the person behind was waiting for them. As the door opened further, Bryant could understand why. The desk and chair were forced into a small office also bearing cardboard storage boxes that rose six feet from the floor. It was a very short journey from the chair to the door.
‘Fred,’ the man said, thrusting out his hand. He fell short of Bryant’s own six feet height by two inches. His fair hair was thinning atop a ruddy, flushed expression.
Dawson introduced them both.
‘If you don’t mind, we’ll head down to the cafeteria where we can sit comfortably.’
The man looked to Bryant’s left, and Bryant followed his gaze. He was clearly in the way of something. He stepped forward as the man reached around him and retrieved a single crutch.
‘Wouldn’t you prefer to stay?…’
‘It’s a permanent injury, but thank you for your concern,’ he said, matter-of-factly.
Something in Bryant’s brain shook free as they all bundled back out of the small space. He took a few steps forward and walked alongside the man who moved remarkably well.
The rolled-up shirt sleeves revealed a line of scars along his forearm, like a tally score. If pushed he’d say razor blade.
Bryant cursed his own forgetfulness.
‘You’re the Fred Windsor,’ Bryant said, as Dawson frowned. ‘The one that was held by the National Pride hate group ten years ago.’
‘Eleven, to be exact, but yes that was me.’
Bryant felt bad for their assumption back at the station that this man could offer them nothing.
He now remembered it clearly. Fred Windsor had worked undercover in the hate group for years, gaining their trust, learning of their plans, their motivations. Two months before he was due to be pulled out, he was sussed by someone he’d lifted for shoplifting as a constable. The group had held him captive for six days, torturing and humiliating him. Both his ankles had been shattered, ensuring he never saw active duty again.
‘The scars?’ Bryant said, unable to tear his gaze away as Dawson pushed open the door to the cafeteria.
‘One for every day I lied to them,’ he said, tonelessly.
‘And how long were you undercover?’
‘Seven hundred and twenty-two days, exactly.’
Bryant hated to think what lay beneath those clothes.
‘Mr Windsor, I’m—’
‘Hey, I’m still just Fred,’ he offered, with a smile.
‘Okay, Fred, let me get the drinks,’ Bryant offered.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘The lovely Sophie will be over in a second.’
A young, slim red-head wearing a plain blue overall had already clocked them and was heading towards them with a small notepad.
‘Inspector?’ she said.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Just Fred, please. I’ll have my usual and?…’ he looked towards the two of them.
‘We’re fine, we just need a few minutes.’
‘If you’re going to understand anything at all, Sergeant, you’re going to need more than a few minutes. I suggest you have a drink.’
‘Latte,’ Bryant said.
‘Orange juice,’ Dawson said.
‘Thank you,’ they said together.
‘Okay, let’s get started. A hate crime offender’s hostility is triggered by their perception of the victim’s ethnicity, race, national origin, religion, sexual orientation, disability or gender.’
Dawson nodded. ‘Yes, yes, we—’
‘Young man, if I have to focus on what you might or might not already know we will be here for days. It is best I just tell you what I’ve learned in my twenty-two years of experience, and you may then disseminate it at your will.’
Bryant nodded for him to continue. The mild rebuke in Kev’s direction was thoroughly deserved.
‘To hold prejudiced attitudes is not a crime. To constitute a hate crime there must be two components: the actual offence, like assault or harassment, and evidence that the perpetrator’s actions are motivated by prejudice against the group represented by the victim.
‘The majority of hate crimes are aimed at individuals from social groups that have been historically subjected to institutionalised discriminatory treatment ? but that’s a subject for another day.
‘And then there are hate crimes against hate crimes. Indian kids beating up black kids. Jewish girls attacking goths.’
Bryant shook his head. ‘But how does it all start, Fred?’
‘It often starts with low-level abuse; verbal, malicious gossip, intimidating looks, being ignored and isolated, all the way up to violent assault and murder.’
‘How does name-calling escalate to murder?’ Dawson asked. ‘Every kid got called something cruel at school. It’s a breeding ground for isolation, but how does it become particularly targeted towards minority groups?’
He smiled and shook his head at the same time. ‘Racial hatred is not like picking on a kid at school because he’s fat.’
Bryant saw Dawson wince at this. Fred could have offered no example that was closer to home for his colleague.
‘There are socio-economic factors to consider. Successive generations of white residents create environments that are hostile towards minority ethnic residents. Add in the groups and even political parties spreading hate. In this country we have the BNP, EDL, Combat 18. Some operate like conventional parties to gain power through the ballot box, like the BNP. Others favour an activist street movement, like EDL, but one thing they all have in common is intolerance.
‘All these groups promote xenophobia. They want people to be fearful of those from another country.’
He paused and looked from one to the other.
‘So, now we understand some of the areas hatred can come from, you’re going to want to ask me what type of person commits such crimes?’
They both nodded eagerly.
‘And that’s where we have our first problem.’
SIXTY-NINE
‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about your wife, Tom?’ Kim screamed once they were in the car.
She’d hoped to be off the car park before she started talking, but her mouth hadn’t read the memo.
He spluttered like a thirty-year-old car.
She could not wait for him to get his mouth in order.
‘I’ve met her and—’
‘Don’t talk about it, Stone. I’m warning you,’ he said, finding his voice.
She hit reverse and then headed out of the car park.
‘Where you gonna go, Tom?’ she asked. Even he wasn’t stupid enough to try and escape her by getting out of a moving vehicle.
‘It’s none of your damn business,’ he raged.
‘Oh, but it is, Tom. The rumours of what happened around that time have followed me too.’
‘It didn’t affect my work,’ he said.
‘Like hell,’ she cried.
‘It had nothing to do with… what happened.’
‘Why are you still lying? It was four-and-a-half-years ago, wasn’t it? Exactly the same time as—’
‘I do not want to talk about this,’ he growled.
‘Oh, but you’re going to,’ she said, turning into a garden centre car park. ‘I’ve questioned everything about that day, Tom. Everything,’ she hissed.
He refused to look at her, and she knew why.
‘Let’s get it out, Tom. You were too rough with that boy. He was fifteen years old and you were pushing him around like a prize fighter.’