Fitchett turned away from the window and looked around. ‘It's the crack. That's all.’
‘That's bollocks, Fitch, and you know it. If that's all it was then you'd be sitting in a bar getting pissed and having a laugh. This is nothing like that. This is just hatred and violence. No, it ain't even that. It's just bullying.’
Fitchett turned back to his window. ‘Yeah, maybe it is. And you know why? ‘Cause everywhere I've ever been with England, I've been treated like shit. Well, fuck that. You might be happy to let some country take the piss with your own, but I'm fucked if I am. And none of these lads are either. If they hate us so much, let's give them something to hate us for.’
‘What the fuck are you on about? All this we're-doing-it- for-England bollocks. I'm as English as you are and there's no way these cunts represent me.’
Fitchett looked at him, a slight sneer on his face. ‘That's the fuckin’ truth.’
Porter slowly shook his head. ‘Maybe I had you all wrong all along. Maybe you're no better than some of those bastards out there.’
‘Don't compare me to those right-wing twats,’ Fitchett replied angrily. ‘If you know anything about me, you know I ain't nothing like that. I don't care if your skin's black, brown, yellow or white as long as your heart is blue. But if you think being proud of my country makes me a racist then yeah, that's what I am.’ He gave Porter a look of disgust and shook his head. ‘Why the fuck am I explaining myself to you?’ He grabbed the door handle and climbed out.
‘That's all I need,’ thought Porter as he watched Fitchett storm off across the car park, ‘him to bottle it now.’ He opened the door and stretched his arms above his head before lifting himself out and lighting a cigarette. He took a long drag and looked at Fitchett who had wandered over to the Mercedes and was talking to Hawkeye. Poor bastard, he almost felt sorry for him.
‘All right Terry?’ He felt an arm on his shoulder and turned his head to find Evans standing behind him. ‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed, ‘you scared the shit out of me!’
Evans laughed, but his hand remained on Porter's shoulder. ‘Listen, sorry about what happened back there. I was bang out of order.’
Porter held up his hand. ‘Forget it, you don't have to explain yourself to me.’
‘Well I don't want you to think that I'm a …’
Porter stopped him. ‘Look Billy, I don't give a fuck. Honestly.’
Evans lowered his arm and gave a single nod of his head to accept the sentiment. Porter looked around; the car park was about two-thirds full, mostly with cars bearing British plates but there were a few coaches, some minibuses and a number of lorries. Yet another football game was underway on the grass and about thirty men were watching and screaming abuse at the players. The atmosphere was good- natured, like a fun-fair without the music.
‘I see the filth are here,’ said Evans, nodding towards the exit where two police cars sat next to each other.
‘Well there's a surprise,’ laughed Porter. ‘I wonder what they're up to.’
Evans gave them a smirk. ‘Don't worry about them, they've got nothing better to do that's all. Not yet anyway.’
A voice shouted out and they turned to see a small group of men walking toward them. ‘Billy, you old cunt. So you made it then?’
Williams avoided the car park and headed towards the petrol station where Steve Parry and Neal White were waiting for them. After introducing Fabio and a brief chat about their respective journeys, Parry pulled out a notebook.
‘Guv, we had a walk round the car park about ten minutes ago. There's some serious lads in there. Most of the ones we saw at the meet in London are here already but there are still a few missing.’ He stole a glance at his watch. ‘Mind you, it's only three thirty now; they've not got to be here till seven.’
Jarvis nodded and looked around nervously. He was well aware that, of the five of them, he was the only one likely to be recognised by anyone other than Terry Porter or Fitchett. After all, he and Billy Evans were old friends. ‘We're wide open here, let's get out the way. Phil, take Neal and get over to that car park. Get every number of every car in there and run a check on it with London. Let's find out who we're dealing with.’
The two DCs went to move but he called them back. ‘Be careful. I don't want to blow this now, all right?’
‘No worries Guv,’ said Williams with a grin and the two of them jumped into the Mondeo and headed for the car park.
The others climbed into the Vauxhall and Fabio directed them over a bridge towards the service area on the other side of the motorway. A small building sat at one end of the car park and Fabio directed them over to it and took them inside. It was, in effect, a small police station for the traffic patrols and contained everything they could possibly need including a cell and, most importantly of all, a shower. However, it was the smell of hot coffee which drew the biggest reaction. Primarily from Steve Parry who hadn't had a hot drink for ages.
‘Help yourself,’ said Fabio. ‘You should take a shower as well. You look like you need it.’
Jarvis looked down at himself. He felt rotten, and could only imagine what he actually looked like. ‘Yeah, I think I will.’
Across the motorway, Porter was beginning to feel very uneasy. The group of men standing around the Mercedes had now grown to around twenty, and as each one had arrived Evans had introduced them to everyone else. But only a few had shook his hand and it was clear that his was not a face some of them welcomed. He had even caught a few comments but hadn't reacted. He'd simply carried on smoking and listening as the others discussed their trip down. If Evans was aware of the growing tension, he certainly hadn't said anything. He was too busy holding court. Waving his arms about and punctuating his conversation with loud belly laughs. Clearly, being the centre of attention agreed with him.
A loud blast on a car horn made them all turn to look as a dark green Mitsubishi Shogun slowed to a stop in the middle of the driveway two rows along from where they were standing, the driver seemingly unconcerned that he'd just blocked access to that part of the car park. Evans walked through the parked cars and warmly shook the hands of the two smartly dressed men who got out. Like most of them, they were in their early thirties and wore an expression of arrogance that seemed strangely disconcerting. After a brief conversation and yet more laughs, the three men left the Shogun and headed for the growing throng. They looked the picture of respectability but as they approached, one of them noticed Porter and, in an instant, the smile vanished from his face. His eyes were fixed, glaring at the only black face for miles. ‘Here Billy, who brought the fucking nigger?’
Porter stood up, let out a deep breath and then looked around. ‘Who me?’ he said, pointing at his chest comically and raising an eyebrow in mock surprise. ‘You mean me?’ Half the group burst out laughing, the others merely smiled, but Porter was well aware that all of them were easing back from him. This wasn't good.
‘Oh, a fucking comic,’ came the reply, and then they were running, covering the last few yards in an instant and lungeing through the crowd at him. He lifted himself up on his toes and began winding himself up for the attack, bobbing around like an amateur boxer on acid. His eyes focused on nothing but the eyes of the two men heading directly at him, their faces showing only rage and hate. The first one flew at him but he side-stepped and used the momentum to throw the body past and into the side of the Mercedes. But the second was too close and, before he could spin around, a punch drove into his back like a sledge hammer, sending shockwaves up his spine and forcing every ounce of breath out of him with a gasp. And then another blow, this time the killer: a steel-capped shoe smashed into his knee and he was down, curling into a ball to avoid the blows and minimise the damage.
But no more came. Just shouting and the rapid-fire scraping of feet on hard tarmac. He waited a second and then lifted his head to see Fitchett standing over him, his right fist clenched in anger and his left arm pointing at his two attackers as they were dragged away shouting and spi
tting like two demented banshees. Porter uncurled himself and tried to stand up but his leg collapsed under him and he fell back down, the thump sending another sharp pain through his back. He was in agony, but that was nothing to the shock and humiliation he felt. He reached down and felt his knee, more to disguise his embarrassment than anything else, and noticed for the first time a tear in his jeans. He pulled the material apart and stared at the small pinpricks of blood peppering his skin. That would sting like crazy later on.
‘Bastards!’ he barked and tried to stand again, this time making it halfway before a pair of arms lifted him to his feet and helped him over to the Mercedes.
‘Get in the motor!’ He looked around and realised it was Fitchett who had lifted him up. ‘Get in the fucking motor, the pigs are over there for fuck's sake.’ He put his hand back and realised the door of the Mercedes was open so he sat down and swung his legs inside, pulling the door closed behind him with a silent thump. Within seconds, a body leant against the window, instinctively shielding it so that no one could see what was happening inside.
‘You all right son?’ He looked up to see Billy Evans leaning over the door on the other side of the car. Porter rubbed his head. The pain was easing slightly and his initial feelings had passed. Now he just felt shocked and aggrieved. It had happened so fast, come from nowhere.
He looked across the car at the face leaning in looking at him. ‘Yeah, I'm OK. Nice lads, friends of yours?’
Evans gave him a wry grin. ‘Pair of wankers. I'll have a word, that was bang out of order that was. You don't fight your own, not on an away trip.’
Porter gave him a frown. ‘Even if they're a nigger?’
Evans paused and turned towards the back seat as Fitchett climbed in and sat behind Porter. ‘I fucking told you, Fitch,’ he said angrily, ‘and don't you say I didn't.’ He pushed the car door shut and walked off.
Fitchett watched him go and then leant forward against the front seat. He looked almost ashamed. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, ‘I should have warned you about those two. They're nasty bastards.’
‘Know them do you?’ asked Porter, vigorously rubbing his knee in an effort to get the blood flowing around it.
‘For years. They're Leeds, Service Crew.’ He stopped talking for a second and then turned his head away to stare out of the window. ‘Listen, you'd better be ready for more of that. I've got a nasty feeling about this.’
Porter stopped rubbing his knee and turned to look at him but his back let him know it wasn't such a good idea and he returned to his original position. ‘And you think I haven't?’
Fitchett started to speak but was interrupted by Hawkeye wrenching open the door and thrusting his head into the car. He looked remarkably clean but was almost scarlet with rage. ‘You all right Terry? Fucking Yorkie bastards! You can't take the wankers anywhere. Listen, you give me the nod, we'll do the cunts later. They're fuck all.’
Porter climbed out and stood up beside him. ‘Forget it Hawkeye,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Just forget it.’ He looked over towards the service area and started limping towards it. ‘I need a slash.’
He had only gone a few steps when Hawkeye appeared beside him, closely followed by Fitchett who looked remarkably sheepish. ‘Come on you fucking cripple, we'll hold it for you. I want to see if all those rumours are true.’
They all laughed out loud and set off towards the service area but Porter was worried. His knee was struggling to take his full weight and if anything happened and he had to run for it later on, he was going to be in big trouble. Jarvis walked out of the shower room rubbing his hair with a towel. ‘Jesus Christ that feels good.’
‘It's all right for some,’ moaned Steve Parry. ‘My gear's in the car on the other side of the bridge.’
Jarvis smiled. ‘Rank has its privileges, Detective Sergeant.’
Parry handed him a cup of coffee and doffed an imaginary cap. ‘Hope that's all right your Lordship.’
Jarvis was about to reply when Parry's mobile rang. ‘Yes Neal… No he can't, he's drying his hair … Yes, that's right, he's drying his hair.’ He looked across at Jarvis but the smile on his face suddenly changed to one of panic. ‘… What! Hang on I'll tell him.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece and lowered the phone from his face. ‘Guv, it looks like we could be in trouble. Neal thinks two of the crew just attacked Terry Porter and gave him a kicking.’
Jarvis ran over and grabbed the phone from his DS. ‘Neal, tell me exactly what happened.’ He listened while Neal White ran through what he had seen and, after thinking for a moment, asked, ‘Have you got those numbers yet? … Then get them over here now. We'll fax them through to London from this office. Forget Terry, you just leave it to me.’ He cancelled the call and looked across at Fabio who was watching them from the other side of the office. ‘Will you contact your lads and ask them to keep an eye on our targets?’
Fabio nodded. ‘Of course.’ He pulled a radio out of his pocket and went to speak but Jarvis suddenly held his hand up to stop him.
‘And can your lads pull our man out for a while?’
The Italian looked puzzled. ‘But why?’ he asked.
‘We have to speak to him and try and find out how he is and if he knows anything.’
Fabio gave him another nod of his head and lifted the radio to his mouth. ‘Which one is he?’
Jarvis gave Steve Parry a fleeting glance and then said, ‘You can't miss him. He's the only black face in the car park.’
‘Heads up lads! Old Bill.’ Hawkeye nodded to his right and Porter turned his head to see that the two Italian police cars which had been sitting idle at the far end of the car park were now threading their way through the rows of parked traffic. He immediately noticed that the men inside the cars were looking directly at the three of them and, judging by the movement in the cars, were about to pull over and get out.
‘Careful lads, stay cool.’ Porter stood up straight and made an extra effort to disguise his limp, but he was suddenly more aware of the tear in his jeans and unconsciously reached down to touch it. Fitchett grabbed him and pulled him up. He was tense. Too tense. They carried on walking and, as he feared, the two cars stopped and four policemen got out. They looked at the three men for a moment and then one of them put on a pair of sunglasses and walked over. He nodded to Porter.
‘What happened to you?’
‘I fell over, playing football.’
‘I don't think so. You were fighting over there.’
‘What me? No officer, I fell playing football … honest.’
The policeman stood there for a moment, a long black stick in his hand. He looked an evil bastard and Porter could feel Hawkeye and Fitchett tensing up. Getting ready, just in case. He felt strangely comforted by that. The policeman suddenly reached up and took off his glasses and instantly the mood relaxed. They could see his eyes, the windows to the soul they called them, and now he wasn't an evil bastard at all. Just a bloke doing a job.
‘Your leg is hurt?’ The three of them looked down at the torn jeans and the graze peeking through.
Porter took a step back and held up his hands. ‘No, it's OK, don't worry.’ But the policeman moved forward and took his arm.
‘No, you come with us, we will ‘er …’ he smiled as he struggled for the right words. ‘Erm, doctor yes? Over the bridge.’
Porter turned and looked at Hawkeye who flashed a look at the two police cars. They were clearly getting agitated by the time this was taking.
‘You better go Terry, just get them to bring you back sharpish that's all.’ He patted him on the shoulder and took a step backwards.
‘Don't worry, I'll go with him.’ Porter turned as Fitchett moved forward and placed an arm around his back. ‘Just to make sure he comes back.’ The policeman looked puzzled for a moment and then Porter suddenly realised what was happening.
‘It's OK,’ he said, barely disguising the sense of urgency in his voice. ‘That's OK.’ He caught the eye of the Italian policeman who no
dded and ushered them over to the two cars. Within a few moments, they were out of the car park and heading across the bridge. Hawkeye watched them go and then turned and walked briskly back towards the others.
Jarvis handed Terry Porter a cup of coffee and gave him a nervous grin. He looked a sight. Dirty, unshaven and sitting on a table with his trousers round his ankles as Neal White knelt in front of him and cleaned the wound on his leg.
‘I wish I had a camera. I could make a bloody fortune with a picture of that.’
The others burst out laughing, but Jarvis just smiled. He hadn't really considered the full implications for his man and he suddenly felt very guilty. ‘Look Terry, if it's getting too heavy then you're out mate. You can't play games with this lot, it's just not worth the risk.’
Porter looked up at him and grinned. He heard what Jarvis was saying but knew what he was really doing, applying pressure. Putting the onus on him, absolving himself of responsibility if anything happened, he'd done it before. Porter shook his head and took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Forget it, we've come all this way and I'm not pulling out. Not yet.’
Jarvis nodded and smiled. He looked across at Fitchett who was leaning against the wall by the door. ‘You OK?’
Fitchett grunted and folded his arms as Neal White stood up and admired his handiwork. A tight, white bandage covered the wound, but on Porter's black leg it looked quite hilarious. He stood there and looked down at it.
‘A few more of them and I'll look like a bloody piano.’ His knee still felt dodgy but better than before. He tested his weight on it a few times and, when he felt satisfied, pulled up his trousers and sat back down on the table. ‘Listen Guv, the truth is I've got nothing to tell you. He's given nothing away at all.’
Jarvis let out a sigh and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘So what are you saying then?’ Porter shrugged his shoulders. ‘It looks to me like they're going in to kick this off, just like he's always said.’
Jarvis walked around the room for a moment and then looked at Fitchett. ‘Well?’