and hideouts‚ along with a detailed description of the man that the world’s authorities had‚ previously‚ had no knowledge of. After that it had been out of Qasim’s hands. It should have been enough. Yet they had still failed to locate and capture The Teacher.
Robinson concluded there were doubts about the legitimacy of the intelligence‚ and he’d been quick to voice his judgement. It didn’t sit comfortably with him that Qasim clearly had mixed emotions in what was asked of him. Robinson refused to let anyone who was sympathetic to the beliefs of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris continue working for the Secret Service. It had muddied the waters further when Qasim’s relationship with The Teacher came to light.
At the time‚ and despite advice‚ Robinson could only see one way‚ when he should have been seeing it the other way.
‘Javid Qasim?’ Lawrence questioned‚ though he had already formed the conversation in his head.
Robinson finally turned and locked eyes with Lawrence. ‘We can still use him.’
Lawrence nodded. ‘I’ll talk to him. Get him back on board.’
From the drinks cabinet‚ Robinson poured himself a large whiskey and a smaller one for Lawrence. He strode across and handed the drink over and sat down opposite him. Robinson leant back‚ an arm draped across the Italian leather two-seater that he’d insisted on having in his office‚ and crossed his legs. The arrogance that had been missing‚ as they repeatedly failed to capture The Teacher‚ was returning.
‘No‚’ Robinson said. ‘That’s not what I had in mind.’
Dean Kramer leaned his bulk against the back of his rusty old Range Rover. Like him‚ it carried battle scars‚ and like him it was still strong. He slipped out a Greggs sausage roll from a paper bag and proceeded to cut it in half with the first bite. In front of him‚ Kramer looked out at the scene on Hounslow High Street. A group of forty or so Asian youths‚ shuffling feet‚ a bundle of nerves and anticipation‚ being held back by metal barriers and Police. Nothing had kicked off‚ it hardly ever does at these things‚ but they had to make their presence felt. Opposite them‚ outside what used to be Dixons‚ now a discount store‚ St George and Union Jack flags flew high above a fifty-strong gathering of white faces‚ mainly men‚ holding signs and placards that read Taking back our country or words to that effect. They were led by a red-headed woman who Kramer knew well. With her she had her weapons of choice: a microphone‚ and a voice she wasn’t afraid to use.
This was the third time this week that Kramer had watched Eve Carver and the rest of the faces. First in Leytonstone and then in Slough‚ before moving onto Hounslow. All areas heavily populated with Muslims.
He watched Carver bring the microphone to her mouth and clear her throat. It came out loud and crisp through the large box speaker. One of the Asians shouted something unoriginally offensive at her. A copper shook his head at him and he quietened down. Kramer took the second and final bite out of his sausage roll as she started.
‘I went to the supermarket today. I thought I’d do a little experiment. I counted thirty tills. Twenty-eight of them were manned by brown faces.’ She paused. She smiled. She continued. ‘Isn’t that strange? It’s strange to me. And it’s not just our supermarkets. Step into any hospital and chances are you’ll be treated by a brown doctor. Step into any school and chances are your child is being taught by a brown teacher. Have you asked yourself‚ what are they teaching our children?’
‘What are you teaching our children?’ an elderly Asian man‚ who had stopped to watch‚ countered. His small voice was lost in the commotion as his wife hurriedly ushered him away.
‘Take a look at our council‚ our government. The Mayor of Hounslow is a Muslim. The Mayor of London is a Muslim. Every day‚ five times a day‚ I hear the Islamic cries for Prayers. They are not adhering to our laws. We are adhering to theirs. Believe me‚ Sharia Law is spreading like the sickest of diseases. Here. In our country. In our England.’
Kramer yawned‚ loud and wide. He’d heard this or a variation of this three times already this week‚ and a hundred times before. This little show would be filmed and plastered over Social Media. Their profile would increase. Their numbers would increase. If they were lucky‚ a fight may break out and they would find themselves in one of the local papers. National even. But ultimately not a thing will change. Kramer wasn’t here for that.
He tuned out as Carver moved onto All Muslims are complicit in Terrorism‚ and scanned the crowd. The two young lads weren’t difficult to find. Black bomber jackets‚ skinny black jeans and red Doctor Marten Boots. They were the reason that Kramer was there.
He placed a call to Terry Rose.
‘Rose.’ Kramer sat in his car to block out the noise. ‘They’re both here.’
‘Course they are‚’ Rose replied. ‘You talked to them‚ yet?’
‘About to.’ Kramer glanced in his rear-view mirror. The two lads were mouthing off at the Pakis‚ intent and anger burning brightly in their faces‚ hands balled into tight fists‚ ready to fly. There was a third with them‚ younger‚ dressed the same‚ but looking painfully out of place. He stood close by and tried to imitate them but Kramer could see that he did not hold the same passion. ‘There’s another with them.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t know. He’s been hanging around them all week. Could be a friend.’
‘Alright. Suss him out‚ and call it‚’ Rose said.
Kramer ended the call. Brushed the crumbs from the sausage roll off his face and stepped out of the car just as the demonstration was dying down. He approached one of the lads that he knew by name and reputation only.
Kramer stood beside him. ‘Simon Carpenter.’
Simon‚ his thick arms crossed‚ his face set like flint‚ stared at what was left of the dwindling Asian group as they started to disperse‚ to his satisfaction.
‘Look at them go‚’ Simon said‚ eyes forward. ‘Off to plot. To plan. We’re not careful‚ they’ll bring this country down to its knees.’ Simon turned to look at Kramer. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
Kramer‚ a few inches over six foot‚ was taller and wider than Simon. But not by much. Simon was built like no other eighteen-year-old. The other lad joined them. Kramer knew him as Anthony Hanson. He was taller than his friend‚ but he didn’t carry the bulk. Taut‚ wiry‚ and handy with his fists. Had a history of substance abuse. Kramer had done his homework.
‘Anthony Hanson.’ Kramer smiled‚ producing crooked teeth.
Anthony gave him the once-over and then looked across at Simon. ‘Who the fuck is this guy?’
‘I’d like a word‚’ Kramer said.
*
In the absence of a coffee shop close by‚ Kramer took them to a dessert lounge
