Shepherd opened his mouth but words failed him.
‘One of the men Yilmaz got a passport for was working with Abdelhamid Abaaoud and died with him. We don’t know for sure what his role was in the Paris attacks, but I do know this, Daniel. If Yilmaz had given us those names earlier, we might have known what was being planned. And if we’d known about it, maybe, just maybe, the French could have stopped it. As it is, Yilmaz played a part in the murder of a hundred and thirty innocent civilians in France. A small part, perhaps, but a part nonetheless. So you won’t find me shedding a tear over his demise. I feel bad for his family, but the guilt for that lies on his shoulders, not mine.’
He held out his hand and Shepherd gave the papers back to him.
‘I get that you’re not happy about what happened to Yilmaz but you need to remember two things. One, he brought it upon himself. And two, we have yet to see how many of the Islamic State fighters have come our way. Because all the signs are that what happened in Paris is going to happen here and if it does …’ He left the sentence unfinished and put the papers back into his coat. He took another drag on his cigar, then flicked ash onto the grass. ‘I have to say I resent the way you spoke to me, but I understand your frustration and I’ll let it pass this time.’ He flashed Shepherd a cold smile. ‘Consider this a yellow card, Daniel.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now, as much as I enjoy open-air chats, we’ll have to end it here. We need to talk again soon because the results from your psych evaluation are in, but not today.’ He tossed the remains of his cigar away. ‘And I’ll need an update on the O’Neill operation at some point.’ With that he turned and set off towards the MI6 building.
It was only when Shepherd was walking out of the park that he realised Willoughby-Brown had been expecting his outburst. Why else would he have been carrying the details of the Cologne rape and the Paris terrorist attack in his coat? He cursed under his breath, annoyed with Willoughby-Brown but even more annoyed with himself.
Shepherd had just microwaved himself a Marks & Spencer ready-meal when his Terry Taylor phone rang. It was Paul Evans. ‘How’s it going, mate?’ asked Evans.
‘All good,’ said Shepherd.
‘What are you up to?’
‘Just about to tuck into sausage and mash,’ said Shepherd.
‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers,’ said Evans. ‘I’ll pick you up outside in half an hour.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
Evans laughed. ‘Bit of both.’ He ended the call.
Shepherd finished his meal, drank a coffee and was outside on the pavement five minutes before Evans pulled up in his Range Rover. There was another man sitting in the front passenger seat and Shepherd climbed into the back. ‘This is Billy,’ said Evans.
Billy twisted around in his seat and shook hands with Shepherd. He was in his late twenties with close-cropped blond hair and a strong jaw. ‘How’s it going?’ He had a strong Belfast accent.
‘Billy’s over from Ireland for a few days,’ said Evans.
‘Yeah?’ said Shepherd, settling back in his seat and trying to work out what was going on.
‘He used to work for me but missed the old country too much,’ said Evans.
Billy laughed. ‘Yeah, that’ll be right. My ma’s getting on and she wants me close by.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Shepherd.
‘No, she’s fine. Fit as a fiddle. But my sister’s in Chicago and my brother’s out in Australia so I’m all she’s got. My da passed away a few years back.’
‘Where are your family, Terry?’ asked Evans.
‘My dad walked out when I was a kid,’ said Shepherd. ‘My mum died when I was a teenager.’
‘Brothers? Sisters?’
‘I was an accident. Dad married Mum when he got her pregnant, then walked out when he decided he didn’t want to be a father. Or a husband.’ The Terry Taylor background was second nature to Shepherd – it had to be so that it sounded completely natural whenever he talked about it.
‘Still, you turned out all right,’ said Evans.
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘I guess.’ They were heading east, staying south of the river. ‘So, what’s the story, Paul?’
‘Collecting some money we’re owed,’ said Evans. ‘This is just a chat but I needed back-up.’
‘I’m not carrying,’ said Shepherd.
‘Bloody hell, Terry, chill,’ laughed Evans. ‘It’s a chat. If it was going to be heavy I’d have told you.’
They drove through Camberwell and on to Peckham, where Evans parked the Range Rover across the road from a large pub. The three men climbed out. ‘You’ll get a kick out of this,’ said Evans, patting Shepherd on the back. They walked to the pub’s entrance where two huge men with shaved heads and spider-web tattoos on their necks were standing guard. A wooden blackboard had been set up at the side of the door: CLOSED FOR PRIVATE FUNCTION.
‘Paul, long time no see,’ said one of the men. He held out his hand and Evans shook it. Then they bumped shoulders. Evans introduced Shepherd and the man nodded but didn’t offer to shake hands.
‘What time’s he on?’ asked Evans.
‘Eleven,’ said the bouncer. ‘He’s coming in the back way, through the kitchen. You know how it works. If the lefty tree-huggers know he’s around they’ll be out like flies around shit.’
Shepherd and Billy followed Evans inside. It was an oblong room with a bar running pretty much its full length. At the far end there was a raised stage with a large-screen TV on the wall, flanked by flags bearing the cross of St George. A banner reading ENGLAND RULES had been strung above the television. The bar was almost full and customers three deep were fighting to attract the attention of the half-dozen bar staff.
Evans jerked a thumb at the bar. ‘Get them in, Billy,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a beer.’
‘Me too,’ said Shepherd.
Evans headed to the bar. ‘So why are we here?’ Shepherd asked him. He gestured to the crowd at the bar. They were mainly young men in bomber jackets with shaved heads and tattoos. ‘Not your sort of place, I’d have thought.’
Evans grinned and gestured at the stage. ‘I’m here to talk to the guy they’ve come to see,’ he said. ‘Simon Page. You heard of him?’
Shepherd had. In fact, a few years earlier, he’d seen the man in action. Back then Page had been deputy chairman and chief fundraiser for an anti-immigration organisation called England First. Shepherd had been undercover and had gone along to a meeting with Jimmy Sharpe. ‘England First, right?’
Evans nodded. ‘Used to be. He’s set up his own group now.’ He pointed at the sign. ‘England Rules. He borrowed some money from Tommy to set the thing up.’ Before Evans could say anything else there was a cheer at the far end of the room as two men in shiny black bomber jackets opened a door. They were followed by Simon Page. His chestnut hair had greyed at the temples since Shepherd had seen him. He was wearing an immaculate double-breasted suit and a red and blue striped tie. Behind him, a younger man in a blue blazer and grey trousers was carrying an aluminium briefcase.
The whole pub was cheering now and a group of skinheads in olive combat jackets and cherry red Dr Martens boots began chanting Page’s name. Page stepped onto the stage and raised his arms, smiling broadly. The man in the blazer had sat down at the side of the stage and taken a laptop computer from the case. He opened it and plugged a wire into the USB slot.
Another man, older and wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, stepped onto the stage holding a microphone. He put up a hand for quiet. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming out this evening to listen to our guest. He needs no introduction. He’s a true patriot, a man who believes in his country and who is prepared to fight for it. Listen to what he has to say, and dig into your pockets to give whatever you can to support him.’ He held out his hand to Page. The two men shook. ‘So, ladies and gentlemen, I present Simon Page.’
The crowd cheered and applauded as the man handed the microphone to Page and stepped off the stage. Page stood with his feet shoulder width apart, his chin up, as he basked in the adulation. He stood still and waited for the crowd to fall quiet. Only then did he put the microphone to his mouth. ‘I’m proud to be English,’ he said. ‘I’m proud of this country and I’m proud of the people of this country. Are you? Are you proud to be English?’
The crowd roared and cheered. Page smiled and waited for the noise to subside.
‘There’s a lot to be proud of,’ he said. ‘The English have fought and died for this country. My own grandfather died fighting Germany, and so did his brother. They gave their lives for the freedoms we have today. But the England they fought and died for doesn’t exist any more.’
He nodded at the man in the blazer, who tapped on the laptop keyboard. A picture flashed up of a London street scene, some time in the 1940s or 1950s. It was in black-and-white. People were standing at a bus stop. It was drizzling and most were carrying umbrellas. The men wore long coats and hats, the women skirts, with hats or headscarves. A double-decker bus had pulled up and a man was standing to the side to let a woman get on first. ‘This is the London they died for,’ said Page.
He waved at the man in the blazer and the image changed. It was a view of present-day London. A street market. Everyone in the picture was Asian or black. All of the women were wearing burkas. ‘This is London today, my friends. And if my grandfather and his brother saw this, they’d be spinning in their graves!’
A group of skinheads at the front began shouting at the screen. ‘Fucking Pakis! Paki bastards!’
Page walked over the stage towards them and wagged a finger at them. ‘No lads!’ he shouted. ‘No insults! Name-calling gets us nowhere!’
The skinheads fell silent. Page continued to talk directly to them.
‘The days of free speech in this country are long gone,’ he said. ‘The powers that be are taking away the freedoms that my grandfather and his brother died protecting. You can’t abuse them because of their colour or their nationality. You use words like that in a public place and the police can and will arrest you. So, no name-calling! And remember that actions speak louder than words!’
The skinheads began shouting, ‘ENG-ER-LUND,’ at the tops of their voices and Page strutted around the stage, pumping his fist into the air.
When the cheering subsided, he pointed at the picture on the screen. ‘How did we get to this place?’ he asked his audience. ‘How did we go from a London where everyone was English to a London where there are no white faces? How did that happen?’
‘Immigration!’ shouted someone behind Shepherd.
Page nodded. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Immigration. So let’s talk about immigration, shall we?’
A picture flashed up on the screen behind Page and he turned to look at it. It showed a group of Asians behind a wire fence. ‘You know what this is?’ he asked, turning to face his audience. ‘That’s the border between Syria and Turkey. What do you see?’ He turned back to the screen and began pointing at faces. ‘Women,’ he said. ‘Old women, mothers, young girls. Families. Men holding toddlers, women clutching babies.’ He looked back at the audience. ‘That is what refugees look like, my friends. Families fleeing for their lives. And what do refugees do when they reach safety?’
The picture changed. It was a refugee camp. It wasn’t the one that Shepherd had visited because the tents were smaller and arranged haphazardly. There were families gathered in groups and children everywhere, many of them smiling at the camera. ‘They thank their God that they’re safe and they set about making a life for themselves. That’s what thousands of Syrian refugees are doing in Turkey. It’s the country next door, plenty of mosques for them, plenty of people who are just like them. Good schools, reasonable hospitals, and it’s safe. So safe that my sister-in-law went there on holiday last year with her family. She had a great time.’
He looked back at the screen and another picture flashed up, this one of a beach packed with holidaymakers lying under striped beach umbrellas. ‘This is Turkey,’ said Page. ‘People pay good money to go there on holiday and, from what my sister-in-law says, they have a ball.’ The picture changed. A group of holidaymakers in a bar, raising their wine glasses. Another picture. Holidaymakers around a swimming pool being served drinks by beaming waiters. ‘Turkey is generally safe, it’s prosperous, the people are friendly. And if the bureaucrats in Strasbourg get their way, Turkey will be joining the EU sooner rather than later. So, if you were a refugee, wouldn’t you stay there? Maybe as a stop-gap until things improve back home, or maybe apply for Turkish citizenship? That’s what refugees would do, right?’
He waved at the screen and the picture changed.
The image was of a rubber dinghy packed with Asian families wearing bright orange lifejackets. A man was holding the tiller of a small outboard motor. ‘So, why do these so-called refugees pay traffickers for places on boats like this to get from Turkey to Greece? Turkey is a safe haven. Turkey will give them a place to live, food and medical treatment. But that isn’t good enough for them. They want more. They want to be in Europe. So they put their families in leaky boats and risk the lives of their children to sail to Greece. But even Greece isn’t good enough for them.’
The picture changed again. The new one was of hundreds of Asian men walking through farmland. It could have been Hungary, Bosnia maybe.
‘Now look at this picture,’ said Page. ‘What do you see? Do you see families? Do you see children? What do you see? Fit, healthy men, that’s what I see. Men who could be fighting for their country. But what are they doing?’ He turned to point his finger at the screen. ‘I’ll tell you what they’re doing. Some of them are heading for Germany because they’ve been told they’re welcome there. But most of them are on their way here. They want to come to England, because in England we’ll give them a house and money and expect nothing in return.’ There were jeers from the crowd and he turned back to them. ‘These are not refugees. Refugees would have stayed in Turkey. If they were refugees and wanted to be in Europe, they could have stayed in Greece.’ He waved at the screen. ‘Here they’re in Hungary. A perfectly safe country. Are they stopping there? No. Why? Because they’re not refugees. They’re migrants. The idea that these people are refugees, fleeing for their lives, is bollocks. Do they look scared? Are they running? Do they look like they’re starving?’