‘Why would it matter which one it was?’
Normally she’d address a challenge like that while it was still fresh but the look in the eyes opposite causes a warning light to flicker in her brain. Motivation is crucial to future assistance here so, lowering her voice to a murmur, she goes to explain.
‘Well, while there’s never a single set of rules absolutely everybody will love it’s our job to ensure no one marches off to war over ʼem isn’t it?’
She makes as if it’s down to the two of them alone to keep the streets peaceful whereas, as she’s perfectly aware, the police have responsibility for maintaining law and order. Although parading a sign sounds innocuous, it may indicate the guy in question has a coordination role. Her department is yet to append any photos to what she read earlier but related activities always need following up.
‘U-huh. Well it was that geezer from Class War’ comes the clarifier. ‘Prancing up and down as if he’s on a fucking catwalk. Grinning like he’s that monster outta Alice in Wonderland. Oh, what’s its name again?’
She twigs both identifications though responds only to the latter.
‘You’re maybe thinking of the Cheshire Cat?’
‘That’s the one. Well maybe not exactly a monster but when I was a kid it used to scare the shit outta me, up there in its tree. I used to love that Mad Hatter character, mind. Me and my brothers fair begged our mum to let us have a tea party like him but she wouldn’t have a bar of it and …’
Subtly she once again steers things back.
‘No, it definitely weren’t ʼcos of [Sam] that the looting started. His banner said nothing at all, just “Stick your poll tax up your arse” or some bollocks like that. Anyway, first to go is the window pretty much direct across the road. And before you can say Bob’s-your-uncle heaps more have been popped out and everyone’s shoplifting like lunatics.’
‘Helping themselves to their equal share eh?’
‘Out of order really if you ask me. Crapping on shopkeepers merely trying to earn a crust. Anyway …’
In her mind she ticks another box, relieved that these latest events don’t seem to have increased the risk of unleashing a loose cannon into already-volatile streets.
‘Friend of mine tells me later, he’s on his way to join us when he sees some of the Militant lot stepping homewards with armfuls of gear.’
At times the district in question has housed people possessing a casual attitude towards law-breaking in pursuit of their political ends; for her, certain brethren from Militant Tendency or Red Action spring easily to mind. As do some of the anarchists who washed up there two years ago after being evicted from the Stamford Hill squats a couple of miles along the road. The most ideologically-driven had subsequently decided that the Rage network, whose offices she visited earlier this week, were too wishy-washy and had therefore continued their diaspora into other movements. Today being the second anniversary of the Stamford Hill expulsion, the instruction came from the top floor to arrange meetings with all key informants. This afternoon is her final attempt to gauge whether related threats should be expected, so she goes to clarify.
‘Heading onto the Trelawney?’
‘No, not if you’re talking about that estate over the road from town hall. My guy lives top of Mile End so I guess he meant the one further away again. You know, down towards the gas works. What’s it called?’
‘The Waterloo?’
‘Yep that sounds right.’
‘So did you clock any of the Rage lot out last night as well?’
Their proximity means some of the co-operative will undoubtedly have participated in the Hackney protest, but what she’s listening for is mention of sub-group members on her watch lists.
‘Only the guy with the baldy head we saw on Monday remember? Which isn’t to say there weren’t a few more. Like I say it was utter bedlam.’
҉
After completing the lengthy debrief, apparently without attracting interest from the occasional face drifting through the area, she issues new targeting orders then proposes they go and grab a drink.
The pub on Railton Road offers a more relaxed environment, letting her learn more of the person opposite her than has been made available to her. Their chat also proves a good test for her cover legend when she’s obliged to field, at times to deflect inevitable questions about herself. It’s past nine o’clock when her contact spots some acquaintances entering. She can check later who they are so, citing an exhausting week and the need to be elsewhere, excuses herself before introductions are required. In fact she has far from told a lie as, every month or so, she enjoys a night out in nearby Brixton.
|| If it isn’t Margo. Welcome back. Which of your rat runs will we be using today I wonder? ||
Rather than using the main Herne Hill crossroads to pass under the railway lines, a sudden sensation makes her choose instead to duck across the street and into the station tunnel. At the kiosk she pauses to buy some mints, only to be held up dredging the corners of her bag for the loose change she accumulates there. Upon reaching the end of the cut-through she turns left before powering up the slope and along a straightish stretch of Milkwood Road. By staying left she’s sandwiched between the train tracks and oncoming Friday evening traffic as it snails towards her. Keeping her chin down, she’s happy to leave the dazzling headlights for anyone behind as she goes to cross. After a bend she wheels right, relieved to be leaving behind all the clamour and beam. By the time she reaches a T-junction and begins to negotiate a maze of quiet back streets her stride is more leisurely.
Now she allows herself to reflect how, on Tuesday morning, she’d hastened into the office. And how, standing barely inside Duncan’s door, she had given him a potted account of the previous evening in Shacklewell - frequent updates in person as well as filed reports being the trade-off for them being handed so much day-to-day autonomy - before dashing to the safe to retrieve her copy of the mysterious note.
Unlike earlier efforts at discovering any crossover with Operation STOAT, this time she’d quickly solved the rest of the opening line. Having already established that the Hadley mentioned was the club promoter, it was how she’d been approaching the digits which had been misleading her. As things turned out these had nothing to do with car registration plates, rifles or anything similar. Ironically, while she herself had carefully transcribed all the details, it was her colleague who had jotted them down in a slapdash manner. The numbers were therefore dates – tonight’s club visit was the ninth of March, that’s to say The FRI(d)G(e) on 9.3. And his handwriting had simply conflated this with another date – it had of course been the 3RD of the month when they’d had their encounter at The ASToria had taken place.
Despite her best attempts, the second line continued to elude her however. She was unable to interpret the reference to AV Piper nor establish whether he was a monk or perhaps held some connection with one. What’s more it appeared all official checks had so far been fruitless, but in their line of work this was common so not especially disheartening.
Cutting across a park near the hospital where Charlie would soon come off shift, Margo is excited at what tonight will bring.
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