by Lee Wood
In his early life, Dave started out selling dodgy motors, then moved into selling fake designer goods and finally to dealing in cannabis and soft drugs. Things hadn’t always gone according to plan as over the years he’d been arrested for a number of crimes including burglary, robbery, assault, arson and drug dealing. In truth, it’s a much longer list, but luckily for Dave the evidence wasn’t strong enough on many occasions.
Twelve years ago, he started selling cannabis and the real money came in. Things had gone well for two years until he got caught up in a police sting operation and was found with drugs in his car. When the case went to court, he was convicted of supplying drugs, but his highly paid and skilful barrister managed to persuade the judge that it really wasn’t his client’s fault and, if given this ‘very last chance’, Dave would change his ways. He got away with a two-year suspended sentence.
So Dave has never yet enjoyed the delights of prison food. Not that it would change him. It’s far easier to make money illegally than to carve out an honest living. Crime does pay. In fact, it pays extremely well.
After such a close encounter, he vowed it would be the last time the police would be able to pin anything on him. He decided that in future he would find other people to carry the drugs for him. If someone was going to get caught it certainly wasn’t going to be him.
As things progressed he’d moved up the chain from selling to street dealers and had started buying in larger quantities and selling to the local wholesalers. Then after four years, in response to his customers’ repeated requests for harder drugs, he found a London contact and that’s when his illegal activities really took off.
His problem was that all his cash income needed to be laundered and turned into clean money if he didn’t want to attract attention from the police and the taxman.
His London contacts had offered him advice so over the years he’d opened three legitimate businesses to make it look like these gave him the income to support his luxurious lifestyle.
Dave’s thoughts are interrupted by the voice of the air stewardess as she brings him his meal. Rushing round all day, he hasn’t had time to eat properly so he is happy to see her standing there with his order of spicy Green Thai curry and his second glass of wine.
Thinking about his meal, Dave is reminded how a few years back a friend had told him how much money could be made in the food business. So when he heard about a takeaway kebab shop where the owner wanted a fast cash sale, a quick deal was done. To help promote the business, he had people put large posters all the way along Mill Road. A rival takeaway owner made the mistake of threatening to tear them down, so the first thing Dave did was to smash his rival’s shop windows after they had closed for the night.
When this failed to stop the owner of Tasty Kebabs from complaining, Dave visited his shop in the early hours of the morning, ran a hose through the letterbox, poured petrol in and set light to it. Luckily a passer-by noticed the fire and dialled 999.
In his report to the police, the Fire Brigade Chief stated that ‘It was a miracle none of the people in the upstairs flat were killed or seriously injured.’ In his notes, he detailed that ‘Five minutes later and there would have been fatalities.’
That same night, the shop owner received a note through the letterbox of his home saying, “Keep quiet or your house will be next.” He was too frightened to go to the police.
A similar thing happened with Dave’s first business, Trent Taxis, when he got his control room to listen in on the radio calls of his main rivals, Cresta Cabs, and sent his taxis to arrive before theirs to steal their fares.
When the two brothers who ran Cresta went to see Dave about this, he and three of his accomplices beat them up, put them in the boot of an old taxi, and ceremoniously dumped them, battered and bruised, on the pavement outside their own taxi office.
The next day, Dave phoned them and made an offer to buy their business for half its true value. When they refused to do so, they started getting messages from an untraceable pay-as-you-go mobile with photos of their wives and children saying things like, “Whoops. Almost ran over your daughter as she left school today.”
After two weeks of constant messages and late night silent phone calls to their homes, the two brothers had enough and sold the business to Dave.
A traffic warden who had once given him a ticket was attacked the next day. Someone came at the man from behind, put an iron bar across his head, and then jumped on his knees.
Two years later, he is still recovering and unlikely to ever work again.
Dave was questioned about the incident but a lack of evidence meant he could not be charged. He had an alibi: he was with three friends on their way to the races. The ‘friends’ were quite happy to lie about it in court. It made for a good laugh in the pub afterwards.
Dave is aware he is dreaming again. The plane is due to land in less than fifteen minutes. As he sips his glass of wine, he allows himself a smile about his third business – purchasing a launderette to help launder the cash generated from his drug-dealing operation. The irony isn’t lost on him.
As he finishes his wine, he thinks about the moment the plane will start its descent into the airport from where he will make his way to his beautiful villa in La Manga. He can relax now.
Once he’s had a good night’s rest and spent some time soaking up the sun he will set about thinking up new ways to ensure the tax authorities and police believe the top-of-the-range Mercedes, the luxury foreign villa and the expensive lifestyle are funded entirely from his honest endeavours.
It is a nice problem to have but Dave needs to find places to hide the ever-increasing amounts of cash coming in from his expanding drug dealing and prostitution ring. Dave Rex, once just a petty crook, is now a player in the big league, and he has even more ambitious plans for the future.
And woe betide anyone who gets in his way.
Chapter Three
JAMES
After the funerals, the next eight months became a blur as I hit the drink.
In the beginning, friends tried to help but I couldn’t bear to see them so eventually they gave up trying. I just wanted to be left alone.
I stopped caring about my appearance. The only time I ventured out was to the local corner shop for cheap whisky. A bottle or two a day. Probably more? I lost count. And the odd tin of soup. Most days I just lounged around the house until the alcohol numbed the pain, and quite often things weren’t helped by the return of the migraine headaches I’d suffered as a child.
To be honest, I really didn’t care if I lived or died.
Bills went unpaid as I couldn’t be bothered to deal with anything. I do recall the letters the mortgage company kept sending but I told myself I would deal with them later, which turned into the next day and the next. Finally, after eight months of ‘tomorrows’, I guess they’d had enough and repossessed the house. I can’t say I blame them.
One morning at around seven thirty am, there was a loud thumping on the front door. I staggered from the front room sofa, where I’d drunkenly passed out the night before, to find three burly men who informed me they were court bailiffs. One was holding a piece of paper and explained it was an eviction order. The guy holding the paperwork was sympathetic but told me straight. “It’s the court’s decision. There’s nothing we can do. My advice is to grab some clothes and anything you need, put it all in a suitcase and go and put yourself at the mercy of a friend or relative until you get things sorted. I’ll give you a few minutes, but that’s all I can do.”
I couldn’t even find a suitcase, so I left thirty-two Langham Close with the clothes I stood up in and a black bag filled with the first items of clothing I could lay my hands on. I also took my most precious possession: an almost full bottle of whisky.
As I walked away leaving everything I possessed behind me, even in my hungover state I could feel the chill of the January air and went back and grabbed my thick overcoat from the hall. As I walked back down the path and reached the road I
noticed a locksmith’s van draw up. There was no chance of sneaking back in later when they’d gone.
Being drunk before most people have finished their breakfast makes you feel indestructible. It leaves you vulnerable. I really hadn’t thought it through. I left my mobile, although nobody would take my calls anyway, and I left my keyring with photos of those I treasured. I also left my dignity behind.
As the drink wore off, it was replaced with both fear and the reality of my situation; I was on the streets with nowhere to call home and no address to return to.
By mid-morning the whisky bottle was empty. The cold air had made my nose run and as I searched my coat pockets for a tissue I found a ten-pound note and some loose change left from a purchase I’d long forgotten about. The two local pubs had barred me weeks earlier, so my next stop was the local corner shop where I’d spent so much on booze I should probably have owned the place.
As if the day hadn’t already been shitty enough, I’ll never forget going up to the counter clutching a bottle of cheap booze and noticing the newspaper headline telling me David Bowie had died.
With my next drink of the day, I raised my bottle to him.
R.I.P. Starman.
My unexpected bonus wouldn’t run to a second bottle, so I headed towards the town centre to find a cash machine to extract some money. However, it seemed Barclays had other ideas as both the credit cards I put in didn’t return. All I got was a brief message, something about the bank needing to retain them.
And it wasn’t even lunchtime.
I needed somewhere to think things over, so I headed for the local park and found a bench. It must have been especially reserved for me as no one else wanted to use it.
After about an hour, a Police Community Support Officer passed by. “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t stay here. You’ll need to move.” He was probably only a few days into the job and yet there he was telling me, a former police detective, what to do. At that moment, my brain took it in. Former. A past-tense word. I wasn’t sure if this was reality or a nightmare from which I would soon wake up.
As I pissed my pants, and the initial warmth of the trickle turned to discomfort, I knew the answer. Welcome to a new kind of theme park – reality land.
Thoughts were running around in my head: Where could I go? How would I pass the hours? What would I do after the shops closed? Where would I spend the night? Where could I get food? Where was my next drink coming from?
I’d gone from a highly respected Detective Inspector to a down-and-out homeless drunk. Well done, James!
But if I thought things had hit rock bottom, boy, was I in for a nasty surprise.
I didn’t know it yet, but this was only the beginning.
Lucky me!
Chapter Four
JAMES
The shop opposite where I’m sitting is a jewellers, and above the name of ‘Hurst & Co., established in 1923’, is a large brass clock with Roman numerals. It’s exactly 5.55pm now. I’ll give it till six. If I don’t get any more ‘donations’, I’ll wander up to the spot near the Market Square cash machine. I once got five pounds from an elderly couple who took pity on me. That’s the most I’ve ever been given in one go.
I’m about to leave when a young man I recognise as someone who often leaves me a donation, walks past without so much as a glance. Suddenly, he stops, turns round, walks back, and drops me a two-pound coin. “There you go, mate. Buy yourself a Lotto ticket. It’s a jackpot tonight – you might get lucky.” As he walks away he turns and gives me a nice smile and a ‘good luck’ thumbs up sign.
Two or three times a week he’ll drop me a fifty pence or a pound coin and once or twice he’s even handed me a sandwich and hot coffee. He appears to be in his late twenties. Perhaps he’d spent time on the streets when he was younger? Whatever the reason, I’m grateful to him.
I now have a total of three pounds as just after ‘Lotto Boy’, a young girl, obviously on her way home from working in either an office or shop, drops twenty pence and with a soft voice says, “I’m sorry, it’s all I can spare.” Thank you, whoever you are. I’ll take whatever I can get and I’m grateful to you for speaking to me like a human being. The thing is, some days this spot can be good and I end up with between ten and fifteen pounds but today, even before the weather took a turn for the worse, no one seems to be noticing me, or at least they pretend not to. One of the worst things is people avoiding eye contact. If you don’t want to give me money, I’ll settle for a smile.
The clock above Hurst & Co. has just chimed six times and the doorway doesn’t provide a great deal of protection. When the wind picks up, the rain comes down at an angle, and it’s difficult to shelter. So I’ve decided, all things considered, now might be a good time to try a new spot and I walk up to the cash machine on the Market Square.
Taking this route leads me along Market Street. Most of the shops are closed at this time of night, apart from Tindall’s convenience store, which is open until eleven pm.
I walk slower nowadays. My shoes are developing holes, my socks rub my feet and besides, I’m not exactly in a hurry to get anywhere.
I’m moving up towards the Market Square, and just passing the door of the mini-supermarket, when I catch sight of the ‘Lotto’ sign. I stop and think for a moment. What did he say? “There you go, mate. Buy yourself a Lotto ticket – you might get lucky.”
A voice inside me says, “What have you got to lose?” It’s a stupid question really as two pounds is two thirds of my income for the day and would go a long way towards buying me a meal.
I guess the incident with the guy burning the twenty-pound note has affected me. However, I’m surprised to find myself stepping into the store, especially as nowadays, crowds are something I try to avoid, and this place is heaving with people.
The next thing I remember is filling in some random numbers at the Lotto display stand and then I’m queueing to buy my ticket. Each of the three checkout tills has long queues at them. It seems everyone is buying food, drink and Lotto tickets, hoping they will win the £168 million from this week’s record breaking rollover.
Observing people is one of the skills you learn as a detective. I watch the two slightly overweight girls buying magazines with diet plans on the cover, and the man in his forties trying to hide a soft porn magazine with a newspaper until it becomes time to pay. I see a younger man, a shop worker by the look of his cheap suit, white shirt and plain blue tie. He tries to avoid paying for one of the two computer magazines by hiding it inside his jacket as he pays for the other one.
In the next queue to me, I see the man who pretended he was going to give me a twenty-pound note and then burned it. Like me, he’s also got a Lotto ticket, and I just hope he doesn’t win.
He’s still carrying the large parcel he had when he burned the note and now has a roll of wrapping paper under his left arm. He is oblivious to everything and everyone around him, raising his voice whilst on his mobile: “Listen, you piece of shit. If you don’t get yer act together and get my girls to their appointments on time, I’ll come and break yer fucking legs. Do I make myself clear?”
Once I reach the counter, I hand over my two pounds. In return, a ticket is dispensed from the machine which the shop assistant then gives me, together with my receipt.
As I make my way out of the store, Mr Loud is also leaving.
I look away from him for a moment as I take the last step from inside the doorway. He turns to eye up an attractive young girl walking into the store, loses his balance, and drops what he’s carrying to reach out and grab the nearest thing to save himself from falling. The only problem is, that ‘thing’ is me – he’s a heavy man – and takes me with him so we both end up on the ground. My Lotto ticket drops between us, as does his parcel, the wrapping paper and even his mobile phone.
He quickly changes from ‘Mr Loud’ to ‘Mr Angry’ and it appears it’s all my fault. He grabs me, but soon lets go as he smells my, shall we say, lack of eau de toilette. He swears and
curses at me, kicking out with his right foot. He screams, “Get away from me or I’ll kill you, you human piece of crap,” and from the tone of his voice there could be some truth in his threat.
People walk round us but no one comes to help. I can’t say I blame them. He makes a menacing figure and besides, it’s all over in a few seconds.
I scramble across the shop floor and reach out for my Lotto ticket, which I manage to retrieve after he lands his second kick. I use the upright post of the shop exit door to get to my feet and scuttle out as quickly as I can. The words that reverberate round my head are the last thing I heard him say. He called me a ‘human piece of crap’.
It was a mistake to have gone into the shop. I need to get away as quickly as possible and gain as much distance as I can from this guy.
As I make my retreat, I can see him on his hands and knees retrieving his belongings, still swearing and cursing.
My experience over the past few months has taught me to keep out of trouble, even if it means backing down. In better times, as a former policeman, I would have stood my ground but things have changed, and I can afford neither the luxury of pride nor doing the honourable thing.
Nowadays I don’t walk down the middle of the pavement like normal people. I scurry along like a rat, keeping to the inside, following the contour of every building. I’ve changed from a person into a shadow figure. I no longer look people in the eye. As I walk the streets, I tend to look down, which means I can tell you a lot about people’s footwear!
I’ve learned where every alleyway is, where it leads and which shop doorways or recesses will offer me cover. Doorways to churches, meeting rooms and building exits have become my natural haunt. I see things which are hidden to other people. It’s the best way to survive.
After what I’ve just been through I decide to keep a low profile. I’m shaking a little – more than a little really. I put it down to the rain and the cold of the night. I’m not normally frightened by such things but deep down inside I know it’s the tone of ‘Mr Angry’s’ voice which has given me the shudders.
