by Nick Albert
Hunting the
Wrecking Crew
An Eric Stone novel
Nick Albert
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 Nick Albert
Twelfth edition (UK)
All rights reserved.
ASIN: B00OK70QIA
For Austin
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE
Charles Rathbone had less than two hours to live. The people watching him were unaware of this, even though they would ultimately be held responsible for his death. The chain of events that would lead to his demise had begun many months before, and like most things in politics, was driven by greed, envy, and lust.
***
In the scenic village of Finchingfield in the English County of Essex, one of the most photographed villages in England, time seemed to pass with exquisite patience. With a picturesque duck pond and village green sitting at the base of a steep hill, surrounded by Georgian and mediaeval cottages, their white painted walls gleaming bright in the autumn sunshine, one could be forgiven for thinking it was a Wednesday afternoon in October 1800. This illusion is quickly disproved by dozens of tourist cars haphazardly parked around the village and the subliminal roar of yet another jet approaching London Stansted airport.
To the casual observer, this is just another normal day in a beautiful, but otherwise ordinary Essex village. Standing by the village pond, an old woman is feeding the ducks with a few bread crusts from a brown paper bag. Sitting at a bench table outside the Fox Inn, five German tourists are resting their aching legs whilst enjoying an excellent lunch, washed down with a few pints of Best Bitter. Across the road, a young man is laboriously riding his bicycle up the steep hill towards the village post office; soon he wearies of his sluggish progress, climbs off, and begins to walk.
After a while, the elderly woman pauses and cocks her head towards the distinctive sound of an approaching car. She brings her left hand to her head, as if to brush a loose hair from her ear, and whispers into the microphone concealed within her sleeve.
“Subject approaching.”
The elderly woman listens to the reply in her earpiece, nodding subliminally.
“Acknowledged,” she answers and returns to feeding the ducks.
***
Charles Rathbone loved his car. For a man educated in the ways of frugal living by his Scottish mother, it was his one true extravagance. Although being such a tall man, the little 1966 Austin Healey Sprite was hardly a suitable mode of transport. A recently disowned girlfriend once commented that it made him look a bit like he had stolen a child’s pedal car, but Charles didn’t care. The Sprite was a fully restored open topped, two-seater, in classic British Racing Green. Its little four-cylinder 1275cc engine produced a minuscule 65 horsepower, which by modern standards was insignificant, but in such a small car, it was sufficient to provide an exhilarating driving experience.
Charles was a naturally cautious man — at least more cautious than one might expect from someone who was awarded the George Cross for ‘The most conspicuous courage in circumstances of extreme danger’ — but today he was allowing his little Austin to stretch its legs. From his house near Sible Hedingham he made short work of the miles to Wethersfield, where he turned right and accelerated hard, powering on past the entrance to the old United States of America Air Force base. With the soft top down, the little sports car flew along the narrow road towards Finchingfield.
Charles worked the four-speed gearbox hard, making the engine roar and the throaty exhaust growl like an angry lion. At 80mph, with almost reckless abandon, he aggressively manoeuvred the car through the final bends before the village. As the tyres squealed in complaint, flicking the car violently left and right at the very edge of control, Charles giggled and gave a child-like whoop of delight. He was still laughing aloud when he slowed to a more sedate 30mph and entered the village. With his foot lightly on the brake, he coasted slowly down Church Hill towards the duck pond, enjoying the cracking and popping of the exhaust as it echoed off the buildings. With a little spurt of acceleration, he bounded across the humpbacked bridge, giving a friendly wave to the tourists outside the Fox Inn as he passed.
At the junction, he turned to the left, and with a final exuberant burst of acceleration, he drove for another two hundred yards towards the village post office. He parked neatly on the opposite side of the road, perfectly aligned, six inches from the curb. Even after such an exhilarating drive, he could not resist giving one final burst of power, before switching off the engine. Rathbone sat for a moment enjoying the sun on his face and listening to a blackbird singing along to the gentle tick of the cooling engine.
With a sigh of regret, he climbed out of the car and walked across the road towards the post office, nodding politely at a young man on a bicycle along the way. A casual observer may have noted Rathbone’s posture and bearing, and guessed that he was a former military man. Someone with a more trained eye may have also noticed that he favoured his left leg, and concluded that perhaps he was still feeling the effects of some old sporting injury. In either case, they would have seen a tall, slim, handsome man in his early sixties, well dressed, with a confident air and a ready smile. The sort of man you would like from the moment you first met. An honest man, someone you felt you could trust, a man of true character and integrity — in short, the perfect political candidate.
The majority of people agreed that Charles Rathbone, GC (George Cross), was the perfect candidate for a parliamentary seat in the imminent general election. A native lad and the son of a local farmer, he performed well at school before going to Cambridge University where he achieved firsts in engineering and politics. Later he excelled at Sandhurst, the Royal Military Academy, and after receiving his commission, he joined the Royal Engineers.
The unfortunate climax to his outstanding military career came in Afghanistan with an act of extraordinary bravery. Despite being badly wounded by a land mine explosion, he twice entered a mined area to rescue his injured colleagues. His bravery and selflessness won him the George Cross but cost him his right leg below the knee. Unwilling to take a desk job, Charles left the Army, took over the family farm, and in due course turned his eye towards politics.
Disheartened by media reports that less people had voted in the last general election than for a popular television game show, Rathbone put his sharp mind towards finding a way to re-engage voters. Freed from the need to earn a living by his Army pension, Charles was able to take time away from the farm to meet with prospective voters from across the country and explore the reasons behind their antipathy for the current political system. The answers were consistent: ‘With this two party system, you are always faced with the same choices’ and ‘it doesn’t matter who you vote for, nothing will change — so what’s the point of voting?’ Although to begin with he had no political ambition, Charles soon became a vocal advocate for political reform — principally through the concept of the ‘None of the above’ vote along with holding regular referen
da. Soon the concept of the ‘True Democracy’ party was born.
The idea of such a ‘No’ vote being included in a ballot was not new, it had been used as the basis for a film comedy in the 1980’s; but Charles was the first realistic candidate to campaign for such political reform in a British election. The notion was shockingly simple, yet frighteningly effective — especially if you were a sitting Member of Parliament or a political lobbyist. Rathbone was proposing that at every election, local, county, national and European, the ballot should include an option to reject all of the candidates that had been presented.
Critics protested that such a system would throw the election process into disarray, making Britain a laughing stock around the world. Charles countered that giving such power to the electorate was true democracy. In his opinion a ‘No’ vote — or the fear of it — would result in many more acceptable candidates standing for election. He predicted that in future they would have to present realistic policies that they could deliver, rather than the empty promises that had been the cause of such voter apathy in the past. Giving such a democratic voice to the public would, he predicted, led to a much higher percentage of the population voting, which must be a good thing — at least for the public.
For a while, his ideas were popular talking points in the press and on current affairs shows, but soon the campaign started to lose momentum — helped by the naysayers and lobbyists, painting pictures of political chaos and wasted taxes. The turnaround in fortunes for the True Democracy movement was unexpected and ironic.
In an effort to kill the idea for all time, a media mogul arranged for his most popular television talent show to add the ‘No’ vote to its telephone poll for contestants. At the same time, the political media made sure to give Charles full credit for the ‘flawed’ idea, in anticipation of a glorious failure. The show presented eight contestants with varying degrees of talent. In total almost two million people voted, but to the surprise of many, more than a million of those votes were to eliminate all of the contestants.
Although this rejection was a very public display of people power, it supported the argument that True Democracy would inevitably lead to political chaos. The panel of expert judges selected eight more contestants, and the producers invited the public to vote again. This time over nine million people voted and again the majority chose the ‘None of the above’ option. The show’s viewing figures were sharply increasing, and the producers were delighted. The lobbyists and politicians were considerably less happy — but the process had started and it was now far too public to stop.
By this time, the social media was buzzing. People were publically refusing to vote for the next group of candidates; they wanted their own choice. Eventually the show’s producers had to give in to such overwhelming public pressure. At the end of June, a third round of voting took place. Six new contestants were presented, including four that had received the most support from social media. Almost twenty-two million people voted in the third poll — a television record. The winning contestant was a seventeen-year-old comedian from Manchester, chosen with the support of social media; she received over fourteen million votes.
The conclusion was clear, people loved the idea of True Democracy; they felt engaged and empowered. Suddenly, Charles Rathbone the war hero had also become a political hero — and a safe bet to win a seat at the next election. Now he was a man who was about to die.
***
As Charles Rathbone entered Finchingfield post office, he found that there were several customers queuing at the counter. On hearing him enter, one elderly lady turned around and Charles smiled widely as he came face-to-face with Mary Heffernan. Many years ago when she was a tall and dangerously attractive young woman, Mary had been an English teacher to the young Charles Rathbone. He was saddened to see her now, bent over with age, and confused by her developing Dementia. Back then, this beautiful woman, with her razor sharp mind and ready wit, had won the heart and mind of that hormonally challenged teenager.
Charles still addressed her as Mrs Heffernan, even though they had been friends for well over forty years, and despite her repeated pleads for him to call her Mary.
“Well, good afternoon, Mrs Heffernan. And how are you today?”
She looked up and assessed him with watery grey eyes that gave little indication of the intelligent blue sparkle that had once lived within.
“Goodness me, if it isn’t Charles Rathbone,” she said in a voice as cracked and dry as old paint. “I heard that you are going to be the next Prime Minister.”
Charles smiled at the thinly veiled compliment.
“Well, perhaps next year. Right now I am just hoping to become a Member of Parliament.”
They were blocking the doorway and had to stand aside when another customer entered the post office — it was the young man who had been riding his bicycle in the street. He had a black eye and seemed rather surprised and embarrassed by the crowded room. He stepped to one side and began inspecting a display of elastic bands on the stationery counter. Charles and Mary exchanged a knowing glance.
“I’m sure you will win handsomely, you can count on my vote.” She put her hand on his sleeve. “But only if you promise to call me Mary.”
“Good gracious, Mrs Heffernan,” Charles said in mock surprise. “Attempting to bribe a candidate, and in a public place as well — I am shocked! Whatever will people think?”
“People will think that you are a naughty schoolboy who still won’t do what he’s told,” she replied, patting his arm.
Charles smiled.
“And they would probably be right.” He tilted his head and gave a dramatic sigh. “OK, I give in. If I win the election, I promise to call you Mary, Mrs Heffernan. You have my word.”
“Well then, I had better go and campaign for you. Once you have reinvented democracy, perhaps you can do something about the price of vegetables — this cucumber cost a pound at the market; it’s an absolute scandal!”
“Goodness! That seems expensive. I promise that I will make salad pricing for the elderly my first priority,” he quipped. “It is a lovely looking cucumber though.”
“The man said it was special, one of those orgasmic cucumbers.”
Charles’s heart sank at her confusion and the barely concealed titters from the other customers.
“I think you mean ‘organic,’ Mrs Heffernan,” Charles replied kindly.
“I know exactly what I mean,” she said, giving him a sly wink as he held the door open for her. “Good luck with the election.”
Charles went to the greeting cards display. After a brief inspection, he smiled and selected a birthday card showing a picture of a car. He paid for a stamp and the card, and using a borrowed pen, he wrote an address on the envelope and added a birthday wish to the pre-printed greeting. Charles stood very still for a moment, before suddenly turning to face the young man who was standing by his side.
“How’s the cycling today?” Charles asked.
For a moment the young man seemed confused and a little startled, but he recovered quickly, mumbling a polite ‘Fine, thanks’, before turning away to inspect another packet of elastic bands. As soon as the man turned away, Charles pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and quickly slipped it inside the card. He carefully sealed the envelope shut and dropped it into the internal post box, then gave the post-mistress a friendly wave goodbye, and headed back to his car.
As he watched Charles drive away, the young man stood by his bicycle and used his mobile phone to make a call.
“It’s me, Darren Jeffers. It looks like he’s heading back home.” He listened to a question and replied, “No, nothing else to report. He just sent a birthday card to some guy called Stone.”
***
Eric Stone was annoyed. His golden rule in life was always, ‘Don’t get involved,’ and now he was about to break it.
At the age of fourteen, battered and bruised from yet another beating at the hands of the school bully and his sidekicks, Stone ha
d joined a local Wado-Ryu karate club. After his second night of training, the Sensei, an aging Japanese man who had an 8th Dan black belt, pulled young Stone to one side.
“I’m worried about you, Eric. Clearly, you have a natural aptitude for karate. I can see that already. But these bruises you carry on your face tell me that you may want to learn karate for the wrong reason.”
“I don’t understand, Sensei,” Eric pleaded. “I just want to learn to defend myself. What’s wrong with that?”
The Sensei gave Eric a kind smile and spoke sympathetically.
“I think that you have been beaten many times. Is this correct?”
Eric nodded and blushed as his shame burned bright in his cheeks.
“Yes, Sensei.”
“For a young man in your situation, it is natural that you want to fight these boys — to try and right a wrong. Is that the way you feel, Eric?”
Eric cast his eyes to the floor.
“Yes, Sensei,” he mumbled.
The Sensei crossed his arms.
“If you are to learn the way of Wado-Ryu, you must promise not to fight with these boys, Eric.”
“But why, Sensei?” Eric asked in shock. “These boys beat me up, and other people as well — I just want to stop them.”
“I understand how you feel Eric, but karate is not a tool of justice. The founder of Wado-Ryu karate, Hironori Ohtsuka Sensei, taught us that. He said, ‘Violent action may be understood as the way of martial arts, but the true meaning of martial arts is to seek and attain the way of peace and harmony.’”
The Sensei looked into Eric’s eyes.
“I am very sorry young man, but I cannot let you learn this skill, if I believe you intend to use it as a weapon.”
Eric huffed and crossed his arms across his chest.
“Great! Now what am I supposed to do?”
