TAKEAWAY TERROR: The DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad series. Case No.8
Page 10
She checked the thumbnails in the corner of the screen. Her mother was on, and so was Aunt Raani and fourteen-year-old cousin Bavinda in New York. Oh well, better say hello.
She logged in. They all greeted each other.
‘We have missed you Gheeta,’ said Aunt Raani. ‘Have you been working too hard?’
‘Always working hard Aunt Raani, time and crime waits for no man. Are you all well?’
‘Yes we are, thank you.’
‘Which serial killer are you chasing now, Gheeta?’ Bavinda asked excitedly. She had long expressed a wish to be a detective in the US SWAT team, much to Aunt Raani’s horror.
‘Oh, we’ve caught them now. I have just got to write up the reports for the prosecutor.’
‘Them?’ Bavinda said, sounding impressed. ‘How many of them? Was it a gang? Was it the Mafia?’
‘Now, now,’ scolded Aunt Raani. ‘This is not our business.’
She had no wish for her daughter to do anything other than eventually marry a suitable – and that meant rich – young Asian gentleman and have a family.
Gheeta laughed.
‘It’s okay, Auntie. No it wasn’t the mafia, Bavinda, just a rather nasty little group of drug dealers.’
Bavinda nodded.
‘Narcos, eh?’
‘Where do you learn such words!’
Aunt Raani was not pleased. Gheeta’s mother laughed.
‘My dear sister, do you not watch television? ‘
Raani was shocked.
‘Not those type of programmes of course not.’
‘I do,’ said Bavinda. ‘Escobar and the Cartels, brilliant on Netflix.’
‘When do you watch such programmes, Bavinda?’ Aunt Raani asked sternly.
‘On catch-up in my room when you are watching those boring food programmes.’
‘You should be watching those food programmes yourself,’ said Aunt Raani. ‘Your father’s restaurant is the best in New York, and one day we hope you might be part of it.’
Bavinda grimaced.
‘I help at weekends.’
Aunt Raani turned her attention to one of her favourite subjects.
‘You must come over next time you have a holiday, Gheeta. Your uncle’s restaurant attracts the very best families in New York – many with suitable unmarried sons. I can introduce you.’
This preoccupation with getting Gheeta married off to a ‘suitable’ family was an enduring topic of Aunt Raani’s conversation each time they talked. It seemed to be her quest in life. She herself was an arranged marriage bride, although that was thirty years ago when it was deemed natural. Gheeta’s mother was not, and so she and Gheeta’s father had no wish to push their daughter into such a partnership; for that was all they were, certainly not marriages. Wisely, Gheeta’s mother kept quiet on the subject when her sister started off.
‘There’s some of the very worst families that come to dad’s restaurant as well,’ said Bavinda, putting the boot in.
‘What!’
Aunt Raani was shocked.
‘I hear them talking when I’m serving them at weekends. What about that Deputy Mayor, the one with the massive gold chain round his neck? He’s always eating with people who he says he will ‘see all right’. What he means is he will put council contracts their way. Probably gets a backhander.’
‘Bavinda! You must never mention this to anybody else! Nobody!’
Aunt Raani looked as though she might have a heart attack at any moment.
‘What about the Hussain brothers then?’Bavinda was on a roll.
‘What about them? They are very respected car dealers with luxury car franchises. We have one of their BMWs on lease.’
‘So why do they share out wads of banknotes in their corner cubicle every Saturday night?’
Gheeta’s mother calmed the situation.
‘I think you should watch and keep quiet Bavinda, don’t you Gheeta?’
‘Yes, you don’t know what’s going on Bavinda – probably quite legal and above board, so if you said anything you could look very silly. If it’s not legal then maybe the FBI are already onto it. I’d steer clear if I was you.’
‘I know, I’m not stupid. Mum thinks I am, but I’m not.’
‘Anyway, whilst you are on Gheeta,’ said her mother. ‘It’s your dad’s birthday in a fortnight and your brothers have booked the Curry Leaf, so you had better make a note.’
Gheeta kept a calm voice.
‘Booked where?’
‘The Curry Leaf, it has splendid reviews in the local papers and our neighbours have been and recommend it.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Ilford High Street.’
Gheeta relaxed.
‘Okay, remind me nearer the time.’
Aunt Raani seized the opportunity.
‘I have several families in London that I know who have suitable sons that could accompany you, Gheeta. I can make some phone calls?’
‘Phone calls Aunt Raani? Am I going to hold auditions for an escort? And anyway, who says I haven’t already got somebody to go with?’
She could see her mother smile as Aunt Raani’s eyes widened.
‘You have? Who? What does his family do? What part of India are they from? Does your mother know the family?’
‘First I’ve heard of it,’ said Gheeta’s mother. ‘Gheeta is over 21 you know, Raani. She is allowed to make her own decisions.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Aunt Raani, waving her hands. ‘But the family must be involved.’
‘No way,’ Bavida butted in.
‘What?’
‘No way, Mum. I hope you update your old-fashioned ideas before I’m 21, or we are going to have a lot of rows. I’m 16 in two years and I’ll be able to vote, to join the army and to carry a gun. So shouldn’t I be able to choose who I go out with too?’
‘Yes, of course, providing your father and I agree he is suitable and we know his family.’
‘I’ll choose him carefully, Mum.’
Aunt Raani nodded.
‘Good.’
‘He’ll be an African-American from a one-parent family out of social housing in the Bronx, with a record of drug dealing and into rap music. How’s that?’
Aunt Raani was speechless. Gheeta thought it was time to end the conversation.
‘I have to go.’
‘Me too,’ said her mother. ‘Your father will be home soon for his dinner. Take care, all. Talk next week.’
And she clicked off.
‘Cheerio Aunt Raani, cheerio Bavinda, stop upsetting your mother.’
And Gheeta clicked off her camera but kept the audio on. She heard Aunt Raani.
‘Your father will hear of this when he gets home.’
‘He knows,’ replied Bavinda. ‘I told him about the crooks in his restaurant, but he already knew.’
‘And I will take the television from your room.’
‘Okay, I’ll watch on my phone.’
‘Haven’t you any homework to do?’
Gheeta clicked off and sat back chuckling. She called over her shoulder.
‘You can come out now.’
The kitchen door behind her opened and Raj came in, holding two glasses of wine.
‘I hope I’m the one accompanying you to your dad’s birthday?’
She took a glass.
‘Well, we will have to see, won’t we? You may have to do an audition.’
CHAPTER 25
Assistant Commissioner Bateman put down the report he was reading as Palmer came into his office. Bateman was not alone. Seated next to him was a rather austere-looking civilian lady, grey hair in a bun a tweed suit and brown heavy brogues; she reminded Palmer of Alastair Sim as Miss Fritton, the headmistress who couldn’t pay the bills in the original St. Trinians film.
&nb
sp; ‘Sit down, Palmer.’
‘I’d rather stand, Sir. Bit of sciatica in the thigh.’
It was a blatant lie. He wasn’t going to play along with Bateman’s power seat game.
‘This is Miss Hardaker from the IOPC.’
He waved a hand at the lady.
‘Miss Hardaker has asked to see you as they have had a serious complaint about your behaviour towards a member of the public.’
‘Really, Sir?’
Palmer’s view of the Independent Office for Police Conduct was that it was a lot of busybodies with nothing better to do than chase policemen for doing their jobs. If some nasty drug-pusher got his nose ‘accidentally’ broken whilst resisting arrest... what a shame.
‘Yes, Miss Hardaker has brought to my attention a signed complaint from a mister Montgomery Montague, who holds public office as a Councillor, he says that you were obscene and threatening to him in a public place. Ring a bell?’
Palmer smiled.
‘Yes Sir, I told him to piss off or I would arrest him.’
Miss Hardaker was surprised, if not even startled by Palmer’s response. She was used to officers with complaints lodged against them denying the charge; was this officer admitting it? This could result in his suspension.
Bateman knew from that remark that Palmer was on firm ground; no way would he admit to the charge if it had any credence whatsoever. He may not be Palmer’s biggest fan, but after all, Palmer was one of his senior officers; and although there may not be any love lost between them, when an outside force attacks, you close ranks. He sat back.
‘Okay Palmer, explain please.’
Palmer did so, in great detail. His final words were the coup de grace.
‘It may interest the IOPC to know that at the time of this little episode I was not on duty, I was at the pub to attend a private function in a civilian capacity. Any altercation with another person was as a private individual, not a member of the force. Did the IOPC check that?’
Bateman looked at Miss Hardaker.
‘Did you?’
Hardaker thought for a moment.
‘This was not made clear by the accuser.’
Bateman picked up the report and handed it to her.
‘Perhaps you should go back to him and establish the correct facts. You might also make it clear to him that the descriptive language he used, such as ‘poof’, is not acceptable these days, and if DCS Palmer had felt inclined he was well within his rights to issue Montague with a warning about it, or indeed arrest him.’
An embarrassed Miss Hardaker hurriedly left Bateman’s office.
‘May I go, Sir? I have a lot of reports to fill in on the Wellbeck case.’
Bateman ignored the request.
‘A word of advice, Palmer. The force and the world it works in is changing rapidly. You know this, otherwise you wouldn’t have fought tooth and nail to get DS Singh and her IT knowledge into your unit. But, as it changes so we have to change our ways too, Palmer. We are very much the underdogs today; every move is analysed by some damn unelected quango who have to justify their taxpayer funding, and hauling a very senior officer before a tribunal for overstepping his authority would be a feather in their cap.’
‘I didn’t over step my authority, Sir. I merely pointed out to a man who holds a public service job that remarks of the kind he was making are not acceptable. I am quite aware of the changes in the public perception of the force, Sir. We both know that PC no longer means Police Constable, it means Politically Correct. And between you and me, it’s a load of lefty tosh.’
Bateman knew he was banging his head against a brick wall.
‘Okay Palmer, we will let the subject rest there. Anyway, congratulations on the Wellbeck case. That developed a bit fast, didn’t it?’
‘Nasty people Sir, old school guns and violence. Something Miss Hardaker and her committee wouldn’t know anything about. Don’t expect they’ve ever been shot at do you, Sir?’
Batemen knew he was not on to a winner.
‘All right Palmer, off you go. And let me have the reports as soon as you can.’
CHAPTER 26
The Public Prosecutor’s Office took two days to assess the best charges to put on the strength of Palmer’s reports. Daniel Court received a suspended six-year sentence for aiding and abetting a criminal act, and returned to run Deliver-Eat. They charged Chrissie Wellbeck with conspiring to murder the Arifs, major drug-dealing and money laundering, Harry O’Keefe with attempted murder and drug dealing, and Ronny Robards with attempted murder for the takeaway explosion. All property and bank accounts belonging to the Wellbecks were seized under the Proceeds of Crime Act, with Wellbeck’s scrap yard being put up for sale after the Met’s legal department gained outline planning permission for sixty houses. The legal department’s brief was to maximise revenue from all Proceeds of Crime act seizures.
Daniel Court felt a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders and settled back to running his Deliver-Eat business. A week later he got a call from reception that he had a visitor. He walked through the call centre where the staff were busy trying to keep up with the volume of work. In reception, a tall middle-aged man in a smart blue suit was waiting; could be a prospective new client looking for a reliable delivery service.
Daniel put on his best fake smile and stretched out his hand.
‘Good afternoon. I’m Daniel Court, CEO of Deliver-Eat. How can I help you?’
His hand was taken in a firm handshake.
‘Hello Daniel, I know all about you. I think we might be able to do business. My name is Terry Adamson.’
THE END
The Author
Barry Faulkner was born into a family of petty criminals in Herne Hill, South London, his father, uncles and elder brothers running with the notorious Richardson crime gang in the 60s-80s, and at this point we must point out that he did not follow in that family tradition although the characters he met and their escapades he witnessed have added a certain authenticity to his books. He attended the first ever comprehensive school in the UK, William Penn in Peckham and East Dulwich, where he attained no academic qualifications other than GCE ‘O’ level in Art and English and a Prefect’s badge (though some say he stole all three!)
His mother was a fashion model and had great theatrical aspirations for young Faulkner and pushed him into auditioning for the Morley Academy of Dramatic Art at the Elephant and Castle, where he was accepted but only lasted three months before being asked to leave as no visible talent had surfaced. Mind you, during his time at the Academy he was called to audition for the National Youth Theatre by Trevor Nunn – fifty years later he’s still waiting for the call back!
His early writing career was as a copywriter with the major US advertising agency Erwin Wasey Ruthrauff & Ryan in Paddington during which time he got lucky with some light entertainment scripts sent to the BBC and Independent Television and became a script editor and writer on a freelance basis. He worked on most of the LE shows of the 1980-90s and as personal writer to several household names. During that period, while living out of a suitcase in UK hotels for a lot of the time, he filled many notebooks with DCS Palmer case plots and in 2015 he finally found time to start putting them in order and into book form. Eight are finished and published so far, with number 9 underway. He hopes you enjoy reading them as much as he enjoys writing them. If you do read one please leave a review on Amazon as your comments are very much appreciated.
Faulkner is a popular speaker and often to be found on Crime Panels at Literary Festivals which he embraces and supports wholeheartedly.
He has been ‘on screen’ as a presenter in television crime programmes including the Channel 5 Narcos UK series, Episode 2 The London Gangs which you can view on catch up and his Palmer book ‘I’m With The Band’ has been serialised in 16 parts by BBC Radio Bristol. Faulkner is a member of ALLI (Alliance of Independent Authors) and publishes a blog about the �
��geezers’ of his youth, the criminals and their heists. It goes in depth about the Krays, Brinks Mat, ‘Nipper’ Read and all the other major heists and who ‘dun ‘em’. Take a look at it here:
geezers2016.wordpress.com
He also speaks about that era in illustrated talks for social clubs, WI and others. .
As a crime writer Faulkner is quite particular about ‘getting it right’ and as well as his own Barry Faulkner Face Book page he publishes a page called ‘UK Crime Readers and Writers Page’ which has a lot of information about the forensic crime detection methods, police procedurals and other crime facts of use to both reader and writer of crime and detective books.
Faulkner now lives in the glorious Forest of Dean with his wife and three dogs.