Vengeance

by Donald Phillips

Chapter 7

  The voice wasn’t loud but cut clearly through the morning air.

  “Which of you is Fairbrother?”

  The tone of voice used had been that of the boss talking to one of the labourers. The six West Indians grouped around the bright red and immaculately restored 1950 Ford Pilot V8 had stared at the well-built white man who had asked the question and then all looked to Rasta, waiting to take their cue from him. The barrel-chested panel beater come rock drummer had turned his head to take a long look over his shoulder at the man and then went back to explaining the changes he had made to the car, deliberately ignoring him. Who the fuck did this guy think he was using that tone of voice to him? Cheeky bastard. The man waited three seconds for an answer and then stepped forward and with a vicious swing his right foot, kicked the left rear wing of the car, the rubber sole of his highly polished boot leaving a long dirty black streak on the until then, pristine paint work. All seven of them had then turned back to him, now giving him their full attention, their eyes suddenly hard and angry, their voices a chorus of surprised and indignant protest. The man had merely smiled grimly at them.

  “That's better. Now I have your attention shall we try again? I said which of you bastards is Fairbrother? Rasta Fairbrother.”

  The others started to move towards the man in a group, but Rasta had put out his arm to stop them. Nobody did that to his work right in front of his eyes. This prick was his. He bent down and made a show of examining the mark the man’s boot had made on his precious paint job. It had scratched right through the six layers of paint and into the primer, ruining over one hundred hours of painstaking work. He'd straightened and turned to face the other, a scowl on his face. His voice when he spoke was full of barely suppressed anger.

  “Mister, I'm Rasta Fairbrother and that's gonna cost you money or blood, its your choice.”

  Behind him he could hear the chorus of “Yeahs” as the brothers backed his move. He smiled at the man with the smile of the hungry tiger, hoping the guy would choose blood. The man didn't seem at all phased by it.

  “My name is Jenson. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Rasta shrugged his big shoulders. His voice when he spoke reflected his complete disinterest in who this prick was.

  “No. Should it?”

  Rasta heard enjoyed the brother’s laughter behind him and without taking his eyes off Jenson, gave a grin. The man grinned back, but it didn't reach his eyes.

  “You cast your mind back, black boy. You cast your mind back to the 6th of August when you and the rest of your shitty band raped my daughter.”

  Rasta relaxed. “So that was what it was about. This man was the girl’s father. Where the hell had he been for the last three weeks?” If this confrontation was to happen he had expected it a couple of weeks ago. He looked at the man. In his late thirties, about three inches taller than he was and quite well set up, but he knew he could take him. After all, he was the only man he knew that could lift the front of a Ford Focus off the floor without help. This fucker had a shock coming. Remembering the damage to his precious V8 he decided to wind him right up before he smashed his face in. He leered at the man.

  “Yeah, I remember her. As a rule I prefer my pussy black, but for a white whore she was pretty good.”

  Sniggers came from the brothers and Rasta waited for the man to lose his temper and rush him, but he only lifted his foot again and kicked out the glass from the rear light of the Ford. The glass that was practically irreplaceable. In the strained atmosphere of the garage the sound of the pieces hitting the floor sounded unnaturally loud. Rasta's temper surged.

  “Right, you motherfucker!”

  With the encouraging cries from the brothers ringing in his ears he launched himself at Jenson, swinging the meaty right fist with all his power. It never landed. Jenson stepped smartly to one side grabbing Rasta's wrist with his own right hand as it went by his right cheek. Then using Rasta's momentum combined with his own strength he had swung him round in an arc to the right and straight into the framework of the garage door, splitting his lips and breaking his nose. Without letting go of the arm he pulled him back towards him and then kicked him on the inside of his right thigh just above the knee, causing the right leg to shriek in agony as it suddenly refused to support his weight any more. Still holding onto his arm he swung the boot as Rasta fell, a vicious kick to the lower rib cage just above the kidneys that took away his remaining strength along with his wind and cracked bones. God knows what else he would have done to him if the others hadn't piled in and dragged him off, finally managing to force him back out into the street. Several of them had felt the weight of Jenson's feet and hands as they did so and upon releasing him they had retreated back into the garage, rubbing their bruises and grabbing up whatever was metal and heavy, to make sure he stayed at a distance.

  Martin Jenson had stood in the street like a stag at bay with his chest heaving, although not from his effort as he had hardly made any, just from anger and emotion. The brothers had stayed crouched in a semi-circle just inside the garage door, clutching at spanners and wrenches and any other weapon they could find to protect Rasta, themselves and the Ford V8 from further damage. The face off was still in operation some thirty seconds later when the Panda car arrived, called by a local shopkeeper who had seen what could happen to the local shops when this sort of aggression went unchecked.

  Jenson had refused to leave and eventually another police car had arrived. It had taken all five of the policemen to get him into the back of a Panda car, at least that's what they told Rasta later. He himself wasn't seeing or hearing that well at that point in time, lying on the garage floor with his head spinning and suffering agony from his nose and kidneys. When the police had come to interview him later it had turned out the bastard was a weapons and unarmed combat specialist instructor in the Royal Marines. Jesus! He was just glad he hadn't been alone when the man had arrived at his garage. The very thought of what might have happened then turned his blood cold.

  MacAllister had seen the man being brought in kicking and struggling as he had arrived at the station twenty minutes earlier and he had stayed in his car until they had got him safely inside. Anyone who needs three uniformed constables to get him out of the back of a car and into the station while handcuffed was a rough handful and MacAllister had for some years left the rougher stuff to his subordinates and younger colleagues, except when he felt there was a point to prove or it was a villain he particularly disliked. He gave them a couple of minutes to get the tall, dark, well built man into the holding cells and then followed them into the building. The three constables were just returning from the holding cells area as he approached the Custody Sergeant's desk, rubbing their bruises and grumbling amongst them selves as people do. Wally Stoner was the duty sergeant and they had known each other for many years. MacAllister decided to wind Stoner up a bit. A thing he was good at.

  “Looked like a rough handful that one, Wally, but I reckon your blokes are not what they were. Three of them to bring one villain in.”

  Wally looked up from the charge sheet he was processing and took in the others new suite that for once did not look as if it had been slept in. MacAllister could see he was not in the mood to be amused.

  “Five, actually. The other two are in the first aid room having their bruises looked at. Plus the fact that we have now got most of St Paul's stirred up good and proper.”

  MacAllister blinked.

  “St Paul's? If it happened on their patch what the hell did they bring the bugger here for? On our wanted list, is he?”

  Wally Stoner read from the sheet in front of him.

  “Name; Martin Jenson. Occupation: Sergeant Major, Royal Marines. Offence; Assaulted one Reginald “Rasta” Fairbrother, breaking his nose, fracturing two of his ribs and dislocating his left arm, as well as causing sundry bruises and contusions to a variety of Fairbrother's neighbours who came to his aid. Connection with previous crime; Jenson is the father of one Alison Jenson.�
��

  He looked up, his expression one of total smugness.

  “Ring any bells.”

  MacAllister gave a deep sigh and nodded.

  “Yes. That's the girl who accused four of them of raping her. I thought her old man was in Belize.”

  Stoner shrugged.

  “Obviously not any more.”

  “Was Fairbrother the only one he's had a go at, Wally?”

  Stoner relaxed, he'd almost had his revenge.

  “As far as I know, John. Of course, from the way he was going at Fairbrother the other three could already be dead.”

  MacAllister jerked. That wasn't funny.

  “Don't even joke about it, Wally. Get someone to call the Polytechnic and see if they are all right. Give the Sergeant Major half an hour to calm down and then take him to interview room three. I'll get Clive Sayers and Marcus Lomax as back up just in case he runs amok again.”

  He walked off and Stoner called after him, enjoying himself now.

  “Do you want them to draw arms? That black bloke he creamed is one of the local hard cases and he just took him apart, and in front of half a dozen of his mates as well.”

  MacAllister just stopped and stared back at the other man, his own humour now suddenly gone astray, but Stoner just grinned at him. Strangely enough he was feeling much better now that Inspector MacAllister had the problem

  When MacAllister entered interview room three some forty minutes later, Jenson was sitting quietly, the handcuffs had been removed and he was smoking a cigarette. Marcus Lomax and Clive Sayers were standing, one behind him and one to the right. Both safely out of range should he explode again. MacAllister pulled out a chair at the other side of the table, spun it around and sat down with his legs spread and leaned his elbows on its back. Jenson took in the brilliant blue eyes the broken nose and the sardonic twist to the lips of the other man in complete silence. MacAllister leaned back on the chair and relaxed. He grinned at the Sergeant Major, an inquisitive grin.

  “Well, Martin, what's it all about then, laddie? By my count you could be facing assault charges on half a dozen civilians and three police officers. It has to be a good story, old son.”

  He spoke softly and reasonably, hoping his Scots accent might strike a chord with his fellow national. It didn't.

  “Don't patronise me, copper. The name is Mr Jenson or Sergeant Major Jenson and that black bastard raped my daughter.”

  MacAllister stared at his fellow Scot for some moments while he tried to make up his mind if the other was up to hearing the truth about his daughter. When he spoke again his voice was even softer. He ran his long fingers with the short cut nails through the curly hair. He shrugged.

  “That's not proven or likely to be and I think your daughter was not entirely innocent in the matter. She already admits having it away with Jason Goodwell in front of the rest of them.”

  Jenson sneered at him. He sat up and leaned across the table causing the two detectives by the door to stiffen in reaction while MacAllister never even blinked.

  “I suppose you are afraid to nail the bastards in case they report you to the race relations board. Afraid they might start giving a hard time to your boys in St Paul's. That police station you have there is already built like a bloody fortress; so don't tell me you're not expecting trouble sooner or later. It hasn't even got any windows in the ground floor. How long are we going to take it from these bastards.”

  He ground his cigarette out in the ashtray and immediately lit another while MacAllister started become angry with the other man. He thought it was time to tell him a few home truths. He kept his face carefully neutral while he did so, although the voice was now harder.

  “Listen to me. Your daughter admits that she went to their band bus with the sole reason of having sex with Jason Goodwell. She also admits that this took place in front of the others and that she made all the moves. Then she says they all held her down and raped her. They in return claim that after she'd had Jason Goodwell they gave her fifty pounds to let the rest of them have her and that she agreed, and fifty pounds was found in her purse.”

  He stood up and waved an arm in a movement that took his two colleagues in.

  “What the hell do you think we can do? She had no cuts and bruises and there is no evidence that she wasn't a willing partner with the whole band. She wouldn't be the first girl to turn groupie and its four people's word against hers and no evidence to the contrary.”

  Jenson sneered again and blew smoke over MacAllister.

  “Then why would she report them for rape. You tell me why because it doesn't make sense.”

  With difficulty MacAllister ignored the smoke in his face.

  “I can't answer that, Mr Jenson. All I can say is that your daughter is not your usual fifteen years old. We have copies of her Social Services reports if you would care to read them.”

  This brought Jenson to his feet and the two off them faced each other across the table like angry stags.

  “What Social Services reports?”

  MacAllister indicated to Lomax without taking his eyes from Jenson's.

  “Marcus, get the reports for Mr Jenson will you.”

  Lomax left the room and Jenson sat down and lit another cigarette from the one he was smoking, his dark brows drawn together in a scowl, his hands continually playing with his cigarette packet and matches. When Lomax returned he handed the file to MacAllister who then offered it to Jenson, but he shook his head as if afraid to touch it.

  “You read it.”

  MacAllister hesitated and then nodded. He had some sympathy for the man and the position he found himself in so he condensed it down to the bare essentials from the dispassionate, but highly descriptive prose in front of him.

  “Eighteen months ago when Alison was still thirteen, she was found giving oral sex to one of the senior boys in the equipment cupboard of the gymnasium at her school. It seemed it was his reward for doing her maths homework. The school informed her mother, but as she refused to believe them, they also, in their own defence, called in the Social Services who took over the matter. They had Alison examined by a doctor and it was found that she was no longer a virgin. Alison, when questioned, said she had not been a virgin since her thirteenth birthday party and that she couldn't say how many boys she had been with, but thought it was around ten or twelve. Do you want me to go on?”

  Jenson had dropped his forehead down onto his folded arms and appeared to be in pain. He lifted up an agonised face and nodded.

  “They then had her examined by a psychiatrist. The psychiatric report wrapped it up in a lot of long words, but our police surgeon says that what it all means is the only thing wrong with the girl is that she has an highly developed sex drive and sees nothing morally wrong in indulging it. In a country with a lower age of consent it wouldn't matter, but here, where it is set at sixteen, it causes her and us problems. In the end the only thing they could reasonably do was to warn her of the possible consequences and medical dangers and put her on the pill.”

  He closed the report.

  “Now, Mr Jenson. If we took your daughter into court and accused those men of rape what do you think a good defence lawyer would do with this evidence.”

  He held it out in front of Jenson's face and answered the question for him.

  “They would crucify her and you and your wife. It would probably wreck your career.”

  He paused.

  “Personally, for Allison’s sake I don't even want to charge them with sex with a minor, but I have no choice in that as it won't be my decision. I have five signed statements that all say it happened and its too late to change that.”

  He put both hands on the table in front of him and looked the other man squarely in the eyes.

  “Your best bet would be to forget the matter and go home and give Alison your support. It looks as if she needs some help and advice.”

  Jenson stared back at him.

  “You mean I should just let it go. That black bas
tard laughed in my face and told me my little girl was the best white arse he had ever had. I want to see him suffer for that.”

  MacAllister straightened up, the Kestrel look firmly stamped on his features.

  “You're not listening, Mr Jenson. At the moment you can be charged with grievous bodily harm if Fairbrother decides to press charges and that won't help Alison, will it?”

  He softened his voice again.

  “Look, you drop the violence and go and support your kid and I'll see if we can get the assault charge dropped. I can't promise anything, but I don't think his friends would appreciate it if his stubbornness caused us to have a lot more men in the St Paul's area for a while. Might inhibit the free trade that goes on there. Until then you will be released on bail.”

  Jenson thought about it for a few moments and then nodded.

  “If I agree, can I go now?”

  Ten minutes later MacAllister stood with Marcus Lomax and watched him leave the building.

  “I hope to heaven he keeps his hands to himself from now on, Marcus. He has been a weapon and unarmed combat instructor for about fifteen years and I wouldn't fancy the chances of those kids in that group if he decides to take matters into his own hands again. Especially if next time he doesn't do it in broad daylight and in front of ten witnesses.”

  He pulled at his lip thoughtfully.

  “You ever get offered oral sex for doing some ones homework while you were still at school, Marcus?”

  Lomax, young and new to the squad appeared embarrassed by the question. MacAllister didn't seem to notice that.

  “No, neither was I. Your maths must be as bad as mine.”