Influence

by Andrew Snadden

  The eleven officers arrived at an old spit and sawdust style Victorian pub which was just a miles walk from the court, and not far away from the City of London's police station which would provide a safe haven if the press learned of their chosen drinking establishment. Simpson, always the most pragmatic of the group had suggested that they get on the tube to travel somewhere far away from the court which would make them less obvious to the locals and at a reduced the risk of being photographed boozing by the lurking paparazzi before the verdict.

  “Mate, the paparazzi didn't even see us enter the court so it's highly unlikely they would recognise us, especially now we've changed, and anyway I seriously doubt they'd even bother looking for us. Right! Onto more important business; Harvey's ale all round?!” Allen said in his usual laid back manner.

  Two pints into what was meant to be a quiet drink after an uncomfortable day in the stifling court house was now becoming a little louder. Consequently Simpson and MacNeil had started to become concerned that drinking that much before the big day would only lead to bad news; literally. The others had different ideas though, especially Foster who MacNeil believed had already had his fair share of drinks and was hardly someone who should have been allowed to drink so much given his recent behaviour.

  “John, do you not think it's time to call it quits? Anthony's getting a little loud and he's hardly well, right!” MacNeil said

  “I know.........but it's great to see him enjoying himself with the team again. Even Conan and him are getting on! One more and we'll go for something to eat, I promise!” O'Keeffe replied, interrupting MacNeil before he finished stating that Foster shouldn't be drinking.

  Simpson and Arthur finished their drinks and got up from the table to be joined by Evans, Collins, Moore and Palmer, who all said they'd had enough, with Moore stating that his pain killers didn't mix well with beer too. This left Allen, Jones, Conan, Foster and O'Keeffe, who had always been the team's hell raisers, to carry on. All the nagging in the world wouldn't have made them leave.

  Forty minutes later, the combination of an empty stomach and ale meant that the five of them were starting to get more than a little drunk; like Simpson and Arthur had feared. Allen feeling nauseous from dehydration and ale made his excuses and left, causing the others to rib him about being a light weight which was not just a poke at his inability to hold his drink. It wasn't long after his departure that the conversation soon turned from being about the fit scattered female arse inside the pub to reminiscing about the good old days with Marriot. The topic should have been avoided, especially with alcohol involved. Emotions and booze were a highly combustible cocktail and after less than ten minutes of talking about the Sergeant, Foster snapped that the subject should be changed to something less morose.

  Conan, who was more than a little drunk and reaching the end of his tether with Foster's attitude, suddenly confronted him about his conduct in the court, stating that he could have ruined them all with his crappy demeanour. He barely finished his tongue lashing before Foster shot up as quick as a lightning bolt and told him to fuck off, knocking a couple of empty pint glasses onto the floor in the process. O'Keeffe looked at Conan in shock and then told him that now was the not the time or place to discuss this stuff. Conan nonchalantly raised his hands up with his head tilted as if to say 'whatever' and looked at Foster with a relaxed expression and said “Let’s leave it Foster, no harm done eh?”.

  “Come on then big man, you want to sort this out now do you? Come outside, it's time you learnt how to shut that big mouth of yours! I'm not Adam Jennings, you don't scare me!” Foster snarled at Conan who looked taken aback at how Foster was still being combative after he had backed off. A few heads quickly pirouetted from the bar behind on hearing the names Adam Jennings and Foster. Their fellow drinkers linking the two names with the story that had been dominating the news. Jones noticing the unwanted attention told Foster to sit down and Conan to shut up. Despite Conan being willing to settle it, Foster with his alcohol clouded thought processes, was not.

  O'Keeffe sensing something bad was about to happen, suggested they leave the pub and go for dinner somewhere to soak up the misguided amount of alcohol they had consumed. Foster's face began to display the same vacant, aggressive expression he had witnessed in the toilets of the secret debrief location, and numerous occasions since the operation. O'Keeffe recognised it and knew that whatever was going on in Foster's head, it was only going to lead to one thing, and that was trouble.

  “What's happened to you anyway Foster, you're a bloody mess? It's about time you started getting your shit together! Do you think you're the only one who's struggling since the operation?!” Conan asked, pissed off at Fosters inability to back off and how he had been acting over the recent months.

  “Screw it down Conan you idiot, people can hear you!” O'Keeffe implored him, realising that they were being watched and knowing that Foster was just about to explode.

  “Bollocks, I want to know why this little prat has been playing the post-traumatic stress card since that night. Looking for compensation are you?” Conan slurred in drunken defiance of O'Keeffe.

  “Just leave it Conan!” Jones said, trying to defuse the situation.

  Foster put his palms flat in the middle of the table and leant towards Conan with pupils like they had been in the court room, dilated and fixated. His breathing started to become heavier with a more purposeful, slow rhythm as if he was preparing to do something terrible.

  “Do you want to be the next person I kill?” Foster quietly whispered to Conan without a shred of humanity in his voice.

  Sensing that Foster was going to go for Conan, O'Keeffe moved between the two men and pleaded with Foster to calm down and leave it. Foster averted his cold gaze from Conan to O'Keeffe before he relaxed and stood up from his chair. Both Conan and Jones let out thankful sighs.

  “Aren't you that copper who slotted that unarmed terrorist?” said an overly confident man in his early thirties and wearing a suit with an Essex boy style hair and stubble, naively believing that his question would be well received.

  Foster quickly spun around on his heels and grabbed the man by the throat before he rapidly pushed him backwards up against the bar, holding him by the throat and screaming into his face with his fist raised. The man's eyes grew as large as planets as he looked upon the enraged, flushed face of Foster, whose veins looked as big as garden hoses because of the angry adrenaline filled blood pumping around them.

  “ANTHONY RELAX! Come on mate, let him go, he's not worth it” O'Keeffe pleaded with Foster who was still gripping the man by his throat and almost forcing him in half over the edge of the bar. The landlord who was standing less than six feet away didn't move an inch; no one did.

  O'Keeffe desperately attempted to reason with Foster again, who after a few more seconds of holding him, let go. Foster turned around and began asking O'Keeffe where they were going for something to eat before he noticed that everyone was staring at him with worried expressions on their faces.

  “Why are they all looking at me? What's your fucking problem?” asked a puzzled Foster which prompted most of the people within the pub to hastily avert their gaze and look down at the floor. Foster shook his head with confusion and muttered “Pricks!” before he walked out of the main doors in an agitated state.

  O'Keeffe raised his palm up at Jones and Conan and told them to leave it before he transferred his attention to the man who Foster had grabbed and apologised profusely for his friend’s behaviour. The landlord behind the bar suddenly piped up, expressing his support for them and remarking how the loss of their colleague must have been very hard on them before he 'eloquently' said in his cockney accent “You're bloody heroes for sorting those bastards out! Scum, they should all be deported!” He then leant forward and put his hand on the man's left shoulder and said “I suggest you keep your mouth shut about this boy! You don't know you're fucking born sunshine!” The stubbly man acknowledging what he said with a nervous nod before
repeatedly apologising to the three officers. O'Keeffe thanked the Landlord and they hurriedly left.

  Outside Conan turned to O'Keeffe and asked him what the hell was going on and that as Fosters friend, he must have known what was going on with him.

  “I don't know! He had a moment like this after the shooting; I thought it was just shock and stress affecting him!” He replied.

  “I can't believe this, I thought he was just playing up! I shouldn't have doubted him!” Conan reflected.

  “Look, we all should have done something about him earlier, but right now, we just need to find him!” Jones interrupted. The three men looked at each other with concern before they rushed off to search for Foster.

  The following morning, after failing to locate Foster, the trio discussed the night before with the others, drawing annoyed responses from Simpson and MacNeil who both stated that it had been obvious that something bad was going to happen. O'Keeffe informed Inspector Balham of what had happened, who shook his head and exclaimed “I knew he wasn't right! That's why I placed him on non-operational duties and removed his firearms permit, maybe I should have done more too. OK we'll sort this out when we get back!”.

  Just as the team were about to walk into the court for the verdict, Foster appeared smiling and apologising for his lateness as if everything was normal. Jones was just about to ask him where he had been since the pub but Balham tapped him on the shoulder and shook his head implying that he should leave it for now.

  Twenty minutes later, the Judge asked the Jury for their verdict, causing the butterflies to flutter around each of the firearms officers stomachs. As the Jury returned a guilty verdict against the five defendants, Jennings screamed out “They're are the murderers. They're the ones who killed an unarmed man!” before he was restrained by one of the court's bailiffs. The other four defendants remained silent and forlorn as they had done throughout the hearing.

  After the Judge had finished shouting for order to be restored, he finally gave his verdict, “I find the defendants guilty of planning and making preparations to commit mass murder, and hereby sentence them to fifteen years imprisonment!”, the five men's faces dropped. “And as for you Mr Jennings, I also find you guilty of the murder of City police officer Sergeant Kevin Marriot and the attempt murder of PC Alex Moore, in addition I therefore also sentence you to life in prison” The Judge finished with a look of disdain for Jennings in particular which did nothing to quell the temper tantrum he'd had just moments before.”

  “MURDERERS! I HOPE YOU ALL ROT IN HELL!” Jennings yelled out at the top of voice prompting the Judge to order the bailiffs to “TAKE HIM DOWN!!!!!” and declare order.

  He didn't go without a fight though and it took a total of four bailiffs to remove the incensed man, despite his disabled arm. Jones looked over at Conan and rolled his eyes.

  “I guess it's just what happens when someone weak and vulnerable is influenced by someone evil and deranged!” Conan remarked.

  Foster, who was sat in front of them, did not say a word, and just watched Jennings with an indifferent and cold stare as he was dragged from the court room kicking and screaming.

  A Serious Bunch of Names

  Chapter Seven

  “Peter, they're waiting for you!” said DS Ian Richards, Anaura's best friend and the Vice unit's Sergeant.

  Richards was a man in his early forties and the polar opposite of Anaura; he liked wearing ties for a start. He and Anaura had both joined The City Police Force at the same time and had formed a strong friendship from the outset which meant that their wives and children were very close too. Although Anaura may have been the boss, Richards was his right hand man whose opinion meant a great deal. More often than not, Richards was the angel on Anaura's right shoulder who kept him safe from the devil on his left who influenced him to rush into things without thinking.

  “Ah bloody hell! Can't they wait? I'm trying to get this Billy Vine case signed off!” Anaura protested whilst leaning back in his chair and pulling an exasperated expression. He knew that the Six Nations final between England and Wales would be starting imminently and he was running out of time to get things wrapped up before kick-off.

  “No Peter, they won't wait, they've been expecting you for the past ten minutes.” Richards replied.

  “Bloody hell Ian, I knew this was coming. RIGHT, let’s get it over with”

  “Are you going to take your tie off Peter? I mean it's what they would expect” Richards asked Anaura who was wearing a tie for once.

  “No I'd better leave it on, don't want to get into more trouble if someone else comes in!” he stated.

  Anaura stood up from his desk and walked with Richards into the main office. On his emergence the whole room stopped watching TV and looked up at him with apprehension; they knew what he was going to have to do.

  “Sorry sir, they wouldn't have taken no for an answer, we had no choice” DC Carl Langford said with a sympathetic look as Valera and DC Naomi Usher looked on with expectant expressions. Anaura shook his head in frustration, the national anthems had already started and kick off was imminent, yet he had to get this rigmarole out of the way first. Why couldn't they have requested him at half time he thought to himself.

  “Right then, I suppose I'm going to have to wait a bit longer before I can sit down and relax. OK, let’s get it over with!” Anaura said, hoping that he would be finished in time to see the match. He nodded at Richards and Langford before he walked towards the centre of the office, and on to a large open archway that provided access to the CID office. Just before he walked through the large archway, he paused and turned around so that he was just shy of it and facing his team. The Vice detectives smiled at him.

  “WAEWAE TAKAHIA KIA KINO” Anaura yelled out at them before forcefully bending his legs into a squatted horse riding stance, both fists clenched hard above one another. His eyes became sharp and angry with his face reflecting the powerful aggression that was boiling up inside him. Anaura's posture was as solid as a statue, he did not look like he was in the mood for taking prisoners

  “Ooooooooo, AH KA MA TE! KA MA TE! KA ORA! KA ORA! HOOO HOOO” he chanted, yelling at the top of his voice and smacking his big hands down repeatedly on his thighs and then demonstrating an intimidating array of hand movements. The whole team gazed at him in awe.

  The intoxicating mix of fear and fascination caused Valera to grab Usher's arm and squeeze it hard. Anaura had suddenly become incredibly intimidating and not her usual laid back and caring boss.

  “WHITI TE RA! EEEEEEEE” he yelled as he jumped into the air with his tongue thrust out.

  All of the detectives burst into applause as he landed back on the ground. Anuara walked back over to them and took a seat prior to Richards rubbing and patting his head from behind him.

  “Best one yet mate” Richards said to him whilst laughing.

  The uncharacteristic display of aggression had been down to a team tradition where Anaura had been duty bound to perform the Maori war dance, the Haka. The same dance that the New Zealand All blacks rugby team demonstrated before every game. It didn't matter that New Zealand were not playing, the Vice detectives just wanted to see him do it whenever there was a game on. It was moments like this that made it obvious how close and fond the team were of him. On top of this his fun loving personality, Anaura was also a copper's copper and made sure that his team did the job they loved and joined to do, which was catch criminals and not chase politically set figures.

  “His wife is so lucky, why can't I find someone like him!” DC Valera said to Usher who agreed with her.

  “Peter?” Detective Chief Inspector Steiner said to Anaura in a manner that wasn't so much a question but more of an order, as in, I want to speak to you now!

  Anaura escorted Steiner into his office and asked him how he could help, lamenting how he had missed the start of the game anyway. As far as higher ranked officers went, Chief Inspector Jason Steiner was one of a few decent ones who Anaura got on very well with.
Steiner wasn't one of those ladder snakes and had spent most of his career on the streets, and was now a thirty year plus copper. Some people just didn't want to draw their pensions!

  “Peter, did you hear about Jennings and friends getting sentenced to life? The firearms officers won't be facing any further enquiry either. The fact that it was suggested after what they went through makes me bloody angry with the system. It's a bloody insult to Marriot's memory, he was a great bloke; did you know him?” Steiner said.

  “It is great news. No I didn't know Marriot or the others. I've only really come across the firearms lot in passing, I guess we're at different ends of the spectrum. You're right though they should never have been subjected to a court hearing like that, especially since Op Barrier was only three months ago!” Anaura remarked.

  Steiner nodded in agreement before he dumped a large file on Anaura's desk which he picked up to have look at.

  “Bradford, Pearson, Sykes, Cooper...........this is a pretty serious bunch of names Jason” Anaura declared as he flicked through the file. Steiner nodded back with his eyebrows raised.

  Ryan Bradford, Larry Pearson, Nick Sykes and Paul Cooper were indeed a serious bunch of names. Born in Eastings, a rundown fishing town to the east of the City, the four men had all grown up together, and after a troubled childhood of petty crime they had developed into proper villains. The 'Gang', as they imaginatively referred to themselves, were not a bunch of small time thugs, they were the real deal. The type of criminals that could make you disappear in a heartbeat if you put a foot wrong with them. Yet not one of them had been convicted of a violent offence or pulled the trigger. Now this wasn't down to them being of a sensitive disposition, it was just that they had plenty of people to carry out their many dirty deeds for them. Now aged in their fifties, the Gang were keen to start putting things in place for a happy retirement in the south of France or anywhere where the weather was nice and the red wine was flowing.