Mark Black

Chapter 1

 

          The decade had started poorly for Gary Jones. His only loyal friend, Bob Burns had been taken ill with cancer and met his maker within seven days. The man had fought like a lion until his final breath. Gary had sat with him for the entire time at the Macmillan nursing home. The final three days had been difficult. Bob could barely speak and his breathing was erratic. The rasping sound seemed to stutter in his lungs before release. Life appeared to drain from his body. The beast of man had become an empty, soul less shell. He had become… nothing.

          Jones had mourned the death of his loyal friend. At the service he had been the only person present. The vicar spoke glowingly of the man having known him for many years. Jones thought it sad that a man’s existence came down to two people attending his funeral, and one of those being the vicar.

          He had informed the vicar he would pay for everything and would like to dig the grave. The vicar was doubtful. Yet Jones convinced him with the knowledge gained from his departed friend it would not be a problem. The vicar relented and accepted the unusual request once a sizable donation was made to his church. Burns had also informed him where he wished his final resting place to be. He had been the guardian of the grounds for many years, therefore, he wanted to ensure the next incumbent of the position be watched over.

          After the funeral he ventured to the Kings Head and drank until his liver could take no more, and his legs could barely hold him upright. A caring bar maid asked if he was all right. Jones looked at her and slurred, ‘Like shit, more whisky, 3 of them, and a pint of Ben Truman.’ He fell out of the pub and stumbled his way to Hornchurch Station, before getting the tube home to Dagenham East. He collapsed on his sofa in a drunken lonely stupor.

          In spite of the money gathered he stubbornly refused to leave Dagenham. It was his one and only bolt hole of safety and security. He still enjoyed fine suits, refined dining and the theatre. Yet Dagenham, was Dagenham. A dwelling he loved. Ladies were aghast when they visited his home. They assumed he lived in a palatial place due to his wealth and manners. A night in Dagenham’s finest mid-terraced home was not what they expected. Yet Jones did not care. He had been brought up in this working-class paradise. He knew everything, everyone, everywhere. It was his manor, and he was not ready to relinquish his kingdom.

<                           >

          Johnny Bigtime kissed his wife and ruffled the gelled hair of his children. ‘Ave a good day lads, and no fighting unless you think the other kid deserves a dig.’ His offspring would never follow in his footsteps. They were privately educated, intelligent, honest and personable. All the traits he did not have, yet they were pussies compared to him. He knew life would be kinder and easier for them. He spoiled them with love, not money. Children from the private school they attended were totally spoiled by their over-the-top parents, and it made them pretentious little cunts. He loathed them. One of the fathers had been surly and confident enough to front him up during a school rugby match. Six slaps later and the parent had a broken nose and split lip. None of the parents fronted Johnny again, in fact, none of them spoke to him. Wanker's.

          The school had been good for his boys. Brentwood School was pricey, but it did introduce them to a better class of person. Both his boys had been warned about fighting. He had bollocked them both, yet deep down he was pleased. It showed they had brain and brawn, something which would carry them through life successfully. Both had inherited their darling mother’s brains, yet both carried their father’s passion. They were good lads.

          He opened the front door and bid everyone farewell, before striding purposely to his silver Vanden Plas Rover. He slipped the key into the door and opened it wide before becoming aware of a presence.

          ‘Excuse me, are you Johnny?’

          He turned to be faced by two men in Prince of Wales grey checked suits. ‘I am he.’ It was too late. His last living vision was of a gun being hoisted and fired towards his head, and his last living feeling was the bullet piercing the skin of his middle-aged forehead. Johnny was lifted from his feet and hit the floor with a dull thud. His last vision was of the pale blue sky looking down at him.

          Johnny Bigtime, who ran his empire from Romford snooker hall, had been gunned down on the drive of his home in Brentwood. The suspects calmly removed their gloves and carefully placed their weaponry in brown briefcases, before marching towards their blue Ford Cortina, departing the area like two respectable city businessmen. Neither man spoke. They had completed their mission.

<                           >

          Gary Jones heard reports of two suspects who cold bloodedly walked up to his working friend, before releasing two bullets into his head. Death was instant, although no-one had been arrested, and there had been no witnesses. These men were professional, ghosts.

          Rumours swirling around appeared to indicate a new breed of underworld operative who was making significant money through distributing illegal substances. This person was invisible. Gary had a sneaking admiration for the person as they were a little like himself. Yet how could a person remain so inconspicuous? Specifically, in the addiction world. Everyone knew the next person in the chain, but in this case the chain was broken.

          Gary knew Johnny was dipping his fingers into this lucrative, yet dangerous market, therefore Johnny had either reneged on a deal, or was getting too big. Yet Johnny was a person who would do neither, this was the thing troubling him. Johnny was old school. He never let his mouth runaway with information and everything was stored in his brain like a never-ending filing cabinet.

          There had also been reports of minor underworld figures missing mysteriously. Whether they were connected no-one knew, yet there had to be a joining of the dots by someone, somewhere, somehow.

          What would someone gain by removing everyone violently? This operative had taken a giant step into the London underworld by removing Johnny. They were making a statement that stood for, ‘I’m here, I’m taking over and I’m number one. Be aware.’ It was a dangerous game, yet one that received everyone’s attention immediately, including Gary Jones, the secret man.

<                           >

          The newly promoted Batman and Robin of Dagenham’s enforcement agency had visited Jones on many occasions. DCI Drake and Superintendent Philips had gained their promotion through breaking the historic child abuse case, yet both were still unhappy about the ex-commissioner and his apparent friendship with Gary Jones. Both sensed each knew more than they were revealing.

          The commissioner had retired from the force to enjoy his sizable pension, not that he required it, having been the sole heir of a well-known radio empire. Rumours had grown that he had met a lady and was planning to settle down, something Superintendent Philips had recently done himself with his bride Catherine.

          Jack Philips had celebrated his marriage at the Metropolitan Police sports ground located in Chigwell. Everyone attended, celebrating the fact he had finally settled down; it had been a day of lasting memories. His new bride had even persuaded him to leave his home in Dagenham, and move to a superior area. The place selected was Upminster. His life had certainly changed from the previous year. Confirmed bachelor to ever-lasting soul mate.

          Gary Jones had brought Philips and Catherine a beautiful petrol lawnmower as a wedding gift. It was unexpected and he did not find out until he had used it. Jones had informed him it was a genuine present. A personal sentence at the bottom of the card made Jack Philips laugh. It read, ‘one hundred percent genuine, receipt enclosed!’

          Having honeymooned in Majorca, Jack returned to work with a tan for the first time. He arrived wearing fawn-coloured trousers and a lemon short sleeved shirt.

          Upon arrival, DCI Drake hollered, ‘Blimey, a bruised banana’s just walked in.’

          The uproar of laughter could be heard from all quarters. Jack stood assessing the characters before him, before taking a bow, ‘Ok everyone. I’ve returned. So hard work begins and good old-fashioned policing carries on.’ The retort was said in a jocular yet serious manner. The department understood that playtime was over and work was to resume.

          Jack ambled over to his office and sat in the comfort of his well-used chair. It was like welcoming back an old friend. He glanced at the reports and for the next two hours read every one of the informative sheets.

          His police antennae remained alert at all times. He knew about the death of Johnny Bigtime. He had known associates, one being Gary Jones, yet he understood Jones was not the problem. Guns were not his style. The shooting was calculated, and lacked compassion. It was cold. He sat in peace evaluating and considering what was going on with the criminal fraternity.

          Drugs had changed everything. Youngsters were taking something called Ecstasy. It was considered the happy drug. The desired effects included altered sensations, increased energy, empathy, as well as pleasure and love towards all. When taken by mouth the effects began in thirty to forty-five minutes and lasted three to six hours! Each one had a picture which indicated its strength. They often had a logo embedded in the tablet’s centre. These ranged from FBI, Mickey Mouse or a Dove.

          Philips had spoken to someone from Plaistow Police Station who had informed him doormen were controlling drugs in East London nightclubs; and a sting operation was being planned. The drug was also available in Essex clubs; specifically a prominent club in Chelmsford and another in Southend. He was also informed it was available in a celebrity club situated in Wardour Street and a South London nightclub based in South Norwood. Drugs were everywhere.

          Another major night for drugs was a nightclub situated on the A13. Their biggest night of the week was Sunday, gay night. Particular favourites being Ecstasy and Poppers. Poppers were induced by most men as they relaxed muscles, specifically the anus and throat.

          Both drugs were widely available from low-life dealers who enjoyed the notoriety of being considered part of the criminal underworld family. They were also sold by a fast-food stall situated outside the venue. Regular buyers would ask for a specific dish not listed on the menu. This was their password. It was spread by word of mouth. The stall holder would then entertain the buyer with their chosen menu.

          Jack’s concentration was broken by DCI Drake tapping on the glazed door. ‘Gov,’ have you read the files? Anything you want to follow up?’

          Jack slowly placed the brown files on his desk before replacing the elastic band. ‘Shootings, drugs and ‘iffy people. Not like Majorca. They have a drink out there which is brandy mixed with chocolate called Lumumba. It’s right nice Drakey. You can’t get Bitter either. They only drink a beer called San Miguel, which is bang average and will never catch on over here.’

          DCI Drake studied his friend, he was becoming soft. The old Jack Philips would have stuck to Devon and beer for his holidays. Yet here he was moaning about beer and arriving for work in fawn trousers and a lemon shirt. Retirement was looming, for sure.

          ‘This case, Drakey, smells of a new breed of operative. Someone who will stop at nothing to get their money, and remove the old guard from East London’s underworld. If I were Jones, I’d be proper careful. He’s now one of the old school. You know where you stand with that lot, but this new breed, they’re fucking dangerous, volatile.’

          Drake stood facing his superior evaluating the wisdom given, knowing he was right, and feeling a distinct lack of confidence. The man was concerned, and Jack Philips was never concerned.

<                           >

          Gary Jones finished his third slice of toast and marmalade, having already consumed two pots of strong sweet tea. The two paracetamols were beginning to take effect and ease his storming headache. It was like someone banging nails in the middle of his temple. The kind that stopped all traffic in the brain. Fuck. It really did ache. His shakes were beginning to ease, yet he still felt like a bag of shit. The pit of his stomach felt like it had been liquidised. His moment of self-pity was broken by a sudden sharp rapping on the door. The noise immediately sent shock waves through his head. Opening the door, he was attacked by bright sun light making him breath in sharply.

          ‘Fuck me Jones, you look like shit. You been on the sauce?’

          He opened his eyes and adjusted them to be met with the grinning faces of Philips and Drake, ‘As if my day couldn’t be any worse. Come in. You’re making the street look untidy.’

          The three entered the living room and planted themselves on the well-used, yet comfortable chairs.

          ‘Fellas, if you want tea, make your own. I am absolutely fucked. Buried my only faithful friend yesterday.’

          Jack Philips assessed the man opposite him. For him to call someone ‘friend’ they obviously went back. The man was hurting, that was evident for all. He knew he was from the opposing side of the law, but he was a man who understood right and wrong. He knew Jones was not on the law’s side, but he never gave anyone a problem, however Jack always had a nagging discomfit about him. There was something bad about him, something they had missed. Yet, he was in with top people, namely the old commissioner, who it was reported, dined with Gary Jones at Rules Restaurant two or three times each year, ‘Jones, you were friendly with Johnny Bigtime? What do you think of the shooting? Any ideas, thoughts, or guesses? In fact, anything.’

          Gary Jones suddenly felt a wave surround him, and his head pain immediately began to clear. They were concerned about the shooting; worried was more specific. He studied each man. Drake had grown in stature due to his promotion, whereas Philips appeared softer – gentler. He looked a man ready to sail into the sunset, not a man ready for a big and dangerous case, ‘Gents, you know I knew Johnny. Yet to release two bullets into his face from close range is something that shocked me. I mean, whoever did that meant business.’

          Jack Philips rubbed his suntanned forehead, privately wishing he were still in Majorca. This was going to be a dangerous case; he could feel it. For someone to end another’s life so coldly took a special talent, ‘Jones, we may need your help on this case. If I’m being honest, you may know people in these circles, people we may not know, if you know what I mean. In return, I’ll turn a blind eye to some of your less than honest activities.’

          Gary Jones leant forward and took a sip from his fourth mug of tea. They were in the shit, big style. He also thought fear was beginning to show. For them to leave him alone meant they had no idea and were prepared to make him their sacrificial lamb. Curiosity was growing within him like a vine. Paying back those who had murdered someone he liked was also enveloping his dangerous side, ‘A blind eye?’

          ‘You know what I mean Jones, we’ll look the other way whilst you are helping us.’

          ‘So, I gain nothing from this really. You’re just using me whilst I aid you during the investigation.’

          ‘Jones, let’s be honest. I don’t mind you, but you’re on the wrong side of the law, so when I say we’ll turn a blind eye to your under the counter activities. I mean during this investigation, but after it concludes, our cat and mouse game restarts. Comprende?’

          Jones laughed heartily, 'Comprende. You've gone all foreign on us. I'll help you out, for sure, but it needs to be a two-way street. If either of us has info' we share it with the other. I liked Johnny. He had a young family. Whoever did this wants absolute power, and I mean absolute. They also have money, plenty of it.'

          Philips immediately jumped on the word power, ‘What exactly do you mean by power?'

          Jones slowly and theatrically took a sip from his mug of tea, 'Johnny removed. Small time underworld operatives missing. Whoever arranged this is trying to takeover, and the process includes removing anyone in their way, and I mean... anyone.'

          There was a stillness in the room as if a sledgehammer had removed all movement. Breathing from all three resembled a quite wind and realisation was attacking their minds.

          Drake broke the endless silence, 'This could be bigger than the last case, Gov', and more dangerous. We’re gonna need a room back at the office just for this investigation.'

          Philips was in deep thought. He never thought he would work on another case as big as the last, but this could be as big without the famous faces, 'Jones, two-way street then. You want to find out who done your mate, and we need to take everyone down. We share info', and we use your place where the three of us can meet and share updates. Agreed. I'll supply the biscuits, you the tea.'

          Gary Jones had a begrudging respect for the two officers. They were calculating, yet used people fairly, 'Ok. What you bringing to this party, Drakey?'

          He eyed Jones. He hated being addressed Drakey by anyone from the criminal fraternity. He imagined punching Jones in the Adam's apple causing his airway to collapse. It was only momentary, yet it felt jubilant, 'I'll bring my wit and knowledge.'

          Philips knew when two lions were evaluating each other, and this was the time to depart, 'Ok. We'll make a move, Jones. Until our next gathering of knowledge, stay alive and sorry to hear about your friend.'

          The door was slammed with ferocity by Drake sending pulses racing through Jones already sore head.

          Jones stood and decided he needed to go to bed. Another two aspirin were swallowed, swiftly followed by a large glass of Farmer's Wife pure orange juice. His stomach began to make a gurgling noise like something going down the drain. He slowly made his way upstairs to his bedroom, throwing his clothing on the floor, before falling on his bed. He gently dozed for a couple of hours before being woken by his mind reminding him of Johnny.