Gamble and Revenge

PROLOGUE

This is the first book of a series written by CJ Warren - an up and coming crime fiction author. His character is Detective Inspector George Gamble, newly promoted and in charge of a rural force for the first time. However he soon realises that working in a rural force can be equally as busy and as demanding as an urban force. Within days of beginning his new job he has his first murder to investigate so let us follow DI Gamble through his first murder.

CHAPTER ONE

Well here I am a newly promoted detective inspector; the new boy of Northern Constabulary and I am certainly looking forward to the job. I had previously spent my entire career as a policeman in a busy city centre and I now wanted some peace and quiet. Surely being the head of the CID here I was almost certain to get it.

Let me tell you a bit about myself first - my name is George Winston Gamble, I am 42 years old and live on my own in a rented flat. I never really found time to get married although my friends would say that I married the police service and am still married to it. I have been in the police now for some 20 years and I have reached my goal, I am a Detective Inspector in a rural police force.

I joined the police in 1993 and did my stint in uniform before transferring to the CID. I spent several years as a detective on a shoplifting squad in Birmingham, it was something I hated but it did give me time to study for my sergeant’s exam. I successfully passed the exam and was promoted to a uniform sergeant in charge of a neighbourhood team. That was so boring after being a detective but I persevered and was transferred to the CID as a detective sergeant. Eventually making detective inspector and transferring here to Northern Constabulary.

So here I am in the beautiful village setting of Brockton under Edge. Now why this small county force would need another DI I don’t know. The reasoning I was given at the interview stage was that the force headquarters Central (which is based in Brockton on the Hill) will retain a detective superintendent and the chief inspector.

There will be a DI covering the south of the force area and a DI namely me, covering the north of the area the two DI’s would be immediately responsible to the gaffers at Central.

Now I am told that the superintendent is affectionately known as ‘Mile away Micky’ due to the fact that if the force has a serious crime he is to be found ‘miles away’ I suppose I will find out in due course. The DCI on the other hand is known as ‘Too close Tim’ due to the fact that when there is a serious crime he is too close to you. He is always breathing down your neck and telling you how to do your job.

Now if that is the case I will certainly be falling out with him. If I am in charge of a serious crime I do not want gaffers poking their nose in. They are there to pay the overtime and expenses. Although they do say that he is never at the station as he is always on management courses and looking for promotion at any given chance.

This is going to be heaven after a busy city centre I mean the station here is like a big old country house that’s been here for years just like the office PC, John ‘Smiley’ Clarke. He is called that for a reason apparently he is a miserable bastard who I am told only smiles when he has wind. He spends his whole day moaning about everything from the weather down to the price of beer and cigarettes - and he consumes both in large quantities.

I have two detectives at the station with me, a DS and a DC. The DC, Tracy is on maternity leave and has been for years and the DS pops in when he can - apparently. He is normally busy eating, drinking and shagging anything that moves, with the cleaner at the station being one of his favourites. I have not met her as yet and I am looking forward to that - is she a beaut or what?

So there you have it, welcome to my new world. As I said, I will be in charge of the detectives on the north of the force. It includes about six or eight villages and each village tends to have at least one detective. There are more detectives at Central and they are known, surprisingly as the Central CID.

I am due to start my new post on 5th November 2011 and am looking forward to it. I am particularly looking forward to meeting the DS, his name is Huw ‘Taffy’ Jones and he is known to most as Taff, Taffy, FBJ or Fat Belly Jones. He sounds perfect doesn’t he? Oh he is ex-Met as well.

Monday, the 5th soon came around and it was a typical November’s day, dark, wet, miserable and freezing cold - but as I drove through the countryside to the station, I could see why people liked to live here. It was a beautiful village with big houses no doubt owned by rich business men and their families or I suppose rich villains and their families.

No doubt I would find out in due course. But after my last job this was heaven and on my journey I could actually see grass and roads without litter. The pigeons no longer coughed, I could tell I was going to enjoy this new job. I arrived at the station about 8:30am to find the place locked up. Now I know it was not open 24 hours a day but I was told it was open between 8:00am and 4:00pm, so where was Smiley Clarke?

I was parked outside the station awaiting the arrival of Smiley, when this scruffy looking bloke arrived in a tatty looking Ford Escort. He got out and made his way to me where he tapped on the driver’s window. I opened the window and the scruffy individual barked, ‘Who the fuck are you?’ You can’t park here this is police property. Now fuck off.’

I replied, ‘I am the new DI, who are you?’

He said in a much quieter voice, ‘Smiley Clarke, the office PC, Sir’.

I said, ‘You’re late where have you been?’

He answered, ‘I had a puncture’.

I thought along the lines ‘you lying bastard’ crossed my mind.

I got out my car and carefully closed the door. I had just bought the car of my dreams a black Audi A4 Avant Quattro 3.2, AKA the dog’s bollocks. I shouted towards Smiley, who by now had a key in the front door, ‘Where can I park my car?’ and I added ‘is there somewhere at the back of the station?’

‘There’s no room, FBJ parks his caravan there.’ He murmured.

I was thinking, where the fuck have I come to?

I began to wonder what the fuck I had let myself in for. I kept my mouth shut and decided I would speak with FBJ when he surfaced. I walked through the office and upstairs with Smiley who showed me the office that was going to become my home as the new DI. I opened the door and the first thing that hit me was a large amount of motor bike bits on the floor and on my new desk. I looked around for Smiley but he had disappeared downstairs. I bawled at the top of my voice, ‘Smiley, get the fuck up here.’

He appeared looking sheepishly knowing what I was going to say next. ‘Whose is this shit?’ before he answered I said, ‘Don’t tell me, it belongs to FBJ.’

Smiley just nodded his head I could not wait to meet FBJ, my sergeant, whenever he decided to arrive for work. I scrambled over the oily motor bike parts and looked out of the window of my office. The view at the back was lovely once I got past this caravan there were hills for miles covered in sheep. This was going to be a dream job I could feel it in my bones - the area suffered very little crime and in the main it was burglaries and little else.

The large expensive houses with their swimming pools attracted the shit from the cities and often fell victim to being broken into. The last murder in the force was a husband and wife about ten years ago – which we would call a domestic. I worried I would be bored here but at long last I had got what I wanted, to be a DI in a county force.

But first where’s FBJ? Its nearly nine now and he still hadn’t arrived but just then I heard a car pull up and I walked to the front of my office again past the bits of motor bike. I looked out just in time to see an old tatty looking ‘W’ reg BMW pull up. Is this our first customer of the day? I wondered. The driver’s door opened and out stepped or rather fell, a short fattish man, aged about 40. Could this be FBJ?

The passenger door opened and I am not joking the smell of perfume hit me the windows weren’t even open. Well I couldn’t open the windows anyway they had obviously painted the window frame at some time with the windows shut. The passenger was a female, 40 years, tall and thin with large breasts I noticed. Was this Mrs FBJ or the cleaner?

They both walked towards the front door of the station so I put two and two together and put money on her being the cleaner. Why? Well he couldn’t keep his hands off her he kept touching her - first her bum then her breasts. Now you don’t do this with the wife at nine in the morning. Yes, I was right as they walked into the front office Smiley said, ‘Morning Taff. The new gaffer’s upstairs and he isn’t happy.’

‘Why?’ muttered Taff as he lit a cigarette.

Smiley said, ‘The motor cycle bits and your bloody caravan.’

Just then Taff came up the stairs with this woman close behind him and walked into my office where I was standing by the window. Taff said, ‘I’m Sergeant Jones, some people call me Taff or FBJ and this is Maureen, the cleaner. She is known as three floors.’

I said, ‘I am the new DI, and you can call me Mr Gamble. You’re late.’

‘Sorry it won’t happen again’ muttered Taff.

I said, ‘I know it won’t because if it does I will move you to Central and I am certain you would not want that.’

I carried on, ‘This is my first day and just to let you know I am not a bastard but actually quite a nice bloke. By the end of today the caravan will be gone along with those motor bike bits and this office cleaned from top to bottom. Do you understand?’

Taff replied, ‘Yes Sir.’

I said, Not Sir, Mr Gamble will be fine or even boss.’

He said, ‘Yes boss’

Taff wandered back down the stairs and I could hear him talking on his mobile phone to someone about getting the caravan shifted. I turned to Maureen and asked, ‘Maureen, can I ask why they call you three floors?’

‘Because I clean all the floors in the station and there are three, the cellar, the first floor and this floor.’ she replied.

If there were motor bike parts in an office I didn’t want to think what’s in the cellar I will save that for another day. Maureen left the office to start the main job of the day which was tea and toast for the staff. This was going to be different after working in a city. Day one passed without further events and by now the caravan was gone and I could park my prized Audi in the rear yard. My office was nearly free from the motor bike parts, Taff and three floors had done well between them.

The last job of the day for me was to go for a pint in one of the village’s three pubs. This particular pub, the Mousetrap had been recommended to me. I asked Taff to join me in the pub if he wished. We were going to work together so we needed to get to know a bit about each other.

CHAPTER TWO

Tuesdays were to be the weekly meeting of the senior officers at Central, the two DI’s, me included of course and ‘Mile away Micky’ – I mean, Superintendent Mick Davies. DCI Tim Sugar was also there along with a sprinkling of uniform brass.

The purpose of the meeting was to get an update from both the CID and uniform and attempt to identify any problems along with drinking tea and eating biscuits and then when the meeting concluded, the CID would go on the piss and not invite the uniform - sounds about right some things never change wherever you work

After the usual introductions we discussed at length a new family that had moved into one of the big posh houses at the top of Lady Baker Lane in Brockton Parva one of the villages that I covered as the DI. This family consisted of John Joe Broome known by everybody as JJ. He was a well-known Birmingham private investigator. His wife Monika lived with him and they had no children.

JJ was quite famous in the seedy world of private investigators and was completely despised by the police. I was told that he had a local DC on his books; meaning we had a bent DC in the team who was selling information to JJ in return for freebie holidays amongst other things. I had only known one or two bent coppers in my career but that was one or two too many; I hated them and wanted them out of the force.

If I was to believe what I was being told we had one right under our noses. I for one did not like that and wanted to know what the so called ‘senior officers’ were doing about it. Well it transpired they were doing absolutely nothing as usual. It was decided that as I was unknown at this time to this bent DC I was given the job to sort him out. Welcome to the quiet world of a rural DI.

My main questions were of this bent DC and what did we know about him? He was part of the Central CID team working at headquarters. The rumours at the time were that he was giving this JJ names and addresses of people that he had got off the Police National Computer (PNC). He would also let JJ know if there was to be any drug raids on well-known figures in the Birmingham area. JJ of course would sell this information on and our bent cop would get his reward. I had begun to build up a picture of this DC but tried to remember they were only allegations at this point.

The suspected bent cop was a DC Frank Weild and he lived in a police house in the village of Brockton Hardy with his wife Nina. He had been a Northern Constabulary policeman for the last 6 years and transferred to the CID last year. By all accounts, if he was taking back handers nobody had a clue what he was doing with the money because he lived a modest lifestyle, in what was described as a shit hole house and drove a non-descript Ford Focus with built in rust.

The meeting finished and I returned to my office. I needed to find more out on this JJ the private investigator and try and find someone I could trust – FBJ was my only option I thought I could trust him. He was only interested in smoking, drinking and shagging ‘three floors’ after all.

I sat in my office and looked out of the window, seeing the sheep and cows both grazing as FBJ walked into my office grazing – sorry eating. ‘Sit down’ I said to him.

‘Okay boss what’s the problem?’ He replied spraying bits of sandwich around. I had to trust FBJ I needed help if I was going to sort out DC Weild and get to the bottom of it. ‘FBJ’ I said ‘Do you know DC Weild out of Central CID?’

‘Yes boss, why?’

‘There are rumours going around he’s bent.’ I said quietly.

‘Yes, I’ve heard that he supposed to be in the pocket of that private investigator JJ who’s just moved from Birmingham.’

The first thing I wanted to know was what the connection was between a Birmingham private investigator and a Northern Constabulary DC? I asked FBJ and he did he told me that DC Weild’s wife worked as some sort of secretary in the Birmingham office of JJB Private Investigations. She was only JJ’s secretary – not a bad connection. I wondered what else FBJ had to tell me perhaps it’s time to taste the local beer again.

‘Taffy’

‘Yes boss?’

‘Fancy a pint?’

No need to ask him twice. ‘You’ve talked me into it.’ He grinned. We walked to another one of the local pubs in the village the White Swan.

‘Taffy, these rumours how strong are they?’

‘Boss’ he said. ‘Rumours are rumours I’ve got no proof but speak to anybody in the village and mention the name of DC Weild from Central CID and they will all say the same – he’s the bent one.’

‘Taffy I can’t work in rumours there must be more or someone must know something.’

I told Taffy about the senior management at Central that wanted me to sort out the problem DC Weild, establish if he was bent or not. I told Taffy that I wanted him to help me. I left him to think about it whilst I went to the bar for another drink. He agreed to help me. I often wonder if it was the drink speaking but he was on board and I trusted him.

I needed to know a bit more about JJ so decided my starting place should be with the police in Birmingham. Although I had previously worked in Birmingham I had not come across JJ, so I went to see a good friend on the Fraud Squad, Dick, someone I had known for years. He was ex-police but was still employed as a member of the Fraud Squad as a civilian investigator. He had worked around the Birmingham area for years.

I gave him a call and we met at a pub in the Jewellery Quarter, the Rose Villa Inn, a very old and friendly pub. Dick was his normal happy self and we soon got onto the subject of JJ, this so called bent PI with a bent DC in tow. I felt if Dick couldn’t help then nobody could I was not to be disappointed.

According to Dick, JJ himself was ex-police but had been sacked a couple of years earlier after being caught selling information to local villains. The information he provided varied from a name and address of an owner of a car and went right the way through to when the police were going to raid certain premises. These premises were normally low life massage parlours or brothels and were raided by the police in search of drugs and prostitution.

JJ would find out when the raids were taking place and let the baddies know in advance earning a few bob in the process. But these people always want more and more and in the end he was found out. He was checking individuals on some of the police intelligence systems. Dick said that the police merely sacked him and the matter did not reach court.

In a matter of weeks after being sacked he had set himself up as a dodgy PI working from a shithole office in the arse end of Birmingham. He was soon getting a name for ‘sorting problems’ out which included getting some of his friends to beat people up. However, he still needed someone who could do some police checks for him and he soon got his wish. Enter Nina, the wife of our bent DC.

JJ wanted a secretary he thought that would make him look more professional. So he advertised for one in the local newspapers. Nina, who was working as a hairdresser in the jewellery quarter saw the advertisement and applied for the job. A quick interview took place and the job was hers. Why did she accept the job? God only knows. JJ came across as a sexist, racist, male chauvinist bag of shit – but it takes all sorts I suppose.

It would appear that JJ and Nina got on well not sexually but just as ordinary day to day work colleagues. They had the occasional business lunch out and obviously JJ found out that she was married to a policeman. I bet his little squinty eyes lit up. Although the pay was poor JJ offered her a chance to earn some more money. He suggested that he, Nina and her husband went for dinner and he could offer Nina and DC Weild a chance to make a few bob.

The deal was simple. DC Weild did a bit of ‘researching’ as JJ called it and the details would be given to Nina to pass on. JJ did not want to be seen in the company of the DC after their dinner. You never know who was watching he would always say. JJ convinced DC Weild he could earn a grand a month for just a bit of research. It would seem that DC Weild bit his hand off – the partnership was in place.

Dick had got no hard evidence. He had stacks of rumours like everybody else and we all know rumours don’t make you guilty. Outwardly, DC Weild showed no signs of wealth as he lives in a tatty police house in the village and drove a tatty car. Was he a gambler? Was he a drinker? It was up to me to find out.

What were the facts? Dick my mate from Birmingham had heard the rumours and of course had put DC Weild’s wife working with JJ. We had senior management from Central they thought he was on the take and my old mate FBJ telling me he was on the take. They can’t all be wrong.

Dick and I carried on drinking. After the talk of JJ had finished as all good policemen do, we went and had the statutory curry. It was great meeting with him again and when we both had enough to eat and drink we said our goodbyes and I got a taxi home – totally pissed again.

I thought being a rural DI was going to be simple, easy and laid back, how wrong was I? I had walked into a bag of shit. ‘Mile away Micky’ the superintendent was missing on a golfing holiday or something. ‘Too close Tim’ was not so close this time as he said ‘Down to you George. I am off on a management course.’

CHAPTER THREE

I was still pissed in bed when the phone rang. I looked at the clock and it said 4:10am. I wondered what the fuck was happening it was day three in my new life as a DI in a rural force. Maybe it was a wrong number. Fuck, it was work, I recognised the ring. I answered and the beautiful voice of a Welsh DS, probably as pissed as me told me to get my arse to the station.

‘Taff, what the fuck has happened?’

‘Boss’ he said, ‘JJ is dead.’

I was taken aback; the last murder here was ten years ago or so. ‘Taff, I’ll kill you if you are taking the piss, what has happened?’

He told me that the alarm on JJ’s house had gone off at about 2:00am and when the local police arrived the front gates were open - these gates were six foot high electric gates. A young PC had found the front door wide open and when she went in she found JJ apparently dead in the bath, having suffered a severe beating to his head and face.

I got out of bed and threw an old suit on, sensing that later in the day I would be going to a post mortem. I climbed into the Quattro and drove to the station. I got there and saw Taff’s old beamer outside and walked into the station to be met by Smiley Clarke, the office PC and I said ‘What you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.’

He replied half asleep ‘Boss, it’s a murder and I thought I might be able to assist you a bit.’

I thanked him by asking if he would make me and Taff