A Questionable Hero

By Stephen Gane

Liston Pearce is a bad man, A yardie, A drug-dealing gang-boss. A split-second decision starts a series of life-changing events that he could not have foreseen even in his wildest imagination. The story is set in The St.Paul's area of The City of Bristol in 1989 a few years after the Bristol riots. Contains Strong Language.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Gane
• Release date: Jan 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311767271

Stephen Gane

About the author:Stephen Gane was born in Bath, Somerset, in 1948. He left school with no qualifications. He then found employment as an apprentice chef. Joined P&O and worked on cruise liners for a while. Then he moved to London where he ended his cooking career as head chef of a London Club. His second career was antiques which he did until he retired. Suffering from dyslexia he has had problems with reading and spelling so writing a novel never entered his head.Christmas 2013 he had a dream and had to write the story. Seven weeks and three days later "A Questionable Hero" was finished.

Book preview

About The Author

I'm Stephen Gane and I was born in Bath, Somerset, in 1948. I left school with no qualifications. I then found employment as an apprentice chef. I joined P&O and worked on cruise liners for a while. Then I moved to London where I ended my cooking career as head chef of a London Club. Liston's love of cookery is something he shares with me. My second career was selling antiques which I did until I retired.

Suffering from dyslexia I've always had problems with reading and spelling so writing a novel never entered my head. But,Christmas 2013, I had a dream and had to write the story. Seven weeks and three days later A Questionable Hero was finished. I hope you have enjoyed reading my novel as much as I enjoyed writing it.

A Questionable Hero

by

Stephen Gane

A Questionable Hero by Stephen Gane

Copyright © Stephen Gane 2014

The right of Stephen Gane to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright Acts. All rights reserved.

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Editing by Edit-My-Book

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be given away, reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without prior written permission from the author. You may, however, quote short passages without such prior permission in any review of this book you may write.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

If you have a copy of this book that you did not purchase or was not purchased specifically for you, please go to your favourite online bookseller and purchase a copy for yourself. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This novel is dedicated to

My wife Christine, my daughter Zoe,

my good friends Dave Clarke, Angela Carter and Chrissie Michaels.

Thanks for all your help and support.

CONTENTS

About The Author

Prologue

1 The Attack

2 Trying To Get It Together

3 A Friend In Need

4 Press Conference

5 The Family Pulls Together

6 The Police Raid

7 Floyd Goes To The Pub

8 On The Run

9 Sol Gets Arrested

10 A Meeting In The Park

11 Trouble At The Bella Vista

12 Encounter With Tracy

13 Give Myself Up

14 Sol Disappears

15 The Operation

16 The Interview

17 A Near Riot At The Café

18 Guilty Plea

19 The Inquest

20 Rose

21 Meeting With Leon

22 Crown Prosecution Service

23 Leon’s Ultimatum

24 Visiting Day

25 Sands, Sands, Sands.

26 Special Branch

27 Mortuary Visit

28 Orchard Visits Wendy

29 Kitchen Work

30 Tom Gets A Visit

31 The Trial: Day One

32 The Trial: Day Two

33 The Trial: Day Three

34 Home For Christmas

35 Christmas Eve

36 Christmas Day

37 Visit From Wendy

38 Two Years Later

PART TWO

39 Last Day In Prison

40 Free

41 The Bad Penny Returns

42 Pastor Michael

43 Date With Wendy

44 Confrontation

45 Captured

46 The Opening

Prologue

Liston Pearce was a yardie, a ruthless gangster, a drug-dealing gang boss, who never did much good in his life, except maybe once.

He was born in Kingston, Jamaica, in a poor working-class area. His father was a keen boxer, which was how Liston got his name. He was named after the World Heavyweight Champion Charles L Sonny Liston. He came to Britain when he was two years old with his mother and father. He had two younger sisters: Inez and Agnes.

He was now twenty-nine, six feet three inches tall, very slim, with short-cropped hair and dark skin covered with pockmarks from when he’d had chicken pox as a child. He had not had to do much hard work in his life, so his large hands were still quite soft.

When the family first moved to Britain in 1962, they lived in a small terraced house in the St Paul's area of Bristol. This was still his father's home. Bristol had been heavily bombed during World War II but none of the rebuilding and investment was ever seen in the deprived area of St Paul's.

His mother was a big influence on Liston's life but she died when he was only fourteen. He still remembered the food she cooked, though: salt fish and ackee, gungo peas and rice. He remembered her reading Bible stories to him and taking him to City Road Baptist Church on Sundays. After she died, he drifted apart from his father and now they rarely saw eye to eye.

His father was a good man. Born in 1936, he walked with a slight limp that resulted from an injury he got while playing football as a young lad and which meant an end to his boxing hopes. He married his childhood sweetheart, Mary, when he was twenty-one, and after she died of cancer he was devastated. It was a very hard road for him, trying to bring up three young children on his own. He eventually found work on the railways, sweeping platforms and cleaning toilets.

The events of April 2nd, 1980, were a big influence on Liston’s life. That was the night of the Bristol Riots. They started at The Black and White Café in Grosvenor Road, and a large number of rioters and policemen were badly hurt. The aftermath of the riot looked like a bomb had just exploded with burned and smashed police cars, and several buildings and a branch of Lloyd's bank badly damaged. It was the first time Liston had been arrested but he was released without being charged. From that time on, he had no respect for the police, which made his actions nine years later hard to understand.

CHAPTER ONE

The Attack

On a normal day in late October 1989, in a normal road not far from St Paul’s, Liston had been to visit his youngest sister, Inez. She was the one he felt closest to of all his family. He was her big brother and had always felt protective of her ever since she was a child.

Inez opened the door of her ground floor flat and welcomed Liston with, Hiya brov, how you doin?

OK sis, you? I brought you some Wagon Wheels.

Yummy, come in, coffee?

They squeezed along a narrow passage with a faded carpet littered with shoes and boots, brushing past coats hanging from pegs fixed to the wall, into the tiny kitchen diner at the back of the flat.

Liston sat at the small fold-out table. They ate the chocolate snacks and drank coffee. Inez had loved Wagon Wheels from as far back as she could remember.

They were much bigger when I was a kid, she said.

They talked about Inez’s new boyfriend, whom Liston was not too keen on. He knew one or two things about him that Inez didn’t, but he kept them to himself. The two chatted about their father whom Inez loved dearly. Inez thought he had been looking a little pale recently, and she worried about his health.

Inez was a girl who liked her chocolate and creamy, stodgy foods too much. Some of her friends called her chubby, but her Mum always used to say she was well covered when she was young. She was much smaller than Liston, just reaching up to his shoulder. She wore black-rimmed glasses and dressed a bit old fashioned for a young girl. She had a bubbly personality and was always smiling. She loved life and was rarely down.

Liston left her flat on a bright, late October afternoon. A breeze had got up and a slight shiver went through his bones so he pulled the black hood of his jacket over the black bandanna he had tied around his head. Liston liked wearing black: it made him feel and look like the hard man, which in fact he was.

The trees had lost their leaves; they were blowing about and drifting into the gutters at the sides of the road. With just a short walk to get back to his car, he set off in a good mood.

He had walked a few hundred yards down the road from Inez's flat when he heard shouting and screams. Immediately he hurried toward the cries.

A young white man was attacking a policewoman. He had stabbed her in the back with what looked like a large kitchen knife and was bending over her, about to strike again at her motionless, blood-spattered body. The young man looked up with a blank expression on his face to see a tall black man standing in front of him. He raised the knife again, ready to thrust it deep into the back of the policewoman. Without a moment’’s hesitation, Liston pulled his German WWII Walther P38 pistol from his coat pocket. Two shots shattered the silence of the cool, otherwise peaceful afternoon. One bullet hit the attacker in the chest, the other in the stomach. The man seemed to fall in slow motion on top of the policewoman's body. In blind panic, Liston ran, his heart pounding. It felt like it was about to burst out of his chest.

This started a series of events that he could never have foreseen, even in his wildest imagination.

Liston made it back to his car, a silver BMW M3. Fumbling with the keys, he opened the door. He clambered into the driver’s seat, trying to catch his breath and act normal, but after what had just happened, it was impossible.

Sweat was pouring from his body. His mind was in turmoil. Questions! Questions! What should I do? Where should I go? Who can I talk to?

Liston had been carrying the gun for a few months. It had become part of his daily dressing routine. He liked the feel of the cold metal when he touched it; he liked the weight of it in his pocket. The pistol made him feel powerful and safe. It made him a person not to fuck about with. It was a symbol of his strength. He had stolen it when he’d broken into an old man’s house. It must have been a souvenir he’d brought back after the war. Liston nicked some other stuff, but there was little else of value there.

With a shaky hand he put the keys into the ignition and the BMW thundered into life. He drove off, weaving his way through the narrow back streets of Bristol to his flat.

Meanwhile, back at the scene of the attack, the police and ambulance service had arrived. WPC Wendy Parker was still breathing but her attacker was not doing so well. The paramedics had given Wendy first aid and stabilized her as best they could on the cold hard road. They placed her on a gurney and loaded her into the waiting ambulance which took her to Bristol Royal Infirmary, with lights flashing and sirens screaming. When they arrived they rushed her into intensive care.

Her attacker was pronounced dead at the scene. The two shots had killed him outright. He was lying on his back now, the knife close by his hand. Later, a black coroner’s van drove him away.

As the incident unfolded at the scene of the attack and killing, the police investigation began in earnest. The forensics team had arrived in force, and were starting to get themselves organised for the job in hand.

Detective Chief Inspector John Orchard was in charge of the investigation. He was a man in his late fifties. He had fought in the Korean War with The Gloucestershire Regiment, so he had first-hand experience of the evil men can do to each other.

After he left the armed forces he joined the police force, and had worked his way up to become a Detective Chief Inspector.

John Orchard was a smart man, quite tall, with short grey hair and a square face with steely blue eyes that could see straight through you. He was never seen at his job without wearing a suit and always wore the Gloucestershire Regimental tie. He was a proud man and didn't suffer fools gladly.

Orchard started to take control of the crime scene. The forensics team had found the shell casings from the 9mm pistol. They photographed the area in great detail. The kitchen knife was bagged and tagged.

Uniformed police officers started to search the surrounding area for any other evidence and were talking to witnesses.

Working with DCI Orchard was Detective Sergeant Nick Floyd. Floyd had worked with Orchard for just over three years and had great respect for his boss. He was thirty-three years old, with an academic background. He had gone to Bristol University and studied Ancient History, but after a year he dropped out and joined the police force. He was a stocky man with untidy black, wavy hair. Five o'clock shadow made it look as if he needed a shave. He and Orchard worked as a team and had been involved in many strange cases over the years, but had not come across anything like this before.

DCI John Orchard and DS Floyd were on their way to interview the person who’d called the police. She lived in a block of flats overlooking the scene of the attack. They climbed the concrete stairs to the first floor landing and knocked on the door. A petite old lady answered. She reminded Orchard of his Auntie May, with her silver grey hair covered with a hairnet.

Floyd flashed his warrant card. This is DCI Orchard, he said.

Come in, my dears, have you come about the murders?

They entered the flat. It was warm, and the front room was tidy and neat. There was a colourful crocheted woollen blanket covering the armchair in front of the television. The old lady asked the officers if they wanted a cup of tea.

Yes please, two sugars for me, DCI Orchard said. No sugar for Floyd – his wife has put him on a diet, he said with a chuckle.

While Mrs Stokes was in the small kitchen, making the tea, DCI Orchard checked the window. There was a good view of the area where the attack took place, he noted.

After drinking his tea, DCI Orchard asked the old lady if she had crocheted the blanket covering the chair.

No, I haven’t got the patience for that, I bought it in a charity shop in town.

So, can you tell us what you saw? Mrs Stokes."

Well, I was sat listening to the radio when I heard two loud bangs. I thought it was kids letting off fireworks. They are always letting them off before bonfire night, you know. Anyway I put my glasses on, got up and looked out of the window.

And then what happened?

There were two people lying in the road just the other side of the railings. She was at the window pointing to the spot. One looked like he was on top of the other, you know.

Did you hear anything before the bangs?

There was some shouting and screams, I think.

Then what?

Well, I could see there was something up, so I called 999. I spoke to a nice young girl. She was so helpful and calmed me down, I think she was a police officer as well, you know. It’s the first time I’ve ever had to call the police, you know.

Was that all you saw? Orchard asked, getting a little irritated by all the you knows.

I did see a tall black man running up the road, and getting into a silver car, but he was too far away to see him well. My eyes aren't as good as they used to be, you know. Anyway, I’m not sure if he was anything to do with what had happened."

Orchard thanked the old lady, and told her she had been most helpful.

Come back if you need anything else, my dears.

Orchard thought, Poor lonely old lady. I hope I don’t end up like that, put out to grass and forgotten.

By the time the two police officers returned to the crime scene, it was dark. The road was cordoned off now with blue and white POLICE DO NOT CROSS tape. A large white tent was erected over the area where the body had been lying, and strong arc lights were blazing down on the scene. It gave the whole area a surreal and eerie atmosphere. A light illuminated the inside of the tent and the dark shadows of the forensics team could be seen against the canvas walls.

Some large moths caught DS Floyd's eye, banging and crashing into the glass in front of the lights.

Not much more we can do here at the moment. Let’s get back to the station, it’s getting late, Orchard snapped at Floyd.

CHAPTER TWO

Trying To Get It Together

Liston Pearce was back home. He lived in a small flat not far from his father’s house.

There was a faint smell of weed scenting the air as he opened the door and went in. Liston was not into cleaning. His last girlfriend had left him a month before, and he had not done much to the flat since she had gone. Old newspapers and empty beer bottles littered the room. Mayfair and Penthouse magazines with curled edges were piled up on the seat of a faded old armchair.

He put Uprising, his favourite Bob Marley album, on his ancient turntable. The beat of the reggae music echoed around the small living room. He found some cigarette papers lying on the arm of the chair and rolled himself a joint, opened a bottle of Red Stripe Beer and sat down on his beat up old sofa. This relaxed him a little, but he could not get what had just happened out of his head. Thoughts were spinning around like clothes in a tumble dryer. I need to tell someone. I can’t keep this to myself. He was closest to Inez but he didn’t want to involve her.

The two tone brown and cream Trimphone warbled its high-pitched note and startled him. It was Inez.

Did you see the murder in the street when you left my flat this afternoon?

No. Liston replied. What murder?

There’s been a murder. A guy stabbed a policewoman and then someone shot him dead. Just up the road from me. I'm surprised you didn't see anything.

It must have happened after I got back to my car.

"The police have been asking questions, and doing house to house inquiries. It’s been like an episode from The Bill."

Liston asked his sister, Did you tell them I was there?

No, she replied. Do you think I should have?

No, I didn't see anything, so not much point. Look, there’s someone at the door. I’ll call you later, bye Sis, and he put the phone down.

There was no one at the door: Liston just wanted to collect his thoughts. He wondered, What am I going to do now? His sister knew he was around at the time of the killing, so perhaps someone else had seen him as well.

The only other person he could talk to was his Dad. He had not seen him for six months, and the last time they’d met they had argued. But there was no one else he felt he could trust enough to tell, and he was going out of his mind with worry.

He decided to take the short walk to his father’s house. He was expecting him to be angry and disappointed, and go on about all the mistakes and wrong turns he had made in his life, but he had no one else to turn to. His mates would think he had gone crazy helping a policewoman, so he couldn’’t tell them.

When he arrived at the house all the lights were off. Shit! Where is he when I need him? Just then a figure appeared walking down the street, and he knew by the slight limp it was his father. His heart started pounding with a mixture of fear and relief.

What are you doing here, son? It’s been a long time since I saw you, I suppose you want something.

Hi Pop! Liston tried to break the ice, and lighten the mood a little.

Do you want to come in for a beer?

Thanks, I will, Liston replied.

Wipe your feet. I don’t want muck traipsing through the house.

Tom Pearce was mid-fifties, tall and thin. He had a round face which had a shine to it, short black hair, dark eyes that always looked bloodshot in the corners, and deep lines on his forehead which gave him a worried look.

Tom unlocked the door, turned the light on, and they went inside. He turned on the two-bar electric heater, and got a couple of beers from the fridge. Liston could smell the fish and chips his father had just bought from the chippy.

I suppose you want some? Tom grumbled.

Just a few.

Tom sighed, got two plates from the kitchen, and split the fish and chips in two. He passed one of the plates to Liston.

Well, what is it you want? he asked, picking one of his chips up with his fingers, and blowing on it.

I’m in trouble Pop. I killed someone.

His father slumped back in the chair, almost dropping the plate of chips in his lap.

What do you mean, you killed someone. Was it a car accident?

No! I shot him! Liston blurted out.

How in God’s name did you shoot someone?

Liston explained the whole story, in every detail.

His father was almost unable to speak.

Was Inez involved?

No, she wasn't there. What do you think I should do, Dad?

Give yourself up to the police. After your mother died, I thought we would be a close knit family, all pulling together, but you decided to go your own way, and now see where you have ended up: killing someone.

Christ, I wish I’d never told you. You’ve never been much help to me.

No need to blaspheme, Liston.

Sorry Dad, but I need help. What should I do?

You will have to give yourself up. The police are bound to catch you.

Liston did not see it quite this way. It might be better if I lie low for a while, and see what happens.

"I can’t, Dad. If I do, I’ll go down for years. Is that what you want?

No, of course not, don’t be bloody silly.

Liston was not used to hearing his Dad swear.

Why did you kill the man anyway?

I didn’t have any choice. He would have killed the policewoman if I hadn’t shot him.

But did you have to kill him? Couldn’t you have just wounded him?

"It was all over in a second – I don’t even remember shooting