Drugs, Thugs and Skullduggery

By Stanley R Sanders

A drug-runner, is spotted by police while carrying illegal drugs. Cornered, he tries to hide the bag which ends up in the inspection hatch of a large food mixing unit. He meets with a sudden death and the knowledge of the whereabouts of the drugs dies with him. Over the following days, the vibration of the food mixing machine causes the drugs to be slowly released and fall into mixes destined for the consumer market. Soon people from all walks of society are innocently eating foods that contain LSD, Cocaine, Viagra, Speed and other mind and body altering substances with outrageous and sometimes catastrophic outcomes………….
“Drugs, Thugs and Skullduggery” is the story of the hunt for the illicit goods by both the police and the underworld whilst increasingly bizarre and strange events occur in the background.
Please note that the book contains adult material including violence and scenes of a sexual nature including male rape

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781326039912

Book preview

Drugs, Thugs and Skullduggery

Drugs, Thugs and

Skullduggery

Stanley R Sanders

Copyright © 2014, Stanley R Sanders

All rights reserved.  No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted at any time or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior, written permission of the publisher.

The right of Stanley Ronald Sanders to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.

ISBN: 978-1-326-03991-2

This book is a work of fiction.  All characters in this book are fictitious.  Any resemblance to anyone dead or living is purely coincidental.

Note from the author

The central theme of this book is about drugs and, in this case, the often humorous  effects on those who have unwittingly used them.  However, I would like to invite the reader to briefly consider the genuine danger and unpredictability of street drugs.

Although some people may appear to use drugs recreationally without any apparent long term harm, there are many others who are not so fortunate.  When drugs or alcohol become problematic, it is not funny – it is desperately sad.

The lucky ones who manage to break away later in life find that the world is a better place without drugs if you can be true to yourself and to others, if you can accept that you are loveable enough and worthy enough and if you can recognise that a true friend is the most valuable treasure you will ever find.

I have personally known too many fine creative people who never had a chance to reach their potential before their lives were stolen for want of an often all too brief high.

They leave behind broken dreams, broken families and broken hearts.

To all of you playing with illegal or designer drugs, maybe you could instead look at what you would have liked different in your life before and how you can come to terms with life today on life’s terms.

Meanwhile, if you choose to keep using then please,

please,

be careful.

Stan Sanders

Chapter 1

Renic’s Run.

His heart pounds as he turns another corner, scuffing his shoulder on the wall, he tries to twist round and see his pursuers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

A man of few words.

Panic. Disbelief.

Breaths rasping as his lungs desperately try to supply oxygen for this sudden unfamiliar exertion.

Christ!  Shit, shit, shit, shit................

Into an alley – no one in sight.  Maybe, just maybe, he can give them the slip. He desperately needs a rest. Legs shaking. 

Fuck.

His hand, gripping like a vice, sweats where it holds the bag.

Come on, come on – think!

Take off again, fast as you can, get distance.

Voices.  Shouting - not far. 

Oh fuck!  Not far enough.  What to do?  Where’s safe? Oh please God, help me! Help me! Help me!

Renic, neither religious nor known for his piety, feeling cornered and, starting to lose hope, calls out to a divine guardian he would usually have little interest in, glibly presuming forgiveness for the decidedly Godless life he had pursued prior to that heart pumping moment. 

His thoughts race frantically.

I know I’ve been a fuck- up, er,  mess-up all my life but….. I’m …really sorry.

Recognising the inadequacy of his own pathetic apology and knowing that, if there were a God and S/He could see into his very soul, S/He would immediately spot the callous, self-serving insincerity that underlined his extremely recent conversion, Renic, swears again (something that comes much more readily to him than prayer). In his head, and giving little credence to the possibility that God, being almighty, might see through his ploy, he begins mental bargaining.

Look, if you help me now I promise, no really promise, that I’ll… do good stuff.  Really.  I’ll do whatever you want.  I’ll.....   . Unlikely images of himself handing food to impoverished children flash into his mind but, before Renic can think of an act good enough to make God raise His/Her eyebrows, rub His/Her chin and pause for thought, he hears the sounds of pursuit again.

He hears footsteps getting closer, running, then voices, changing, excited – There he is!

Putting his recently acquired faith and the admittedly very small hope of divine intervention to one side, Renic focuses once again on the more immediate problem of evading the long grasping arm of the law.

Run!

A reasonable strategy given the circumstances. 

Nowhere to go!  Dash through a doorway.  Some sort of factory.

Shocked faces. 

Fuck ‘em, get out of the way you bastards.

Bright lights.  Whiteness.  Fucking white walls everywhere.

Run.

Jesus, shitty fucking wept. Which way, which way? 

Machinery all around, conveyor belts, white coats.

Keep running. Stumble.  Don’t fall for Christ’s sake. 

Corridor. 

The secretary, still sitting at her desk, looks up in shock as Renic crashes through the doorway.

Even in his panic, his eyes are drawn to her ample breasts as he tears past her through the swing doors.

The doors open up into a large room.

There are no people here yet but his pursuers are getting closer.  What to do? Hide.  Where? Where?  Think for Christ’s sake.

To the right in the far corner are stairs and an open plan raised floor. Renic, panting and dripping with anxious sweat, kicks through boxes and barges a pathway, grabs the handrail and ascends three steps at a time.

Hide the bag.  Before they get to me.  Somewhere it won’t be obvious.  Where?  Think. 

There, under the window in the eave on the opposite side of the room.  No floor access, just a shelf maybe a metre deep.  No one would spot the bag from the floor and from up here they would struggle to notice it against the light from the window.  Yeah, that’ll do it. Perfect!

Though he is terrified of the consequences of losing the bag, there is no way he is going to be caught with it. The bag represents serious time inside and Renic has done enough of that in the past.  Stepping back, he takes a long swing of his arm- once, twice and then, just before he sends it flying towards the shelf, he hears a shout and looks. His eyes spin back to follow the planned trajectory which will take the bag to the shelf. But it has not arrived.  Wildly Renic’s eyes hunt back and forth to where the bag must have dropped. There is machinery, conveyor belts, chutes, boxes trolleys.

Fucking hell, shit and bollicks!

He can hear the busty secretary,   He’s in there.

Bitch!

Down the steps in two bounds, eyes scanning.  Fuck where did it go.  I am in such deep shit – fuck it, run you twat – get out while you can.  As the police come through the corridor he leaps out through the emergency exit sign still looking over his shoulder as he runs.

The lorry didn’t even blare its horn, it happened so fast. Renic ran straight in front of it.

Renic had run out of luck and run out of time.

Now, down the front of the radiator,

only bits of Renic ran.

Renic would not be serving time, at least not in any of Her Majesties institutions  of confinement.

God, moving mysteriously in the way S/He does, had perhaps answered Renic’s prayer after all.

The bag.

In the factory the bag, thrown wildly in panic, had found itself a new home.  Lodged inside a rarely used inspection hatch, its entry had released the propped up lid so that it fell-too, leaving Renic's bag neatly contained inside and completely out of sight. Probably an even better hiding place than the, now deceased, Renic could have hoped for. Almost a dying wish.

The engineer who had come in earlier that day would pop back to the factory the day after, just to see if he had actually closed that inspection lid.  Rather like those other memory niggles, locking the door, turning off the gas and so on, he had been plagued by the notion that he had not shut it properly having been distracted by the rather voluptuous lady in reception who passed on a message to him as he was tidying up.  He took the phone call which was about an emergency on another site (it was always an emergency). It was the last thing he needed at that time of day.  He had been hoping to wrap up his calls and get away early as he was playing darts that night and hated rushing to get changed. It was the one night of the week that he went out regularly with his friends and tonight was the final leg, an away game.  By the time he had returned the phone to the charming and friendly secretary he was feeling agitated and stressed.  He would have liked to say no to the call-out but he also knew that the failed equipment could cost the other company a whole lot of money and, hey, that was what he was paid to do.

But, all the same, it pissed him off. 

So he had put away the ladder platform, gathered his tools in haste with hardly a backward glance and dashed off to his new assignment. It wasn't until the day after that he started to get a niggling feeling that he had left something unfinished.  Those feelings once they start can only be satisfied by finding out for sure and so, the day after, he had conscientiously headed back to the factory. 

On arrival, the story of yesterday’s excitement was on everyone’s lips and again his attention was watered down to the point that, rather than taking the ladder platform out, he briefly went onto the factory floor and got into a position where he could see if the inspection lid was up or down.  It was down.  The door was nearly always locked and the gas was always off but the part of him that needed to be sure was now satisfied. 

Had he known how much chaos and how many lives that casual check was going to cost, he would have been much more diligent. Of course.  But he didn’t know what was concealed under the inspection hatch, had no reason to believe that there was any problem and had validated his own professional standards by returning and looking.

History turns on small events. 

D.I. Drayton.

In ISDOP (Illegal Substances: Dealer Operations) a major confab was underway.  Yesterday a chance sighting of a known villain had escalated into the debacle which Detective Inspector Rob Drayton was trying to explain to his superiors. This was proving difficult as he was far from clear exactly what had happened, himself.  It was not as if it had been some sort of planned intervention where he could waffle about objectives and so forth, but having a lack of knowledge was not going to cut it with the brass who expected him to have answers regardless of whatever questions were thrown his way. 

Effectively, as far as he understood it, there had been a routine call made as a follow-up to a low level investigation when a known villain had chanced to turn up. The villain had recognised the plain clothed PC and had immediately taken to his heels whereupon the PC called in a pursuit which was taken up by other officers in the area.  All reasonable enough, so far. The suspect was headed off several times until he was cornered when he took it upon himself to enter some sort of food processing factory which, having cut through, he exited at the rear unfortunately straight into the path of an oncoming vehicle. The vehicle had clearly been travelling too fast for the area and the suspect died on impact.  Nothing was found on or around the body to offer an explanation as to why the suspect had run but he was seen to be carrying some sort of bag in the pursuit and was later confirmed as a known criminal - one Renic Carson.  Carson was a regular wrong-doer and had a long list of precedents for a variety of crimes usually involving drugs and violence.  A small time run of the mill villain from what D.I. Drayton could gather. 

In truth, the officers involved had been exceptionally enthusiastic in performing their duties but Rob Drayton could not really see how the situation could effectively have been risk assessed on the run nor did he see any wrong doing in how the pursuit was carried out.  The world would undoubtedly be a safer and better place without this particular victim as he was now being defined by his superiors.

The press is going to have a field day with this one, Drayton, if you don't find some more evidence that specifically justifies the pursuit.

The Chief Inspector's statement reflected an expectation of what he saw as unsympathetic reporting that some newspaper editors, as far as he was concerned, seemed to delight in these days.  As a consequence of this, not only had the police forces suffered continuous cuts in its services for the last twenty years or so, but it had also become increasingly and  obsessively self-protective in its need to justify everything it did, does or plans to do.  In triplicate. 

The burden for this quagmire of paperwork rippled up and down the ranks like an unwelcome game of pass the parcel but inevitably and most frequently it seemed to fall on the Bobby who now rarely has any time to be on the beat.  It never stopped there of course as there were reports on reports, appraisals of reports and reports appraising reported appraisals. It's almost like the Police Force had been mated with the Civil Service.  Or at least that's what Rob Drayton thought.

We’re following up every lead we get Chief  and of course the investigation is very much in its early stages as yet but this man has been known to us for a long time.   He was carrying something that he must have discarded in the chase so we have police re-tracking his steps and checking with locals en-route for anything found ....

Find something soon D.I. This one’s likely to get blown out of all proportion if we can’t at least show just cause for the chase and the subsequent, obviously unfortunate, demise of the victim.  His needs to be seen to be clearly guilty of something – anything -do you understand Drayton?

Yes sir, I am confident we will find evidence to that effect soon.  He had no current warrants out for his arrest but he must have had a reason for running the way he did.  At least he has no known family to create further troubles for us, sir.

As Rob walked away from the meeting he knew that he hadn't heard the last of it if he didn't come up with something solid soon. It was, of course, all bullshit. The Chief knew this, Rob knew it and every member of the force knew it but that's how it was these days.  The bullshit had higher priority than the job itself.  Catching bad guys and clamping down on crime were only acceptable these days if the processes surrounding such actions were somehow sanitized.  It seemed like more staff were involved with community and public relations than there were for detective work.  If you didn't get in line with it you didn't advance, so everyone engaged with it to a degree.  How far anyone went down that line also denoted how far they might possibly rise in their career.  Rob had reached as high as he was likely to go now. His bullshit quota was at his maximum tolerance level.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t talk bullshit.  He was actually quite good at it.  But his comfort with it had all changed one day when, while giving the party line to a group of visiting superiors, he had caught a look of utter contempt from one of his junior female colleagues. Although he had smoothly continued in his flow of verbal correctitude, deep down inside he had been given a reflection of himself; one that made him recognise the empty-brained brown-noser he was swiftly becoming.  From that point on, whenever he started to go into bullshit mode, a certain judgemental self-awareness kicked in and he became a spectator to his own shallowness.   He was no longer comfortable in his role and the sycophantic requirements contained within it. Over time it was noted by his seniors that he was not quite the person they had originally thought he was.  In fact, as far as his boss was concerned, like Peter’s Principle he had been promoted to his level of incompetence.  Previously moving steadily through the ranks his progress had quietly but emphatically seized up. He would rise no more.

Rob had always been fairly easy going and safe.  He wasn’t someone to rock the boat or become overly opinionated.  He had drifted into the police service after doing averagely well in his school exams, working in an office for a few years and not getting into any kinds of trouble.  Essentially, he had never got in with the wrong crowd and had never really done anything unusual or risky.  As he was of average intelligence and kept his nose clean, he had comfortably fit into the humdrum routines of everyday police work.  Being inoffensive by nature, no-one felt threatened by him and his upward movements through the ranks were based on him being the least problematical choice rather than because of any innate dynamism or intellectual brilliance in his makeup.

Rob had an unconscious awareness of this but, in truth, he didn’t really give a damn. He just wanted to get on with what he thought his job ought to be rather than what it was required to be.

In ISDOP, the objective wasn’t about catching every drug user in society but in developing and compiling detailed information that might eventually enable the big boys, the major suppliers, to be taken down.  Although there was a massive market opening up in legal highs Rob was happy enough to ignore that and let others worry about how the new designer drugs should be defined in the eyes of the law.  If they were re-classified as illegal then they would be part of his remit but until then he wasn’t concerned.  Rob didn’t sit on any moral high ground about drugs but the law was the law.

He decided to set up a meeting with the team not only to validate their actions but also to see what the hell Renic had been running for.  Rob believed that he had been carrying drugs. This was based on Renic's previously known acquaintances which included a couple of fairly heavy wrong-uns who headed up the known end of the local dealers networks.  These particular characters were slippery as hell and had been the subject of an ongoing investigation for at least the past 18 months - Renic was really just one of their gofers known to run small errands from time to time.

However, up to now, no illegal substances or weapons (another possibility) had turned up and nobody knew for sure why Renic had run.

In the factory the line begins.

In the factory, a search of the processing room, where Renic had briefly been ahead of the chase, had taken place with no results.  The area was actually quite well organized as it was part of a foods production line and, as such, had high standards of cleanliness. In accordance with Health and Safety, when in use, the area was kept tidy and free from obstruction.  It was currently being prepared for its next run and, once the all clear was given by the police searchers, would be re-sanitized and prepared for finishing a mix for cakes. 

The line was extremely versatile.  This week it was starting with cake mix, followed by fondant for chocolate fillings and then syrup flavourings for several different food and drink products. The machine mixed and produced foods and liquids for further processing elsewhere and was one of many separate parts of the supply chain associated with the products Joe Public expects to take off the supermarkets shelves.

Once the area was cleared and cleaned, the ingredients were introduced into the appropriate containers and the computer was programmed to the needs of this particular mix.  Within less than an hour of the police leaving, the production line started up, a classic example of modern automation where the human element was only required for labour - bringing ingredients in and taking containers of finished products away. With a deep rumbling the mixers mixed, the conveyor belts rolled and the mechanical beast came to life fulfilling its purpose coldly and efficiently, ignoring the occasional passing white coated minions as it followed the directions its programme contained within a chip the size of a postage stamp that had been designed to negate any possibility of human error.

As the production line vibrated, so too did Renic’s bag, high up above, concealed in the inspection hatch.  When the vibration intensified, the contents inside the bag started to jiggle in harmony with the vibration, a small sharp upturned edge in the inspection hole gently but persistently sawed at the material of the bag.   Eventually a tablet, small but concentrated, crept its way out of the bag and towards the opening within the hatch that looked directly down onto the mixing process and  teetered for a while near the edge.  As it teetered, two others joined it, dancing together, strangely harmonized until, almost in unison, they toppled over the edge and were immediately absorbed into the gooey mixture below ultimately destined to be used in the making of Aunty Eugenia's Traditional Rich Fruit Cakes. 

It should be noted here that although she had once been known for her adventurous combinations of flavours in some of her cakes, Aunty Eugenia had never got round to adding hallucinogenic drugs to her recipe for Rich Fruit cake, excellent though the idea might seem to some.  In fairness, regardless of any other questions such contents might raise, it is questionable whether it would pass the very high food and hygiene standards applied in this country.  These particular LSD tablets had not, after all, even been produced in a regulated factory where pharmaceutical tests to ascertain purity and strength would have been used. No, these pills had been produced in a much less clinical setting selected more for its obscurity than for its clinical excellence and the man largely responsible for choosing that setting,  Mr Denny Lark, was at that very same moment busy berating his minions and in particular the absent and very recently ex-Renic.

Denny Lark

Denny Lark wasn't happy. That didn't mean to say he was going to start shouting, ranting or stomping. When Denny was really mad, his whole demeanour, everything about him, became quiet and contained. He spoke more softly, deliberating on the words he wanted to use, pronouncing clearly and enunciating.  His tone was one of calm reason. The thing with Denny was, the quieter his voice, the more attentively everyone listened.  It is a gift certain people who hold real power can wield. 

Denny had real power.

The stress of the lack of sound other than his voice caused the room to become almost intolerable so that, whenever he stopped speaking, a void was present, a vacuum demanding something, anything, rather than this awful emptiness. Yet no-one spoke, each hoping as the tension mounted, that Denny's focus would fall on some other sap.

So let me make sure I've got this clear.

Renic made the pick-up but failed to deliver as planned.  He foolishly got the attention of the police and was chased.  During the chase he got hit by a lorry and was killed.  The consignment was not on him when the lorry hit him.  Good.  Nobody has been able to find the consignment which is bad.  Very, very bad.

There were several thousand reasons why it was very, very bad as the consignment contained a sizable chunk of the last months produce from a secret laboratory that Denny owned and the produce had a substantial market value on its own.  Added to that, the bag had also contained another small consignment that no-one else in the room knew about and was part of the arrangement with his new, yet to be, distributor. However, although the value was important, the goods, including the special package, were replaceable and, in the scale of things, the raw material cost of the loss, although huge by the average person’s standards, was relatively minor in Denny’s world. The real issue was the fact that, essentially, Renic's bag, the consignment, was a first delivery; a sampler package going out to his new distributor.  A very large sampler package. This negotiation had been a long time coming and the new distribution area would open up a massive new market to Denny setting him as the major supplier to the whole of the south of England.  The delivery’s non-arrival was a huge embarrassment to Denny and placed question marks on the dependability of his supply routes.

In the illegal drug business, supply routes were everything.  Getting the drug from its point of production in the laboratory to the user on the street involved relatively simple but also highly fallible stages of transportation.

With drug detection methods becoming more sophisticated every year, the simplest and generally safest method of transport was by couriers who needed to be trusted to do their part without question. An ideal courier was one who had no record with the police, was bright enough to do what they were told but not so bright that they might get ideas above their station or decide to take off with the goods. The risk was theirs and the rewards, if you worked your way up, were proportional. Someone like Renic who wasn't the brightest star in the sky, was at best a gofer for other people and really shouldn't have been handling such an important delivery.  The fact that he was known to the police was in itself an increased risk, the downfalls of which had been amply demonstrated over the last few days.

Denny could arrange a new delivery although the production would take a few days but if he was to retain his credibility he needed to get the message through to his team that they could not afford to be lazy in their selection of mules. Cock-ups of this magnitude were not acceptable.  He had to be seen to take action and the word had to go out far enough for his new associates to hear and understand his determination.

Renics bag must be somewhere along the route he was chased, it was big enough for Christ’s sake, why haven't we found it?

We've been looking everywhere he might have been but the police have been doing the same so no-one’s been able to move as freely as we would have liked.  Diamond Ray, a relative outsider not usually involved with any of the drug side of their criminal activities but dealing more as his nickname suggested, with stolen gems and other valuables, felt confident enough to offer the update on the search. We are watching out for any new sales activity not connected with us but nothing has come up yet

Do we know if the police have found anything yet?

No, they’ve had no more luck than us

Every police force is made up of human beings who have the usual range of human failings.   There were always some police who were drug users or who had unusual sexual inclinations and these were easy to squeeze for favours or information in return for a little of whatever took their fancy.  Such favours were more acceptable somehow than straight financial kickbacks although money was also useful, particularly with gamblers who often racked up debts beyond their ability to pay.  Their informants had made it clear that the police were as baffled as they were.

Another silence sucked on their souls for a while and then it came.

Who gave this job to Renic, anyway?

Arnold Smithy Smith felt his innards contract as everyone turned to look at him.  He had fucked up and knew he had fucked up. He's been with this particular firm a long time and had simply made a bad judgement on the spur of the moment with Renic.  Renic's limitations were well known.  He was a loser who had done plenty of time.  He was only useful for low level work - petty thievery, a bit of street dealing, the odd house break.  In fairness to Arnold, Renic wasn't a totally lost cause.  He was loyal and would never grass anyone up.  He would do his best to accomplish any task set him but he wasn't known for his smarts and given anything unexpected he wasn't good at thinking on his feet.  Or on any other part of his anatomy come to that. Arnold wondered what price he would have to pay for this mess and feared that it might be a costly mistake.

Arnold, what were you thinking? Renic of all people!

I don't know what to say Mr. Lark.  The guy we’d planned to use wasn't available and you said yourself that time was of the essence, we mustn't be late with this one no matter what and I thought he would do as he was told.  Renic's not so bad.  He ain't the sharpest but he wouldn't do a runner on us or anything and I thought he was the best choice at the time.  It seems like it was just bad luck and at least the old bill hasn't got the package.....?

Denny Lark retorted angrily,

No one's got the package, have they! I haven't got the package.  My distributors have not got the package

No Mr Lark, but I want you to know that I've got my own boys out there looking for the package and talking to users in case anything turns up.  I'm making it my sole purpose to find that bag for you, Mr. Lark, I'm truly sorry that Renic got himself killed running from the police and all but he can't have hidden a bag that size very well, it's got to turn up soon or someone else has found it and they will show themselves.

If someone does find it, I want no doubt out there that it is not manna from heaven and if anyone thinks they can hang on to it they will be found out and dealt with.  Seriously dealt with, understood, all of you? Denny eyeballed everyone in the room who all swiftly nodded and vocalised their assent.

Denny mused.  In fact, Arnold was a long term member of his team. He had two sons who were shaping up and he was reluctant to make too much of an example of him. However, if he didn't make some sort of a show then he would soon be perceived as going soft - a dangerous belief if he allowed it.  This wasn’t the civil service where a mark was put on record and promotions became limited. This was a ruthless tough world where consequences needed to be seen swiftly so that everyone knew where they stood. His reputation allowed him to not have to continually prove himself but there were occasions that called for a response. This was one of them.

Come here Arnold

Arnold swallowed and turned a sickly shade of grey but did as he was bid.

How long you worked for me Arnold?

It’s more than fifteen years now Mr Lark

Fifteen years, eh!  Time goes by doesn't it! You've put me on the spot Arnold and you know how this stuff works but I'll tell you what I'll do.  Because you've been with me a long time, I am going to give you a chance to make amends

Thank you Mr Lark, I am very grateful. You won't regret it

"Slow down Arnold, I haven't finished yet.  You’ll live.   However, I will