Precarious Infatuations

By Anthony Hulse

Three people from dissimilar backgrounds are destined to meet under unusual circumstances. A serial killer, a seller of computers and a young Muslim girl’s lives are connected by a series of tragic events.
DC Rosie Probert investigates the gangland shooting of a Brixton man, but could his brother really be responsible for a number of vigilante reprisals?
A story of coincidence, murder, terrorism, and vengeance, Precarious Infatuations will thrill, frighten, and enthral you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326229443

Book preview

Precarious Infatuations

Precarious Infatuations

Anthony Hulse

Copyright@Anthony Hulse 2015

ISBN: 978-1-326-22944-3

Cover design: Palto @iStock by Getty Images

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author. All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author, except for the quotations in a review.

Acknowledgements

I wish to dedicate this book to my sons, Anthony and Adrian, who lost their mother, Carol at such an early age. Although I dedicated much of my time to them, I realise my writing prevented me from spending the time I would have liked with them.

Chapter One

Brixton, South London.

The Caribbean music that echoed around the colourful and thriving Brixton Market seemed appropriate for the climate. The warm, early, spring sun was responsible for the growing attendance of the shoppers, who bartered for their wares. A blend of fish, spices, fruit, coffee, and fast food desecrated the morning air. Market traders yelled loudly, to be heard over the sound of buskers and the steel drums; West Indian, Caribbean, Vietnamese, and British accents merging as one. The locals were wary of the pickpockets and the drug peddlers; the gullible tourists not so vigilant.

Three intimidating looking men strode through the crowd, unceremoniously barging aside anyone in their way. The occasional victim made to protest, but withdrew their protest when viewing the trio. Each of the three men wore olive Harrington jackets, Doctor Marten boots, and denim jeans. The relationship between the apparent leader and his older brother assured the respect.

Vic Rodwell, at the age of twenty-four, took advantage of his brother’s influence throughout Brixton. Born in Brixton, Billy Rodwell witnessed much brutality in his youth, as rival gangs fought over territory, drugs, and overall power. Much of the trouble was racially inclined, but nowadays the gangs respected Billy Rodwell.

Billy, after leaving school learnt the art of boxing. Various gang members at that time chose to intimidate the white boy, but Billy reacted with his fists, battering his enemy into submission.

One such member of the infamous Yardies, not wishing to be the victim of another savage beating, decided to tip the scales his way. Armed with a knife, he concealed himself close to the boxing club and awaited the appearance of his proposed victim. During the struggle, Billy was slashed across the face, but overcame his attacker, stabbing him to death, before removing one of his thumbs.

Reports of this incident spread throughout the streets of Brixton, and although initially arrested, Billy was later released. Freddy Monks, a local gangster and one time friend of Billy’s late father, hired a top solicitor, who in turn procured the release of his client.

Billy had wisely disposed of the knife, burnt all of his clothes, as well as those of his victim. Although the police were certain Billy had committed manslaughter, they were powerless to prove it.

With news that Billy was now in the employment of Freddy Monks, the threats of the gangs, including the Yardies dwindled. In fact, Billy Rodwell was now held in high regard, and not a man to tangle with.

Ten years later, after the death of Freddy Monks, Billy established his own organisation. He owned several shops, three social clubs, and of course the boxing club. Rumours were rife that he was involved in a number of illegal practises, such as drug pushing, cigarette smuggling, and armed robbery, but due to his association with a number of police officers, no arrest was forthcoming. He either paid them off, or threatened them and their families. 

Ray Askew tended to his computer and PC games stall when he noticed the approach of the three men. Vic Rodwell stepped behind the stall and confronted Askew, his stare intimidating.

Hi, Vic. Can I help you, mate?

Rodwell whispered into the ear of the market trader. A little birdie tells me you’ve been shagging Tracey. You’ve either lost your marbles, or you have a death wish.

Askew noticed his stall was now almost deserted, and the other nearby market traders ignored the confrontation. Tracey? No way. How could you think I’d mess around with your bird, Vic? I’m married with a sprog.

Rodwell discretely removed a knife from his pocket, and with one swift movement, he slashed the throat of Askew. The market trader fell to his knees, clutched at his throat and gurgled, the warm blood oozing through his fingers.

Rodwell’s two companions scrutinised the bystanders, but as expected, no protests were voiced. Rodwell crouched down and proceeded to sever the thumb of the dying man; another series of gurgles escaping from his ravaged throat. The removal of the thumbs was a trademark of the notorious brothers. Satisfied that Askew was dead, the trio casually strolled away, certain nobody would dare to testify to the murder.   

******

Detective Constable Rosie Probert and DS Mark Cosgrove drove in silence, their rapport not exactly affable. Due to her deteriorating relationship with her ex-colleagues, Rosie’s transfer from Sheffield to Brixton was no surprise. Rosie, at the age of twenty-nine had been a police officer for eight years, three of them as a CID detective. She was a dedicated and proficient detective; too dedicated some would say.

Initially well liked by her colleagues; Rosie’s popularity dwindled, even though her attractiveness lured her male contemporaries. However, her no nonsense attitude and her ambitious character generated drawbacks. She would do anything to ascend the ladder of promotion, including informing on her corrupt colleagues.   

Accompanied by Detective Sergeant Perryman, they had entered the premises of a house in Sheffield, and caught red handed a drug dealer with his wares laid out on a table. As Rosie read the Russian his rights, DS Perryman interrupted and requested a few moments alone with the criminal. When the pair returned, the smug sergeant smiled at his colleague and told her there had been a mistake. Of course, Rosie protested, but the corrupt detective tried to defuse the situation by offering her a wad of cash.

Rosie remained tight-lipped until they reached Sheffield police station, before she immediately reported the crime to her superiors. DS Perryman, who had served as a detective for twenty-two years was popular amongst his colleagues. Nevertheless, he received a five-year prison sentence. Understandably, Rosie was scorned upon, and a tense atmosphere within the station existed. In fact, nobody wished to partner her, so her transfer was arranged.

Rosie had been at Brixton for three weeks only, but she sensed the hatred and suspicion that leaked from her new colleagues. Even those who were not corrupt disliked disloyalty. Their colleagues, held in contempt those who did try to befriend the girl.

Rosie glanced across at Sergeant Cosgrove, who against his wishes had been ordered to partner her. The girl with the short raven hair and even darker eyes could bear the silence no longer.

Sergeant, you may hate me, but this is not a healthy relationship. How can I trust someone with my life if they detest me?

The brawny, blonde detective steered the vehicle into the car park of the Fleet Social Club, ignoring Rosie’s question. Right. If Vic Rodwell’s not here, then fuck it. We’ve been driving around for over an hour and I’m beginning to be pissed off.

The pair left the car and walked towards the entrance of the club. Overhead, the sky darkened and the first droplets of rain cooled their faces. On entering the club, the odour of stale beer and cigarette smoke suggested the violation of the no smoking indoors law. As they entered the bar, the few customers who had opted for an afternoon tipple watched the strangers curiously.

DS Cosgrove approached the bar and addressed the painfully thin barmaid. He showed his ID before speaking. Is Vic around?

The barmaid seemed reluctant to answer. The detectives noticed one of the punters enter a room towards the rear of the club, prompting them to pace hastily past the snooker players, who grunted like pigs.

On entering the room, they set their eyes on a muscle-bound man, his nose broken and his hair shaved. The middle-aged sat at his desk, accompanied by four others. He peered over his reading glasses and grinned.

Markie. How are you doing, mate? I thought they’d have made you chief inspector by now. 

The blushing Sergeant looked across at Rosie, no doubt embarrassed that she had discovered his association with Rodwell.

Vic, began DS Cosgrove. We need to ask you some questions.

Alone, butted in Rosie.

Rodwell swallowed a mouthful of his bottled water and pointed at Rosie. Who’s the lemon curd, Markie?  

Lemon curd? quizzed Rosie.

Bird, added DS Cosgrove. It’s cockney slang… This is Detective Constable Probert. She’s new.

Rodwell removed his reading glasses. Bit mouthy, aren’t we, darling? Northerner, are we? Okay, lads, we’ll continue this conversation later.

The detectives sat down opposite Rodwell and waited until his companions had departed, before the Sergeant opened up. As you’ve probably heard, a man was murdered this morning at Brixton Market.

Jesus. No, I hadn’t heard. What’s the fucking world coming to? It makes me grateful you and your dolly bird here are helping to protect our streets… Anyway, what’s this to do with me?

Somebody cut the throat of a market trader, no doubt in full view of witnesses. Funny though…nobody seems to have seen anything…even the geezer whose stall is opposite.

Again, I’ll ask you, Markie. Why are you questioning me?

The killer took his victim’s thumb. Ring any bells, Vic?

Detective, I resent your implications. Such savagery in taking a thumb… To save time, I’ve been here since eight this morning. What time did this murder occur?      

DS Cosgrove ignored the question. I suppose you have someone that can verify this?

Of course. The four geezers who were here when you arrived, and Molly, the stewardess.

Rosie reddened, as Rodwell’s eyes seemed to scrutinise her.

Cut the bullshit, Vic, grunted the Sergeant. Everyone in Brixton is aware of your party piece. Is there anyone you can think of that would want to discredit or frame you?

Rodwell’s eyes narrowed. Offhand, a few thousand, but I’m awfully busy and don’t fancy listing them… Have you finished?

We have when we’ve questioned your associates and your stewardess. Good day to you, Vic.

And a good day to you too, Markie. You too, luv. You can leave your number if you fancy dating a real man.

Rosie could not resist. Sorry, but I don’t date tea leaves. That’s thieves to you.

Chapter Two

Birmingham.

Rashida Chaudry paused outside the gate to Martindale Secondary School. She glanced through the railings, and satisfied her antagonists were absent; she advanced into the playground. The fourteen-year old Pakistani girl exercised the school’s stance on their dress code and wore her blue salwar kameez; the traditional dress of South and Central Asia. Around her head, she wore a shawl. There had been a lengthy debate concerning the school uniform, but with twenty-seven per cent of the scholars Muslim, the relaxed attitude was agreed.

Rashida, along with her parents and her brother, Omar, had moved to the Midlands some three months ago from Scotland. Although at first delighted, Rashida was now depressed, due to the constant bullying at school. Racism was rife here, but for no particular reason, Rashida seemed to attract her fair share of intimidation. It was different in Glasgow. In the Glasgow school she had many friends, and although racism was present, she remained anonymous.

Rashida’ parents noticed her weight loss, but she explained it away as a diet. In truth, she felt too ill to eat, and her education suffered. How she would explain away her imminent exam results to her parents, she did not know.

With the recent Boston marathon bombing, the bullying worsened. Rashida cared lovingly for her family and did not wish to upset them with her troubles. No matter that she mingled with other Muslim children at school, her torment was unrelenting.

She entered the premises of the school and paced swiftly along the corridor, timing her arrival to the last minute. She had no wish to stand waiting outside, offering her adversaries an opportunity to heckle her.

On entering the classroom, the odour of beeswax and fresh blooms were evident, even though the window was open to let in the freshness of the spring morning. She ignored the lewd remarks and took her seat at the rear of the class.

Miss Hardwick called out the register, before she took the class for religious studies. The teacher opened up a debate about religion, asking others their views on the bible. When invited to speak, Rashida seemed hesitant.

Is that a bomb in your satchel? whispered Diane Crawley, sat to the left of her.

Rashida ignored the remark and spoke up, her accent typically Scottish. I believe in the bible, but feel it has been tampered with and reinterpreted, and therefore mankind should not be fooled by falsehoods that have been added.

Taliban! Paki terrorist! came a shout from the front.

David Innes! barked Miss Hardwick. Any more outbursts like that and you’ll be marched to Mr Kendall’s office. Rashida is entitled to her opinion, and even though many of you disagree, we have free speech in Britain.

And what about the Koran? asked Innes. I suppose everything in there is true.

Yeah, let’s burn the Koran, yelled Diane Crawley.

Enough, ordered the bespectacled teacher. I believed you lot were more mature than you’re acting. Let us conduct the remainder of this lesson in a civil manner. Racism has no place in this classroom, or indeed in this school… Have you anything to add, Rashida?

Again, Rashida hesitated. Some people in here see me and other Muslims as terrorists, who all belong to radical groups. That is only true when we feel our religion or our people are threatened. The majority of Muslims do not support the attacks of 9/11, the London bombings, or the recent Boston marathon atrocities.

Sarah Keller, who sat beside Diane Crawley, interrupted. Why do you people want us to follow your religion?

You people? grunted Rashida. That is so untrue. We all follow different pathways in life. You are free to choose your religion, but if you take an interest in Islam, then we will of course share our goodness and beautiful teachings of our religion. Everyone should embrace Islam.

This statement prompted a chorus of protests and skits within the class. Rashida was disappointed the other Muslims in the class chose to remain silent.

Miss Hardwick silenced the class before speaking. This session this morning was meant to be about your views on the bible, which was written by forty authors over a period of one thousand, five hundred years. We seem to have strayed from the subject somewhat, but I’ll remain flexible, just as long as there are no racist intones in our discussion. Rashida, I fully understand your opinion that the bible may have been misinterpreted throughout the ages. With so many authors, its authenticity and accuracy is open to debate. Some proclaim the miracles performed by Christ were merely illusions or tricks, and that he was a skilled conjurer. Did the church distort the truth about Jesus by tampering with early New Testament texts? Moreover, how can every religion be right? Which God is the true God?

David Innes responded. If religion is so pure, how come most wars are fought over it?

Good question, nodded Miss Hardwick.

Rashida seemed more confident and once more joined in the debate. During the IRA bombing campaign, were all Catholics worldwide condemned? No, of course not; then why do westerners assume all Muslims are bad?

The teacher intervened. Whoa. Now hold on there, Rashida. Where did that come from? You’ve strayed a little way off the subject.

The girl was adamant and ignored the protests. America and their allies invade countries, but salvation is not their motive. No, greed is their purpose. When Israel attacked Palestine recently, they ignored the white flags of the elderly and the children and chose to murder them. The British would not help, because they’re merely the puppets of the American government. Yes, this country funds the Israeli military. In fact…

Enough, Rashida! yelled the teacher."

The irate girl ignored the request and continued. Innocent Muslims are held captive for years without trial.  Did you know that the CIA…

Rashida! You’re going too far and I must ask you to stop, ordered Miss Hardwick. I can see this debate was a mistake. I now want you all to write down in your exercise books your honest opinions of religion and the bible. And nothing racial, please.

Several of the children glared at Rashida and whispered veiled threats.

Miss Hardwick sat behind her desk and focused on the young, outspoken Pakistani girl. Although the teacher encouraged free speech, she felt the girl had been overemotional and had said too much. Having tutored Rashida for only a few weeks, Miss Hardwick presumed the Asian girl was subdued and a loner. This morning however, she had demonstrated her assertiveness and true belief, and this worried the teacher greatly. 

******

Miranda Hardwick waited until Rashida had left her home for school before approaching the semi-detached house. She had made provisions for her short absence, asking a colleague to stand in. The dwelling was located on one of the more exclusive housing estates of Birmingham.

The redheaded teacher pressed the doorbell and turned towards the garden, viewing an abundance of daffodils and tulips, thriving in the morning sun. When she heard the door opening, she turned to face a short woman in a green sari.

Mrs Chaudry?

Yes.

Good morning. My name is Miranda Hardwick and I’m Rashida’s teacher. I realise this is not the standard school’s procedure, but do you mind if I have a word?

The troubled looking woman glanced at her wristwatch. Is this important? Is there something wrong? We were just on our way to our shop in the Bullring Centre.

The words were delivered in a Scottish accent.

A smartly dressed man fastened his tie and stood behind Mrs Chaudry. What is it?

This is…

Miss Hardwick, said Miranda.

She is Rashida’s teacher.

Mr Chaudry frowned, his face displaying concern.

She wishes to speak to us.

Of course…do come in, invited the worried man.

The aroma of fresh, vibrant flowers and scented candles could not completely erase the traces of Eastern cooking. Red floral wallpaper covered the interior of the house, and a huge, cream woven rug sat on the wooden flooring. Miss Hardwick accepted the invitation to sit in one of the flowery armchairs. She politely refused the offer of tea. 

Lovely home you have.

Thank you, smiled Mrs Chaudry.

The man and wife sat together on a sofa and waited eagerly to hear what the teacher had to say.

Rashida is not doing so well at school. Her reports from her school in Scotland were exceptional. Do you know of any reason why her work has deteriorated so?

Mr Chaudry cleared his throat and spoke up. Actually, we are concerned too, but not about Rashida’s education. We understood she was excelling in her studies. We are worried about her health. Rashida has lost much weight recently, and every time we comment on it, she tells us she is on a diet. We were about to contact the school to ask about her progress.

Miss Hardwick pondered. Yes, I noticed the weight loss too, but have no idea the reason. She stays for school dinners, but our cuisine is multi-cultural. She has not been monitored, but if you wish, we could watch her dining habits.

Mrs Chaudry sipped her tea and joined in the discussion. No, Rashida prefers Western food. There must be a reason why she’s not eating. She used to come home and complete her homework before reading, or watching TV. In Scotland, she had many friends, but here, she has so far found making friends difficult. Does she have many friends at school?

Miss Hardwick hesitated, and recalled Rashida being affronted so many times. Perhaps I’ve not been as vigilant as I ought to have been. Yes, some of the children insult Rashida and other Muslim pupils, but in today’s unforgiving environment, racial tensions are rife. I do however…

Excuse me, interrupted Mr Chaudry. Are you telling us my daughter may be the victim of racist bullies?

Mr Chaudry; I am Rashida’s registration teacher and take her for one lesson only…religious studies. Given your concern, I will make it my priority to watch her closely. Martindale Secondary School does not, and will not tolerate bullying or racism in any form. Anyone caught flaunting these rules will be expelled.

Mrs Chaudry put down her teacup, her face displaying sadness. I knew it was a mistake coming here. We would still be in Scotland amongst friends if it wasn’t for us purchasing the shop.

Miss Hardwick gazed towards the ornate cabinet, to see an array of photographs stand proudly. She heard movement from upstairs and her eyes swivelled upwards.

That is Omar, our son, said Mr Chaudry. He is to work at the shop until he finds suitable employment.

The reluctant teacher decided to introduce the real reason she was here. What are Rashida’s political beliefs?

Mr Chaudry responded. Political beliefs? She’s merely a child. She does not hold political views… Why do you ask this?

The teacher sighed. During a class debate yesterday, Rashida aired very radical views concerning the Muslim faith, and her dislike, shall we put it of the British and American governments.

The two worried parents looked to each other before Mr Chaudry spoke. No, this cannot be. Any such nonsense she must have accrued from that school. Rashida has never shown any interest in such matters before. Yes, she’s a staunch Muslim, but we condemn atrocities carried out in the name of Islam.

The teacher continued. She does not integrate with anyone after school or at the weekends?

No, we’ve told you. Rashida has no friends here.

Does she have a PC or laptop?

Mrs Chaudry nodded. Of course she has a PC. Don’t all children her age?

Miss Hardwick was reluctant to continue. She had considered going to the police, but felt that Rashida was probably confused and her views no doubt childish patter. Do you monitor which websites she uses?

Mr Chaudry raised his voice. I’m not sure what you’re implying. Our daughter is fourteen for heaven’s sake. She uses her PC for research for her homework and we allow her one hour in the evening to play games. Perhaps we ought to remove Rashida from this school.

"No, please don’t. It is probably the confused mind of a teenager, but if you could please beseech her to tone down her political attitude, she should be fine. Like