Smoke Chase

By Jack Callan

A bomb goes off at the Tobacco Market, London. John Chase, ex-Fusilier and Red Marine, is wrongly arrested. Along with Burns, a union official who has confessed to the bombing, he is taken to The Warrior, a prison hulk moored on the Thames. Discovering that he and Burns are to be murdered, Chase manages to escape to the safe confines of the Warren.

Searching for answers, Chase uncovers a murky world of criminal conspiracy and organised crime. To survive, he must turn to his former army comrades. At close quarters, the melee fighting of the trio is devastating. Will it be enough to save Chase and his family?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Oct 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838595999

Jack Callan

Born in Hackney, Jack Callan’s writing career started aged ten, when he won a national Heinz Beans writing competition. He has since had a wide variety of careers ranging from chocolate factory worker to headteacher, and from musician to mobile librarian. He is now a leader in Special Education, living and working in east London.

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Copyright © 2020 Jack Callan

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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.

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ISBN 978 1838595 999

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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

To Patrick Cushion and Shirley Cushion.

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Endnote

Preface

1

From the Chiltern Hills the Lea winds its way through the looping meanders of its lower reaches, where it becomes Bow Creek and joins the Thames. The Upper Lea is classified as a chalk stream, with images of sparkling water and jumping trout, while the London section has long been associated with industry through Enfield, Leyton, Hackney and Bow. In truth it has been a place of enterprise, invention and beauty as it winds its way around the back of London’s things, on our doorstep.

The River Lea has provided East and North East London with a commercial and industrial waterway knitting together communities for centuries. The Lea Valley has created a long chain of marshes along its lower length. The reservoirs at Chingford and Walthamstow are fed from the Lea, providing London’s drinking water, with the navigation cut providing transport for commerce.

It was the imaginative playground of escape and fantasy for the children of London’s Blitz and is home to the many folk living on barges as a water community. The Lea’s King George, Banbury and William Girling reservoirs are host to sailing clubs and, with Epping Forest, provide a wonderful dark oasis for London. Along its length from Tottenham Lock to Fishers Green, many fishermen have found great sport in the shadow of the hedgerows and fruit trees that follow the Lea.

2

In 1842 the Metropolitan Police Detective Branch was formed with two inspectors, six sergeants and a number of detective constables. It took some while for the professional standards we now expect of our police officers to be established within this new force. Many officers were ex-army regulars who had seen action in British colonial wars. The Detective Branch was re-organised in 1878 as the Criminal Investigation Department (CID). This new organisation was now distinct and separate from the uniformed officers, with the head of the CID answering to the Home Secretary and not the Metropolitan Police Commissioner.

In 1883 the Special Irish Branch was formed from within the CID to meet the terrorism threat from Irish Nationalists operating in London at that time. From 1888 the organisation was simply called the Special Branch, with an extended remit to address all terrorist threats and cover counter-terrorism needs. Special Branch men were specialist, an elite within the Metropolitan Police; an elite that many resented, but grew to respect.

London had a rapidly growing population throughout the late Victorian period, which included an influx of revolutionary thinkers from across Europe who, exiled from their own countries, came to liberal London. Into this maelstrom of European change and turbulence came organised crime seeking to exploit the opportunity. This ruthlessness required an organised and well-resourced response from the British justice system. When that wasn’t there, it needed John Chase.

Chapter 1

Eddie Coleman died at 7.30am; John Chase knew that as it was the time the bombs went off by the clock on the wall, when he glanced at it. Chase was on his second egg and bacon, and had finished only half of his pint of tea. He was coming off a long and cold night shift and had walked from 4 Whitehall Place to his favourite Leadenhall cafe, Percy Dalton’s. He knew old man Dalton from Eton Manor, and like the old – now deceased – gent, it was spick and span, with a polished pewter counter and fogged-up windows on this cold November morning. Chase was sitting on his chair; the ‘throne’, as Dalton used to call it. It looked like it should be propping a building up, but with the weight of sixteen stone of tired copper, and it needed to be of regal heft.

He was reading in yesterday’s Standard about the founding of the Fabian Society, a society he would never join, made up of people who wouldn’t even talk to him if they met him in the street, whilst representing the ‘common man’. He saw Jimmy Dalton look at him when the unmistakeable explosive sound filled the air. Yes, he would want bacon sandwiches in the greaseproof. He swigged his tea down. He could feel the big old Webley in the small of his back as he made the most of the few moments he would be sitting down for in the next day or so – but he didn’t know that then. He paid at the till, finished his cigarette and made his way out.

The explosions had come from down the river, so he made his way to King William Street, along Eastcheap to the Highway and into Tobacco Dock.

He went through the main entrance with number one warehouse on his left, North Quay Warehouses straight in front of him, and the Superintendent’s office to his right. It was here that Chase could see what was left of Eddie Coleman, not covered up yet, next to the office’s collapsed brick wall. The water in the Western Dock was black, with a few light ships moored up, the steps running down to the water in each corner. Chase started to go through Coleman’s pockets; he came up with a few pennies, a pocket knife and a folded piece of paper with an address on it – no name. Chase recognised it as being located over in Bethnal Green. He folded it back up and placed it in his inside jacket pocket. Chase noted from the cut of Coleman’s trouser, the flashy belt buckle and the leather lane shoes that this was a man of superficial wealth, money spent in haste on showy fashion. The clothes reeked of tobacco smoke and cheap cologne, like many in the ranks of the Garstein’s gang lining the floors of The Casino in Whitechapel.

Chase saw in that moment the arrival of the brass plates and buttons from the City of London onto the quay. Chase thought he recognised a couple of the five officers from a Limehouse investigation a couple of years back into a murder in St James Gardens, where a City of London day patrol man had been knifed and dumped. Four of them were tall wiry lads in their early twenties, and the fifth a heavyset, mutton-chopped sergeant. Chase called out to the officers and was in the process of reaching for his warrant card when they rushed him. Chase managed to put the folded paper from his jacket pocket into his shoe before they hit. Not holding back, they had him on the floor and manacled. They found the Webley and were looking at it like it was a mystery toy. It was a special, a new top-break, fresh out of Enfield, with a heavy .455 cartridge, courtesy of Charlie Miller, Chase’s ex-Fusilier comrade and armourer. Chase had allowed them to take him. He had calculated immediately that if he were to discover the truth to this matter, he needed to follow where they would guide him – for the moment, at least.

Holding onto the manacle chain, three of the officers dragged Chase over to the horse-drawn closed prison wagon, now arrived. He started to explain who he was but was cut short by the sergeant, with a straight billy club to the solar plexus. The sergeant had a gummy grin – no front teeth – which, with these manners, did not surprise Chase. He made a mental note to assist with any further extractions should the opportunity arise.

Chapter 2

Chase found it singularly curious that these City boys were there first on scene, and in Met territory too, but he thought he would concentrate on breathing at that moment. In fact, they seemed to have arrived from the direction of the South Quay, which would mean they were further away from their patch, almost as if they were waiting for him. It was still before 8.30am as Chase was shoved in the lock-up wagon and taken way up Poultry to 26 Old Jewry. This was the friendly Headquarters of the City of London Police, in all its brass-buttoned, tight-arsed, Corporation of London glory. Chase always felt that if you could join a guild as a Peeler, these were the stiffs for the job. Their red-brick four-storey building, a stone’s throw from the Bank of England, seemed to state the same thing – they were there to look after ‘them’ with the money.

They had pushed him out of the wagon and with a man on each shoulder moved him up the steps, past the desk sergeant and down to the basement. This was where he was now, in number three cell, with a young woman called Mary and an old drunk sailor with cuts and grazes to his old rough face, who had been rolled by a shore crew. The stink from the cells was keen, with the night’s flotsam and jetsam washed up, congealed in the ten-foot-by-six-foot cells, with no toilet, sink or any means of relieving yourself except on the floor, which is what everyone – it must have been everyone – had done.

About two hours later Chase was pulled out and taken to a first-floor plain and stark interview room – no windows, just three chairs and a table. Still manacled, Chase was sat down by the two uniformed officers, who remained in the room. There was a paper bag on the table with the contents of his pockets and coat, minus the Webley. After a couple of minutes a young inspector came into the room and introduced himself as Inspector Toby.

The Chief Superintendent is coming down to clear this mess up. It doesn’t look good for you, Chase. Let’s look at it – you’re on the scene, going through the dead man’s pockets, carrying a concealed firearm. Not good at all.

Chase said nothing but noted the tone – professional, almost respectful. Toby must have seen his warrant card. He held out his manacled arms with an expectant look. Toby nodded to the constable nearest to Chase, and he unlocked the old iron set. Chase rubbed his wrists and sat ready for whatever was next. He did not smile any gratitude to Toby, just looked at the door.

Chase said, When’s the governor getting here?

Just as he said that, the door opened and Chief Superintendent Forsyth entered the room and sat down. He was fat and red-faced and grinned with obvious satisfaction when safely seated. His brow had sweat on it, and his hair was lank and dirty. Forsyth had the glassy detached skin of a serious drinker, and when he leaned forward to speak to Chase, the breath of one as well.

He said, I am Chief Superintendent Forsyth, Head of the City of London Police. I have a bombed dock, a dead waterman and rough-house, armed, anarchist, murdering scum in front of me – or is it the Socialist League? So, let’s hear that confession and we will move you along.

Chase smiled at the fat man and his flabby arse draped over the uncomfortable chair. This annoyed Forsyth, who went on.

Yes, moved on, to the noose before the week’s up, if we pull our finger out. Wrap this up, Toby, I’ve got a corporation meeting to go to. You can sort this low-life out.

Forsyth waddled out of the room with what Chase thought was a triumphant but weak air. The two uniformed officers, Sefton and Billings, closed the door after him. The City Police were certainly different, and a little taller than the average Metropolitan officer, with an odd way in sycophancy.

Toby was in his late twenties or early thirties; he stood around six feet and looked trim and smart, with well cared for boots and strong wiry hands, which he rested on the table as he sat down.

Not seen one of these before, said Toby, turning over the Special Branch warrant card in his fingers. I have a few questions for you.

He spoke with the distinctive rhythm of Norfolk; his stressed vowels were longer and his unstressed vowels were much shorter than the East End accent. Chase wondered how he came to be in the polished world of the City.

Chase, you are charged with murder. Can you confirm your full name and address, if you would be so kind?

Chase looked at Toby and decided to cooperate with him to an extent, even if this situation was beginning to stink as badly as the basement cells.

My name is John Chase; address 76 Goldsmith’s Crescent, Kentish Town. Chase gave a false address, for good reason: he sensed a clear divide between Forsyth and Toby, and one which would not be healthy to ignore. Chase gave his date of birth correctly as 27th November 1853.

This warrant card in your personal effects, is it genuine or some kind of fake? Who was the poor sod under the bricks by the water? You were carrying a non-issued firearm with a calibre we’ve not seen before. Why were you carrying such a weapon?

There was a long pause.

What is going on here? Chase said, looking straight at Toby.

You know what it’s about. There has been a murder, with some additional and exceptional characteristics – a bomb attack on the offices of a tobacco trading company, and a dock strike that is spreading across London in the same area. My officers tell me that a witness says they saw you in a fight with the dead man just before the explosion.

Chase said he would like to meet that witness as he was in Percy Dalton’s when the bombs went off. You can ask Jimmy Dalton, he greaseproofed the sandwiches you have in the bag on the table.

Chase could see that this piece of his story had unsettled Toby. A clear frown had formed on his forehead, and the City of London detective’s brain was beginning to turn over. He was now wondering about his officers. Chase could tell sensitive, intuitive things like that; ten years in the Fusiliers, six years in the Metropolitan Police and a full one year in Special Branch brings out the caring and intuitive side of a man.

Your men were over on the South Quay, Toby. That’s out of your jurisdiction there, isn’t it? What were they doing there before the bomb went off?

Chase thought he would chance his arm on that one and see where it got him. Where it got him was more frowns from Toby, and a series of chair-shifting uneasy movement from the young officer.

Mallards Wharf and Smithson and Sons are very important to the City of London. The tax revenues and money they generate every year help keep the wolf from the door for many a family around here and up and down the Thames. And now they are under attack from unions and French anarchists with their propaganda of the deed, or both. You are suspected of murder and an act of sedition, said Toby.

Chase made his statement, with Toby noting it down on the City of London notebook; it was a precise and exact report of his actions since leaving his home in Kentish Town at 6am that morning. Toby internally noted the pace and precision of Chase’s words, and recalled that he had not come across such a speech pattern since attending science evening class lectures at the University College London.

Toby sat there and tented his fingers, pondering on what Chase had said. Chase had given him enough to work with, and if the follow-up confirmed the story, enough to release him. There were two big factors moving against him, as Chase saw it: the first was the behaviour of Forsyth, which to him seemed contrived and pre-thought out; the second was the arresting party, present on the dock so quickly. This told Chase that there would be trouble, lots of it, and at present it was coming for him. Although, with the sense of intelligence coming from Toby, which suggested that he saw the issues arising as well, they would both need to be on their guard. Toby was newly in post as well, coming from the Norwich Constabulary, from farming stock near Holt.

Toby still carried on, however, refusing to acknowledge the clear links shown and laid out by Chase.

You say you are a Special Branch detective, out of Scotland Yard. Even so, you could have gone over to the Frenchies, if the money was right, or be an enemy of the people turned double agent for the brothers, for all I care. You were found at the scene, armed, with a murder victim and a witness statement that says you did it. Who are you, Chase? Where are you from? What are you? said Toby.

Chase pondered his response for a moment and then said, Alright, Toby, but first you need to know that I am not your man for this, and I get the feeling you know that too, and that there is something more that we’re both not seeing as yet that could threaten you if you get it wrong, and me – so be careful with your next move. But if it’s facts you want, I was born in the Mothers’ Salvation Hospital in Mare Street. My mum worked in the laundry on Chatsworth Road, and was in service in north London – Finchley. I did boxing out of Eton Manor, worked in my Uncle Richard’s boot factory, and joined the Royal Fusiliers when I was fourteen. I’ve been in the police these past six years.

So what did you do in those two years after the army?

Chase explained that he had taken an apprenticeship as a tool maker, but in fact, he had been sponsored to take a degree in pure mathematics. He also didn’t tell Toby that he’d been the Senior Wrangler under Arthur Cayley as Sadleirian Professor and gained a starred first from Cambridge. That would have been pushing anybody’s credulity.

Toby’s eyes focused during this account, and although it contained quite a lot of fabrication, Toby believed Chase; he could tell he was authentic.

Toby asked Chase about his army career, and found out that he had been in the Mounted Military Police assigned to the Royal Fusiliers, and had then seen action in India and in the second Afghan War at the Battle of Maiwand and the Battle of Kandahar.

Chapter 3

Chase didn’t mention the very special decoration he had been awarded but never collected for his heroism at Kandahar; very few people knew of this life-defining act of rebellion.

The commanding officer Roberts’ decision to march so quickly on Kandahar cost the lives of five hundred men a day, unnecessarily lost – a fact that sickened Chase. His humanity and common sense remained intact even under the most severe tests, usually from officers in his own regiment rather than the enemy. In an army where his next promotion to Captain would have cost him fifteen hundred pounds, the cost of buying a secure commission, he was sick of the desk soldiers killing his friends and comrades. Roberts’ decision to take the British garrison from Kelat-i-Ghilzai, one hundred and forty miles beyond Ghuznee, had condemned the women and children of the village and camp to the mercy of Ayub Khan’s men. Chase’s company’s captain had been killed the previous day. Chase had decided to keep what was left of his company of the Seventh Royal Fusiliers in the old town. He had an additional motivation. He knew that vital intelligence could be gained from the capture of one of Khan’s senior generals. Chase set his trap. He planned to use the narrow streets to funnel Khan’s advance group into a cross fire and grapeshot killing field. He also planned to use his advanced optics to target Khan’s senior officers, ready for his snatch squad. Chase would fake an attack on the main Afghan column outside of the village, moving them into the planned trap.

The fight was a tough one; the Fusiliers had a hard fight in the initial attack, braving the Afghan guns before driving the main force of three hundred men into the town. Fusilier snipers carried out their role well, taking down many Afghan cavalry. Chase spotted the two first. He signalled to Miller to move the ten-man snatch squad to track and take the two mounted men before the main town square. The Afghan officers’ horses were taken from under them with a close quarter shot from a ground-floor window recess, as grappling hooks were then rammed into the Afghan groins. The ground team signalled, and the two were quickly hoisted onto the flat roof like thrashing carp from an English pond. Chase joined