The French Letter: A Relentlessly Pulsating Crime Thriller

By A C Bayliss

Phil is a bad egg with a troubled past, no messing he’s just bad. A greedy violent criminal, who has a passion to earn a living from stealing, and will inflict pain on anyone who stands in his way. His seedy life is going from petty crimes to more enterprising ventures.
As he attempts to evade capture and skips over the channel, he turns into a more sinister culprit when he meets the wife of a distant relative. He then pulls off a robbery, but comes to the attention of not only the police, but also Hans a tenacious insurance investigator who is determined to add Phil onto his list of successful case closures. Twists and turns subsequently lead a gang boss, a bunch of hoodlums, an old acquaintance of Phil’s and the cops into a head on collision.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A C Bayliss
• Release date: Apr 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781838490218

Book preview

THE PROLOGUE

Hans jumped to his left and reached the safety of a wall as the bullet whizzed past his ear and collided into the brick work with a loud bang, making chunks of mortar and particles of red dust splatter over his head and clothes.

Fouad ran closer towards his prey, gripping his 9 mm Smith & Wesson even tighter, his finger poised on the trigger, waiting for the next opportunity to fire.

Hans was quick to recover and, keeping low, he ducked out of sight and continued to run towards the main boulevard, keeping his 38 mm Ruger Special handgun ready to return fire. He was in luck. His route was littered with parked cars and vans which were (or ‘gave’) good cover. He was further aided by the lack of street lights, and his fortuitous choice of footwear (grey rubber-soled trainers) made his movement relatively silent. Fouad cautiously turned the corner pointing his gun straight ahead, only to see Hans at the end of the street brushing dust off his jacket and disappearing onto the busy boulevard. Realising he had lost his chance, he placed the gun back into his man bag and calmly made the return route to his car.

CHAPTER ONE

KNIFE EDGE

Phil stared at his reflection. The greasy finger-marked mirror of his bathroom cabinet stared back at him as he examined the lines and contours of his hardened face. His colouring was pale and skin texture bland, tiny scars barely visible littered his forehead which was covered by the fringe of his dark brown hair. He sneered, revealing his yellowing teeth; even though he was a non-smoker, his teeth were discoloured due to the lack of brushing.

He conned himself that his hard face was actually handsome in a rugged kind of way. He was not pleased with his left eye that was slightly offset pointing up and to the left, a defect inherited at birth.

He tolerated years of name-calling from other children at school because of his odd eye, right up till he was aged about ten years old. Then he began to deal with his tormentors with violence. He would punch, kick, bite, scratch and spit on others for taunting him. Eventually all the kids got the point, and they left him alone, so much so he never had any true friends all the time he was at school.

However, showing sympathy to Phil would be short-lived. Yes, he had a hard time, but he gradually developed into a violent criminal. Maybe it was in his nature anyway to be hostile and violent, but the fact remains he turned into a nasty individual, so was anyone to blame? It was his choice, wasn’t it? We all have choices don’t we… or do we?

He took a deep breath and felt good about going off to work tonight. ‘It’s payday today,’ he thought to himself as he put on his jacket and tucked the long kitchen knife inside his coat. As he left his flat he closed the door quietly so as not to alert his neighbours to the time he was leaving (cops could ruin his alibi by finding out exactly what time he left) and he went out into the night.

It was a dark miserable February evening. The rain pressed down hard on the plastic roof of the bus shelter making it sound like the repetitive strum of a kettle drum, and a cold breeze accompanying the rain whipped underneath the shelter and lapped against Phillip’s legs.

A wicked grin passed across his face as he looked from inside the bus shelter at the lone cashier in the service station. He pondered how vulnerable the girl appeared and how such an easy target was just waiting – no, pleading – to be robbed. He knew her name was Tracy.

Phil played with the large kitchen knife inside his coat, thinking that the sight of the blade would terrify Tracy who would be only too grateful to give him the cash and get rid of him as quickly as she could. It was 7 pm and Phil knew the cash takings at this time would be between £600–£800 and that Tracy would keep the bank notes in the drop safe inside the storeroom just behind the counter.

Phil had seen the manager leave and drive off and he knew this was to pick his wife up from work. He would then drop her off back home and return to the service station, the round trip taking him at least 20 minutes. But by then Phil would be long gone. He didn’t plan on being in there for any more than two or three minutes, tops.

He knew the manager’s name was Rob.

This would be his third robbery in three months. Phil thought briefly about the first robbery at Debbie’s Newsagents, near to where he was renting a flat.

He could see the newsagents from his bedroom window and would watch the shop during the evenings: never a sign of any men working late. There was an old bloke who stacked shelves during the day but he was gone by around 5 pm. There was also a teenager about 16 years old who only worked at weekends, which left two women serving on their own until they both locked up around 6.30 pm.

One of the women looked about 17 years old. The other could have been her mum as she was in her late thirties. It was so easy, he pointed the knife in the face of the youngster and growled, ‘Give me all the notes and put them in a carrier bag or I stab the girl.’ The older woman stuffed handfuls of bank notes into the bag in about five seconds flat and he was out of there in under a minute.

Easy pickings, easy money, and that first job gave him the confidence to pull a second robbery and that was just as easy. 1990 was going to be his year: it had started well, and it could only get better. Phil had ambition: he knew what he wanted and he wanted money, lots of it.

This one was different though. He had good information from his old mate Carl Watkins who had worked in the service station until he got the sack two weeks ago for stealing stock.

Phil had said to him, ‘You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that you may be involved in the robbery having just been sacked!’

‘No probs,’ said Carl. ‘I got a new bit of work up north with my brother, starts on the 5th, three weeks from today, but I can go up and stay with John till then. If anyone asks, John will say I have been staying with him since before the robbery and the address I give to everyone is my nan’s address and I haven’t seen her in months. I have been staying at another mate’s flat, but, as we agreed, just make sure Tracy gets half a look at your mug to know it wasn’t me robbing her. The Old Bill won’t have fuck all on me if they find me and the £250 from you after the job will be a bit of extra beer money.’

‘If you say so,’ said Phil, only too glad to take on an easy blag. The rain started to ease a little and the hum of the rush- hour traffic was beginning to slow up, as was the ‘swish and splash’ sound of vehicles as they drove through surface rainwater along the adjoining High Street.

Customers going into the service station had thinned out so he had to get his timing right; as soon as there were no customers on the forecourt, Phil had to get in there quick and do the job.

That sly wicked grin crossed his face again as he thought how scared the girl would be when she saw the knife: he became excited at the thought of it.

Phil had short dark hair and a stocky athletic build. He was six foot in height and, taking into account his mean-looking face, most people gave him a wide berth.

Phil pulled his baseball cap down tight over his face and pulled up his scarf around his mouth up to his nose. He wore gloves of course, like all professionals (as he regarded himself), and took the knife from the inside of his coat and slipped it up the sleeve of his coat for easy access.

The adrenalin began to rush through his body as he walked from the shelter towards the garage.

Escape on foot would be easy in this urban area, plenty of alleyways and poorly lit side streets.

There was one car on the forecourt with the driver inside the garage kiosk paying for his fuel.

‘His cash will soon be mine,’ he thought. ‘Easy pickings, easy money.’

Still excited but calm, he had to pace himself so as not to arrive too soon. He had about twenty yards of ground to cover. He started to walk quickly then slowed his step a little, and gently splashed through small puddles of water. He was wearing his old training shoes which were quite plain and featureless, the coat he wore was dark grey with no recognisable motives, his blue jeans were nothing out of the ordinary and so just right for the job. If his description was circulated by the police he would look like any other person walking the streets in the rain.

He zeroed in on his target and his distance was just right as the driver exited the kiosk keeping his head down in the rain. He paid no attention to the lone walker and quickly got into his car, driving off just as Phil approached the kiosk.

Phil looked into the kiosk through the window and saw Tracy adding some cigarettes from a long packet to a rack behind the till. She was humming to a song on the radio, ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’ by Sinead O’Connor.

As he walked in, the door buzzer sounded. He went straight up to the counter. Tracy turned and smiled at the new customer she was just about to welcome when Phil pulled out the eight-inch kitchen knife from his sleeve and pointed it menacingly close to Tracy’s face.

At the sight of the knife she screamed and fell backwards into the cigarette rack, knocking some of the stock off the shelves, but she remained standing. Phil leaned over the counter to get nearer to her, they were face to face and this time he pointed the blade close to the centre of her chest. Tracy looked into Phil’s eyes and noticed that there was something odd with one of them, they weren’t quite straight.

‘Don’t hurt me!’ She screamed again.

Phil shouted at her, ‘Shut the fuck up and put all your bank notes into a carrier bag!’

She opened the till and did as she was told.

‘AND all the other notes from the safe in the storeroom,’ he added. ‘Quick or I’ll fucking stab you.’

Tracy went to move but the knife was too close. Phil didn’t realise he was slowing things down by being too close so he just grabbed her arm and pulled her along the counter, knocking sweets and chocolates from the display onto the floor. Tracy made a whimpering sound but she didn’t scream again. He then pushed her into the storeroom.

Phil looked over his shoulder at the forecourt which was still empty. ‘Good so far,’ he thought, ‘and the manager not due back for ages yet.’

The cashier went to the drop safe but she didn’t have the key. It was on a ring with others switched into the till.

Phil again shouted at the cashier, ‘Open that fucking safe!’

‘I can’t!’ she replied, ‘It’s locked. I need the key, it’s on the side of the till.’

Phil looked and saw a small bunch of keys hanging from the till. One of the keys had been placed into the lock on its side.

He pirouetted like a seasoned ballet dancer (with grace and posture) and went swiftly to the till, He turned the keys anti-clockwise, he tried to pull the keys out but they wouldn’t budge.

‘How do you get the fucking keys out?’ he shouted.

With Phil now more than a few metres away from her, she seized the opportunity and tried to make a break for it. She ran from the storeroom towards the kiosk door. Phil was quick and agile and responded with cat-like stealth. He caught hold of Tracy by her hair just as she reached the door.

Tracy screamed and fell backwards as Phil tugged her hair violently. He continued back towards the storeroom and dragged her with him. She screamed out again, this time in pain.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Phil shouted, but Tracy was now sobbing uncontrollably.

Phil pulled her up to her feet and pressed the knife close to her throat.

‘Get the fucking key from the till,’ he said slowly through gritted teeth, ‘before I cut your fucking throat.’ He pushed her towards the till.

Phil then heard the sound of the door buzzer. He swung around and saw the kiosk door open; in walked a customer, dripping wet, dressed in motorcycle gear and still wearing his crash helmet.

‘Where the fuck did he come from?’ he thought, and glanced at the forecourt but couldn’t see a motorcycle.

Tracy shouted out, ‘Call the police, he’s got a knife!’

Phil’s instincts for survival kicked in and without thinking moved in a flash towards the doorway. He held up the knife so the customer could clearly see it. He noticed how the customer’s eyes were emphasised by the crash helmet and were wide open, transfixed on the knife. The customer held his hands up as if in surrender. Phil pushed past him and ran out into the wintry night and disappeared within seconds into the urban sprawl.

Tracy felt a sharp pain. She pressed her hand to her back and it felt wet. She looked at her hand and it was covered in blood. She gasped and passed out.

CHAPTER TWO

COPS AND ROBBERS

It was still raining at 8 am the following morning when the five early-turn CID officers came into the Western Essex Area of Warlock Central Police Station.

Detective Sergeant Bob Jones was accompanied by his three Detective Constables, Joe Berry, Carol Goodwin and the pup Chris Pointer. The duty Detective Inspector was John Hersey.

‘Right,’ said the DI. ‘If you haven’t heard already there was another robbery last night.