The Corrupt Costermonger: A Seller of More Than Fruit

By Joe Carr

I might also tell them that you have threatened me with a knife.

You bastard.

You may be right. So how do you want to play this game?

This is part of a conversation between the head of the local drug squad and the trusted informant of another police department who appears to be floundering in the changing world of drugs, murder, illegal immigrants, and terrorists.

Det. Sgt. Ron ONeill, after answering a telephone call, is drawn into an enquiry that is career-changing for him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Dec 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514499412

Joe Carr

Author Joe Carr is a eighty -year-old retired police officer. He is married with two daughters. He is grandfather to six grandchildren, aged between eleven and two years old. Reading stories to his children and later his grandchildren nurtured the seed of writing his own storybook. The characters in the book are all well known to children from an early age. The story has been left open ended for, perhaps, further adventures by Fred the fly and his friends.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by JOE CARR.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016921146

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5144-9943-6

      Softcover      978-1-5144-9942-9

      eBook         978-1-5144-9941-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 12/29/2016

Xlibris

800-056-3182

www.Xlibrispublishing.co.uk

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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

To my wife, Mary Elizabeth for all the love, help, and support since 1968

Preface

C OSTERMONGER: A STREET SELLER of fruit and vegetables from a barrow (Oxford Dictionary).

In the Victorian reign, costermongers were found in most areas of England. The word costermonger is derived from costard, which is from the medieval Anglo-French for apple. Monger is as in a fishmonger or ironmonger: a trader or dealer in commodities and is probably of Latin origin.

The costermonger could easily be identified by a sing-song chant to attract buyers as well as a large, brightly coloured neckerchief tied around their necks.

Their hostility towards the police was legendary.

Chapter 1

A T AROUND TEN O’CLOCK on a wet and windy Thursday evening, Detective Sergeant Ron O’Neill opened the door leading to the immigration department within the headquarters of Birhampton Police. He was about to start another night shift, the fourth of his week of nights, and was beginning to think he was getting away with a quiet set.

All that was about to change.

No sooner had he entered the office that the phone cried out. This was to be the beginning of a period of his police service he would never forget. Lifting the phone off the cradle and holding it to his ear, Ron listened while a man with a West Indian accent spoke.

"Can I speak with Mr O’Neill?

Ron asked, What’s your name, and where did you get this number?

My name is Mr G, and a friend gave me the number. He went on. It’s about Chinese illegals coming from Spain.

So far so good, thought Ron.

There is more to it, but I can’t speak over the phone. Can we meet somewhere?

I’m still waiting to hear what your name is and who gave you this number.

Through friends. Can we meet at the local park near the boathouse?

Regardless of the information to be offered, Ron was too long in the tooth to go running off here and there at the request of someone he didn’t even know. Ron declined the offer.

The caller became very agitated

When is the lorry due to arrive? said Ron

I understand it’s next Thursday, about half past midnight. It’s important we meet before then. The info I have is mind-blowing.

Once again, Ron asked, Who gave you my name? Silence descended, and after what seemed an eternity, the caller replied.

Dwaine Sutton.

Sutton was a young Jamaican Ron had gotten to know many years ago. As a young detective, Ron had been part of a team investigating the murder of Sutton’s father by a rival gang over a drug deal gone wrong. He had visited the home on several occasions and helped the young lad get over the death of his father. The mother and three girls as well as Dwaine wanted nothing to do with the drug world. The three elder sons, Joe, Frank, and Tom, wanted to exact revenge on the gang responsible.

The family had then split up. The elder boys became well-known to the police not only in Birhampton but in also the surrounding towns and cities for their involvement in drugs and guns. It was only a matter of time before one or all three committed the ultimate crime of murder. All three had been to university for differing periods of time.

The mother had died some years ago. Whilst the elder girls had gone off with their boyfriends, the youngest girl, Elizabeth, had gone up to Newcastle-On-Tyne in Northumberland after a few years. Dwaine appeared to have kept himself out of trouble and built up a little business selling fruit in the open markets of Birhampton and the local villages.

Ron then said, Give me your mobile number and proper name. If not, I will call the whole thing off. If, as a result of you refusing to give me information, the immigrants enter the United Kingdom, I will be after you for facilitating the entry into this country of illegal immigrants. I will make sure you go away for a few years. Do you understand me?

Silence again prevailed. At last, the caller said, Can you guarantee that I will not be mentioned at all?

Your real name will never be mentioned or used in any way. I will have a nom de guerre issued for you

What does that nom thing mean?

It is an assumed name under which a person writes or fights. In this case, you will be writing statements and fighting for your life.

Ron was beginning to get irritated. He had spent ten minutes speaking on the phone to someone he didn’t know and was not getting very far.

Now, shall we get down to business? I have a lot of phone calls to make and reports to write.

Mr G then replied, My name is Errol George, and my mobile number is 01732958095.

What is your date of birth, Errol?

Twenty-six August 1977.

Your address?

Thirty-six Brimyard Road, Shortbridge, Birhampton.

Thank you for those details. It is obvious that very little can be done at this time of night. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow on your mobile. If, when I call, you are in company, just say, ‘Wrong number, pal’, and hang up. Just three little words, but they may well keep you out of harm. I will then phone you after half an hour. Make sure that you have gotten yourself free of other people. Thanks for the information, Errol. We will speak tomorrow.

Ron then put the phone down and slumped back into his chair. His head was racing, thinking of the information he had just been given. If it were true, he and his gaffer had six days to come up trumps. Ron then made some brief notes of the conversation and also signed off reports submitted by members of the department.

Ron looked at his watch. It was coming up to a quarter to eleven. The local pub closed at midnight, and his throat was getting dry.

Chapter 2

O ’NEILL HAD BEEN IN the police for twenty-eight years and was looking forward to completing his thirty years, picking up his pension, and disappearing from a job that had changed so much from when he had joined. Some of the things were for the better – radios, hours of work, and the like. No longer did the lads in uniform work a month of nights, afternoons, or early mornings with their days off spread over the month. Back in those days, many a young constable would turn up for work only to be told by the inspector that he was on leave that day.

Most of the senior officers were from a military background and ran the job on military lines. All of this was reflected in the way officers presented themselves. Boots were polished, trousers were pressed and clean, and hair was kept short.

After five years in the Royal Military Police, Ron had joined the Birhampton Police. The expectations of police life didn’t bother him too much.

Ron was of Irish origin, his father having been born in County Mayo in the Irish Republic. His mother was of Scottish descent, having been born just over the border in the Berwick-Upon-Tweed area. At fifty-one years of age, six feet two inches tall, and fourteen stone, Ron was no pushover. At times, his point of view was perhaps too keen. He had learned from experience to put the word sir on the end when talking to senior officers.

He had been in uniform for about four years when he first joined as a police officer in Birhampton and worked from a police station in the centre of a sprawling city with large Irish and Jamaican populations. Young men were mainly employed on the numerous new building sites; others were employed as drivers by public-transport companies. The young Irish girls gained employment as clippies (conductors) on the buses. A lot of the Irish and Jamaican girls also went into nursing in local hospitals.

There were a large number of establishments selling various kinds of alcohol, most of which should have been sold as paint stripper. No wonder that come ten o’clock at night, some of the natives were prepared to take on the world.

Ron had been lucky in that although working from a city centre police station, he had been posted to an area away from the razzmatazz and glitter of the city. His area was a world of back-to-back houses with no bathrooms. There were toilets outside the homes in large courtyards, and water had to be boiled on an open fire for washing. There was also very little money for food or clothing. If you wanted a bath, you went down to the local swimming baths. For a few pence, you could have a hot bath. Otherwise, it was the old tin bath in front of the fireplace, which brought on the usual arguments as to why the youngest always had first use of the water. Despite all this, children still laughed and played in the street with tin cans for footballs and old washing lines for skipping with.

The area was home to a mixture of Irish, Jamaican, and Chinese immigrants and the local people. The night air would be filled with the flavours of the Jamaican and Chinese cooking coming from the homes and the numerous restaurants that had sprung up. The local bars would be full on the weekends with Jamaican and Irish men and women. The Chinese preferred the casinos where they would gamble until the early morning.

As the drink took effect, the Jamaicans would slam their domino pieces harder on the tables. The Irish would put away their cards and proceed to fill the air with Irish songs learnt from an early age. Sometimes, rebel songs would be heard that brought the Licensee Gerald Duffy into play. There was always one man who was standing up and slightly the worse for drink, leading the choir. A loud Irish accent would boom out, "Don’t sit down, you’re not