The Big One

By Harry Gardiner

DI Hard, a busy detective inspector in Londons East End, is on the lookout for the final act of corruption to escape the chaos of his private and professional life. When the opportunity arises, he uses all his skills to commit the perfect crime, but he is being pursued by a formidable enemy who emerges from the shadows when the DI isnt looking . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504998833

Harry Gardiner

Harry Gardiner has been a London Detective Inspector and a private detective.He has also run pubs and discotheques in Scotland, Spain and Germany, before starting a career as a writer.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I could feel that the Big One was near. Many years of waiting for it were coming to an end. The residents of the poorest borough in London, whose streets were knee-deep in drug money, would soon have to do without my services. The jarring tone from the desk telephone suddenly disturbed my optimism. Would my eagerly awaited Friday night assignation be marred by yet another disaster needing my reluctant attention?

A prisoner had been brought in for driving with excess alcohol, hardly requiring the services of an experienced detective inspector, but I knew the station officer and realised that he wouldn’t call me unless the arrest involved some other serious criminal matter. The drunken driver was in possession of a large amount of money. I automatically asked for details of the arresting officer, musing that he would have to be one of the more honest ones, otherwise the drunken driver would have continued on his perilous journey having been suitably fined on the spot. The detaining officer was one of the most honest people I knew, PC Harry Fuller of the traffic police.

We went back a long way, having joined on the same day 24 years ago. Harry was a former regular soldier, with more experience of life than the other intake of that class of ‘74. He was tall, upright and deadly serious. The rest of us came from various walks of civilian life and he was a natural choice for the role of class captain. After the completion of our training period we were both sent to the East London division of Hackney, not the posting I wanted having been raised in the adjoining borough of Bethnal Green. I would have preferred the West End, the glamorous part of the capital, to deal with more exciting people than the barrow boys and petty thieves I went to school with.

Circumstances made us reluctant friends for we had little in common. Harry had one of those funny northern accents from Yorkshire or some such place well north of Watford, and he was proud of it. After a local magistrate commented on his difficulty in understanding Harry’s evidence, I suggested that he should go to elocution classes to learn to speak properly. I had never seen him so angry and remember his red face pressed close to mine as he grabbed hold of my collar.

He shouted, You Cockney bastards don’t even know how to speak English … Words failed him then and he took a wild swing at me, but years of boxing training in gyms and on the street had taught me how to avoid punches thrown in anger. Our enforced friendship was never quite the same after that.

The main CID office was empty as usual on that Friday evening. The more experienced detectives were out on the streets investigating the impossible case loads each of them had been deputed to deal with; in truth I knew that most of them could be found in one of the hostelries along Mare Street celebrating the end of another week policing the poorest borough in London. In fact I recalled a news programme from a few days ago which placed Hackney as the poorest borough in the whole Country. Poverty bred crime, despite the protestations of politicians, and the evidence was all around.

One of the younger detectives, constable Neil Walker, was still at his desk and looked up expectantly as I entered. He still retained the enthusiasm for trying to change the unchangeable and listened with genuine interest as I explained about the rich drunken driver downstairs who would need to be questioned concerning the large sum of money in his possession. Walker would question the man thoroughly, within the restrictive rules of interrogation, but lacked the older detective’s guile at eliciting truthful answers. But he was all I had at my disposal, the others would be keeping out of my way until closing time and the end of their tour of duty. Were it not for my role as supervising officer that evening, and my expected trip to Hornchurch, I would have been with them.

I returned to the safety of my office and poured myself a large whisky while I resumed planning the Big One. Official retirement was still six years away, but there was always the possibility of leaving earlier on a medical pension. The medical branch knew full well that an active officer of my rank and service experience was getting near to the end of his usefulness to the police force. We were simply worn out by the daily demands of our profession and prone to debilitating illnesses such as chronic depression. The Big One would provide a useful nest egg for such early retirement.

A loud knock on my office door made me attempt to take my feet of the desk, but the visitor didn’t wait for an invitation to enter and walked straight in. It was PC Harry Fuller, tall and as unsmiling as ever. I nearly fell over as I finally managed to disentangle my feet and rose to shake his hand.

I knew I should have come into the CID, said Harry. Look at you, feet on your desk, a glass of whisky in your hand, and there’s me, out on my bike in all weathers and nicking your villains for you. He sat down on the chair in front of my desk, upright and formal.

I fished an unwashed glass out of my top drawer and placed it on the desk beside the whisky bottle.

I said, Relax, Harry. Want a drink?

He shook his head. Not while I’m on duty. Come to think of it I don’t seem to drink much off duty either. You haven’t turned out like the other DI’s, pissed half the time?

I managed to shake my head with as much conviction as I could muster. You know me better than that. But, it’s been a hard week and this is Friday night after all.

I could see that Harry wasn’t convinced. He frowned. I’ve brought in a flash bastard for the Breathalyser. He’s a German, driving a brand new BMW and he’s got stacks of money on him. Can you have a word with him?

I’ve sent a DC down to interview him, the station officer rang me when you fetched him in.

Harry sighed. Your DC’s interviewing him now, but he’s too young. It needs someone like you to talk to the prisoner.

I was about to say that I was too busy, but remembered the glass of whisky in my hand and my feet on the desk.

I said, DC Walker is one of the best officers I’ve got, despite his age. He’ll do the job properly.

Harry sniggered. I suppose the rest of your staff’s out on the piss and he’s all you’ve got left. Anyway, this Kraut’s got around ten grand on him, £5,000 in English money, three grand in American Dollars and two grand in Deutschmarks.

What’s his alcohol reading?

Harry screwed up his face in disgust. Unfortunately he’s only four milligrams over the top.

He won’t be charged then, will he. Don’t they allow five milligrams for a caution?

He’s a flash German, with a flash car.

We’re in Europe now, Harry, and in any case, he should be treated in just the same way as any other prisoner.

Europe. I realised my mistake as he went on. We should never have joined. We’ve got Spanish fishermen with two-mile long nets fishing all round Cornwall, nobody’s buying our beef any more and we’re sending millions of Pounds to Brussels. I tell you, we should get out as soon as possible.

Harry had similar prejudices against all foreigners and anyone born outside Yorkshire, especially Cockneys. I tried to modify my accent as I said, I’ll speak to DC Walker when he finishes his interrogation. How’s the family?

Harry finally relaxed. Mary’s finding it easier now that the children are off hand. She’s got herself a little part-time job to get her out of the house. How’s your other half?

She’s working as well. The mention of his wife made me feel uncomfortable. Many years ago, not long after we had left training school, we had gone to a party with our wives. It was one of the few times I had seen Harry relaxed, in fact he was well and truly drunk by the end of the evening. I had taken the opportunity to flirt with his wife, Mary, while my own wife was busy helping in the kitchen.

Mary was the exact opposite of Shirley. My wife was slim and elegant, whereas Mary was small and dumpy. She dressed in baggy clothes to hide her bulges, but somehow the party atmosphere and freely flowing alcohol threw us into each other’s arms and we flirted. Unfortunately it didn’t stop there.

I bumped into her in the street a few weeks later and foolishly suggested going for a drink one evening when Harry was working. She wasn’t even all that keen, but I persisted and we had a clandestine meeting in a pub on the edges of Epping Forest. She still wasn’t keen as I parked the Cortina in a forest clearing afterwards and took her in my arms. But somehow we made love. I remember gripping her wobbly behind and pushing into her while she needed reassuring once more that I was wearing a condom. During climax she called out her husband’s name and deflated what was left of my rotten ego. We never saw each other again and I always regretted our infidelity.

Have you and Shirley got together again?

The question increased my discomfort. I hadn’t realised that news of our separation was general knowledge. I stammered, We’re still trying … but Harry came to my rescue.

I didn’t mean to pry but Mary told me that you and Shirley had separated. Those two still keep in touch, you know.

The news surprised me, Shirley had never mentioned her continuing friendship with Mary and it had been many years since that fateful party.

I shrugged, It’s only a trial separation and we hope to get together again. You know what this fucking job’s like, it destroys marriages.

Harry sighed. Yeah, even on traffic I often have to work overtime, then there’s going to Court off night duty and all the other shit. As a DI it’s got to be a hundred times worse.

I nodded, thinking back to the countless occasions when I had used the job as an excuse for my continuous infidelity over the years. The drunken one-night stands that littered my police career, as well as some dangerous liaisons which had driven Shirley to the brink and beyond. No matter how hard I tried, there was always some evidence left; a trace of pink lipstick on a shirt collar, or the mere exhaustion after another night on the tiles. The job was a convenient scapegoat, in reality the fault lay entirely with me. DC Walker’s timid knock on the door saved any further embarrassment.

He stood rigidly in front of the desk as he recounted details of his interview with the prisoner.

The man’s name is Werner Schmidt, he is a German national aged fifty. He came to England two weeks ago on a business trip. He looks and sounds like a successful businessman and regards the £10,000 in his possession as small change. Walker paused and looked sideways at Harry Fuller. I don’t think there’s anything we can charge him with concerning his possession of the money.

I asked, Why is it in different currencies?

He says he’s been gambling in a casino in the West End and exchanged some money with a fellow gambler, said Walker.

That’s bollocks, said Harry Fuller. I tell you there’s something fishy about that Kraut. If he’s only been in the Country for two weeks, where did he get the brand new BMW from? It’s on English plates.

I looked questioningly at DC Walker who started blushing. He said, I didn’t question him about the car … I only asked about the money. I didn’t know you wanted me to question him about the car.

It’s not your fault. I turned to Harry. Did you ask him about the car?

Of course. And about the money. He told me the same story as far as the money goes, some fanny about a casino, but the car is another story. He bought that last week from a dealer in Bayswater and paid cash for it.

Did you check it out?

Only as far as doing a check with the computer to see if the car’s stolen. It’s not on the list. Harry sounded quite triumphant as he turned to Walker and said, At least I asked him about the car.

It was time to come to the defence of my young DC.

I said, If the car isn’t stolen and the German can offer some explanation as to his possession of the money, I don’t see what more we can do. It’s not unusual for a successful businessman to have ten grand in his possession. Thank you DC Walker.

After the DC left my office I could see that Harry was far from satisfied. He shook his head and said, I told you he was too young to interview my prisoner properly. That German is up to something. I know it.

I poured myself another whisky despite Harry’s disapproving looks and wondered how I could best dispose of his troublesome presence. A quick glance at the wall clock confirmed that my assignation was less than an hour away and involved a drive to Hornchurch. I wasn’t inclined to tell Harry that I was seeing my estranged wife that evening, and had been looking forward to it all week. It was our night together and nothing was going to spoil it, not even Harry and his rich German drunken driver with the flash car. Would she be wearing the red Basque that night, or the crutchless body stocking? Or just black stockings with suspenders? Why the hell had we separated in the first place?

Harry was still in full flow. Can’t you get in touch with Interpol or something to see if they’ve got anything on the Kraut? I tell you there’s something fishy with that man.

I could have remonstrated with Harry and pointed out that the Force was now actively discouraging discrimination, but he would need far more than a short lecture from me to change his views. I reached for the telephone instead. A short call to Interpol would get rid of my visitor.

I recognised the voice at the other end. It was Brian Heath, formerly a DS under my command while I was posted to the adjoining police station, Stoke Newington. Brian was a dour Scot with a serious drink problem, who had been sent to a desk job at Interpol to keep him out of the way of the unsuspecting public. He could no longer be trusted to perform street duties where his alcoholism and violent temper combined to make him totally unstable.

His disinterested voice changed when I announced my identity and he asked me to wait while he searched the Interpol indices for Werner Schmidt. When he came back to me a few minutes later he provided the answer I was hoping for. There was no trace of the German. But Brian wanted to talk.

It’s nice to hear from someone out there, especially on a Friday night. It used to be my favourite night out. Do you remember that time in the White Hart?

Did I. Brian had been in the large public house in Stoke Newington High Street, fighting drunk, and had taken on four hapless Irishmen who were not aware of his reputation. When the uniformed officers arrived, the pub was almost wrecked and they found the victorious DS standing over four comatose Paddies. Things being what they were in those days, the four Irishmen were charged with assaulting the DS, who had suffered quite a few bruises during the fracas.

I remembered his visit to my office the following morning. Although he was swathed in bandages and could barely see out of two swollen eyes, he now suffered from the drunk’s morning-after conscience.

He muttered, They should never have been charged, Guv, through broken lips, can you do anything?

I put my own job on the line and went to Court that morning to deal with the assault charge on DS Heath. The Irishmen were quite relieved when they heard my plea bargaining, a charge of being drunk and disorderly was substituted for the assault on the police officer and they were happy to plead guilty to that. I even paid their fines for them, somehow any money in their possession the evening before had been lost in the affray. We all met the repentant DS in a nearby pub and had some celebratory drinks afterwards. Heath paid for the drinks and I imposed another punishment on him, the special DI’s fine. Soon afterwards I arranged for his transfer to the desk job, even his promise to attend AA meetings was too late.

I cut short the exchange of pleasantries when I realised that another half-hour had elapsed and I didn’t want to be delayed from my assignation that evening. Harry Fuller looked disappointed when he finally left my office. My telephone started ringing again but I didn’t bother to answer it. DC Walker looked up as I came out of my office and glanced in the direction of the ringing telephone, but must have realised my intentions as I quickly checked through the most recent entries in the crime register. Burglaries, assaults, car thefts, all the usual disasters befalling the inhabitants of the poorest borough in the Country, and they could all wait for the night duty staff due to arrive at any minute.

As I made my way down the two flights of stairs to escape the chaos, I had to walk past the charge room situated at the rear of the station. The door was partly open and I could see a man standing in front of the charging table. PC Fuller was standing at the German’s side. Schmidt did indeed look like a successful businessman, but I noticed his broad shoulders and as he looked sideways caught a glimpse of a strong face and alert eyes. I had seen those before, some of the better class villains had similar eyes, with a sort of blank expression, yet full of malice. I called them blackcurrant eyes.

I hurried out of the station.

I held the carrier bag with its precious cargo of several hot curry dishes and the two bottles in front of me like some sort of protective shield as I waited for her to come to the door. It was always the same, even after all those years; the anticipatory hard-on was sticking out like a flagpole. My heart missed a couple of beats when she opened the door. She was wearing the tight fitting red dress and shiny, black, high-heeled shoes. Although she stiffened in my eager embrace, I sensed that another of our specials lay ahead.

The table was set for our bi-weekly meeting Friday night meeting with a large red candle lit at its centre. I sat back and watched as she opened the packets holding the spicy dishes and poured the first of our drinks for the evening. It used to be plain Martini, but our increasing tolerance over the years meant that we now needed a Vodka - Martini mixture to obtain the drink’s desired effect. She had painted her lips with the bright red lipstick and the eye shadow matched her blue eyes exactly. Her long black hair was out of its customary bun and flowed freely along either side of the still pretty face. Some lines were showing under the make-up, but then there had been quite a few traumas in her life of late, most of which were connected with the lecherous man sipping the cool Martini cocktail and watching her every move.

She had retained her slim figure and never needed to diet. Maybe her slimness stemmed from my inability to father a child. There was something wrong with my sperm and no specialist had yet found the answer. In desperation I had suggested adoption or a donor implant so that we could raise a family, but she had always declined, hoping instead that some miraculous cure could be found for my chronic condition. We both lost hope over the years.

The Taj Mahal take-away in Hornchurch yet again lived up to our expectations and we managed to empty most of those funny cartons full of Eastern promise. Several strong cocktails soothed the burning palate and then she put one of our favourite CDs on to the stereo.

I sensed that she wanted to talk and asked, How many houses have you sold this week?

She joined me on the settee and primly crossed those slim legs which I could see were encased in silky black stockings. Two and one possible. The housing market is really picking up again, we’re overrun with enquiries.

Since our separation she had started working for a local estate agent and I knew that she enjoyed the change from her previous dull job as a secretary in the City. I said, With all that commission, I’ll be able to cut down on the maintenance.

She smiled, You can afford it, Len, with your DI’s salary and all those little earners on the side.

It was always strange to hear her adopt my Cockney manner of speech, because she came from posh Chigwell and had been to a private school.

I sighed, Those little earners are few and far between now, we’ve got yet another commissioner who thinks that the job can be done by bible-punchers who don’t take the occasional little bribe and they’re cracking down again.

You’ll never change.

Are you complaining? I pointed around the opulently furnished lounge. We would never have had all this, or the holidays, or the cars, if it wasn’t for the crafty Cockney having an occasional win on the dogs.

You’d have been better off keeping your nose clean and you might have been a chief superintendent by now.

I shrugged. Who knows, I’m happy doing the job I’m doing.

She leaned against me and I could see that serious look in her eyes. She asked, Are you, darling?

Of course not, - the words just came out - not without you.

Then she was in my arms and I was kissing those soft lips. A darting tongue found its way into my mouth. The red dress had a line of buttons at the back of it and I started opening them with trembling fingers. I paused at the bra strap and started undoing it but she stopped me, whispering, There’s no need.

I could see why when she helped me to take off the top of the dress. The bra had holes in it allowing her nipples to protrude and the sight increased my already bursting excitement. I let my lips wander to the tiny earlobes, along the slim perfumed neck and down to the exposed nipples. Their hardness never ceased to amaze me and they became even harder as I used my lips and tongue on them. She started moaning and her hands were gripping my straining erection and fumbling with the trouser belt.

I had edged up what was left of the red dress over her thighs and was admiring her stocking tops and exposed flesh while trying to pull down the black, silky knickers, but she stopped me and again whispered, There’s no need.

As she opened her legs slightly I could see why. The skimpy knickers were crutchless and I could see traces of curly black hair as her legs opened further. I got in front of the settee on all fours, opened her legs and buried my head in her lap. She tasted delicious as usual and gripped my hair as I found the small clitoris and teased it with my tongue. She moaned and raised her legs at the knees to allow me complete access. In my awkward position I had trouble with my belt but didn’t stop what I was doing.

When I finally managed to slip out of my trousers and underpants, she was lying back on the settee with her hands behind her head and legs raised wide for me to enter. I somehow found the patience to delay pushing into her and only just inserted my bursting cock into the entrance of her extremely moist fanny.

She was going wild, pushing against me and shouting at me, Put your fucking cock in. Put your fucking cock in.

I did, and we immediately found our well-established rhythm. This would be our preliminary fuck of the evening and I knew that I could climax quickly, yet found my imagination wandering. Despite all my efforts, I imagined fucking one of the others. The thoughts wouldn’t go away. I was pushing into black Carol, the crackhead with the protruding arse and soft lips; I was fucking that new WDC, the one with the ridiculously tight fanny; I was behind Mrs Rosen, listening to her moaning as I slapped her fat buttocks; I couldn’t stop my thoughts despite making love to a woman who was more attractive and better than all the others.

Even Mary, Harry Fuller’s wife came into my crazed mind. We were struggling on the cramped rear seats of the Cortina, she couldn’t get the tights over her fat thighs as I fumbled with the unfamiliar condom. We couldn’t do it properly from the front because of her size, she couldn’t open her fat legs far enough. But I did manage it when she was on all fours in front of me. The memory drove me to climax.

Later, we began the second phase of our bi-weekly entertainment. Shirley put on the short plastic raincoat I had bought for her many years ago, as well as her thigh-length, shiny black boots, while I searched through our video collection. I selected the one of the stud with the enormous dick, it always got her going. But we needed more refreshments first and she mixed several more of the Martini cocktails before we were ready. The settee was placed in such a position that we could both watch the video being played, while leaving us free for the necessary manoeuvres.

This time I lay back with my hands behind my head, while she was on all fours in front of me with my cock in her mouth. My head was turned to one side to watch a red-haired woman with an uncanny resemblance to one of the top models slowly stroking the stud’s cock before taking the glistening head into her brightly painted mouth. She still had both hands on the shaft. Shirley stopped what she was doing and studied the scene on the screen while sipping from the handily placed Martini glass.

I took the opportunity to reach for my glass as well and mumbled, I wish I had one that size.

She smacked her lips, You’re not that far behind, and lowered her head, still keeping her eyes on the TV screen. She gently positioned me to one side and I watched as she gingerly dipped the red head of my cock into the Martini glass she was holding. It provided a deliciously cooling sensation, before she used her tongue to lick off the cocktail’s traces. Unfortunately my mind was wandering again.

Yet she was better than all the others, wasn’t she? I looked down to where she was licking the side of my dick while keeping an eye on the TV screen. She wasn’t better than Carol, the crackhead; at least not at doing what she was doing right now. I could almost see the black woman’s face and imagined those sensuous lips in place of Shirley’s. Suddenly I knew that I was about to climax and the timing was wrong. Shirley must have realised it as well because she stopped licking the head of my cock and let go of it.

She asked, What’s wrong with you tonight?

I muttered, I didn’t know you still kept in touch with Mary.

The plastic coat rustled as she sat up on the floor. She looked startled as she asked, Who?

You know - Mary. Harry Fuller’s wife.

I haven’t seen her for years. What are you going on about? She got up angrily and stalked to the table to refill her drink. She had her back to me and was bent over slightly, causing the short black Mac to rise and reveal a flash of white thighs above the long shiny boots.

I tried everything, even closing my eyes. The grunting noises from the television set didn’t help. I tightly grasped my hands behind my head and looked down in disgust at the cock with a mind of its own, as it ruined our evening and started bucking furiously.

CHAPTER 2

I tried to shake off the mounting depression as I edged my way through the heavy traffic approaching the large roundabout at the top of Lea Bridge Road. It was just another Monday morning, after a satisfactory weekend to recharge my batteries. My Friday night visit