Great, Great Yarmouth Tales: Collection One

By V.R. Bennett

V.R.Bennett was born in an air raid shelter in the London blitz his birth cries drowned by the screaming doodle bugs as they rained from the sky. Part of a family of thirteen on a social housing estate in North London money was stretched food was scarce and personal space only existed in the toilet until the banging on the door by one or more of his siblings snatched even those precious moments shattering his daydreams into reality. The London gang wars the student and race riots became the backdrop for many of the stories and bizarre characters that drifted onto and out of his as his experience's were collected like pollen on a bumble bee legs and stored in his memories. It is this journey he laces into the stories as he writes with the ever present cockney humour that help him cope with adversity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496999443

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© 2015 V.R. Bennett. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/23/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9943-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9944-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

When the Brownie Got Cross

The Drive by Killings

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Epilogue

The Murder Months

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Epilogue

With thanks to Keiron Tovell [photographer]

And Great Yarmouth Tourism for permission to

Use cover photo

When the Brownie Got Cross

‘As you sow, so shall you reap’ said the bible, in other words ‘you get out of life what you put in’ DS Bert Ventrice, known to the rest of Great Yarmouth police station as ‘Eggy’ because of his liking for constantly eating, and smelling of, the hard boiled eggs he brought in everyday for his lunch, was a prime example of this statement. There was a time 10 years and 5 stone ago, when Eggy would go out to lunch with his wife. But that was over 8 years ago before she died after a long drawn out fight with cancer. For two years DS Ventrice was nurse and carer 24/7, waiting on, washing, feeding and watching his wife slip closer to death. He did have a career, before she got ill. He was in the local and national news for

Facing down a knife wielding, drug filled, bank robber in Nat West Bank, behind his station, in Market Square Great Yarmouth.

He was just going to pay in his wife’s £2 coin collection into their joint account and there ‘he’ was, standing in the middle of the bank, waving a large hunting knife, with terrorised customers and staff cowering at the back. He was screaming for money or he would stab everyone. His eyes were glazed over with large black pupils showing whatever he had taken he had overdosed on. At first Eggy just froze whilst his mind ‘took in’ the situation. He was the only one in front of the armed robber, he had gone two steps too far, and was too close to turn back without the druggy attacking him with the knife, as he was the nearest one to him. He was a police officer and would be expected to do something, the question was what.

The £300 in £2 coins was bagged and counted, twice, by ‘her indoors’, and swung by his side in a yellow cloth bank bag.

Sometimes the best action is spontaneous, thinking sometimes acts to stop you acting.

You want money son, take this he swung the heavy bag in an arc and released it towards the robber. The robber caught the bag. When it was in the air Eggy took a step forward, when the drugged knife man caught the bag Eggy kicked him, as hard as he could, under the kneecap.

It seem to the cowering audience that the money bag was red hot, as the kick and bag catch were at exactly the same time so when he caught the bag he screamed. He tried to reach the pain by lifting his leg; he tried to reach down at the same time. The combination of heavy coins, standing on one leg and the drugs, affected his balance and he fell like a tree in the forest. As he fell his Knife skated across the floor. Eggy, producing a set of hand cuffs rolled him over and snapped them on. For a brief moment there was silence and then someone started to clap.

What makes a good news story is hero versus villain, on film, that can be played, and replayed, on the news programs. The bank released the CCTV footage to the media. Eggy got £1000 from the banks insurance as a reward, and an appearance on Alan Titchmarsh, for a few weeks was flavour of the month. If it was the tipping point in his promotion to sergeant, he did not know, the police said no, but most coppers thought it probably was. Then his wife got ill and the downward spiral of DS Albert Ventrice from hero to arsehole began. At first the changes were subtle, an un-ironed shirt shoes not cleaned, a change in his attitude towards his colleagues, allowances were made. When his wife did die, he turned off the machine at The James Paget Hospital himself, he sold the house on the seafront and bought a run- down fisherman’s cottage with half the money. The rest, he figured, would keep him in Eggs and fishing bait for the rest of his natural. The diet he adopted, because he did not give a toss, was high cholesterol, high fat and high salt. His GP had told him he was shortening his life span but he knew that, and continued smoking twenty a day in defiance. It was not that he wanted to die; Woody Allen said he is not scared of dying he just did not want to be there when it happened. Eggy felt much like this he did not care about living forever but he did not want to die in public or in a way that would bring attention. His perfect death would be, like most people, to ‘slip away ‘in his sleep.

Monday morning saw him roll out of bed onto the floor. He never made the bed; years of having it made with folded corners smelling of ‘Fabreez’ complete with half a dozen cushions, largest to smallest, every single day, had taken its toll. The curtains were not closed, the bungalows only bedroom looked out on the beach, if any peeping tom wanted to climb over the sand dunes to catch a glimpse of his stained underwear then they should feel free to do so. He went to the toilet, smelt his pants to see if they needed changing, a slight smell of cat shit and fish, they would do for a few days more. A large tea stain on his vest would show through his shirt so he turned his vest round and put on yesterday’s nearly white shirt. Whilst breakfast toast filled the kitchen with smoke he put on his 4 eggs to boil. The 2 dozen eggs he ate were good eggs, he bought them from a small caravan selling them fresh and ‘free range’ from the car park at B & Q. Years ago he attended a burglary at a battery hen farm, the sight of those bald blind creatures in cages so small they could not stand or turn, being fed with tubes, turned his stomach. His suit was dark blue polyester that could be put in the washing machine and one day he may do just that. His car sat on the sandy drive, not locked, it was a very old Ford Focus that got through the M O T, and its smoky life, by, just about, keeping one breakdown from the scrap yard. He would drive this ‘waste paper basket’ on wheels to Great Yarmouth. Then his Eggs were put in a container and slid in an outside pocket of the shiny blue suit. The warmth of the eggs, keeping the chill of the sea air, would be the only source of heat in the drive to work as the cars heater life expired not long after his wife’s. His job would be paperwork, usually the filing room, they did it to get him out of the way, and help keep the office fresh. Not that he minded, or cared, as he got the opportunity to sit down for hours and read fishing magazines. With less than a year to go until retirement they were just ‘marking time’ until he could be wished all the best, in a show of complete insincerity, and replace him with a useful member of the team. The baseball cap stuck on the mass of unkempt dirty blonde hair said Arsenal; he did not support them, his boss was a Spurs supporter so he wore it to piss him off. Subtle Eggy payback he called it.

His boss was DCS Mc. Kay, ex paratrooper and fitness fanatic who lived his life by the rules. His shaved head was a desperate attempt to remember his army days, the camaraderie, the power, and solving problems by bomb and bullet. Now it was paperwork then paperwork about paperwork and long sleepy meeting about if the job contained too much paperwork, the outcome being some poor sod being allocated to do a long paperwork report on how to cut down on time spent in the office and free up officers for the front line. But his front line now was the scum of Yarmouth’s underclass, not the heat of the Afghan desert and the smell of gun oil. His only escape was to run, he loved to run. He was the exact opposite of his nemesis DS ‘Eggy’ Ventrice. He was jogging now on his way to work and worrying about the visit of the Assistant chief of police Norfolk who was coming to see him this afternoon for a progress report. The station had crime clearance targets that had fallen behind recently. A large influx of eastern European immigrants had flocked to Yarmouth in the last few years causing racial tension between the local ‘unwashed’ who objected to them coming over here and taking their jobs, even though 80% of the estates that caused the problems did not nor, in most cases, had ever, worked, they still wanted to point out that they should be first in the queue for anything free that was going because they were English. Dr Johnsons words that ‘patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel’ never was more true than in the streets and alleyways of this tired seaside town. The sun warmed the side of his face as he jogged along the sea front towards the golden mile. He loved to run he did not like the Assistant Chief Of Police Chris Barrington-Smyth, women, he felt, though never dare say it out loud, should be on the bed or behind an Ironing board. She was the worst kind, bossy, direct and masculine; her nick name was man-dog as she carried characteristics of both. The fact that there had not been a murder or major crime for 2 months would not impress man-dog she would simply turn that fact on its head and say ‘it is not that no major crime has taken place, it is that no major crime has been detected’, flash bitch. He did not like her but he hated Eggy.

Assistant Commissioner Chris Barrington-Smyth watched from her chauffeured limo as it slid through the Norwich streets on the 45 minute drive to Great Yarmouth. She was what Eggy, and, to be fair, most men would call ‘a piece of work’. She came across as a man hater but in fact she did not hate men more than women she did not like either. What she liked was her job which she carried out with such passionate dedication most of her peers and those who worked for her looked like ‘slackers’ in comparison. What she did not like was dirt. The car was wiped out before she got in. The cars leather seats cleaned with disinfectant wipes. She insisted her car had leather seats and the driver was a woman on grounds they carried less germs than the cloth or male alternative. She carried these same anti septic wipes everywhere. She picked up her office phone with a tissue; she only answered her own phone, if another phone wanted her then a member of her staff would be directed to answer it. She had O C D [Obsessive Compulsive Disorder] big time, she never ever shook hands. As her limo pulled on to the A45 DS Bert [Eggy] Ventrice, in his mobile rubbish bin, was going through the village of Caister-On- Sea with a postman waving him down.

Have you got a phone mate, my batteries dead and I need to call the Police, I think the lady in this house has been murdered The house he referred was a large detached house off the main road with a large ‘brick weave’ drive.

I am the police, where is this woman? Bert asked

laying in the hallway mate, when I went to put the letters in the letter box the door swung open and she is laying there with her throat cut, He looked at the state of Eggy with a frown and said Are you sure you are the police?

Eggy showed his warrant card What’s your name postie?

Shouldn’t you go and have a look? he was getting agitated

First thing first, I won’t post letters and you don’t tell me how to do my job. Now, I repeat what’s your name?

Gary, Gary Bennett The urgency had gone from the post man’s eyes and he was going into shock.

Bert wrote in his crumpled note book, and asked Have you touched the victim or entered the premises?

No, look, how long you going to be? he snapped I need to get on the ‘postie’ was ashen white, I feel sick he mumbled.

The policeman took no notice, he had the info he needed and was on his phone calling the rapid response team, as he looked up the hallway at the crumpled body, lying in a large pool of dark red blood. He also called the Post office emergency line and told them to send a relief postman as the one on this ‘walk’ [the name the postman called a round] was a police witness. Gary had now been sick over the neighbour’s hedge and was sitting down with his back to the garden wall. He told the postman that he would be needed and his office was sending his relief.

The phone on DCI Mc. Kay’s desk was ringing loudly when he came out of his en-suit shower, wrapped in an army issue towel.

DCI McKay, where? When? Okay, tell them to put the postie ‘on ice’ until I get there

Around 20% of murders are carried out by the person who finds the body, in the same way as the murder scene needs to be preserved from outside DNA contamination, so that any DNA found on the scene, that did not belong to the victim, would be the killers, the mind of the person finding the body needed to be preserved until the a professional examiner could record and investigate, to see if they were going to make everyone’s life easy and become one of the 20% of murders who claimed to have discovered the body. The first words he had said to Eggy were already recorded in the crumpled pad. A knock on the DCI’s door as he reached for his trousers stopped his train of thought. The desk Sergeant came in with a cup of strong black coffee;

Morning chief, a message from AC Barrington –Smyth gives her ETA at about 20 minutes depending on the congestion on the Acle straight.

Shit, shit, shit, good morning sergeant, that’s all I need AC Barrington- Smyth up my arse when a murder is called in, tell the investigating officer to wait for us both before proceeding the investigating officer usually was the first man on the scene. The desk Sergeant was a 20 year professional; he did not mention that the investigating officer was Eggy Ventrice as he had work to do and it was not his job to lend a sympathetic ear to CID whilst they had a tantrum, he had his own cup of coffee waiting.

Will do chief, I will show the AC in when she arrives

The Acle straight was the only direct road from the west to Great Yarmouth, they had threatened to turn it into a duel carriage way for over 30 years but the 5 mile long single carriage road, that ran through the mists over the flat marshlands, did not concern those that sat in parliament enough, nor did the wants and needs of the people of Great Yarmouth, for the situation to change. The road this morning must have been free of broken down Lorries as the AC’s limo slid into the car park of the police station 15 minutes later.

She got out and looked to the sky, it was grey, the whole town was grey, according to the AC’s opinion so was the whole of ‘carrot crunching’ Norfolk. Not that she particularly disliked the people of Norfolk she just did not like germ breathing people in general. Her uniform had been fresh from the dry cleaners this morning, she had bathed in salted water and was wearing black leather gloves to ensure that the pollution of Great Yarmouth, stayed in great Yarmouth, they would not be removed until she was back in her disinfected office in the Norwich Police HQ. She had heard about the murder on her police radio in the car, she only listened to the police wave bands when travelling, music, she often said, was the waste of important time. She would accompany, ‘Rambo’ as she privately called DCI McKay, to the murder scene, not that she gave a shit about the murder or its detection of the killer, but she was concerned about TV and in less than an hour the local and perhaps the national, news vans cameras would be ‘rolling’ from the front of the police tape. They would expect the senior officer to give them an update, this would get that person recognition, and such perks would be hers to scoop from under the nose of Rambo. She would say that all police officers are concerned about crime and just because she was Assistant Chief Constable she was first and foremost a police officer, and one that she did not mind getting her hands dirty. Which if she ever did she would probably go into anaphylactic shock, requiring the blue lights, not of the police, but the ambulance service. DCI McKay knew all this and the smile on his face, as he nodded to her when she ‘swept’ into his office, was not reflected in his eyes.

As the car left to take the both of them the short drive to Caister she began her annoyance of her junior officer. She knew about his relationship with DS Bert Ventrice, she made it her business to know everything about everyone, in the police force, as it was in all places of work, information was power.

Bit of luck having one of your CID boys first on the scene like that George she served the first ball across the net.

Shit, he thought he was in such a rush he forgot to find out who called it in and became the investigating officer.

Yes he replied stalling for time One of my best officers

He did not say men as it might have been one of the three female CID officers working out of his station.

Yes he had his down time this may be an opportunity for him to get back on track

She returned his first serve.

Who the fuck is she talking about, his mind flicked through a mental ‘rolodex’ trying to connect what she had said to a particular officer.

Good call on your part to make the most of your man power and leave him on the case

We all need a leg up from time to time ma’am he said this automatically from the front of his mind as the back of it raced on trying to find the missing name. He knew she was taking the piss; it was the one thing she was good at, and always did every time they met. She loved to make him feel uncomfortable. He in turn would love to see her wriggling on the desert floor in front of his rifle begging for her life.

Yes it is a wise leader that puts aside personal prejudices and sees the big picture for the benefit of the whole of his officers, and not just a select favoured few

Who the fuck… she was serving for the match here and he was beginning to sweat.

She served the final ball with perfect timing as the car rolled over the hill to reveal that officer standing outside the murder scene, among the flashing blue lights with