Jenga Point

By Stewart Newton

Living and operating in Manchester, UK, Dino and David work the drug scene for the students of the city. Out of the blue an opportunity presents itself that could make them rich beyond their wildest dreams. Do they stick with what they know, or go with the biggest gamble of their dangerous lives? Davids relationship with Laura becomes complicated in more ways than anyone would ever imagine. Trust and loyalty are hard task masters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524631871

Stewart Newton

The author is a retired UK detective who spent forty years in law enforcement across four law enforcement authorities, including the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service. He received a number of commendations during his service. He was a professionally qualified crime and terrorism financial investigator and conducted investigations across the UK, Europe, and the USA. He is married, and he and his wife have six grown-up children between them. He has lectured in UK academic and police institutions.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

David Richmond is a white, British, 140lbs, twenty-one year old male. Wired with dirty blonde hair, juvenile stubble growth and blackened fingers, he looked the part he played – urban hoodlum. His clothes rarely varied from Lou Reed ‘T’ shirt, black skinny jeans and calf-length buckled boots, topped with a dirty three quarter length Hollister padded coat.

David could be a very dangerous enemy – lacking rationality, reason or a mental ‘stop’ button, his equally dangerous colleagues loathed him – in stark contrast to his student market, who worshipped him – particularly on Friday and Saturday nights.

Living alone in the desperate, derelict, grey high-rises that defined Manchester city centre, and every other major city in the UK prior to the advent of a Tony Blair Labour government and the rise of the student hoards. His favourite place was ‘homestead’ – a one bedroomed fourth floor apartment overlooking the M62 city interchange. In truth, there was a clear and persuasive argument that he was an occupant of every remaining floor, as the demolition of the building had totally destroyed large parts of the original structure.

Previously occupied by students attending Manchester University, Polytechnic, College of Music or Institute of Science and Technology, David had identified a largely cost-free solution to his permanent personal housing problem with the advent of the bulldozers and cranes; for this was now the arrival of total education; education for everyone, including a built-in student loan that wouldn’t be repaid until well into the next century. In David’s case he went with the new political ethos, but for very different reasons.

By day, David concentrated all his efforts in breaking and entering student land – one-bedroom apartments colonized by the arrival of the masses. As hard as the private company landlords tried, security was virtually non-existent. Many units were left insecure for large parts of the day; doors were left ajar, transom windows agape, shared keys, lost keys, and postage left in unattended boxes and behind doors. The architectural ethos of openness and light created further opportunities for the thief, accentuated by glass walls and shared balconies.

The re-invigoration of Manchester was something that had not happened since the Cotton Revolution of the 19th Century. The sporting success of the soccer and cricket teams sponsored by foreign investment had created a Manchester full of expectations and opportunities for its people – and a corresponding boom in organised and not so organised crime that was prevalent amongst students and young-professionals.

Cocaine in all its forms became fashionable. When it became fashionable it became cheaper because of increased availability. The introduction of student loans created a ready-made source to finance drug habits. Party-students became targets for rapacious criminals like David Richmond.

David was clever, dangerous and successful and the sole proprietor of an otherwise vacuous life. If there was a party, and there were plenty, David was ‘The Man’ for supplying just the right extras to make it happen: Cocaine, MDMA and Skunk Cannabis were favourites. David’s reputation grew, without becoming popular, because ‘popular’ was a dangerous concept when dealing with snotty-nosed kids away from Mummy and Daddy for the first time, armed with the latest smartphones.

David’s was a finite world, cloaked in unpredictability and danger. Local prisons were rammed with friends and acquaintances that had been caught as a result of professional casualness. Knowing that dealing in user amounts of cocaine over a protracted period of time would get him four years imprisonment was a huge deal at such a young age. The historical relationship between risk and reward weighed heavily in his calculations – it was the only way he would remain free!

It was a bright, sunny and warm summer morning. The noisy hum of the early commuter traffic slowly wormed its way like a giant caterpillar towards the bland, dusty grey office blocks two hundred feet below David’s abode. It had been a hot, sultry uncomfortable night in the David Richmond residence, however, as he mused over the panorama of the city skyline, sipping at his first Americano of the day from a filthy red flask, he ruminated on what had to be done. His body filled, simultaneously, with fear and excitement at the thought.

It didn’t matter that he stole from students, they weren’t his friends and certainly not of his ilk. Most of them were not from Manchester and had no heartfelt allegiance to the city – they followed Manchester United football club but had no concept of the history of the city, and how it was the sporting heart of the Industrial Revolution. In this way, David justified his practical hatred of his victims.

Coffee finished and David started getting ready for business. Nothing other than dark grey clothing would do and he was particularly careful about his footwear: simple, plain boots. Soles were crucial in David’s line of work because soles would get you caught. Well aware of police databases containing thousands of sole patterns acquired at the scenes of burglaries that had captured friends and acquaintances over the years. Similarly, with jacket motifs, facial and body adornments, tattoos and anything else that attracted attention, you didn’t do it. It was unprofessional. ‘Plain and fuckin’ boring’ was the only way.

As he finished getting dressed he collected a dirty grey and red shoulder bag looking the part the urban student; indistinguishable from his intended victims. David’s exit from his home caused a minor disturbance amongst the filthy, grey pigeons, that, from on high, watched his every movement. Moving quickly and assuredly across the matrix of angular steel girders, whilst a hundred feet below he remained un-noticed. As the pigeons re-settled they continued their incessant observation of the awakening city. Meanwhile, David was gone.

CHAPTER 2

The sun was strong as the city’s masses settled into their daily routines. Cigarette and newspaper kiosks greeting customers, stagnant traffic queues, mothers with small children – fathers without them. Despite the burgeoning sunlight, offices were lit with every light in every room, illuminating the boredom of a day just beginning. Outside, on the corners of each building, were men – men who couldn’t work, men who wouldn’t work, men begging, men sleeping: the universal detritus of city life.

David patiently hid by one of the heavily graffitied abandoned walkways that provided a clear, hidden view of his victims’ homes. The homes that provided for him, that sustained his feral life. He knew when they left and when they returned. He also knew whom they were likely to be with. As he made his move, David had a very clear mental plan of what was required, and he was now about to execute that plan!

One hour and thirty minutes later David returned from his morning business. As he climbed the last piece of scaffolding onto his balcony, he carefully placed his bag underneath some bricks in the corner of his virtual bedroom. It had been a very normal and successful morning. His innate understanding of student life had enabled him to take full advantage of 21st century student attitudes to personal security – insecure window locks, open transom windows and front doors on an open latch – perfect!

He was on a substantial high, and David knew that he had to take a substantial swig of cheap Aldi whisky to take the edge off the adrenalin rush and sleep. He needed to plan carefully in his head the things that would ensure his safety. He reached for the alarm clock and set it for 1.00pm. He fell asleep immediately.

Awakened by the tinny ring of the stolen alarm clock, David quickly double-checked the time on his watch. It was correct. The early morning azure sky lit by a yellow morning sun had now been replaced with a grey blanket of low cloud. The pigeons seemed more comfortable with this arrangement as they swooped across the open gardens and courtyards of the city.

David was annoyed- with himself! He had broken one of his own golden rules of theft by stealing a Webley 0.22 air rifle and ammunition. In the event of this ever being recovered by the police, they would be able to trace the true owner very quickly, and, was highly likely to have David’s fingerprints on it. In the meantime, it was the subject of some amusement to him as he ‘picked-off’ some of the pigeons lined up on the opposite roofs. It reminded him of the times he had spent with his parents on the local fairgrounds shooting plastic ducks and winning a toy gun.

As he got dressed he decided to shave – just because he could and also because he thought it gave him a different look from David the Burglar. It was a younger look that helped him to move anonymously about student land. However, the reflection in the half-broken mirror displayed a pathetic site. Feeling nauseous at the thought of his most recent criminality, David found difficulty in finding any kind of justification, reason or pride in what he had done or become. His eyes reddened and smarted at the shame that he felt, augmented by the terror of what his masters were capable of, especially in the face of weakness or fright – and David was frightened. He vomited violently in a bucket. Was this a sign of retribution and punishment for what he had done? The half-broken mirror provided no answers – it just watched and reflected.

As he strolled out into the suffocating urban summer heat in Manchester city centre, dressed in smart, casual, youthful jeans and T-shirt, carrying his precious load in a holdall – a different holdall – his fears and worries subsided - he had business to do.

He never quite got used to walking in the city centre after his forages: he always felt that people were looking at him – suspiciously. It was only a short walk to Minshull Street, where he would catch the bus to his destination. This would take about an hour and was a torturous journey, full of stops, traffic, kids, young mothers and old grandmothers.

As he turned into Minshull Street, his heart sank at the sight of lines of prams and mothers – obese young women surrounded by feral, screaming infants under the disdainful watch of rickety grandmothers trying not to watch the clueless actions of their off-spring. David held his bag tightly and pulled his cap down so that the brim rested on the frame of his very expensive, stolen sunglasses.

David sat in his usual ‘spec’ – on the bottom deck of the double decker bus and close to the rear, alongside the disabled and elderly. This provided him with a quick exit from the bus, and reduced the possibility of being recognised by other ‘faces’. His heart leaped at the sudden lurch of the bus as it started its journey.

Nearly an hour later, after leaving the city centre and a short sleep, his stop emerged. Nervously fiddling with the strap on his bag, he moved towards the exit and pressed the bell for the driver to stop. Fourth in the queue to get off, he was pushed aside by a group of local ‘chavs’ (council house and violent) trying to move up to the front of the queue of people wishing to get on the bus. David exited by the back door, moving quickly away.

Wythenshawe, in Manchester 22, was commonly referred to as the ‘original home of chavs’. Popular for its Cash Generator, a local shop for stolen property of all types that people were cajoled into buying cheaply with no questions asked. The market was the main kind of recreation that enticed people from their homes. Unemployment and crime went hand in hand and health was generally poor. Full of young mothers with small herds of children, the bus station was yet another focus for the local underclass. Multiple chemist and discount clothing shops completed the scenery. The main meal of the day was usually sausage roll and spaghetti served at a local bakery.

David was very wary of walking through the multi-storey car park, which provided a nice short cut to his destination. If he was late and feeling confident, he would take it; if he were loaded with stolen gear and money he wouldn’t. His destination was just around the corner.

As he walked up the road he noticed how much the area had changed in the relatively short time he’d been coming here. The former council houses now displayed new plastic windows: new driveways and new roofs. Silver Birch trees lined the tarmacked avenues. Gentrification was complete.

David walked quickly up the footpath to the house. Not daring to attract attention to himself, he walked directly down the side, through the fence gate and knocked on the side kitchen window. He hid behind the rubbish bins until he was answered. A familiar face checked the window; the noise of the bolt slid open and there was Dino stood on the doorstep. He had a quick look around and pushed David into the kitchen.

‘How you doing’ growled Dino in a thick Mancunian accent, ‘ Good trip?’

‘Yeh’, said David, watching him nervously. ‘But those fucking morons near the buses need proper sorting.’

Dino laughed loudly, which, in turn, made David laugh. Standing at six feet two inches, with lank, grey hair that fell over his shoulders, he looked like he could have played with Status Quo. His check shirt covered by a dirty brown waistcoat completed the image. He was forty years of age but looked ten years older. A bright red face and two days of slightly greying growth completed a fairly ugly sight.

Dino was married to Marie, and had been so for fifteen years. They had two children; a boy called Nick, 14 years of age and a girl, Donna, aged 10. Another man – a by-product of her mother’s adventure into prostitution had fathered Donna. She had retired from her nocturnal career now, or so she professed to Dino, and had a nice part-time job at a local cake shop near to the bus station, which allowed her to be in the bosom of her family when the children came home from school. Mysteriously though, she was impeccably dressed at all times!

Dino and David sat with two cold glasses of Red Stripe on the dirty, broken settee in the back room.

‘What you got?’ said Dino, just as he decided to close the curtains and lock the door.

‘Yeh, good’ said David nervously laughing. With that he emptied the contents of his bag onto the settee. Albeit that it was only a relatively small backpack, as the contents spilled out, Dino felt forced to shout out,

‘Fuck me, what have we got here? Looks like you’ve been busy!’

David laughed again.

‘Yeh, I couldn’t believe it myself, there was just stuff everywhere man. It was so fuckin’ easy’.

‘Any probs?’ Dino said as he settled.

‘No, no, none’. David replied, now feeling that he had permission to settle and enjoy his drink. Dino jumped up with David’s bag and went out the back door. As he reached a sheltered part of the back footpath he crouched, removing four loose house bricks from the rear wall, he reached inside and dragged out a plastic bag of mixed drugs, but predominantly cocaine. He took three large bags of the cocaine replacing them with David’s goodies. He returned quickly into the house and re-bolted the door. He threw the drugs and two rolls of money onto the settee next to David, before checking the front room window. All clear.

He sat next to David.

‘Listen! You got your money and the gear for the weekend. Make sure that you’re fuckin’ careful with that, its good stuff - no student accidents, know what I mean?’

‘Yeh, I know what you mean.’

‘Cos there’s a much, fuckin’ much bigger job, comin’ soon, know what I mean?’ A very serious Dino was now inches from his face.

‘Ok, what, what is it?’ Blurted David.

‘All I can say is make sure that you’ve got a passport and don’t get fuckin’ locked up. Is that understood? I mean it.’

‘OK, I won’t. Never been yet!’

‘Well don’t tempt fuckin’ fate.’

David knew that that was his cue to leave. He carefully put his newly acquired precious load into his bag together with the money in his trouser pocket. Window check again and David was gone. Dino had allocated him a new throwaway phone – only to be used for deliveries! He hid this in the top of his sock.

The return journey home was in many ways more dangerous than the outward one, albeit that it didn’t seem so to David. With the cover of school kids and office workers travelling home, he felt safer or was it just less vulnerable? There was a difference. His head full of the afternoon events, he carefully hid the drugs and some of the cash, the remainder of the cash was to be used as a treat for a good day’s work – TGI Friday!

CHAPTER 3

Once every month David usually had enough spare cash to have a proper Friday night blow out. Cultivating one or two of the city centre pubs where he knew that he would be relatively safe and usually populated by his faces: people he knew and who knew him but didn’t really know what he was about. They bought gear from him, as they did from a number of others in nearby hostelries, but The Phoenix on Altham Road was not a well-known boozer as such, free from any police activity – which was the most important thing.

This Friday, things would be a little different, something exciting, something that he had planned for: he was going out with a