Palm to Palm: Front Stack, #5

By Vincent Frost and V.M. Frost

London 2017 

With London's knife-enabled murder rate soaring, the officers of Borough Task Force-Uniform-X-Ray 646 are as hard pressed as ever. Jax, Dynamo, The Cat and the rest of the team, patrol the capital's hostile streets in search of gang members, drug dealers and violent robbers while wrestling with political correctness and ever-burgeoning bureaucracy.
Meanwhile, emboldened by the lack of evidence ranged against him, a serial sex attacker eludes the detectives on the top floor. With his confidence soaring, he ups his game...

• Language: English
• Publisher: V.M. Frost
• Release date: Nov 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201416157

Book preview

Palm to Palm

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V.M. Frost

Copyright © 2019 VM Frost

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incident portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination.

Table Of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Also by VM Frost

About the author

Note from the author

London

The players in order of appearance:

Prologue

Chapter One: Heartbreak Hotel

Chapter Two: Stranger Danger

Chapter Three: No Porridge

Chapter Four: A shitty business

Chapter Five: The Piano

Chapter Six: In search of an alchemist

Chapter Seven: Son of Blunt

Chapter Eight: The Famous Five

Chapter Nine: A visit from the old and bold

Chapter Ten: Every little helps

Chapter Eleven: Worth a Try

Chapter Twelve: Bad Vibrations

Three weeks later...

Chapter Thirteen: Hail in July

9th of April – 22nd of July 2017

Chapter Fourteen: Local Knowledge

Epilogue

Last word

Appendix

Excerpt: Mowing It When I Like

Praise for Front Stack

Dedication

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This book is dedicated to those men and women of Britain’s armed forces that served during Operation Banner from 1969 until 2007.

Many lost their lives; some were disfigured, and a great deal wrestle daily with the demons of PTSD. In the end, the terrorists were pardoned and even made heads of government. On the run terrorists were guaranteed immunity should they return home and murderous crimes went unpunished.

Today, almost half a century after troops were first deployed to keep warring factions apart, the government seeks to prosecute them for making split decisions in the course of carrying out their very difficult duties. While those old soldiers await their summons to court, the cowards that they fought against, walk the streets scot-free.

There is no real peace in Northern Ireland today. Punishment beatings continue, racketeering flourishes and the next generation of terrorists plan atrocities and maintain arms dumps containing weapons that the British government was assured had been put out of use as part of the Good Friday agreement.

Ladies and gentlemen of the Op Banner generation – I salute you.

Acknowledgements

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While Palm to Palm is a work of fiction, I would like to thank all of those real life characters that have been the unwitting inspiration for the creation of their fictional counterparts. My particular thanks must go to: Steve M, Andrew B, Mark W, Andrew H, Mark WJ, Chris D, William K, Corinne L and Neil A.

A big thanks goes out to Chris A, Alan M and Loren J for their invaluable help, advice and continuing friendship. Although it has only been just over five years since my retirement - despite having retained procedural booklets and flash cards - more and more elements of police procedure have begun to fade into the mists of time. Thankfully I can still rely upon very experienced officers that are still serving and that from time to time, are able to help prod my memory!

Also by VM Frost

By Conscience Bound

The Boy In Wellington Boots

Despatched

Mowing It When I Like

Dismissed With Thanks

Front Stack

Double Locked

Back to Back

Rear Stack

Just Add Alcohol

Farewell To Boots

Entebbe – Marshalling The Crowd

A Handful Of Frost

A Bird In My Drain

About the author

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VM (Jack) Frost was born in Stamford, Lincolnshire. Moving with his Air Force parents to the Mediterranean island of Malta in the 1960’s, he remained there until 1976, when he returned to the UK to complete his education. Leaving school with negligible qualifications, he joined the British army where, after completing several operational tours, he left as a senior non-commissioned officer. Since then, he has undertaken such diverse work as: grill chef, baker, mechanic, and builder. After a period working as a residential social worker with troubled adolescents, he became a police officer; firstly with Thames Valley Police, and then later the Metropolitan Police, where for the remainder of his 15 years service, he served on the front line carrying out both investigatory work and public order duties, including the quelling of the 2011 Tottenham riots. No longer in uniform, he currently lives in Malta.

Palm to Palm is his twelfth book.

Note from the author

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Fans of the Front Stack series may have noticed versions of previous events, which I have adapted to give some background to both characters and history. I hope that those eagle-eyed readers will forgive such inclusions, and that new readers of the series will find these flashbacks useful in understanding the continuation of my story.

Owing to the rigid design, speed cuffs can be applied in one of four different positions, which also apply to hinged handcuffs but not chain linked. In British police training, these positions are termed 'front stack,' 'palm to palm,' 'rear stack,' and 'back to back.' Many forces teach two positions to their officers, but some teach all four. The 'stacked' positions are those where, once applied (assuming a standing prisoner) the handcuffs are vertical and the wrists pass through the cuffs in opposite directions, resulting in one hand on each side of the handcuffs.

Borough

Noun /ˈbʌr.ə/ /ˈbɝː.oʊ/

A town, or a division of a large town.

Task Force

Noun [usually singular]

A group of people who are brought together to do a particular job, or a large military group who have a military aim to achieve.

London

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London is my city

but I must confess, it feels shitty

In Wembley I tread, through pools of red spit

ejected by Asian youths chewing paan while idly they sit

In Harlesden and Hounslow when to these places I go

the Somalis chew qat picked up from Heathrow

their cheeks bulging madly with the paste from that stuff

it's also spat out, when they've had quite enough

Every day in the city brings protests from all

splinter groups marching, up and down Whitehall

Don't dare show my phone on my way home after dark

some robber will snatch it, not just for a lark

In Camden there's punks, there's goths and all you need

when I get off the tube I'm offered some weed

At stadiums the Met pay a fortune in wages

to make sure the cops keep the fans in their cages

The underground trains announce forthcoming sales

while grey mice scurry fast along the electric rails

Nations embassies are protected by costly steel ring

after only something, the Arab spring could bring

Soho is plagued by three-wheeled rickshaws

and in Trafalgar Square, the tourists clamber past the bronze lions' claws

Souvenirs made in China are spread out on the street

and the crawling car drivers are feeling the heat

London oh London, you don't feel too good

to love you and leave you I wish that I could

but here on your streets, I really must stay

I have a wife and two kids and my bills to pay

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VM Frost

Marsaskala, Malta 2019

The players in order of appearance:

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Geraldine Evans

PC Vinny Jax Jackson

PC Craig Dynamo Johnson

PC Billy Kenyan Cowboy Kimathu

DC Natalie Black

Sergeant Ian Jarvis

PC Adrian The Cat Black

PC Nicole Dufort

PC Ian Sedgwick

Inspector John The Man Williams

Laura Middleton

Ricky Parfitt

Hannah Stein

PC Gary Norris

PC Ansu Banerjee

Lee Alders

PC Simon Lurch Coverdale

Chloe Andrews

PROLOGUE

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‘Geraldine!’

The girl to whom the name belonged, rolled her eyes in annoyance and turned to face the origin of the shrieking. The shrill voice belonged to her mother, and the person that had given her that awful name in the first place. To have inherited the plain surname of Evans had been bad enough, but to have been named after her cranky old spinster of an aunt, was something that had bothered her since she’d been old enough to respond to it.

Some of her friends, when wanting a bit of sport, called her Gerald, but otherwise, she’d insist on being either Gerry, or just plain G. Her mother, now yoo-hooing and waving from the other side of the room, had never referred to her daughter as anything but her full name and tonight, of all nights; with her daughter’s new home full of her friends enjoying her housewarming party, was no exception. Why did the woman insist on embarrassing her!

Squeezing past her guests and trying to ignore their smirks, Gerry finally reached her mother, who tipsy after only two glasses of champagne, hugged her. Pulling away from her embrace and the smell of alcohol on her breath, she repeated her futile request that her mother refrain from embarrassing her in front of her friends.

‘Don’t be silly darling,’ she snorted. ‘Just wanted to say that I’m leaving you pretty young things to it. His Lordship will be wondering where his supper is.’

Gerry inwardly sighed her relief and pulling at the layers of coats on the pegs, she retrieved her mother’s fur coat and held it open for her to shrug into.

‘Now darling, have fun, and don’t stay up all night. Oh, and don’t annoy your new neighbours. Oh, and darling,’ she added, pointing at the front door, ‘don’t leave the door on the latch.’

‘I will mummy, and no I won’t. Drive safely and text me when you get home.’

‘Toodle pip darling. Your father and I will pop round tomorrow to help you pick your new carpets.’

Biting back a sarcastic great! Gerry shepherded her mother towards the front door before she could embarrass her further, submitted to a final hug and with more than a little relief, closed the door and returned to her party.

Actually, the reasons for the celebrations had been twofold. Not only had it been her twenty-first birthday, but she’d also thrown the party to mark moving out from under the shadow of her parents and into her new apartment, bought for her by her father as a twenty-first birthday present.

Before rejoining her friends in the front room, she wiggled her hips and pulled at the silk hem of her little black party dress and allowed herself a quick look in the full-length mirror in the hallway. She had to admit, that she was satisfied with what she saw. Gerry Evans could best be described as attractive rather than naturally pretty, but her parent’s generous allowance ensured that her sleek long hair was regularly dyed a natural looking blonde, her nails kept immaculate and her long legs, tanned by three exotic holidays a year, were slender and toned. The latter, were thanks to the diligence of the personal trainer she retained at her local gym.

Pouring herself a generous new measure of Red Bull and Vodka, Geraldine picked up a spoon and clinked it against the side of her glass. The chatter ceased and the partygoers looked expectantly in her direction.

‘Guys!’ she shouted, ‘Mrs. E has left the building!’

To the sound of cheers, she made her way through the throng and cranked up the music. Noticing two of her male friends out on the terrace, and immediately knowing full well what they were up to out there, she slid open the huge floor to ceiling glass doors and went outside to share their spliff.

Ten minutes later, with her legs feeling numb from the effects of the skunk she’d sucked into her lungs, she began to giggle uncontrollably. By then, one of the two lads, sensing he’d not stood much of a chance with little posh knickers, left his friend to try his luck, but bored with her silly giggling, he also gave up and went back inside in search of a less annoying prospect of a fuck.

Alone on the terrace, Gerry, still giggling to herself, wobbled over to the rail and looked out over Spentford Lock. The apartment, gifted to her by her father, was in one of several blocks that at one time, had been council housing. The vast majority of the Lock’s previous council tenants, seeing the price of their apartments rocket in price, had taken advantage of Margaret Thatcher’s buy to let policy and pocketing a fair old amount of cash, had sold up and moved out. Gerry’s apartment, on the top floor, had been sold on a couple of times in the last decade and its original council tenants would have struggled to recognise the place in its current steel and glass minimalistic design.

Spentford Lock, a stone’s throw away from the main line railway station and within short commuting distance to the city, had, almost overnight, become an oasis of gentrification amidst the rest of the town, which could have in no way been referred to as gentrified. Spentford’s only much quoted and weary claim to fame was that the town’s football club had a pub on each corner of its ground.

Squinting to try to focus through the weed induced mist, and feeling a little sick, Gerry prised herself from the railing and tottered back inside, where the first of the revellers, having run out of their favourite drinks, were getting ready to leave.

Feebly and insincerely protesting - although secretly suddenly wanting to be alone and curled up in the foetal position to try and stop the room spinning - Gerry went into the bathroom to sluice cold water over her face in an attempt to revive herself. Then half-heartedly readjusting her makeup, she went back into the front room to see the first of her guests off.

She couldn’t remember nodding off in the plush, comfortable armchair, but the last of Gerry’s party guests, chastised by the neighbours from the apartment below for playing loud music, bored and out of anything decent to drink, were preparing to go in search of somewhere else to carry on partying. The last to leave, her best friend Carly from school, shook her gently, asked if she was ok and receiving a nod and a groan, turned off Gerry’s ipod, switched off the lights and let herself out. Much to the relief of Gerry’s new neighbours, the apartment was now both silent and in darkness.

Taking the lift down to the ground floor, Carly pushed open the frosted glass entrance door, boldly embossed in oversized letters that spelled, Kingfisher House. She didn’t pay attention to the fact that the door wasn’t locked, neither did she notice the decorative pebble, taken from the front of the building, that placed between the door and its frame, had prevented the door from closing properly when the rest of the party goers had departed.

The person that had placed that pebble to stop the front door to Kingfisher House from locking, was now in the building and silently padding up the stairs towards the top floor, where inside the now silent apartment newly taken over by the Evans family, Gerry Evans was still curled up and gently snoring into the cushions of in her new armchair. The intruder knew exactly which apartment he was climbing the stairs to; in fact, he’d not only been inside and met Gerry on a previous occasion, but he’d also known about her housewarming party. He also knew that she was alone, he knew because he’d watched the lights go out just before Carly had left her comatose friend to bed down on her armchair for what remained of the night.

Had she not fallen asleep and let Carly out of her apartment, Gerry might have heeded her mother’s advice and dropped the catch on the front door’s lock. The intruder, now inside her apartment, hadn’t needed to unfold his Southord jack knife containing a lock pick set; he’d simply tried the handle, pushed open the door and crept inside.

Gerry Evans awoke with a start to find a hooded figure standing over her with one black-gloved hand firmly clamped over her mouth and the other showing a single finger held to hidden lips, unmistakably demanding her silence.

In the first split second of waking, Gerry thought that she had been dreaming, but was cruelly robbed of that notion, when the finger became a full hand and tightly encircled her throat.

‘Please,’ she gasped, from beneath the hand still over her mouth, ‘don’t hurt me! If it’s money you want, I’ll give you everything I have!’

Removing his grip from around her throat, the intruder struck her hard and fast across her face before placing his finger back to his lips and pushing her back into her new armchair. Why wouldn’t he speak! For God’s sake, she thought, say something!

Lying helplessly on her back, she watched in horror as her attacker pulled an oversized handkerchief from out of his pocket and balled it before forcibly shoving it into her mouth. Next, he took a cable tie from another pocket and rolling her onto her stomach, he wrenched her arms behind her back, and to the zipping sound of tiny plastic teeth ratcheting past one other, secured her thumbs together, completely immobilising her hands.

When he turned her back over, Gerry was horrified to see that the man was gripping a scalpel. She tried to scream, but the handkerchief rammed deep into her mouth was almost choking her and the only sound she managed to generate was a sodden moan. Back mascara tears streamed down her face and she wriggled and tried to slide off her chair. Her efforts were rewarded with another stinging slap and resigned to whatever fate the hooded man had in mind for her, she lay still.

Grabbing the plunging neckline of her little black party dress, the intruder slipped the scalpel inside. Recoiling, she briefly felt cold steel against her breasts as surgical steel probed under the silk, and then with a sighing sound, the blade cut through her dress from top to bottom. Now resembling a split open bean pod, she watched as the front of her bra also succumbed to the razor sharp blade, leaving both cups swinging uselessly below her breasts. Only her panties protected what little modesty she had left.

It was with massive relief that she saw the intruder put away his scalpel, but sure he was about to rape her, she couldn’t understand why he’d not taken her knickers off. Instead, the man was now pulling at the Velcro that held the front of his boiler suit together and taking out his extremely erect penis: which to her amazement, was covered by a condom.

Pulling away the slashed remnants of her bra, and tugging the torn dress over her shoulders, he fully exposed her breasts.

They were firm, and even with the girl lying down, they stood proud with pale pink nipples perched on their upturned crests. Just as he’d known they would be, those tits were perfect, and transfixed he began to stroke his penis, gently at first, then harder and with more urgency.

Gerry Evans turned her head away and tried to avoid looking at the hooded man standing over her, masturbating. She could see that apart from the hood covering most of his face, the man’s features, apart from cruel, staring eyes, were completely hidden by a balaclava. Not the stereotypical black woollen variety from a bank robbery film, that had small holes for the eyes, but another kind, bluish in colour, with a kind of gap, that left the man’s eyes and bridge of his nose exposed. It reminded her of the ski masks some of her male friends wore on the slopes.

Uttering the first sound since he’d entered her apartment, the man grunted his annoyance and grabbing a handful of her hair, he forced her head around so that she could watch him masturbating over her.

She watched his body stiffen before, arching his back, his backside thrusting, he groaned and ejaculated into the latex covering his penis. Her eyes wide, Gerry watched the teat at the end of the condom filling with his milky white semen. And then it was over. Pulling his rapidly softening cock back inside his boiler suit, he did it back up and rolled her back onto her belly.

Flinchingly awaiting whatever was next in store for her, she listened breathlessly as his shoes, making a clicking sound as they stuck to the beer that had been spilled on her laminate floor, receded slightly. But she knew he wasn’t leaving. The bastard was now in her bedroom and she could hear him rummaging around in there. A short while later, she heard his footsteps again and braced herself, but rather than sound closer, the sound of his footfall began to recede again. The next sound she heard was that of her front door closing. Utter relief flooded through her body. Her ordeal, just hours after turning twenty-one, was over.

After what seemed like an age, and after biting her tongue several times, she managed to work the soggy handkerchief from her mouth and to struggle upright.

By the time she managed to alert her sleep-drugged neighbours with her screams for help, the intruder was long gone and the pebble tossed back with the rest of the rocks adorning the pathway leading to Kingfisher House.

Chapter One

Heartbreak Hotel

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Police Constable Vinny Jax Jackson opened one bloodshot eye and reached out for the cardboard box that served as his bedside table. His scrabbling fingers located his phone and he hit the home button. Blinded by the sudden intrusion of light in his darkened room, he squinted painfully at the screen to see what the time was.

As was often the case, his body clock; used to early mornings, had dragged him into the land of the living just five minutes before the phone’s annoying alarm had gone off.