Payback

By A. W. Lambert

While investigating what appears to be a series of tit for tat racial attacks in the back streets of Norwich, Theo Stern is asked to help in the search for gangster, Benny Lyle, said to have been kidnapped from his London home.

But there is something cynically methodical about the Norwich attacks and Lyle is recently reported to have been seen in Norfolk's tiny Georgian town of Holt. So are the Norwich attacks simply retaliatory and has Lyle really been abducted? Stern has his doubts about both and when his investigations reveal that the two cases are inextricably linked in the most macabre way, his belief in the rule of law is tested to the extreme.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597054454

Book preview

One

Late summer 2007

The early hours, a back street in Norwich City, Norfolk

Hands buried deep in his pockets, his fingers lovingly caressing the flick knife, the hooded figure swaggered confidently down the street. He felt good, very good. He’d had a few jars, it was true, and with the flick knife doing its job, he had also pulled a couple of free snorts. Among his troop his standing had never been higher; nobody questioned or fronted him. They wouldn’t dare. Even the opposition were cautious. ‘Course there would always be the idiot who’d chance his arm. He smiled to himself in the darkness. Like the one who had tried it on tonight. Piece of cake though. He didn’t even have to lift his blade. A good kicking had done the job. Afterwards he’d seen the excited sparkle in that brunette’s eyes; the one he’d been watching for a couple of weeks. Fancied her, he did, and tonight he was sure he had hit the spot. He’d give her a try next time he saw her. Had to be on a winner there. Yeah, all in all it had been a good Saturday night. Very good. As he passed under the only lamp in the short, narrow street, he looked down at the watch; the heavy, expensive piece he’d taken from the old git he’d turned over the night before. It showed exactly fifteen minutes past midnight.

Maybe, though, if he’d known what was waiting only a yard or two from him, the hooded figure wouldn’t have felt so pleased with himself. Maybe the swagger wouldn’t have been so confident and just maybe he wouldn’t have felt this particular Saturday night had been so good after all.

THE DOORWAY WAS DEEP, deep enough to shroud an individual in complete darkness, which is exactly what it was doing at this moment. This figure was also hooded. Only the eyes were visible, flicking from left to right, one second watching the strutting form approaching, the next checking, ensuring that the rest of the narrow street was empty.

In the dark depth of the hood, this individual also smiled. Once again things were going to plan. And why not? He was good at the three R’s. Always had been.

Research—Resolve—Retribution. He’d researched the individual with great care and precision and resolved he was definitely a worthy target. A perfect target even. And retribution. How he loved that word. It was a perfect word; a word that said exactly what was needed to be said. Oh yes, once again it was payback time.

As he watched the swaggering individual draw closer, he carefully reversed the thick walking stick in his hands, the heavy, brass head now held club-like away from him. One swing was all he allowed himself. It was all that was needed, all it would take. He had practiced constantly; the model in the basement of his house taking hit after hit until he was inch perfect every time. First the heavy but glancing blow to the side of the head, then the force of the swing continuing on down until the satisfying crack of the collarbone was heard. Unconsciousness was almost certainly assured, but in the unlikely event it wasn’t, the excruciating pain from the shattered collarbone would render the target inoperative long enough to allow a second strike. But that had not happened so far and, he was certain, would not happen this time. The target had taken just two paces past the doorway when the figure slid silently out from the blackness.

The brass club’s precise glancing contact with the side of the head made virtually no sound at all, but the instant sound of the splintering collarbone that followed echoed more sharply across the silent street. The target slumped to the floor with little more than a surprised whimper.

Reaching into his pocket the attacker withdrew a business-sized card. Kneeling down he slid the card between the target’s still twitching teeth. Then the tiny digital camera, its flash illuminating the prostrate figure just twice. Straightening, the brass head of the walking stick now held lovingly in his hand, he made his way unhurriedly, even jauntily down the street.

Two

The gentle tap on the door broke into Benny Lyle’s thoughts. He dragged himself away from the document lying on the desk in front of him; this month’s take looking as good as ever.

Yeah, he called.

The door opened quietly and a woman entered respectfully into the room. She was carrying a tray, Lyle’s usual morning coffee and biscuits.

Lyle looked at his watch. Blimey, Ela, that time already, is it?

The woman smiled; her face lighting with genuine pleasure. It is ten o’clock, Mr Lyle. Just as you like it always. Her English was good, but the thick, East European accent was obvious. Today I bake for you a special treat, yes.

Lyle looked down at the plate. The narrow fingers of golden brown waffle like biscuits piled alongside his usual digestives did indeed look appetising.

What is it? he asked.

It is called lamance. You will like, I am sure.

You spoil me, Ela, and no mistake, he grinned. You’ll make me fat, you know that.

Ela laughed happily. You are a good man, Mr Lyle, but you need... she hesitated, her brow wrinkling in thought, then smiling broadly. How you say, more meat on your bones.

Lyle laughed loudly. Though over six feet tall, he was indeed slender; for as long as he could remember he had weighed no more than eleven and a half stone. And he was happy with that. Heading toward his forty-seventh birthday, he felt he was approaching the dangerous age. He needed to look after himself if he wanted to live to a ripe old age - a very wealthy ripe old age. He smiled to himself. The wealthy bit was no problem; he was that already. The ripe old age bit was to a great extent in the hands of the gods, but he was determined to do his bit to limit the odds. Sometimes Ela’s cooking made that difficult.

Despite this Lyle liked Ela. She was not, of course, one of the usual females his network imported into the country; they were young, the younger the better. At a rotund fifty something, Ela would hardly entice many customers to feed his bank account. No, Ela was the aunt of a Polish member of the network. Her family was very poor, and she had been chosen to come to this country and earn the money to send home. But getting into Britain legally was not easy these days and as a favour to his Polish colleague, Lyle had helped oil the wheels. Originally, of course, he hadn’t envisaged her becoming part of his household. It was intended her stay here was to be no more than a day or two before a permanent place was found for her. Since her arrival, however, she had worked tirelessly, very quickly becoming an invaluable asset to him and Brenda. Indeed it had been Brenda who had made the decision for her to stay. Now, in less than a year, Ela had become almost indispensable. All household activities revolved around her.

Watching her pour the coffee from the cafetiere, he reached for one of the biscuits. How’re things today, Ela? He asked, Everything under control?

Ela nodded. Mrs Lyle is away shopping, she said handing him the coffee. She tells me she will be back for lunch.

Lyle smiled, chewing appreciatively at the biscuit. Brenda was always shopping. But he didn’t mind. As far as he was concerned, Brenda could do as she pleased. And mostly she did. Thanks, Ela, I’ll see you at lunch.

Ela left the room, and Lyle returned to his work. A few seconds later the door opened and Ela poked her head through. Mr Lyle, she said. There was an uncertainty in her voice.

Lyle frowned, Yes, Ela. What is it?

Did you know Jimmy isn’t here?

What d’you mean, isn’t here?

When I bring your coffee, I look for him. Jimmy, he isn’t here. Now I look again. She shrugged her shoulders. Still no Jimmy.

A ripple of apprehension ran through Lyle as Ela’s words penetrated. Jimmy was always there, always no more than a few yards from him. Now she was saying Jimmy wasn’t there. That couldn’t be so.

Jimmy has to be there. For years Lyle had been involved in a very dangerous business. It was a business in which making enemies was an inescapable occupational hazard, and inevitably, Lyle paid heavily for the legal protection which kept him personally remote from a number of clandestine activities that made him immensely rich. But the law wasn’t his only enemy. There were others who for any number of reasons would rejoice in his downfall and who, given the slightest opportunity, would do him harm. Serious harm.

The high walled, remote controlled, gated estate with its strategically placed CCTV cameras and infra red security lights in the leafy London suburb was an indication of the precautions necessary for the safety of someone in Lyle’s delicate position. Immensely rich he may be, paranoid he certainly was. And Jimmy, the powerful, fearless and totally loyal Jimmy who had been faithfully at his side always within shouting distance, had for years been Lyle’s last line of defence. Whatever else failed, nobody, but nobody got past Jimmy.

Coffee and biscuits forgotten, Lyle pushed himself up from the chair and made for the door. Ela moved to one side as he pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway.

Jimmy? he called. Jimmy! The house was silent.

Lyle turned back to Ela. When did you last see him?

This morning, at breakfast.

Lyle’s brain buzzed, started to spin. He tried to calm himself. He must think. It was true, Jimmy reported first thing, as usual. Then Lyle retired to his office. He assumed Jimmy had gone about the usual routine, checking the house and grounds before settling within calling distance of the office. Lyle called again, this time louder, but there was still no response. Where’s Bronco? he asked, the words harsh, urgent.

Ela hesitated. I think he’s at the Chelsea house, she said. But I’m not sure...

Call him, Ela, Lyle snapped. "Wherever he is, get him here. Get him here now!"

Three

Stern carried the two brimming pints of draught IPA from the bar to the table in the corner where Inspector David O’Connor sat waiting. Placing one glass in front of O’Connor he settled himself in the chair opposite.

Cheers, he said, raising his glass. Taking the first swig of the evening, he smacked his lips and sighed happily.

O’Connor nodded and followed suit.

It had become a regular event - once every two weeks and always on a Friday. It alternated between O’Connor’s local in the centre of Norwich and here at Stern’s local in the little seaside town of Sheringham. It had been happening ever since Stern’s private detective agency had assisted O’Connor for the first time almost two years before.

Until that time, Stern’s private detective agency, Stern Investigations, dealt mainly with local domestic problems. But domestic disputes were not what Theo Stern was used to. Indeed, until just four years before, when a drug-crazed maniac had plunged a knife to within an inch of his life, Detective Inspector Theo Stern had been a prominent member of the London Metropolitan police force, tackling some of the largest crimes ever committed in the country. But to the powers that be, a near fatal stab wound to a forty-nine year old signalled the end of the line. The move from London to rural north Norfolk and the inauguration of Stern Investigations had been the knee jerk reaction of a man floundering in the devastating aftermath of an unexpected, enforced retirement.

The chance confluence with local Norfolk Detective Inspector, David O’Connor, during the case of the treacherous Harry Rogers, late of the British Intelligence Service had been a breakthrough. From that point, what started as an initial cautious relationship blossomed into a genuine friendship. To O’Connor, relatively new to his rank, the benefit of Stern’s vast experience was, from time to time, invaluable and he had no compunction in using it to the full. Stern, on the other hand, grabbed enthusiastically at the chance of being again involved with real cases. He had been, and still was, only too pleased to help his friend whenever asked.

Since the start of Stern Investigations, Stern built a substantial local information network, unorthodox maybe, but to O’Connor, sometimes invaluable. The regular get together, apart from being genuinely enjoyed by both men, also allowed O’Connor the opportunity to enlist Stern’s assistance whenever necessary.

So, how are thing? Stern asked, placing the glass on the table and wiping the froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

Have you got a week? O’Connor snorted.

Bad as that, eh?

It’s been better.

Anything special? Stern probed.

O’Connor nodded. There are one or two awkward ones on the top of the heap, he admitted.

How about these Norwich attacks I’ve read about in the press? Stern asked. Weird or what?

O’Connor nodded. Weird is right. They’ve really got the brass on the hop.

Why’s that?

There’s been four so far. All young males, which means we have four lots of parents, each one believing the sun shines from their little Jimmy’s back end, all demanding action.

Stern took another pull at the pint. He smiled knowingly. And your chiefy has promised them you’re on the case. A result any time now.

O’Connor sighed. You know what it’s like.

Stern nodded. Been there so many times I can’t get in my wardrobe for T-shirts. So what have you got?

O’Connor shook his head. Not a lot, to be honest. Like I said, the victims are all male, all teenagers and not one over nineteen.

D’you think that’s significant?

O’Connor shrugged. Buggered if I know. At first we thought it might be a bit of gang rivalry. A couple of the victims are already on our books. Mostly petty stuff; public disturbance, vandalism, that sort of thing.

At first?

O’Connor scratched his head. Yeah, that’s what it looked like.

But not now?

No, not now there’s been four. He took a draught of beer. You’ve seen it, Theo. Bunch of youngsters, an altercation and as a result a score to settle. Next thing you know a crowd of one mob ambush one of the others and give him a good hiding. He sighed. And sometimes worse. There’s nothing subtle about it, just brute force of numbers. Crude revenge, right?

Lips pursed, Stern nodded. Yup, that’s the way it goes, I’m afraid. He studied his friend across the table. But you’re telling me this one isn’t like that. This is different?

Yes this is different alright. Very different.

Stern shifted forward in his seat, a sparkle in his eyes. So tell me.

O’Connor chuckled. Ever the cop, eh?

Like they say: you can take the man out of the Force...

Okay, but remember, the press haven’t got this, so be careful.

Stern nodded. Usual rules apply, David. You don’t have to remind me.

Yeah, sorry; force of habit. He thought for some moments, pulling the threads together. Like I said there’s nothing crude about these attacks. Far from it. They’ve been slick and, in our opinion, well planned. Every attack has been carried out in the city, and in the early hours. In each case the victim has been alone and in a poorly lit area.

City back streets? Stern interceded.

O’Connor nodded. Yes, but there’s more to it. None of the victims saw or heard their attacker; one minute they are walking along as happy as Larry, the next they wake up in hospital without an inkling of what happened. According to the doc’s, in every case only one blow was struck. A round, blunt instrument.

Stern frowned. Hardly a gang beating then.

O’Connor shook his head. No, but here’s the good bit. Every attack was the same; a powerful glancing blow to the temple, the force of the blow continuing down into the shoulder. Every victim suffered from severe concussion and two had fractured skulls, and... he eyeballed Stern across the table. Every one of ‘em had a shattered collarbone.

Stern fingered his chin and thought on this. Just one blow to the side of the head and then on down into the collarbone. Not two blows?

No. One blow, two targets. Precise. Every time the same.

Every time?

Every time. Four single blows, each as precise as the last. Each as devastating.

Stern whistled softly. Christ.

O’Connor sighed. Yeah, but that’s not all.

There’s more?

O’Connor nodded, taking another pull at his beer before continuing. In each case a card has been forced between the victim’s teeth.

Stern’s jaw dropped. A card? What sort of card?

O’Connor dropped his voice a tone. A business card.

Stern frowned, but said nothing.

O’Connor reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small card. He passed it to Stern. Don’t worry, he said. It’s clean. No prints, no nothing.

Stern took the card and read the words thereon.

REMEMBER

ALL MEN ARE EQUAL

BEHAVE!

or

BE VERY AFRAID

Stern turned the card over, noting the victim’s dried saliva stains. The reverse side of the card was blank. He glanced at O’Connor. That’s it?

O’Connor nodded. That’s it.

Still studying the card, Stern slumped back in his chair. And there was one of these on every victim?

Yes. Each one the same, pushed between their teeth.

What about robbery? Anything taken?

O’Connor shook his head. Nothing. He smiled. The last victim was wearing a very expensive watch which we subsequently found to have been stolen during an earlier mugging of a pensioner. We’ll be talking to the lad about that later when he recovers fully, but that was still on his wrist. There was an iPod and a mobile phone in his pocket, too. He shrugged. All untouched.

Stern sucked his teeth. So, not a gang beating or a robbery.

No, O’Connor agreed. All the victims were carrying stuff: mobiles, iPods, watches, money. None of it was touched.

Stern handed the card back across the table. Well it’s not robbery then, and it’s certainly not the typical teenage tit for tat scenario either. He thought for some moments. Any lasting damage to any of the victims?

O’Connor shook his head. So far, no. They all have, or are, recovering okay.

It doesn’t look as if whoever did this intended to kill then. Stern thought for a beat. So if it’s just a warning, what are the victims being warned about? What does this, ‘all men are equal’, mean?

Any number of things, O’Connor said. My guys are chewing on that as we speak.

Is there a link; anything to connect the four lads?

O’Connor shook his head. Apart from the fact they’re all young males. A couple belong to the same group, call it a gang if you like, but the other two have no connection as far as we can see at present. We’re still checking, of course.

Stern sighed. Someone’s certainly got a grudge about something, that’s for sure.

Yes, and these are pretty severe blows, Theo. It’s only the fact they are so precise, glancing from the side of the head to the shoulder, that more damage isn’t done. The attacker knows exactly what he’s doing, and so far his aim has been perfect. He’d only have to misjudge though; an inch or so to one side and he’d cave someone’s skull in. Of that I’m certain.

Yeah, I suppose that’s true, Stern agreed. But from what you’ve told me that doesn’t appear to be the plan, does it?

It was just before eleven when they left the pub. Stern had agreed to keep his ears and eyes open and contact O’Connor if he heard anything he thought might be of interest. At Stern’s eager request, O’Connor had agreed to keep Stern up to speed.

Outside they stood talking for some minutes before shaking hands and parting. As he slid behind the wheel Stern heard a mobile phone warble. He saw O’Connor pause, pull out his mobile and stand for some moments with it clamped to his ear. Finally, pocketing the phone, O’Connor came back round to the side of Stern’s Hyundai.

Stern thumbed the window down and looked up. Problems?

Like we said, Theo. He got it right four times out of four. Dunno about this time, though. Happened half an hour ago. Seems his aim may have been a tad out this time. He squinted down at the date on his watch face. It’s Friday 13th. Shaking his head he made his way back to his car. Unlucky for some, Stern heard him mutter.

Four

Stern left his flat and made his way down the slope to the promenade. It was a beautiful June morning, the sun warming nicely and just a gentle onshore breeze fanning his cheeks. Earlier he had padded his regular forty-minute morning beach run, showered and then, relaxing on the tiny balcony munched his way through his regular breakfast of flakes, toast and coffee. The little third floor flat was small and only just accommodated his requirements, but this was one time when he really appreciated it. Situated directly above the Sheringham beach it afforded an uninterrupted view out across the North Sea. On days like today breakfast, and later maybe an evening drink or two on the tiny balcony was a joy.

As he made his way along the promenade toward the high street he felt good. It wasn’t only the nice weather that gave him a lift. Unlike most, Stern was one of those strange people who for some unknown reason genuinely felt good on a Monday morning. He had no idea why, but it had always been that way. Even though within minutes of entering the office everything would be exactly the same as when he had last left it, the start of a fresh week still gave him a lift.

He glanced at his watch as he made his way through the narrow alleyway and into the main high street. Just after nine and already the whole area was bustling with life. The holiday season was in full swing and north Norfolk; particularly Sheringham was a popular destination. Weaving between meandering holidaymakers and busy locals going about their normal business, Stern finally arrived at the high street bakery above which the two rooms he rented constituted his offices. Inside, the familiar delicious aroma of freshly baked bread and cakes hit him. He called his usual good morning to Mike, the owner of the bakery and his landlord, and eased his way past the hot ovens to the stairs at the back of the shop. At the top of the stairs a half glassed door displayed the sign:

‘STERN INVESTIGATIONS.’

He pushed his way through.

Cherry was already at her desk, fingers flying over the keyboard of the PC, no doubt updating one or other of the ongoing investigation reports. She briefly raised her head and smiled brightly.

Morning, boss. Good weekend?

Mmmm, not bad. Not bad at all. Stern had noticed Cherry’s smiles were broader recently and he suspected the new man in her life was the reason. Almost ten years before, in London, Stern had lifted the then eighteen-year-old Cherry Hooker from a life of battered prostitution and drugs. Over the following years, with his continued support she had turned her life around. Now, at twenty-eight, standing no more than five four and weighing in at around eight stone, Cherry Hooker was one very attractive, very confident young woman. She wore her naturally fair hair short; framing an attractive face with a pert, snub nose and intelligent, startlingly clear blue eyes. The white blouse tucked into close fitting blue jeans, accentuated her slim figure. Cherry wasn’t beautiful in any classic, cover of Vanity Fair sense, but there was something very beguiling about her nonetheless.

However, despite the turnaround in her life and the outward projection of total confidence, there was one corner of Cherry’s persona around which there still remained a protective shield. The mental scars left by the ruthless treatment of a viscous pimp all those years before still remained and until only a few months ago Cherry had tarred all men with the same tarnished brush. Suitors, however sincere, were treated with the utmost suspicion and held at arm’s length. There was only one man Cherry truly trusted and with no immediate family of her own - well, none she wanted to acknowledge anyway - Stern had become the father figure she had never possessed. Recently though, to Stern’s great delight, someone else had at last broken through the protective shield and Cherry was smiling and smiling a great deal.

How about you? he asked.

Yes, we had a smashing time.

Stern was pleased to hear the ‘we’ part of the smiling answer. Good. So what’s new? he asked.

Had a call already, Cherry confirmed, looking down at her pad and smiling. Guy called Bronco.

Stern eased himself down on the corner of Cherry’s desk, any presence of humour immediately leaving his face. Bronco?

Cherry hesitated, noting the instant change in his demeanour. That’s what he said.

You’re sure he said Bronco?

Stern’s change of expression registered and a cloud of uncertainty drifted across Cherry’s face, her eyes dropping back to the note pad in front