The Cicero File

By Cameron Hurwood

DCI Pat Nottage faces an unexpected challenge when she’s assigned to investigate the death of a biker in a road traffic accident. Initially considered a straightforward case of poor judgment, the biker’s involvement with biker gangs raises suspicions of foul play, potentially connected to drugs and violent crime.

Following the coroner’s instructions, Pat reluctantly starts her investigation, risking everything she holds true as a police officer. However, as she delves deeper into the life of the deceased, she realizes things are not as simple as they seem.

Unraveling the events leading to the biker’s death, Pat uncovers hidden complexities and mysteries. She questions why a former nurse and soldier would leave a profession focused on saving lives.

Driven to seek justice, Pat must navigate a world of secrets and uncover the true motives behind the biker’s tragic end. Will she uncover the truth, even if it means challenging her own beliefs and risking everything she holds dear?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781528918633

Cameron Hurwood

Cameron Hurwood has loved and thrived in the healthcare sector since 14. Working in the voluntary, private and public sectors, including a reservist serving in Kuwait and Afghanistan. He qualified as a nurse and was statemented for Dyslexia at the same time. He is an avid motor biker.

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About the Author

Cameron Hurwood has loved and thrived in the healthcare sector since 14. Working in the voluntary, private and public sectors, including a reservist serving in Kuwait and Afghanistan. He qualified as a nurse and was statemented for Dyslexia at the same time. He is an avid motor biker.

Dedication

Thanks to Lynn for her encouragement to write this story.

Copyright Information ©

Cameron Hurwood 2023

The right of Cameron Hurwood to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528918435 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528918633 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

My thanks to my darling Lynn, who pushed me into writing this story.

Chapter One

Chief Superintendent Michael Miller was a tall, well-built gentleman with a softly spoken voice, but behind this gentle giant of a man, there lay a very astute character; highly intelligent with a high sense of moral right and wrong. In another life, Michael may have been a vicar, but he had chosen to enforce the Ten Commandments as opposed to teaching them. Michael had studied at Oxford, where he had read biochemistry, completing with a two-one degree.

Then lacking in direction, he followed that up with another two-one law degree at Newcastle University. His days at Oxford hadn’t ironed out the Geordie accent but it had given it a little polish. Now, his main concern was managing his turf and he was a little annoyed that his morning’s commute to the station had been delayed; firstly by the January snow which had caused chaos on the A1 motorway, then secondly, after he had exited the A1, the traffic once again was brought to a standstill.

This time, as he approached the at Redheugh Bridge, he had to stop, only to see one of the division’s Astras he had purchased for his fleet with its headlights on and the blue lights blinking. He wound down the window in his Audi A8 and lent forward. PC Chalk, seeing his boss for the first time, promptly stepped over and in low voice, Good morning, Sir. Sorry for the delay but there has been a fatal and the bridge has had to be closed because it is now a crime scene.

Thank you, err, Chalk. He paused as he tried to remember his subaltern’s name. This meant that to get to the central police station, he would have to go into Gateshead to get across the river, which at rush hour wasn’t good news. Chalk, he uttered.

Sir, came the prompt reply.

Chalk, contact control and inform them you have been in contact with me. Also can you make sure Susan, my secretary, is aware I will be delayed but make it clear, I am en route to her location. With a smart reply of acknowledgment and a touch of his cap in salute, the police constable paced back to his post while muttering into his radio that was attached to his florescent jacket. Half an hour later, Chief Superintended Miller arrived at his station, to be greeted by Susan, his PA.

Michael?

Yes, Sue?

With an uncharacteristic familiarity, she continued, You have your first meeting in one hour twenty with the Police and Crime Commissioner.

And the agenda? He enquired.

Just the usual, I think, you know her community liaison project. Oh and I think she wants an update on the annual crime figures. I did manage to get the prep done for you; it’s in the green plastic folder on your desk.

He thanked her and stepped over to the control room. Hi, John, he said as he approached the officer at the desk and shook his hand.

Ah, Michael, heard you got caught up in that mess on the Redheugh Bridge.

Michael acknowledged he had to his friend and colleague. What’s happening? What do we know so far?

A BMW bike hit a Jag and the rider flew in the Tyne, presumed drowned. He paused, before continuing. We are still trying to locate the body but with the tidal currents, it’s proving to be a bit tricky. We are also waiting for the recovery of the bike.

Ok, John, please keep me informed. Oh, by the way, who is assigned?

John replied, I am thinking of giving it to DI Pat Nottage as she is quite capable of dealing with this and I trust her judgement. Michael nodded his approval and headed towards the canteen for a much-needed cup of coffee.

Chief Inspector John Haydon had come up through the ranks and was a time-served officer that took his job seriously. To him, policing was an important part of the community and took on the value of his service with a religious fanaticism but he also had keen eye for spotting the truth. He walked over to the forty-five-year-old lady sitting at the computer typing up case notes.

She was thin with an athletic physique, with deep penetrating blue eyes and a natural flame red head of hair. In the late eighties, she had served in the Army as a medic in the reservist Royal Army Medical Corps, down in London and because of her age and looks at the time, being very similar in appearance to Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York, with a Kent accent to boot, had earned her the nickname of Fergie.

At that time, she was also working as an ambulance driver which was just after the ambulance dispute of 1989, where the Tories wanting to prove a point, described them as ‘only glorified taxi drivers’, which had destroyed moral at her depot and was one of the main reason she looked for a way out. Just after she qualified as a Combat Medical Technician class one, in November 1990, along with other soldiers down at Ashvale Barracks, she managed to get deployed as a Territorial reservist at Colchester, where she ran a medical centre for the soldiers under sentence (often known as SUS).

Her regular predecessor had been deployed to Riyadh on Desert Storm. This career move gave her the interest and motivation to join the police service. The Metropolitan police at that time were fully recruited so having just spilt up with her boyfriend at the time, she decided to relocate to the North East. Here she bought a large house in Wester hope with her half of the proceedings from a failed relationship. Pat.

She looked up. Sir.

I need a DI to go down to traffic and liaise with them over the road traffic accident there attending. There was a brief pause as Pat gave him a look of contempt. No, you misunderstand, it looks like there is a body and if so, we need to know if there is anything CID should be aware of and be prepared to take over. Oh and the good news is the Chief Super wants to be kept informed, but do that through me ok.

She nodded and went back to the computer. Pat’s mind was already ticking over mainly on how she could ditch the assignment. It wasn’t the case that bothered her, what bothered her was the fact that she had to report to the boss every five minutes. She hit ‘send’ on the case notes and then walked over to the staff canteen deep in thought. Maybe, just maybe, it was a simple Road Traffic Collision (RTC) and she could go back to some proper police work.

Latte with two sugars please, she said to Bill, the canteen server. Her mobile phone suddenly burst in life and Pat pulled it out of her jacket pocket, ‘Michelle’. Hi, babes. How are things with you and my beautiful granddaughter?

Michelle replied, Oh still the very precocious eight year old, which is why I wanted to ask if you are up for granny duties tonight. If it’s ok with you, Tom and I would like to go to the pictures tonight.

After a moment, Pat thought yes, why not. Sure, what time are you thinking?

I finish my shift at six, is that ok?

Her daughter excitedly said, Arh thanks, Mum, you’re the best. There is your favourite casserole in the oven. Well, if Karla has left any of it. That buoyed Pat up to a smile great and she thought an evening with just her and her grandchild and the telly was what she needed to relax, so roll on traffic find the RTC to be just that and she would be happy.

She was about halfway through her latté when a uniformed sergeant sat next to her. He was in thirties and broad shouldered with black curly hair. He had been in the traffic department for going on ten years and enjoyed the job mainly as his focus was on keeping the roads safe, but more importantly little paper work. Well, that is until they came across the local morons who insisted on being arrested. Hi, Pat.

She turned and smiled. Arh, Sergeant David Stuart, you just know how to ruin to a good coffee.

He smiled. Never mind, pet, it could have been a lot worse. I thought you were coming over half an hour ago?

No, she grimaced. I had to finish my case report from the last job first. She paused to sip again at the velvet froth. Besides, your boys have the scene covered, don’t you?

Aye pet, the body has been located and SOCO are retrieving it as we speak.

I believe we are working together on this. Well, until we can establish the cause isn’t suspicious.

I am going over to the scene to see the site; you want to join me?

She nodded, besides the fresh air would help clear her mind. Just let me grab my coat please. He escorted her to the lady’s cloak room and waited for her to emerge with her coat, and as she did so, she enquired, David, what do we know so far?

He opened the door for her and clicked his key fob, so it lit the Astra up. At 06:43am, a biker rammed a Jag, catapulting him over the bike. His luck ran out as he landed in the Tyne and you know how deadly the currents are; death sentence straight away.

She nodded; she had learnt from the Catherine Cookson book ‘The Fifteen Streets’ about the Tyne and how deadly it could be. And the Jag? She enquired.

It disappeared, could well be a hit and run, he replied. We are treating the bridge as a crime scene. They sat in the car and David pulled away. The drive was short, not being far away, and as the south bound road was still open, David drove down and around the roundabout, past the petrol station and parked up behind the cordon.

The bike was a black BMW 1200 RT ninetieth year special, on a 2013 number plate, with quite a weight to it. They had to wait for the hoist to lift the bike from the barrier and all the debris had been collected. However, there was not much debris left of the Jag, so they knew they had a lot of work to do with the CCTV. David turned to Pat. Who is your DS?

In truth, she had given it much thought. Jane will help me, she blurted out.

But she has taken an annual leave today to take her grandchild to the dentist.

Then she turned to him. Isn’t it your bag at the moment?

He smiled. It was, but then orders from high above suggest it is being treated as a suspicious event.

Pat tutted but she knew there wasn’t much she could do about it. Why? This time, she was looking over the bridge, trying to imagine the path of the victim. Do we know the name of the victim? She enquired.

Not yet; the number plate wasn’t in the debris, David replied.

That’s weird, Pat retorted.

David agreed as he stood next to her looking up the river. The road was clear as well. We are waiting to see what clues the body offers up. Are you done here? If so, I can take you back? The chill had done its job of blowing out the cob webs and besides which, she was ready for a bit of lunch so she nodded and made her way back to the car.

Have we got everything? He smiled. Good then, let’s get this bridge reopened, she commanded. They drove back to the station and back in the yard they got out. Thanks for the tour, David.

No probs, he replied. They went back inside and already every different scenario started to flow through Pat’s mind. She rang the garage where the bike was stored and arranged a viewing. Pat had a silver VW beetle and she loved it ever since she had seen the love bug as a little girl, and had been enthralled by the car as the bug had a personality of its own.

So she had a succession of them from the old classic through to the modern rendition, but a silver beetle also reminded her of her dad, who was a great Beatles fan, and ‘The Silver Beetles’ had been the original name for the pop group. She drove to Byker where the bike was stored and looked over the BMW, noting the previous stated missing number plate was of course still missing. So she looked down the forks to find the VIN number which she took note of, as she would have to contact the BMW dealer to find the owner.

She also took the required photographic evidence covering the front back and both sides. But when Pat returned to the station, there was a niggle starting to irritate the back of her mind. It had now been nine hours since the fatality, with the body now recovered and in the morgue, waiting for the pathology to take place. But no one had reported either a stolen bike or a missing person, which they now knew was a balding male, approximately fortyish with a little bit of a middle age spread weighing about eighteen stone.

Pat picked up the phone and spoke to the desk sergeant who confirmed that there had been no such report made to date. So she asked PC Polly Mount to chase up the VIN number, while she got in contact with the pathologist to find out when he was going to examine the body, which she found was scheduled for the following day. There were things starting to concern Pat and she was getting the little niggle returning in the back of her mind. This case should be so simple that it should never have been assigned to CID, but it had and not only that the rider was not yet identified.

When she had rung the pathologist, she had requested a property list. This had just arrived via email judging by the ‘you got mail’ notification on her computer. On viewing the email, the contents of the rider’s pocket was a meagre amount of change adding up to three pound thirty four pence, but notably no wallet. The clothing list indicated multiple layers, including leathers, electrical heated jacket and denim cut off over jacket which was covered with loads of badges, one more noticeable than the others.

It was a name on the cut off on the front above the left breast pocket, stamped in leather and sewed on. Could that be a clue to the body’s identity? Hawksworth! She exclaimed. A voice came from behind her, it was Polly. Oh you know, she said.

Know what? Pat replied.

His name, the biker. His name is Clive Hawksworth.

Great! That sorted. Pat breathed out. Do we have an address, Polly? And Polly acknowledged she had two addresses. One in Nottingham and one in Pity Me in the North East. The bike is registered in an area of the Nottingham and Derbyshire border somewhere called Stapleford, but the DVLA also had the driving licence registered at Pity Me Durham.

Thank you. Polly, could you help me out please. My sergeant’s taken an annual leave today. Would you come with me to Pity Me?

Polly was taken aback as she had other duties. Yes, if you clear it with the desk sergeant. That done, the two ladies drove out to the address in Pity Me and knocked on the door to see what would happen. The door opened and there stood a lady, clearly in her fifties but well-dressed.

So Pat went forward, Hello I am Detective Inspector Pat Nottage, and this is Police Constable Polly Mount. Who am I talking to?

The lady replied from the doorway, I am Marion Smith. How I can help you?

Pat continued, Do you know a Clive Hawksworth?

Marion started to turn white. What’s he done now?

Taking control, Pat urged, Sorry, I don’t want to discuss such matters on the doorstep. Can we continue inside please? And the three women went into the living room. Marion switched the television off and by now any colour that remained had completely drained. Is there anyone else around? Pat asked and Marion shouted her son, Nikki, to come down. Pat continued, Please do you know Clive Hawksworth?

Marion nodded. What is your relationship with Clive?

He has been my partner for the last thirteen years, she replied. Nikki arrived, stout looking and around thirty years of age. Marion noted the look of the two police ladies No, he isn’t Nikki’s dad; he lives over in Wide Open.

Pat nodded. Does Clive have a motorbike? Marion nodded. I am sorry to say Clive has been involved in motorcycle collision with another car. We think it’s a Jaguar. We will need formal identification, but we believe it is Clive, and Clive didn’t survive. There was a pause as Pat gauged Marion’s reaction.

Marion muttered, Don’t tell me, too fast and to close! She was, by now, crying. Nikki went over and hugged her.

We don’t know the full details yet, but that is something we are looking into it. We need to have an autopsy.

Marion look a little confused. Why?

Pat continued, He was thrown into the Tyne and we think he drowned.

What? The Tyne? Marion exclaimed. What was he doing there? I thought he was supposed to be in Nottingham. Polly and Pat made eye contact with each other.

Why do you say that? Polly interjected for the first time.

Because he is from down south, born in Newark on Trent but really he never lived there, murmured Marion. He had just gone down for a couple of days to visit his family and friends and wasn’t due back till tomorrow. Pat made a note of that and gave Marion her contact card and told her that she would be in touch the following day.

Is there any preference in times? Marion asked that it be afternoon as she was going to ring in sick at work and break the news to his parent.

Can we have list of contacts in Stapleford, please, as I would like to speak to his friends and family down there?

Marion asked, Do you want me to tell his parents. Pat nodded and thanked her. Polly and Pat both got up to leave and headed towards the front door.

I am sorry to bring such bad news; will you be ok?

Marion nodded as her son spoke, Don’t worry, I am here. I will look after my mum.

The two then went back to the silver beetle and drove back to the station as the shift was now drawing to a closed. Polly reported back to the desk sergeant. Go Polly, get yourself home. She didn’t need to be told twice.

As for Pat, she sat down and wrote up her notes for the day. It wasn’t long before Pat’s watch bleeped into life signalling the end of the shift and the start of babysitting duties. Something she was ready for after the emotions of this afternoon. She drove to her daughter’s house where she received three good strong therapeutic hugs from her daughter and her daughter’s family.

Right, Karla, what are we watching before its bedtime?

Oh, Nana, can we watch Frozen please, please, pleeeease? Followed up by an extra-long hug.

Ok then, my little Rose Petal, and so with the night planned. Nana and Rose Petal settled down.

Morning, Gov., Jane offered Pat her morning coffee. How was yesterday?

Pat almost grabbed the drink of her. Crap! We have been handed a boner of a job. Taking a large sip from her coffee as if the caffeine was some magical poison that would take the day’s event away. Should have been traffics’ as it was a hit and run but never mind, we should have it concluded by the end of the day and a get back to proper police work, if ’the top brass will let us.

Jane Richards was part of Pat’s life story as they had been friends prior to moving to the North East, having been a reservist and on all the same training courses from basic training at Ashvale to being a fully qualified medic. Jane had been to the University of Kent, where she trained as a journalist. She had also been a rescuer at the Clapham rail disaster, and this had been her inspiration to join the Territorial Reserves and this was where she had met Pat on the recruit’s course.

They found out that despite being in different units, they lived close to each other, so she transferred to Pat’s unit and then completed the second level and first level of their medical training at the same time. When Pat moved up to the North East, after qualifying at Hendon, she had invited Jane up for a New Year’s Eve party a year later and that was were Jane met her future husband.

He hated the south and refused to relocate there so having a mature friendship with Pat and the pull of the offer of marriage, she gave up journalism and join the Northumbrian Police Force. But her husband after fourteen years had an affair and although, he moved out of their Barlow home, he still carried on with his father duties to their lovely daughter. Why are we taking this seriously, Pat? Jane enquired.

I don’t really know but when I was breaking the news with the NOK, I noticed the Army pictures on the living room wall. At the time, it was not appropriate for me to enquire as the poor lass was in tears, but I thought let’s do the numbers and put it to bed. While the conversation was taking place, Jane had switched on the computer and was reading the notes Pat had made. She typed the name Clive Hawksworth into Google and up flashed a social site and profession site.

Do we know the chaps’ occupation? Jane piped up but Pat shook her head. Well, I think he is a nurse with a problematic past.

Pat looked at her. Go on, she said.

Well, if we talking about the same Clive, we have a recent professional board meeting at the Nursing and Midwifery Council which has flashed up and a little notoriety as the local rag had picked up the story and really gone to town on this guy. In fact, he is quite a horrible person and although, the national computer shows nothing but a speeding fine, it looks like he was accused of sexual misconduct, and oh my God, this creep has assaulted a ninety year old. How the hell did this bastard become a nurse?

She printed off the article and showed it to Pat. We should go and see his partner Marion tie up any lose ends and dump it.

She looked up from the article. Just before we do that though, we should just do the basics get onto traffic and check out the CCTV in the area and see if we can get a handle on that Jag. Just make sure they weren’t up to no good.

With a look of approval, Jane agreed and left the room. When Jane entered the office, she saw a young man dress in a smart jumper and tie, all very neatly pressed and hair was meticulous and went over to speak to him. Hi, Jane, you here for yesterday’s fatal.

Smiling in acknowledgment she said, Yes, Taylor.

Well, you will be pleased to know traffic division haven’t been idle and were waiting for you. We have the info on the Jag, but we don’t yet have the number plate. However, what we do know is it is a Jaguar XF red in colour and now with a dented rear bumper. I’m sending some details over to the dealers to see if it can generate some more information for us to go on and if the owner gets their car repaired via the main dealers, we should get it flagged to us.

He handed her a still from the video sequence. I got this from the counsel and they have the chap going through all the associated routes to see if they can pick anything up.

She fluttered her eyes at him. Oh, sweetie, thank you. You’re a hero. Where have you been most of my life?

He quipped back, At school, which earned him a prompt slap on the shoulder but they both giggled.

Cheeky sod, I’ll have you know, sonny Jim, I’ve still got it! Will you?

Taylor was in his late twenties and joined the force as a cadet progressing to be a full member of the force but still looked like he had just left collage. Although, he was openly and proud of being gay, he still could get the young girls in a spin when he was around because of his good looks.

Jane left the office and went to the rendezvous with Pat, and they both got into the silver beetle and took the thirty-minute drive over to Pity Me. Marion answered the door and beckoned them in. She was a mess and had clearly been crying all morning. Hi, this is my colleague DS Jane Richards. How are you managing?

Marion replied she was ok and offered them a coffee. Nikki, babes, two coffees and a tea please. Her son disappeared into the kitchen to make the drinks. Jane had spied the Army pictures on the wall and went over to examine them. Pat, he was in the Royal Army Medical Corps.

Pat, alerted, went over to the pictures and took note of the days of the course. He had joined in 1987 and reached class one in February 1990. He qualified before us then.

Marion spoke up. You served there then?

They nodded. Yes, we both met and became friends via the TA, years ago in the eighties and had both joined up as medics. In fact, it was the indirect impact of the Army that led us to being up here and to joining up with the police.

Marion smile a little. Yes, Clive was the same. He met his best mate, Frank, through the Army and it was that that led him to becoming a nurse.

Pat gently smiled and softly spoke, How you doing?

Marion burst into tears and said Still in shock.

With some sympathy, Pat asked, We knew he was a nurse; was there an issue with him?

She looked up with tear soaked eyes, and glare and rage that took both the detectives by surprised Why, what has been said?

Jane offered. Well, nothing really but we saw that there were some issues reported on from the EMRI and via the local paper on the internet.

Marion was now like a volcano and exploded. Those lying bastards have made our lives hell for the three years. I wouldn’t trust the weather report from those scum.

Jane felt this insult as a former journalist, feeling uncomfortable. Pat sensing this grabbed her wrist and managed to make eye contact enough to warn her off. Why do you say that, Marion, she retorted.

"Clive was cleared of that shit, but they still printed that bullshit. They thought would sell more papers and so his tormentors won. Oh, they are sitting pretty laughing their fucking socks off. You know they had a party to celebrate once it hit the news. Nurses queuing up saying how shocked they were, but here was the best of it, they even