Noble Cause

By Obitus Hades

Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely, or so we are told.

The question is, who says so, the victors or the vanquished? Who controls whom? Who controls the minds of the proletariat?

You of course know the answer. Or do you? Embark on a journey where all is exposed as being corrupt and be prepared to join the corrupters and feel good about having your innermost dark secrets exposed.

The question is...

Can outrageous corruption ever have a noble cause?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398470644

Obitus Hades

Obitus served in Germany, Cyprus, Singapore, Malaysia, Hong Kong, and Borneo. He was a Senior Police Officer and taught ethical police interviewing, neurolinguistics, body language, and the Anatomy of a Lie. He currently heads Checkmate, a publisher of informative materials that provide training aids for police officers.

Book preview

About the Author

Obitus served in Germany, Cyprus, Singapore, Malaysia, Hong Kong, and Borneo. He was a Senior Police Officer and taught ethical police interviewing, neurolinguistics, body language, and the Anatomy of a Lie. He currently heads Checkmate, a publisher of informative materials that provide training aids for police officers.

Dedication

To Jana

Copyright Information ©

Obitus Hades 2023

The right of Obitus Hades 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 9781398470637 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398470644 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Chapter 1

Let us pretend a fiction, and suppose…this.

The Prime Minister has called a snap general election. The electorate will cast their votes on Thursday, just five weeks away. At last, the chance to establish an effective government, wiping away the present shambolic mess of intransigence, indecision, and incompetence brought about by the sheer lust for power. The game is, as they say, afoot.

In the provinces, MPs had a great deal to worry about, re-election, or disgrace. At Aqua Ponds in the county of Wessex, the local Member of Parliament, Khom Ting, congratulated himself on having the answer to his survival as an MP. He called the Home Secretary to confirm the timing of their meeting on Saturday.

The medal ceremony, as ever, was attended by the usual suspects, described by the media as the Great and the Good. The Chief, Home Secretary, Lord Lieutenant, and a handful of local MPs, and other lesser rascals. The headquarters was a new building, awash with the latest wizardry, it gave new meaning to the word high tech, the taxpayers had indeed been kind to the Wessex Constabulary.

The vision of so many policemen in one place, somehow explained why they are rarely seen on the streets. What on earth are they all doing here, surely this is not the scene of a major disaster? Their ID badges gave the game away, their name, under which was the course they were attending. Public Order, Homicide investigators, Interview Techniques, First Aid, and so it went on, Negotiator, Firearms, Mortuary, not unlike a UN convention in many ways. And so it was clear, if you’re to become a victim of a firearms incident, then you’d do well to live near the headquarters, where, in a moment, you’d be attended by a first aider, a murders squad detective and a mortician.

There was in excess of 200 in the Sports Hall, where medals were to be presented. In the front row was Sergeant Shear and his task force unit of six men. Shear’s medal was for an act of gallantry, arising from an incident where he disarmed an armed man exiting a post office in the city centre. The citation read:

In recognition of an Act of Conspicuous Gallantry, when Sergeant Paul Shears, acting on his own, was, without warning, confronted by a drug-fuelled man, armed with a firearm attempting to escape from the scene of an armed robbery, single-handedly, disarmed the man, and saved passers-by from resulting danger.

Or so it read. The truth was that this was no altruistic undertaking. Shear had finished work earlier that day and had spent the last two hours in the pub. Lukins, a local reprobate aged 83 years, had been at the other end of the bar complaining bitterly that his government handout had not yet arrived at the post office next door, and that he was going to sort them out. When the landlord finally refused to serve him, he stormed out of the pub muttering, I’ll be back. In the event, he didn’t come back because Shear, who was as drunk as Lukins, finished his drink and left a minute or so later, just in time to bump into Lukins who was leaving the post office when they both fell over one another. Lukins believing he was under attack began to fight but was overpowered by Shears. The post office door opened and the postmaster fell over the two miscreants, just as a passing police car pulled up. The postmaster called out that Lukins had just pulled a gun on him and demanded his money. This was taken to mean the postmaster’s money and not the money Lukins was waiting for. The uniformed police officers pulled the sergeant to his feet, congratulating him on his arrest, handcuffed Lukins, and dusted down the dishevelled postmaster. The charge against Lukins was reduced to one of threatening behaviour when it was realised that, according to Lukins which the evidence tended to support, was demanding his own money, and when the postmaster made light of his demands, Lukins became outraged and produced a pistol to reinforce his demands. Seeing how old Lukins was, and guessing the gun much older, the vexed postmaster chased him out the door. The ballistic report on the gun stated that it was an antique, with slightly bent barrel, incapable of firing, and in the hands of a drunken old man, more a danger to himself than others, as was borne out by his arrest.

After the medal ceremony, the top brass gathered in the officers’ mess for drinks. Kelvin was anxious to hear from Khom about the delights that awaited, but had to wait until pleasantries had been exchanged, favours acknowledged and the usual hollow promises made. Finally, Khom beckoned Shear to join him and Kelvin to an anti-chamber where, what was said would remain. All three sat around a small table.

Shear left the room and switched his recorder off.

Kelvin and Khom, now alone in their cauldron, put their heads together and cobbled up a plan that could be sold to the masses as a brilliant new conservative strategy designed to bring about fundamental changes to the approach to crime and its causes. His boffins at the Home Office would find a form of words sufficient to hoodwink the all believing public. Yes, all this, and at a time of national debate on the party best suited to lead the nation into a new age of equality, growth and prosperity. A country where every hard-working person would flourish, and each and every person would be rewarded, blah, blah, blah. The usual stuff repackaged, buy one, get one free sort of thing. It was agreed that this would be aired on primetime slots and repeated until everyone knew it to be true.

Sergeant Shear collected his crew who made their way to their crew-bus which went under the name of Cerberus, a three headed dog from Greek mythology that guarded the gates of the underworld, his duty was to ensure that no one interfered with the contents of his environs. Shear and his crew made their way back to their patch to continue where they left off.

Shear’s crew-bus pulled into a lay-by just outside Aqua Ponds. They played the tape of Jonah’s interview. It was clear that Jonah had been in possession of half a kilo of cocaine when he left the city, and yet there was nothing found in his vehicle when searched by police on his return home. The question to be answered, was where is the coke now. This question could best be answered by Jonah who was about to be bailed by the police, and twenty minutes later he would be liberated from his freedom by Shear’s crew who, unlike the regular police with their rules, codes of practice and other protocols, were free to get results. No rules, just results. They would soon have hold of Jonah then with the use of Einsatzgruppe techniques, the cocaine. If all went well, Jonah would then disappear sometime a little after eight.

The crew-bus radio broke silence. Foxtrot 13, foxtrot 13, receiving over. This was the official name of Cerberus. The call was taken alerting them to the fact that Jones had been bailed, he was a disqualified driver and that they should keep observations in the event he became mobile. As they waited, a local scallywag stopped to have a pee behind Cerberus. Boots left the vehicle and advised that if he didn’t put that away, they would put him away. The kid had been drinking but still had the wit to grunt like a pig, but not the courage to actually say the word pig. His bashfulness did not save him. Like a frog he was wheeled into the open side door of the crew-bus where he was introduced to the members of Foxtrot 13.

The kid interrupted Yeah, but…

Boots advised Shut it, listen to the Sergeant.

The miscreant fell silent as he observed the focused menace on the faces of both Boots and Shear.

The kid was dragged from the crew-bus by Boots. His face showed solemn remorse, he was scared and knew that somehow he had just had a narrow escape.

The kid walked smartly away, broke into a trot and then did one.

Shear’s crew sat quietly waiting for Jonah. Another ten minutes or so should do it. They checked their equipment and other non-issued kit. Two shovels, 20 or so Sainsburys’ plastic bags, a tailored folded blanket and a battery driven hand drill. All crew-buses were customised to suit the requirements of the crew. Shear’s bus was fitted with two seats installed behind the driver. The side of the bus could be accessed from a large sliding door on its nearside. To the rear of the bus there were two sets of seats, two to the left and one on the right with central access to the rear bench seat which sat four, not unlike a small-town bus. All told the bus seated 12 plus the driver. Saaz usually drove with Shear upfront, the rest of the crew sat where they pleased. Ken often took the seat at the back next to the supply of plastic bags. Saaz spotted Jonah in his rear-view mirror and alerted the crew, 200 yards and closing. Jonah was slow to spot the crew-bus due to failing light and abundance of trees. As he drew level, Shear caught Jonah’s eye.

Shear said Get in Jonah.

Jonah knew this wasn’t a request. He was no stranger to the formal arrest thing, whereby his front door would be kicked in, warrants read out followed by search, then if unlucky off to the police station. He could handle that. He had a good working knowledge of the drug laws and police procedures. He also had access to very expensive lawyers resulting in him having no convictions for Class A, notwithstanding the fact that he sat at the top table in the Gang of dealers. This was something else, an invitation into a police van full of hardnosed no-nonsense cops. Everyone knew, you don’t fuck with these guys, they don’t fuck!

The van drove off, the light was fading and low tide was in about an hour. But before that, games. Jonah was sitting on the floor of the van handcuffed to a rail, a blanket draped over his head, no one spoke. Jonah self-interrogated, on each occasion