Patriot: Nelson, #1

By James Felix

While on leave from the British Army, Captain Nelson receives devastating news regarding his niece's killer. He seeks justice for her and falls headlong into a world of violent European gangs, police corruption, and a decades-old family secret that connects everything.

MI6 Agent Pascoe learns that Nelson's family holds the key to her current operation and will do anything to get him on side. But when he goes rogue, she has a choice: arrest him and tank her case, or join him and throw away the rule book.

With the clock ticking, can Pascoe and Nelson learn to trust each other and take down the head of the snake together, or will it deliver them to an unmarked grave?

Catch the latest Action Thriller series in the tradition of Lee Child, Gregg Hurwitz and James Patterson and delve into the underground world of mass government corruption with Captain Nelson.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Felix
• Release date: Nov 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223410478

James Felix

James Felix, is a former soldier and police officer, who crafts action-packed thrillers that pull from his wealth of real-life experiences. Drawing on his years of police and military service, he brings authenticity and gripping detail to his tales of suspense and intrigue, transporting readers into a world of high-stakes scenarios and adrenaline-fueled adventures. Residing in the scenic Cotswolds of England, James finds inspiration in the tranquillity of his surroundings, often penning his riveting narratives amidst the peaceful hum of nature. When he's not unravelling thrilling plots, James can be found walking his dogs through the countryside, cheering on his favourite NFL team, or perfecting a new Italian recipe. Not one to sit still, James is also an aspiring carpenter, always looking for ways to improve his skills and create something new. His stories, much like his carpentry projects, are meticulously crafted and finely tuned, each piece fitting together to create a captivating whole. James Felix is not just an author, but a storyteller, who enjoys weaving his experiences and imagination into thrilling reads. As he continues his writing journey, he aims to keep readers on the edge of their seats, always guessing, always engaged.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Day One: Sunday

Baker checked his watch, then checked his handgun—a Breitling Endurance and a SIG Pro P229. One police issue, the other purchased on a recent trip to Zurich to open a numbered bank account. On the makeshift table in front of him lay ten kilos of phencyclidine shrink-wrapped in one-kilo blocks.

Alongside Baker, Quinn readjusted his own handgun, tucked against the small of his back. I hate not using a holster, he said.

Drug dealers don’t use ’em. Khan’s late. Check again, will you?

Quinn ambled across the cracked concrete floor towards a gap in the boarded-up windows, which had a decent view of the approach road and the maze of old warehouses surrounding the site. Across the river squatted the O2 Arena, once known as the Millennium Dome, now a familiar addition to the London skyline.

What is phencyclidine, anyway? Baker asked, staring up at the rusted rafters and patchwork roof.

Angel dust—or rocket fuel, if you prefer, Jackson replied into her radio mic.

Baker snorted a laugh and peered across the fifty-metre expanse of warehouse towards where Jackson lay partially concealed behind a row of pallets. He threw her a thumbs up and returned his attention to the folding painter’s table straining under the weight of the drugs.

Baker groaned. What a way to spend a Sunday. His head snapped up at the first rumble of tyres.

Quinn keyed his mic. Pair of X5s—travelling this way. He turned away from the metal wall and joined Baker next to the table.

I need to adjust my field of fire, Jackson said.

Quinn racked the topslide on his handgun and replaced it in the small of his back. Copy that.

We were told to expect one car, Baker said. His heartbeat quickened.

We’ll still take them—thirty seconds, replied Quinn.

Two black BMWs hurtled through the far end of the warehouse. Thick tyres squealed on the concrete, dust billowing in their wake.

Baker squinted against the glare of headlights, his left hand shielding his eyes. The vehicles halted abruptly a few metres in front of the table.

Turn the fucking lights off, Quinn yelled.

The doors remained closed. Engines still hummed. Lights remained on.

I’ve now got a clear view of the rear X5, whispered Jackson over the radio.

Lights, screamed Quinn.

Two pairs of headlights extinguished.

Two engines died.

The front passenger door cracked open—no one got out.

So, Trimura’s got you playing errand boy? … Where is that Albanian bastard? a voice from inside the lead vehicle croaked.

Just show us the cash and we can all fuck off, Quinn called.

Not so fast, errand boy! We need to check the quality first, Mehmet Khan said, rolling out of the passenger seat. The Turk kept behind the car’s door, using it like a shield. A meaty hand adorned with four gold rings clasped the frame.

You cut into it—you buy it, Quinn said.

Khan laughed a raspy, fat-man laugh. Don’t get nervous, errand boy. All good things come to those who wait.

A tall man with slicked back hair exited the lead vehicle and strode towards the table. He held a small black box, which he placed next to the shrink-wrapped blocks. Then, like performing surgery, he meticulously sliced into one package with a knife and withdrew a tiny amount of powder heaped onto the blade.

Baker puffed out a long exhale.

Get Mehmet away from that car door, hissed Jackson into her mic.

The slick haircut tapped the powdery heap into a glass test tube and added a liquid solution. After a few seconds, the mixture turned dark green. He muttered in Turkish at Khan and returned to the vehicle.

Well? said Quinn impatiently.

Looks like we have a deal. Khan slammed the door and paced towards the table with his arms open like he was walking into a wedding. Celal. Pay these gentlemen.

A tracksuit stuffed with muscles stomped out of the rear vehicle. He carried a brown duffel bag.

Where’s your lesbian? rasped Kahn.

Having her hair done, Baker answered.

Shame. I like her—but she needs a real man like me! Khan’s shoulders wobbled up and down with his chesty cackle.

Celal dropped the bag on the ground in front of the table and stepped back. Baker paced around the table and crouched in front of the bag to unzip it. He pulled the opening apart and whistled at the contents.

Those don’t look non-consecutive, Mehmet, you lazy fucker, growled Quinn.

I’m a busy man. Who has time for that—take it or leave it, errand boy.

I think we’ll take it, said Quinn and drew his SIG. He pumped two rounds into Celal’s chest.

Baker drew his handgun and blazed the entire magazine through the windscreen of the front vehicle.

An AR15 opened up from behind a stack of pallets—shredding the rear X5. Controlled bursts of fire—Jackson making every round count.

Quinn swivelled and sent two carefully aimed shots into a retreating Mehmet Kahn. The fat Turk toppled heavily on the concrete floor.

The shooting stopped inside fifteen seconds. Not a single round fired in return.

Baker changed mags and approached the lead vehicle. He fired a shot into the driver’s chest, adjusted, and fired a further four times through the darkened glass at the men slumped in the rear seats.

Quinn stood over Mehmet Khan. The bleeding man writhed on the ground. Trimura double crossed us … why? he gurgled.

Who cares? replied Quinn and shot Khan through his right eye.

Nothing moved inside either car. The only sound was the tinkling of glass. Jackson emerged from her hiding place, backlit by the gaping opening at the far end of the structure, and sauntered towards Baker and Quinn.

Quinn nudged Baker with his elbow, and both men straightened as she approached.

Getting my hair done! Jackson scowled.

Baker coughed a snigger into his fist. Sorry, Sarge. Been a long night. I could use some sleep.

You’ll clean the weapons and stow them in the armoury before you go off duty, Constable Baker, said Jackson. And you can source us a new van from the police compound, DC Quinn.

Yes, Sarge, Baker and Quinn replied in unison.

Chapter 2

Nelson absorbed the sun on his tanned face. The last leg of his journey halfway around the world, was now just a matter of a twenty-minute cab ride. The rank sat deserted, and the shuddering train had long since departed. He closed his eyes and settled back on a bench to soak up the feeble springtime rays and fight his creeping fatigue.

Give me what you got, a voice rasped.

Nelson stirred and opened one eye, but remained seated. Whoever it was couldn’t be talking to him.

Are you deaf? I said give me what you got!

Nelson opened the other eye, fighting against a body clock still on Dubai time.

A skinny man-child in a baggy tracksuit stood opposite. He lifted the front of his shiny blue top to reveal the handle of a knife. The outline of something wide and flat extended the length of the kid’s thigh. The blade appeared prodigious.

What are you planning to do with that? Nelson asked, trying not to yawn.

Give me yer wallet, or I’ll merk ya, the young man said.

Merk?

Stab you, ya mug.

Two other man-child creatures approached from either side in a classic pincer movement. Nelson appreciated the tactical forethought on display.

Guys. This won’t end well for you.

A beefy skinhead with a flat nose standing to Nelson’s left took a pace forwards. He reached into the waistband of his light grey sweatpants.

The blue-top male drew his machete like a sword. Nelson kicked out hard with the sole of his boot. The tip of the blade had yet to clear the elasticated waistband. The youth howled and staggered backwards.

Nelson jumped to his feet. He jabbed the skinhead on his flat, fleshy nose and grabbed his weapon hand in a gooseneck lock, immobilising the whole arm. He twisted some more. A wrist bone snapped.

An anguished yelp spluttered from the teenager. Nelson let the kid’s limp carcass drop to the ground in a writhing pile of agony.

Nelson squared up to robber number three.

No plan survives first contact with the enemy.

Wh … what? the pale youth stuttered, fumbling for something shiny and metal.

Throw your weapon down or end up like him. Nelson flicked his chin at the criminal in the shiny blue tracksuit squirming on the ground, clutching his crotch. A dark red stain bloomed across his trousers.

A butterfly knife clattered on the concrete in front of Nelson. The youth lowered his head and stretched his hands up in surrender.

Okay … okay, he stammered.

Go home to your mother and rethink your life, Nelson growled.

The wraithlike youth sprinted away as his two robber friends competed for most helpless casualty. Nelson stood over the pair. Don’t play with knives, boys—bad things happen. Now, who needs an ambulance?

Y … yes, the blue-track-suited youth dribbled.

Me too, the skinhead added, cradling his ruined forearm in his uninjured hand.

Nelson stooped and picked up the machete. He hefted it in his hand before placing the metal blade on the ground and stepping on the flat end. He levered the handle up. It bent and snapped.

Cheap crap, he said, and hurled both parts into the bushes behind his bench. What are you going to tell the police about your injury?

The youth in the blue tracksuit groaned. I-I hurt myself … climbing over those spiked railings.

Nelson winced. Nasty business. And what about you, big guy? How’d you injure your wrist?

The skinhead gasped, squeezing his eyes tight and clenching his teeth. Tryin’ to help that daft bastard.

Nelson grabbed his kitbag and slung it across his shoulder. Good. Then our business here is concluded. I’ll get the taxi driver to call you an ambulance. He lofted his arm to signal an approaching vehicle, which pulled a slow U-turn in front of the train station forecourt.

Nelson swung the bag onto the back seat and joined the driver up front. He slammed the door shut. Nelson Farm—near Burley, please. He spoke loud enough for the cabbie to hear, but not the thugs.

The taxi driver flicked off his call light and gawped at the two male youths writhing on the ground.

They tried to rob my cab last week. Police said there weren’t enough evidence to nick ’em.

They’ll think twice about robbing anyone in the future.

Good. Bastards.

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Anna greeted Nelson at the farmhouse door and threw her arms around him. She seemed overjoyed to see her brother home once again, but Nelson sensed a deep sadness. Gratefully, he dropped his kitbag on the ground and returned the hug.

Being back on the old wooden deck, Nelson could see the place looked tired and frayed. The animals had either been sold or given away, and the machinery stood silent and overgrown. Anna ushered him into the kitchen. The welcome heat of the range suppressed the cool spring air, and familiar cooking smells added to the embrace of home. A place of warm childhood memories and Cold War secrets.

Tomorrow would be a tougher day.

Chapter 3 - Day Two: Monday

The following morning, Nelson awoke in his old bedroom to the sound of a cockerel heralding the sunrise—a squawking reminder of the countryside. His old posters of footballers had long since been replaced by yellow gingham-check curtains and floral wallpaper. All his sister’s handiwork, but it had been years since he’d lived there, so he could hardly complain. Although he did miss the Nottingham Forest lamp. Fifteen years of military service in the British Army had taken him around the world, but it felt good to be home again, even for a few precious days of leave. The aroma of brewing coffee stirred him from his reverie and drove him out from beneath the covers.

He stopped on the landing, catching sight of Anna standing in front of her bedroom mirror. A pile of discarded clothes lay at her feet, livid scars visible on her body and arms.

She turned to look at him, her face strained, her eyes reddened. What is a bereaved mother expected to wear to court? she asked.

Nelson swallowed hard and pressed on to the stairs without answering.

His brother-in-law, Michael, stood at the big range cooking breakfast. Pans rattled and the smell of sizzling bacon mixed with the steaming Moka pot on the stove. Much older than Anna, Michael had tried to take on the work of two people while his injured wife healed.

Nelson held his mug out for coffee and Michael poured him a freshly brewed helping.

Don’t worry. We’ll see justice today, he said quietly.

Michael didn’t reply. He turned and winced, concealing his discomfort. Nelson suspected Michael had been neglecting his own health, as the toll of looking after his wife meant their once-flourishing business selling farm produce also died in the deadly wreck which had robbed them of so much.

I see your look of concern. We must seem a sorry pair to you, Michael said, a light wheeze between his breaths.

It’s going to be a long day. Are you sure you’re up to it?

Michael’s eyes flashed with anger. I’ll be there. I want to see that animal sent down. A three-hour train journey isn’t going to put us off seeing justice done.

Nelson glanced through the kitchen window. The rusty old Land Rover Defender certainly didn’t seem roadworthy enough to make the trip to London. Privately, he worried whether Anna and Michael were either.

Nelson ambled onto the deck and savoured his coffee. Birdsong filled the air from the wooded area in front of the house. The winding track which led to the main road disappeared into the dark foliage. He’d learned to drive in that old Land Rover and reminisced at his father’s shouted words of encouragement as a twelve-year-old Nelson clattered through the gears around the smallholding.

Anna joined him. She wore a black, knee-length dress and carried her own coffee mug.

I remember when you actually rolled the thing into a gulley in the bottom field, she said through a broad smirk.

Dad was furious. He needed to tow it out with the tractor. I can still hear him swearing!

He always swore in Russian because he thought we wouldn’t know what he meant.

But we always did.

Anna let her head fall back. I knew Russian swear words before any English ones.

It definitely confused the teachers at school. Nelson gazed into his sister’s eyes. The pain was still carved into her delicate features. I’m so sorry about Emma. She had a beautiful soul. I wish I could have been here for you when it happened.

Tears welled in Anna’s eyes. I know you do, but you were on the other side of the world. I understood.

Nelson hung his head and gently reached his arm around her shoulders. He rarely told family the details of his deployments and they had stopped asking years ago.

Anything left in the barn? he asked, changing the subject. He stared up the shallow rise to the hulking metal structure.

"All the animals have gone. Just a few hay bales and the empty cages they once stood in.

I’m going to have a poke around. I miss the old place.

Anna took his cup and turned stiffly back towards the house. Nelson strode alone up the gravel path leading to the old barn, recalling a childhood of freedom spent in the rural corner of England.

The highest point of the farm provided a magnificent view of the shallow valley and the East Anglian pancake beyond. He paused a moment to take in the bleak beauty of the place. Having a niece meant he didn’t concern himself with needing children of his own, secure in the knowledge the family would carry on. But that wouldn’t happen now, and sharp pangs of regret and sorrow gnawed at him.

The tall sliding doors protested as the metal cogs ground against years of grit and grime, finally revealing a cavernous interior. Musky and gloomy, tiny shafts of sunlight broke through fractures in the rusty corrugated walls.

Nelson’s boots clumped on the concrete floor that had once echoed to goats’ hooves. A hand-built animal enclosure stood deserted across the end wall. The wide timber door secured with a chunky steel bolt now enclosed nothing but dust. He ran his hands over the rough welding finish on the cage which his father constructed years before. He sighed at the realisation he’d been gone from this place too long, and supporting what little remained of his family in court sharply focused his thoughts. Anna meant everything to him, and he would do anything to protect her. Anyone who hurt her better get their affairs in order.

Chapter 4

Nelson, Anna, and Michael arrived at Enfield Crown Court by late morning and filed through the security precautions to find their seats. Like a dress circle in a theatre, the public gallery provided a grand stage from which to observe the unfolding drama.

Flustered people in black gowns and grey wigs huddled together to talk in hushed tones. Laptop screens glowed alongside stacks of paperwork tied with pink cotton ribbon.

The defendant sat alone in the dock, while his legal team crowded around the desk of the prosecutor. Still, the judge had yet to appear. Ushers came and went, the minutes continued to tick by, and twelve chairs remained empty in the jury box.

Nelson stared up at the large crest of a prancing unicorn and a lion underneath a gold crown that dominated the wall behind where the judge should have been sitting. Below the crest stood the phrase: Dieu et mon droit, French for, God and my right. It meant the Monarch of England ruled by the grace of God. Nelson could see little grace in the courtroom.

The jury box remained empty. The prosecutor ended the last of a dozen or so frantic phone calls. A junior, also in a wig, leant forwards and whispered something in his boss’ ear. The prosecutor shook his head slowly in return. More than an hour elapsed before the judge finally entered the court.

Everyone stood while she took her seat. The woman in her sixties with horn-rimmed glasses and hollow cheeks glared at the defendant.

Stand up Mr Popescu, she commanded.

A slim man with short dark hair climbed to his feet and gripped the edges of the dock.

I have been informed that the Crown withdraws the charges against you and as such, you are free to go.

The gavel strike hammered the sound block. The crack split the silence of the courtroom.

Case dismissed, the judge said.

Anna screamed.

Everyone stood except for Nelson. He sat in disbelief at

the sickening realisation that Emma’s death would go unpunished.

Case dismissed.

Unimaginable news was about to shatter his sister’s life

all over again. Now, there seemed to be no God in the courtroom, either.

The defendant’s lawyer, an enormously fat man, patted his client on the back. Nelson’s fists clenched and his knuckles bleached white as the lawyer removed his wig to reveal a bald head beaded with sweat.

The defendant, a man in his mid-twenties with a slight limp, stepped out of the dock. He looked nothing like the monster Nelson had envisaged. He tried to reconcile that with the mental image of his niece crushed by twisted metal and her mother trapped in the seat alongside, unable to do anything but witness her daughter’s life slip away.

Rage boiled inside Nelson. He stared, transfixed, as the defence lawyer shook the slim man’s hand. Silently, Nelson stood and slipped away through the rear of the public gallery, heading towards the main exit.

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A growing fury threatened to overwhelm Nelson. It was as though a switch had flicked his brain into kill mode.

Nelson caught sight of the unpunished murderer descending a concrete slope towards a subway tunnel which ran beneath the busy main road outside the court. He quickened his pace and followed. The man walked alone. No one seemed to wait for him. It would be over in seconds.

Nelson rounded the tiled corner a few steps behind his quarry, preparing to unleash a fast, decisive burst of violence. He checked over his shoulder one last time. They were alone.

The slim man leant down to straighten his trouser leg. Nelson stopped dead in his tracks. The material had ridden up and caught on one of the fixing bolts, revealing a metal prosthesis.

Anger drained away from Nelson. Instead, pity and confusion overtook him. Their eyes locked for the first time, and instead of a monster, Nelson saw a vulnerable human being. The relentless thunder of traffic overhead lulled Nelson for a few moments. He opened his mouth to speak but could only utter a dry rasp. No words would come.

The silhouette of a man appeared at the far end of the arched tunnel, his footfalls echoing on the graffitied tilework. He reached for something behind his back and then caught sight of Nelson. The silhouette turned and hurried back the way he came.

I’m Florin … Florin Popescu, stuttered the one-legged man in a slight Eastern European accent and offered his hand to shake Nelson’s.

Chapter 5

Nelson ignored the handshake. You’re coming with me, he growled.

Okay, okay … what-whatever you want me to do, stuttered Florin, his ragged fingernails chewed to the quick and dark circles ringing his eyes.

Nelson lowered his voice. Mess with me, and I’ll kill you. He glared at the young man, who appeared nothing but skin and bone beneath an ill-fitting suit. I need you to explain exactly why you just walked free from court, he added.

Florin gulped. I know a place … there’s a café not far from here. I’ll answer your questions. He led the way briskly up the slope, despite his hemiplegic gait.

The pair ascended to the street in silence. The busy traffic rolled past relentlessly. Nelson halted, inhaling the traffic-fume-infused air and held his hand up for Florin to stop. Ahead, Anna eased herself slowly into a taxi, followed by Michael who stooped awkwardly and clambered in beside her.

Florin pointed to a Turkish café further along the street opposite a church with a square tower. We can talk there.

Nelson nodded and followed in silence. He’d spent so much time abroad in the past ten years, he’d become a stranger in his own country and that part of North London was foreign land to him.

The café looked deserted apart from a chubby man with greasy hair behind the counter who dried cutlery with a cloth.

Taking their seats by the window, Nelson finally punctured the silence. Are you sorry for what you did?

I’m truly sorry. Florin took his seat awkwardly, swinging his false leg into the tight booth.

Nelson’s clenched fists rested on the table surface. You killed my niece and destroyed my sister’s life because you couldn’t control your big, fancy car.

Florin wiped his face with his sleeve. If I could take it back, I would.

Nelson shook his head slowly. Why were you driving that fast?

Florin cleared his throat. It-it wasn’t my car … and I wasn’t the driver, he mumbled, his gaze unable to meet Nelson’s. Two full coffee cups banged down on the table between them, the contents sloshed and threatened to spill over. The chubby waiter grunted, deposited two laminated menus, and sloped back behind the counter.

Nelson replayed the words in his mind. A light flickered on in a remote part of his brain. He knew the explanation made sense, but the anger hadn’t subsided, and rage blurred his rational thought process. He stared at the dented metal pole visible between Florin’s shoe and the hem of his baggy trousers. It looked rudimentary and outdated. He shifted his gaze through the steamy windows, far beyond the church and the passing traffic. After a few moments, he focussed back on the cramped café.

What the fuck do you mean you weren’t driving? he said icily. Choose your next words carefully, they might be your last. The fury still raged, but it didn’t stop him from noticing the white Mercedes van that had pulled up next to the church. The occupants seemed to be watching the café. Nelson couldn’t be completely certain, but the passenger might have been the same man from the subway.

Florin swallowed hard and clasped his thin fingers together as if in prayer. They ordered me to take the blame for crashing the car. They said my family would be in danger if I refused.

Nelson didn’t speak for a long time. Several minutes passed as the two cups of steaming coffee slowly cooled. The only sound came from the endless rumble of traffic outside. Nelson’s training nagged him to pay more attention to the white van.

"Who are they?" he demanded finally.

Colour drained from Florin’s gaunt face, and he shrank from Nelson. His eyes flitted left and right as if searching for the correct words.

An Albanian gangster call-called … Argo Trimura.

Nelson’s eyes narrowed. What do you do for this Trimura?

I work in one of his car washes, but also driving jobs. Deliveries or anything they need me to do, explained Florin. But I have never spoken to him directly … we have to go through the chain.

Fifteen years in the army had taught Nelson all about chains of command, but he wanted to hear Florin explain it. What chain?

It’s like a hierarchy and very complex. They … compartmentalise the whole organisation … to protect those at the top. Florin hesitated over the last few words. I am not sure I described it properly.

Your English is good enough. Carry on.

I arrived in the UK three years ago from Romania. I was promised good work and decent pay, but instead they make me wash cars every day.

Nelson scanned the café interior. The chubby man behind the counter appeared engrossed in a daytime TV show. The set was on mute and subtitles scrolled along the bottom of the screen.

Why were you chosen to take the fall? he pressed.

Florin shook his head—tears welled in his eyes. I think they picked me out by mistake. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. I was asleep … surrounded by others … we are all in sleeping bags, five to a room.

A pungent aroma of spices wafted from the kitchen. The rumble of traffic continued outside. Keep going, urged Nelson.

Florin glanced briefly over his shoulder. On the night of the crash, Trimura’s men shook me awake and forced me out of the house. They dragged me into a waiting car.

Nelson’s eyes flicked from Florin to the white van and back on the young Romanian again. Then what happened?

They told me there had been a crash, and I needed to take the blame for the boss. Please understand—it had been a long shift washing cars and my leg ached all day. Tears streamed down Florin’s cheeks, and worry seemed carved into every nervous tick. They drove me to the police station and then kicked me out. My instructions were to walk in and confess to running away from the accident. So that’s what I did. I pretended to speak no English, so the police allocated me an interpreter. He spoke even less English than me!

And that worked?

Yes. The police officers accepted everything I said. They made me a cup of tea, gave me a blanket, and the next day I was charged and given a court date. They asked me to surrender my passport, but the gang keeps hold of them anyway, so it made no difference to me. Damp, reddened eyes fixed intently on Nelson. I was prepared to go to prison today.

Nelson sat back and exhaled heavily. His shoulders sagged, and he rotated his neck until all the clicks went away.

Why did you come to the UK?

Florin sighed. I could speak some English, and there are no jobs at home. I just wanted to earn a living but had no idea I’d end up working for criminals. At least in jail I’d have more food, and I wouldn’t have to wash cars anymore. I just didn’t realise the pain I’d be causing your family … because I only thought about protecting mine.

I see that now. But why were you let off from court if you admitted to driving?

"My lawyer said the CPS messed up. I don’t know what that meant, my friend. Argo Trimura pays many corrupt policemen and