The Phoenix Series Box Set 1

by Ted Tayler

  “Doesn’t it make you want to give up Phil?” asked Zara.

  “Don’t start me off on that road Zara,” he said grimly.

  Several times over the past couple of years he had wondered what the hell he was doing. The current ‘police service’ was light years away from the ‘police force’ he had joined. Many of the old practices had been rooted out. The corruption problems were a thing of the past, for the most part, thank goodness. But far too many criminals stuck two fingers up to the law and continued to prosper.

  In fact, lawyers, bankers, and criminals were the Big Three winners in our society.

  “When I see the ACC later, I hope I get the chance to outline our concerns. Just to show I’ve been listening to you, I’ve been doing background work myself. Although Carole Beech told us Levi made threats to kill her and Daisy, several times, each incident got treated in isolation. The danger to the daughter was never considered as being independent of the risk to her mother. That needs to change. I’ll do my best Zara; as always,”

  The two colleagues sat in quiet contemplation for a few minutes. Neither of them appeared to want to be the one to get up and leave.

  “If I don’t see you before you go, have a great time next week. Enjoy yourself, but most of all – just relax and forget work,” said Phil, getting up and giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  “Thanks,” she replied, as she felt the warmth of his hand through her jacket.

  Detective Superintendent Hounsell left for his appointment with the ACC; Detective Inspector Wheeler returned to her office and tried to concentrate on her open cases.

  There was plenty of crime going on in Portishead and the surrounding area to keep her occupied. She read from the first file in the pile on her desk.

  Many years ago, in an earlier life, Ken Lewis was married. He left school and joined the Navy; met a girl in a port somewhere and settled into domestic bliss. After he left the Navy, he drifted from one dead-end job to another; the marriage had long since foundered. Today his health was shot to pieces; alcohol being the main contributor to that, and his mental state was frail.

  The report and Ken’s story contained within it was not related to those elements of his life; except to say they without a doubt contributed to his vulnerability. He became an easy target for exploitation. His problems appeared to have exposed him to an existence that the vast majority of people living in 21st-century Britain naively believed had been consigned to the history books.

  It was alleged that Ken Lewis had been held as a slave by a family of travellers. In his statement he claimed that for the past three years, his ‘home’ was a ramshackle hut in a field; body and soul, he belonged to this travelling family. His treatment was appalling. The food was left on a plate by the door to the hut. In return, he worked laying paving stones or asphalt on people’s driveways whatever the weather.

  Ken, now in his late fifties, but looking older, was found wandering along the side of a slip road leading to the M5 in late September. He was picked up by a police vehicle on patrol. He was a rambling, incoherent wreck. The first port of call for him was a hospital for a check-up.

  A nurse who treated him on arrival saw bruises over the whole of his body and head lice. He showed signs of malnutrition. The poor devil hadn’t been able to wash or shower in months. For the past five weeks, he had been a patient on the psychiatric wing of a hospital in Taunton.

  Zara found it hard to believe that slavery, abolished in Britain two hundred years ago, still existed. In fact, if the data in front of her was valid, then the practice of domestic servitude was virtually endemic.

  “How can this happen in what we consider a civilised society?”

  Angela Chambers overheard her comment as she passed by her office door.

  “Something interesting, Ma’am?” she asked.

  “Parliament passed a Bill recently that set aside a specific day for Anti-Slavery Day. Any clue what date that is?”

  “No, Ma’am,” replied Angela.

  “The eighteenth of October, two weeks ago. I missed it too. I was just reading about Ken Lewis, the chap Traffic found near the M5 several weeks back. He claimed to have been held captive, working for scraps, for years by a family of travellers. We’ve identified them I understand, but because we don’t know the location that Ken was kept in, it won’t be easy to make any charges stick. Because Ken Lewis has mental problems, getting him to give evidence will be virtually impossible.”

  “New anti-slavery laws were introduced just weeks ago, Ma’am, making it an offence to hold someone in ‘servitude’ or requiring them to perform forced or compulsory labour. I read something on that a week or two back. The scale of it astounds me; how can something that terrible be going on around us and we don’t notice it? What does that say about us as a police service, let alone as a society?”

  “Come on in, Angela; close the door. Look, you were in the meeting the other morning when DS Hounsell, with justification, chastised me over the domestic violence case I handled. He said I was letting it affect me. He was right. I ate, slept and drank the Beech case for weeks. Nothing else got through the wall I built up around myself. I’m ignorant of many things that have happened in the big, wide world since that story broke. In the end, what justice will we get for Carole and Daisy? Six years possibly; and gnawing away in the corner of my head is a voice warning me not to count my chickens. One little slip by us in the evidence we put together. One little slip by the CPS on disclosure, a slippery defence counsel or a weak-minded judge–Levi Beech will be free. Someone lost a daughter and a granddaughter; someone lost a sister and a niece. Count the things they’ll miss; birthdays, proms, graduations, weddings, babies, holidays together, just a night playing bingo. Where’s the justice in six years, Angela? Tell me that.”

  “Phil Hounsell has said this to you, Ma’am; he certainly keeps saying it to us all the time. ‘We have to work with the system we’ve got, it’s not perfect but we can’t have vigilantes roaming the country dispensing their own form of rough justice.’

  For the first time in a while, Zara Wheeler threw her head back and laughed out loud.

  “Sorry, Angela. Well, it’s good to know that something I’ve said stuck in that head of his. Back in Bath when he was in RUH after his dip in the river it was me said that to him. Phil was coming around to the idea that this guy Owens did us a favour. We know that he doesn’t agree with modern policing and soft sentencing. He thought the world a better place without the sixteen criminals Owens or Bailey killed and he had done society a favour. Phil almost considered turning a blind eye.”

  “I think most officers have felt that way at one time in their career,” said Angela .“I’d better let you get on with your work; I hear you’re off on holiday soon?”

  “Tenerife on Tuesday,” sighed Zara.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Ma’am,” whispered Angela, as she got up to leave, then added brightly,

  “I’ll see you when you get back. Things might have changed; who knows?”

  Zara looked at the stack of files on her desk needing her attention. ‘Fat chance,’ she thought. She daydreamed for a while. Maybe she could meet someone on holiday. Not for a long-term relationship; just mindless sex. She wondered whether she had changed so dramatically from the timid creature from her Durham days. Could she imagine herself sitting at a bar, spotting a likely candidate, and walking over to them? Could she make it obvious that she didn’t plan on letting them go until after breakfast?

  “Fat chance of that,” she laughed.

  When she flew back into Bristol Airport, it was dark, cold and wet. The sunshine had made a welcome change and Zara caught up with the reading she had been putting off for far too long. Her evenings had been the sex-free zone she anticipated. That didn’t mean there were no men eager to spend time with her, or good-looking young men on the beach or in the bars and restaurants.

  It was just that as she didn’t take holidays abroad as often as her colleagues, she was
n’t prepared for the harsh realities of November in the Canary Islands. The average age of the men in her hotel was seventy, and they were married.

  Meanwhile, the good-looking young men on the beach were gay. She passed the bars and clubs where the young guns enjoyed themselves. She decided against the nightly bingo and what passed for in-house entertainment the senior citizens received in their all-inclusive package. Zara bought a cheap bottle of wine from the local supermercado and took it up to her room each night. She was bored and itching to get back to work.

  Zara found her car in the airport car park and drove home to Bath. She planned an early night and then an early start in the morning. She sat at her desk by eight o’clock.

  “Welcome back,” said Phil Hounsell. He arrived in the office at his usual time. Zara had been in for an hour. The stack of files was no smaller. The fairies hadn’t been while she was away. She had thought the same last night when she opened the door to Mary’s house. The mess she had left behind when working late had trimmed her preparation time to make the flight out to a minimum.

  Before she could think of cooking herself a meal, she needed to change the bedclothes, tidy the kitchen and put the mail in a prioritised order. In the end, she had emptied her case, gathered up her dirty clothes and loaded the washing machine before ringing for pizza delivery. Then she had to wait the forty minutes it took the young guy to get from the centre out to Mary’s place on his scooter. While she waited Zara got the hoover out and gave the place a well-deserved clean.

  “Have I missed anything exciting?” she asked, as her mind switched back to work mode.

  “Batteries recharged and ready to go, I see,” said Phil, with a smile. “Straight past the small talk and back to business as always. A raid is in progress, as we speak, out near Burnham-On-Sea.”

  “It’s not what you would call Dodge City out that way Sir, what’s occurring?”

  “If you want to be in on the action Inspector, you better come with me,” called Phil as he headed for his office. Zara grabbed her coat and trotted after him. This was just like the good old days.

  CHAPTER 8

  “This raid is a follow-up to the Ken Lewis affair you looked at before you flew off to the sun,” Phil told her. They were making the half an hour drive along the coast to the seaside resort of Burnham-On-Sea.

  “Never imagined we’d get any change out of that case, Phil,” said Zara. “Ken Lewis was messed-up. The Kelly family have long memories. It was going to be impossible to find anyone to stand up in court and testify. Members of the Kelly clan have been around in this corner of the West Country for a century. What changed?”

  “A nurse at Musgrove Park called last Wednesday, to say that Ken was experiencing a period of lucidity. She was speaking off the record, but she wanted someone to get a statement from him sharpish. She didn’t want his abusers to get off scot-free. Someone went in from Taunton nick. The officers ‘conned’ the doctors that they had popped in on the off-chance, to see how Ken was progressing. It bought them time with Ken and he gave us enough clues for us to work out where he had been held. This is it coming up on the left. It looks as if our search teams have got their hands full. What a bloody tip.”

  The property itself looked empty and unloved; it was an old-style bungalow, built in the 1930s. In a carport to the side stood a Ford Transit that looked as if it hadn’t moved since the 1970s. Ivy grew out of the radiator grille. Phil parked his car and went to the boot.

  “I remembered to stash my boots in here before I left home today. I threw Erica’s in too because I knew you wouldn’t have any; first day back and everything. They might be big for you. Better than tramping around these fields in those shoes though.”

  “My hero,” Zara said and was glad to be able to pull on the boots. Phil strode off around the back of the bungalow to where most of the action had been taking place. Zara struggled along after him.

  “Update please, Sergeant,” called Phil.

  DS Nick Frobisher spun around at the sound of his voice.

  “Good morning Sir didn’t expect to see you here,” replied the young copper who Zara remembered worked out of Portishead.

  “I need to keep you young beggars on your toes,” said Phil.

  “We’ve got a heck of a lot of things to plough through, Sir. This is the place without a doubt. Ken Lewis was one of a good number of people kept here by the Kelly gang. Several may have been sold to other gangs. Not so much work around here in the winter. The men we found here at six o’clock when we raided the place were removed. They kept them in the sheds and caravans you can see dotted around the field and set them to work on block paving or asphalting driveways across the county. When they weren’t doing that they did general labouring. A few of them accused the family of assaulting them; there were a few marks and bruises in evidence. One word out of turn, complaining of a lack of food or dry bedding resulted in punches and kicks.”

  “What did you find in the bungalow Nick, anyone at home?”

  “No, Sir; the guys we found were waiting for a van to arrive to take them off to work in whatever town the gang procured jobs for them. It’s difficult to hide these many police vehicles. So we had to hope the van arrived and hang around long enough for us to apprehend the driver and any passengers. I’m afraid we haven’t seen anyone. I expect they were spooked by the activity and have reported back to Kelly Senior. We’re hunting down the next likely site on the list of places where they could be staying. We’ll get them sooner rather than later.”

  “OK, Nick, we’ll let you get on with things. What about inside the property itself?”

  “Had to let ourselves in. You’ll find people from UKHTC indoors. They are collecting evidence to help with a prosecution.”

  Phil and Zara plodded back up the field towards the bungalow. Phil wondered if he had met the officers in London; the Human Trafficking Centre had been an integral part of SOCA while he had been involved.

  “Trafficking is a word normally associated with prostitution, people smuggling and organised crime,” Phil said to Zara. “Not with the Irish gipsy laying your new patio.”

  As they reached the front of the property, they could see what remained of the front door. It had been screened from the driveway to the rear where they parked, by police vans and a couple of leylandiis.

  “Lucky we brought our own key,” said Phil as they eased their way past the splintered wood into the hallway. The two UKHTC staff were strangers. After the officers introduced themselves, the female who turned out to be the senior partner, described what they had discovered so far. She outlined how it fitted in with the work they carried out countrywide.

  “There are thousands trapped in hovels similar to this,” he told them, “doing things they don’t want to do. We need to help get them out of their situation and stop others from being sold into slavery. Almost fifteen hundred people have been found working as slaves in the UK. Of course, those are only the number of people we have located. The true scale of the problem could be much greater. Fifteen hundred is certain to be the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Slaves found at travellers’ sites, such as this one, are tramps, drug addicts, care-home runaways, illegal immigrants, fugitives, and ex-convicts.” her colleague continued. “We’re talking of a largely forgotten horde of non-persons. The gangs of travellers arrive in their vans early in the morning. These stragglers are scooped up off the streets, from the hostels. Then whisked away with the promise of a day’s labour. In fact, they rarely see any money. Just a can or two of lager and scraps of food. Most of the men your people released here today were held against their will. Forced to work for at least twelve hours a day for food and a bed.”

  “It’s been well-known for a while that this is how several members of the travelling community make their money,” added the female officer. “The State benefits to which these men were entitled, are paid directly into the Kelly bank account. Evidence of this has been found. We have correspondence too that shows that the autho
rities knew the men were here. They believed the Kelly family looked after their welfare. I doubt if anyone bothered to check. The Kelly family is constantly on the move. It’s in their nature, so if anyone came to call in office hours between nine and five, odds on the place was deserted.”

  Phil and Zara listened to their depressing story. At least, Ken Lewis might get a degree of justice. When the Kelly family was finally arrested, they would be charged with false imprisonment and any other charges that UKHTC could lay at their door.

  “Oh, by the way, we found passports too,” said the female officer, “although, they look iffy. I reckon you’ve several illegals in amongst the guys you removed to a place of safety earlier. Do you want to follow up on that?”

  “Leave them to us,” said Phil, turning to Zara he added, “we’ve seen enough, don’t you? It’s all good stuff. The clock’s ticking for the Kelly family. I know we cover a big patch and they know most of the hidey-hole’s on it, but we’ll root them out. Let’s get over there and interview these suspects.”

  Zara collected the passports from the female UKHTC officer and she and Phil Hounsell went outside to the car. After storing their dirty boots on the back and getting their shoes back on, Phil drove them to Portishead.

  “These interviews can be tricky Zara,” said Phil.

  “Stating the obvious again Phil? Well, you wouldn’t expect the authorities to make it simple. We need to find interpreters for a start. We’ll have to watch every word we say, in case we infringe their human rights, no matter how they got here. The system is stacked against us at every turn.”

  “Blimey, Zara; I thought a week’s break might cheer you up, but you’re even more cynical than before you went away.”

  “We have to stick by the law Phil, which means we’re already up against the clock. When we get back, we need to uncover the nationality of these two suspected illegal immigrants and chase up interpreters. It would be good to get these passports checked out, To see if the UKHTC officer was right to be suspicious. One thing we don’t know is the condition of this pair. They may have needed hospital treatment. By the sound of it, even if they presented with a relatively clean bill of health, they will be thirsty and starving.”