by Pete Adams
Cause and Effect
Kind Hearts and Martinets Book 1
Pete Adams
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part Two
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Dear Reader
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2019 Pete Adams
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Creativia
Published 2019 by Creativia (www.creativia.org)
Edited by Elizabeth N. Love
Cover art by Cover Mint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
Shallow men believe in luck – strong men believe in cause and effect
Ralph Waldo Emerson
I dedicate this book to my family who have been behind me, pushing me; I was on the platform of Waterloo Station at the time, and of course Charlie, our Border Terrier; is he Martin...? Perhaps...?
Acknowledgments
I am indebted to the support of Jan East who helped me along, storyline comments, poof reading, and in the first instance, helping me self-publish.
Prologue
Clashes of steel and screams pierced the normally tranquil night air of the leafy, salubrious Portsmouth suburb of East Cosham. The locals had long been concerned about the dodgy Christians in 33 Acacia Avenue, but, in true British middle-class reserve, complaints to the authorities had mainly been tutts and an occasional polite letter or two; suggestion of a working group, maybe? Reports to police, largely ignored, “With the Government cutbacks, resources are tight and getting tighter.”
Now, their worst fears are come to pass, ruffians with large bladed poles, defending number 33, clash with men armed with scimitars. By the time the police arrived, the skirmish was over. Four youths seriously injured, taken away by ambulance, the remaining protagonists melted into the borders and shrubberies. Streetlights, out for months, replaced by a strobing blue, faces of residents looking out windows; most cowered.
As it became clear the area was safe, peace, if not tranquillity restored, so it was disturbed again by harrumphing and other such expressions of indignation, mention of letters, values of property and self-interest. “Hadn’t they warned the authorities?” “Didn’t you write a letter?” “No, I thought you did?”
‘Hallo, Chas.’
Chas jumped.
‘Blimey, Mr Masters, you scared me.’
‘Working late?’
‘Finishing these bikes, they’re going out tomorrow,’ Chas explained.
‘Not till late, but thanks,’ Brian Masters, owner of Bazaar Bikes, said, turning to leave. 'See you tomorrow.’
Jeez, that was close, Chas thought, scared. How did he get in so deep?
Osama held his sobbing wife, a peculiar sight, this mammoth wobbly woman being cuddled and comforted by a diminutive matchstick man who, despite being of distant Pakistani origins, presented his British stiff upper lip. His son is missing, but what can he do about it?
The elfin-like girl could not remember when she had last worn clothes or felt safe. She was afraid now as her mother lifted her to hide behind some boxes. ‘Be very still, Meesh, and not a peep,’ her mother whispered. Meesh nodded, couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken. The light went out, the door remained open. She had no sense of time, heard a shot, her mother scream. Mesh's scream stayed inside of her, where it remained as she saw the man put the knife into her mother, felt her bowels open, and worried about the noise.
Part One
Cause
One
BATTLE OF ACACIA AVENUE
POLICE - where were they?
Bernie Thompson: Portsmouth Evening News, crime reporter.
Four youths were injured in a gang incident last night in the usually peaceful suburb of East Cosham. George Rattle, Chairman of the Local Community Policing Committee, said, “The fight was vicious and people were scared. Why did it take 15 minutes for the police to respond?”
A Police spokesman said, “The response time is under investigation.” An anonymous but reliable police source said, “We're sorry residents felt threatened, but what do they expect with Government cutbacks forced on an already stretched Police service? If it is any comfort to the residents, who returned a Tory MP, we are all in this together.”
The Chief Constable commented, “The Police do not comment on Government policy.” When pushed if his force was under strength, he said, “The force struggled with all it was charged to do even before the cutbacks.”
The Head of the Community Policing Committee for Portsmouth, Captain John V. Littleman RN, said, “The Police may be understaffed, but in-line with Government policy to involve more volunteers, good people are helping in admin posts, freeing up officers for frontline work.” He has called a special meeting of the committee, made up of senior police officers, Councillors, and volunteers like himself. “Government policy is working,” he said, “and being implemented with full vigour in |Portsmouth.”
‘Jane, my office,’ and turning on her heel, Detective Superintendent Amanda Bruce squeaked across the polished floor of the community policing room, jerked the door open, and disappeared along the short corridor and into her office at the front of the police station.
Jane continued his reverie, induced, he says, by his cycle ride into work on a glorious late spring morning. At 59, Detective Inspector Jack Austin felt his morning assertion (he meant exertion) due to his competitive nature, racing often unaware opponents, generated a creative frivolity, his juice moment, referring to his brain activity, not the sweat; others referred to that.
Spinning Jack’s chair, Detective Sergeant Josephine Wild, nicknamed Jo-Jums, cautioned,
‘Pumps looks serious.’ The Superintendent’s nicknames were Mandy Pumps or Mandy Lifeboats, courtesy of Jack Austin, who nicknamed everyone, saying, “That’s yer moniker, son, so lump it.” Everyone was son to him. You had to lump that as well. Jo-Jums, also known as Mumsey, which described her comely appearance as well as her instincts, asserted her matriarchal caring role of her frequently distracted, often errant, boss, shook her head and tutted, which usually did the trick.
The Superintendent reappeared, ‘Jane, when I say step into my office, I mean now, not when you felt like it,’ stayed, hazel eyes flaring green within her angry face; Jack liked that face.
Languidly, and in his most refined voice, ‘Miss Bonnet, I seek first to deteriorate your intonation, thus relieving me of the burden of assuming your iron on a morning when my mood is elevated and my eyes are brightened by exercise, and, what’s the magic word?’
As funny as his Pride and Prejudice misquotes were, Jack Austin being Mr Malacopperism, Jo-Jums noted the impeccably coiffed, sharply dressed, high-achieving, fifty-something, strong Superintendent, appeared edgy this morning and not so sartorially smooth. Jack remained unruffled. He relished his nickname, Jane, frequently regaling one and all with bastardised Jane Austen quotes such as, “Your family, they are well?” the expected response, “Yes, quite well.” However, this morning, Jack was insensible to the precarious signals.
The Riot Act was interrupted by the whistled theme from Z-cars, a vintage BBC police drama only Jack remembered, heralding Hissing Sid, the station desk sergeant. ‘Jane, I need you downstairs to sort out bleedin’ Dixon of Dock Green.’ Sid acquired his moniker because he hissed the C in CID, although he was a lanky, skeletal, middle-aged snake of a man, so covering all bases, Austin would say.
‘Siderney...’ Austin’s posh voice, '...the magic word?’
‘Christ's sake, Jane, Pleeeeeeeasssse,’ Sid hissed, a drawn-out whiney, sycophantic enunciation, reflected also in Sid’s body language that naturally simpered.
‘Righteeho, but I may have a previous engagement with Superintendent Pumps.’ Austin replied, fluttering his one eye, pleased with his response, didn’t look around, he knew others liked it too. He had a sense for these things to the extent he told people he was blessed.
Resigned, Sid slithered out as Mandy bashed Jack on his head with a rolled-up newspaper, and mimicking Sid, ‘Pleeeeeeeasssse, Jane, pretty please with brass knobs,’ and whacked him again.
Feigning a serious head injury, ‘Be right with you, sweet’art.’
Jack’s juvenile behaviour irritated, but Mandy liked him, irritated her more. A tall man, six-four and straight backed, his dad had been a Marine, a tad overweight, he erroneously thought, and definitely ugly, though he argued his face had character, Austin was a charismatic cockney barrow boy, and he called her beautiful, a real woman, which she liked. Mandy was tall herself, five-ten, and in reasonable shape for fifty-three, but beautiful? She considered her nose too big, but Jack would say it was one of the things he liked most. Mandy had known Jack nine years since coming to Portsmouth, she, a single parent of two children, Jack an evident strong bond of love with his wife and their two kids. He’d been devastated when Kate died three years ago; even now she knew he grieved.
She paced back to her office.
Two
Jack sauntered the corridor, knocked politely, opened the door, and Martin zeroed in on Mandy’s crotch. ‘Can we not meet without your dog?’ Mandy exclaimed, brushing Martin away with an affectionate scratch of his head.
Austin Martin, a proud and scruffy, ginger-haired Border Terrier, his nose not appreciated, trotted on, any idea Mandy’s crotch worth sniffing, a coincidental thought, and settled himself beside his master. Jack sat upon the spare, straight-backed, orange PVC chair that resided on the far wall. Jack felt the comfy seating in front of her big desk put him at a psychological disadvantage; low, reclining backs made him appear awkward and feel small.
Jack wasn't an office man, preferring the social amenities of a communal space, but Mandy's office had one coveted feature, a large south-west facing window, affording a view of a mature, leafy tree. He settled, in order to take pleasure in the solar benefits of this window and the hypnotic dappling leaf shadows on the moss green carpet, like a forest floor he supposed; Jack was a town man, but he’d seen Robin Hood. The combination of agitated, sparkling dust motes, a whirligig leaf pattern on the forest floor, had a soporific effect on Jack, or would have, were it not for Mandy asserting herself. He adjusted his seat so his scarred and empty right eye socket faced her, leaned back, enjoying the warmth of the sun on the varicose veins of his outstretched legs, raised his arms behind his head and closed his eye, just for a bit; it didn’t look like he would be called upon to say much.
In the spirit of the never-ending exchanges between the two of them, Mandy positioned herself in front of the window, forcing him to look at her into the sun with his good eye, and she criss-crossed the strong sunlight, beating her leg with the rolled-up newspaper. ‘Ah, attack out of the sun,’ a casually murmured thought as Jack slipped into a daydream, warmed by the radiant heat and the sight of this magnificent woman, in her prime, every inch and curve his Isle of Portsea, Sophia Loren.
Hissing Sid popped his head around the door, saw Superintendent Amanda Bruce musing, bashing her leg with a newspaper, hips swaying in the sunshine, and DI Austin slumped in the most incongruous part of the office, his extra-long bare legs stretched outright, and Martin looking as if he was seated at Wimbledon.
‘Bugger off, Sid,’ Mandy and Jack said, Martin barked out of synch, and Sid slithered off. Mandy launched into Jack, pacing, every now and then pointing the newspaper, eliciting defensive grumbling from Martin, whose perceived role in life was to defend his master when he was not paying attention – a full-time job. In reality, however, Martin was a recommendation by the police psychiatrist to calm Jack, a noted Berserker, a trait people believed the cause of his severe facial disfigurement, his right eye glassed berserking in a pub fight.
Jack lived with a gruesome, puckered layer of sunken skin in his redundant eye socket, a vertical, silvery, raised scar from his forehead to the top of his cheek. No eye patch, he wore the disfigurement with perverted pride, adding character to a face he considered handsome. If asked, he would say he was a Buddhist, but was C of E, Church of Egypt, and allowed this minor imperfection to his counter-dance. The normal response to this was Twat, and what’s a counter-dance? One tended to ignore his face-saving diatribe of Strictly Come Dancing on shop counters.
Ordinarily Jack was a calm individual, rarely flustered, always witty (he thought), happy, whistling and singing, jovial to the point of causing everyone else to go berserk. Extraordinarily, he survived all attempts at censure, allowing his natural instinct for humour to smooth over his pathological hatred of the "pompous, self-important, doctrinaire, up their own arses, bureaucrat wankers," quoting Mary Poppins, whom he also said was Truly Scrumptious. Jack was a team player as long as he was captain, but how did he survive the bureaucracy? A “higher power” he would say. “You’ll get your comeuppance one day,” people said, and maybe he would eventually have to take early retirement, another of his great jokes at 59, aware he was reckless, which he put down to the loss of his wife. People said he’d gotten worse since Kate Austin died. He cared not, thought if he was a ship, rudderless and at sea, he would get back to harbour. “You’re a natural survivor, Jane” and replying by rote, “Not sure I want to survive,” the melancholic Jack, ever present, an emotional man not frightened to show his feelings, some say rare in a copper, especially the crying.
‘Earth to Austin, are you listening, what're you thinking?’ Mandy asserted into Jack’s ether.
Groggily, he replied, ‘Amanda, sweet’art, I was thinking of your lustrous hair, how it sways with your body. In the sun it glows album. You’re fifty-odd, an age where a woman
may worry about lines, and you do have a few...’ acknowledging his powers of observation, ‘...but they radiate your womanly beauty.’ Mandy stopped pacing. Martin flipped his grizzled muzzle. ‘You have magnificent hips and an arse like a scrumptious apple, a womanly figure silhouetted by the sunshine behind you, and I imagine your olive skin, in cream silk underwear, full Alan Wickers, stockings and suspenders, where the button gives the tell-tale hint beneath your skirt,’ he was quite breathy.
Smoothing her skirt and feeling dim-witted for walking in front of the window, she shuffled aside.
Responding to the familiar watch-out growl from Martin, Jack stirred to see a stunned Superintendent, mouth agape as if someone had unsuspectingly kicked her backside, ‘Did I just say...out loud?’