Jack's Back
Page 58
Despite the great sense of loss she had felt since Tracey’s passing, Rita felt incredibly blessed to have been granted such a special relationship with her granddaughter, little April. She vowed that the child’s life would always be filled with deep, unconditional love, and that she would do everything within her power to ensure that the angelic little girl followed a very different path to poor Tracey. The two of them would get through this together. They would start their journey with a surprise trip to the shops later this morning, where Rita planned to buy her a Belle doll from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast.
◆◆◆
For Colin and Carmel Franklin, the weekend was one they would remember forever for reasons completely unconnected to the Whitechapel murders investigation.
As of eight-thirty, Saturday morning, after a labour that had lasted sixteen-and-a-half-grueling hours, they became the proud parents of an eight-pound-two-ounce baby boy.
The event was beautiful beyond description. It was a magical moment that no words could ever do justice to, and the euphoria Colin had experienced on holding the fragile infant for the first time, so small and insignificant in his large hands, humbled him to the core.
◆◆◆
As Jack had anticipated, Kelly had been kept in overnight for observations, but she was released with a clean bill of health at midday on Saturday. Through no fault of his own, he hadn’t made it back to the hospital to see her the previous night, but he had sent his apologies via the night sister on the ward.
When she walked out of the observation ward, having been told that someone from work was coming to take her home, she looked around for her driver, wondering whether it would be Paul Evans, George Copeland or even Steve Bull.
“Taxi for Miss Flowers?” a gruff Cockney voice asked.
Kelly turned around, expecting to see an unshaven slob of a mini-cab driver waiting for her. She was a little disappointed that none of her colleagues had come, but she knew how busy they must be, and she understood that it must have been impossible for the boss to release anyone – hence the mini-cab.
When she saw Tyler leaning against the wall, her face broke into a big smile. “I wasn’t expecting you,” she admitted.
“I hope you’re not too disappointed,” he said, taking her arm in his and guiding her towards the exit.
“On the contrary,” she explained. “I’m very pleased that you came.”
“Well, I did promise you coffee,” he said, “and I always like to keep my word.”
Coffee was a good start, she thought. Coffee could easily lead to dinner, and from there? Well, who knew?
The Hunt For Chen
Exhausted from having just dealt with a series of gruesome murders in Whitechapel, DCI Jack Tyler and his team are hoping for a quiet run in to Christmas.
Things are looking promising until the London Fire Brigade are called down to a house fire in East London and discover a charred body that has been wrapped in a carpet and set alight.
Attending the scene, Tyler and his partner, DI Tony Dillon, immediately realise that they are dealing with a brutal murder.
A witness comes forward who saw the victim locked in a heated argument with an Oriental male a few minutes before the fire started, but nothing is known about this mysterious man other than he drives a white van and his name might be Chen.
Armed with this frugal information a murder investigation is launched and the hunt is on to find the unknown killer.
If you enjoyed ‘JACK'S BACK’, you’ll defiantly want to read Mark’s free Novella, ‘THE HUNT FOR CHEN.’ Visit Mark’s website below to claim your copy:
markromain.com
Glossary of terms
AIDS – Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome
AC – Assistant Commissioner
AMIP – Area Major Investigation Pool (Predecessor
to the Homicide Command)
ARV – Armed Response Vehicle
BIU – Borough Intelligence Unit
BPA – Blood Pattern Analysis
BTP – British Transport Police
C11 – Criminal Intelligence / surveillance
CAD – Computer Aided Dispatch
CCTV – Closed Circuit Television
CID – Criminal Investigation Department
CIPP – Crime Investigation Priority Project
CRIMINT – Criminal Intelligence
CSM – Crime Scene Manager
(The) Craft – the study of magic
CRIS – Crime Reporting Information System
DNA – Deoxyribonucleic Acid
DC – Detective Constable
DS – Detective Sergeant
DI – Detective Inspector
DCI – Detective Chief Inspector
DSU – Detective Superintendent
DCS – Detective Chief Superintendent
DPG – Diplomatic Protection Group
ESDA – Electrostatic Detection Apparatus (some
times called
an EDD or Electrostatic Detection Device)
ETA – Expected Time of Arrival
(The) Factory – Police jargon for their base.
FLO – Family Liaison Officer
Foxtrot Oscar – Police jargon for ‘fuck off’
FSS – Forensic Science Service
GP – General Practitioner
GMC – General Medical Council
HA – Arbour Square police station
HAT – Homicide Assessment Team
HEMS – Helicopter Emergency Medical Service
HIV – Human Immunodeficiency Virus
HOLMES – Home Office Large Major Enquiry System
HP – High Priority
HR – Human Resources
HT – Whitechapel borough / Whitechapel police
station
IO – Investigating Officer
Kiting checks – trying to purchase goods or obtain
cash with stolen / fraudulent checks
LAG – Lay Advisory Group
LAS – London Ambulance Service
LFB – London Fire Brigade
MIR – Major Incident Room
MPH – Miles Per Hour
MPS – Metropolitan Police Service
NHS – National Health Service
Nondy – Nondescript vehicle, typically an observa
tion van
NSY – New Scotland Yard
OM – Office manager
Old Bill – the police
P9 – MPS Level 1/P9 Surveillance Trained
PC – Police Constable
PLO – Press Liaison Officer
PM – Post Mortem
PNC – Police National Computer
POLACC – Police Accident
PTT – Press to Talk
RCS – Regional Crime Squad
Rozzers – the police
RTA – Road traffic Accident
RT car – Radio Telephone car, nowadays known as a
Pursuit Vehicle
SCG - Serious Crime Group
SIO – Senior Investigating Officer
Sheep – followers of Christ; the masses
Skipper - Sergeant
SNT – Safer Neighbourhood Team
SO19 – Met Police Firearms Unit
SOCO – Scene Of Crime Officer
SOIT – Sexual Offences Investigative Technique
SPM – Special Post Mortem
SPOC – Single Point Of Contact
TDC – Trainee Detective Constable
TIE – Trace, Interview, Eliminate
TIU – Telephone Investigation Unit
TSG – Territorial Support Group
TSU – Technical Support Unit
VODS – Vehicle On-line Descriptive Searching
Walkers – officers on foot patrol
Trumpton – the Fire Brigade
Author’s note
Let me start by thanking you for taking the time to read my debut novel. I really, really hope that you enjoyed it. If you did, can I ask you to do me
a big favour by sparing a few moments to leave an honest review on Amazon. It doesn’t need to be much, just a line or two to say if you enjoyed it or would recommend it.
I can’t stress how helpful this feedback is for indie authors like me. Apart from influencing a book’s rankings, reviews help people who have not yet read my work decide whether it’s right for them.
◆◆◆
Unlike the stories we see unfold in our favourite TV shows, where everything falls neatly into place and all the loose ends are tied up by the time the end credits roll, things tend to happen very differently in real life.
As a general rule of thumb, I think most police officers would agree that, for every minute of excitement experienced during an adrenalin rush on the street, you end up having to complete five-hours’ worth of boring paperwork – and sometimes considerably more.
It takes time to put a solid case together: CCTV can take days to retrieve and weeks to view; forensics can take days, weeks or even months to come back; witnesses can take ages to track down, and they don’t always want to play ball. And don’t even get me started on the rigmarole of analysing telephone and financial data!
The point is, police work is often slow and methodical, and not remotely glamorous. Detectives – especially DCI’s – spend far more time tied to their desks going through files than they do zooming around in fast cars, chasing after suspects and then rolling around on the floor with them. So, while I’ve tried to be as procedurally accurate, and as realistic as possible, with ‘Jack’s Back’, I do confess to having used a liberal sprinkling of artistic license where necessary in order to ensure that the smooth flow and dramatic tone of the book is maintained.
A few people have asked me if Jack Tyler or any of the other characters are based on me, or on other people I have known or worked with over the years. The answer is a resounding no! Every character featured in this book is completely fictitious and a product of my overactive imagination.
Likewise, the sacrificial rituals The Disciple carries out in this story, along with the book containing his source material, are entirely made up and are not based on real occult practices.
Finally, you might wonder why I’ve chosen to set my story in 1999 instead of in more recent times. Well, the truth is that that I actually started writing this book way back in 1999, but soon discovered that having to work extended shifts on a regular basis wasn’t particularly conducive to writing fiction. I eventually gave up trying and decided to shelve the project until I retired. So, when you actually think about it, this book has taken me the best part of twenty years to complete! Don’t worry - I plan to be a lot quicker at writing the next one!
About the author
Mark Romain is a retired Metropolitan Police officer, having joined the Service in the mid-eighties. His career included two homicide postings, and during that time he was fortunate enough to work on a number of very challenging high-profile cases.
Mark lives in Essex with is his wife, Clare. They have two grown up children and one grandchild. Between them, the family has three English Bull Terriers and a very bossy Dachshund called Weenie!
Mark is a lifelong Arsenal fan and an avid skier. He also enjoys going to the theatre, lifting weights and kick-boxing, a sport he got into during his misbegotten youth!
You can find out more about Mark’s books or contact him via his website or Facebook page:
Markromain.com
Mark Romain – author
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 Mark Romain.
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
ISBN-13: 9781731097712
The right of Mark Romain to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the copyright, designs and patents act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Turf War
Coming Summer 2020
Chapter 1
The recruitment
It was a warm Saturday night at the beginning of May, and the City Centre was buzzing with noise, lights, and a keen sense of expectation. There was music, laughter, the occasional blare of a horn or wail of a siren; a feeling that the night was young and full of potential – anything could happen, and probably would.
Already heaving, Cosmopolitan Manchester would only get busier as more people flocked in for a well-deserved night out, all intent on letting their hair down, blowing off some steam, and having a little fun.
The streets felt energised, and a party mood prevailed amongst the customers spilling out of jam-packed establishments onto adjoining pavements.
Although the Haçienda club in Whitworth Street West, on the south side of the Rochdale Canal, had closed in the summer of 1997 there were still plenty of clubs, bars and pubs in which to party away a Saturday night.
Unfortunately, the venue Conrad Livingstone was about to visit wasn’t one of them.
The Gallagher brothers were belting out Wonderwall on the car radio and his idiot driver was singing along, tapping out an irritating drum beat on the top of the steering wheel with the palms of his hands.
For a while, Livingstone sat motionless in the front passenger seat of the car, studying the club’s entrance and contemplating how the evening would pan out.
His brooding was interrupted by a group of drunken girls who stumbled past the car, their off key singing easily drowning out Liam and Noel. Their party frocks were covered in glitter and tassels, and one of them wore a banner that proclaimed her as the bride to be. As Livingstone followed their erratic passage with his eyes, one of the them suddenly lurched into the road and threw up. A couple of girls tottered over to help her while the rest of the group stood on the kerb, laughing and shouting profanities. His driver, Meeks, thought it was all very entertaining, but Livingstone wasn’t in the mood to laugh. ‘Fucking skanks,’ he muttered under his breath.
Linking their arms through hers, the drunk’s friends guided her back onto the relative safety of the sidewalk and the group resumed its unsteady journey along the road.
Stepping out of the car, Livingstone told his driver to go back to the hotel and wait for him there; he didn’t know how long he would be but he would make his own way back after he’d concluded his business.
Livingstone crossed the busy road, nimbly dodging between cars that had no intention of slowing down for him, and walked towards the nightclub’s garishly lit entrance.
The club might not be the most salubrious of establishments but it was obviously very popular. A slow-moving line of between forty and fifty people hugged the wall to the left of the building, laughing and joking as they queued good naturedly to get in. Quite a few of them looked like they were already half-pissed.
The punters were being vetted at the entrance by three Eastern European looking bouncers who were checking to see that they met the age restriction and token dress code. All three men, Albanians or Romanians from the look of them, were big lumps, over six-foot tall, with shaven domes, facial scars and broken noses. One had a tattoo of a snake curling around a dagger running from the back of his ear all the way down the right side of his neck. Working in silent unison, they reminding Livingstone of a well-trained pack of attack dogs.
A nightclub wouldn’t have been Livingstone’s first choice for such an important meeting, but for some unfathomable reason the man whose particular skill set he’d driven all the way from London to hire had been adamant that they met there.
A flickering neon sign above the club’s main entrance proclaimed its name was ‘Crosby’s,’ but two of the bulbs at the top of the O had shorted out, making the letter look like a U.
Two man-mountains in ill-fitting penguin suits were guarding the door to the VIP entrance on the opposite side of the building, and they watched Livingstone with undisguised suspicion as he approached them.
Attired as he was in an Armani suit of virgin wool worn over a purple Givenchy silk sh
irt, it must have been clear that Livingstone was minted, but as he reached the entrance the two doormen sidled up to each other, blocking his path. They regarded the well-dressed man as though he were a vagrant begging for scraps. ‘This is a VIP only entrance,’ the one on the left said.