Santa

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

She’d never been so glad to get home. She had to soak out the leering dirty atmosphere of Nigel the manager and Meadowchef Foods. The boss had been a different matter all together. Toward Max Muswell she felt nothing but anger, bordering on rage. Her feelings were made worse by his attractiveness. How could she be drawn to a vile piece of s**t like him? All the same she could see how a woman would like his tough-guy looks and his tall, bull-bodied confidence. Some woman like an actress with no brains or morals.

While she heated water for a bath she poured a large glass of Rockstone Red Californian wine. She powered up her laptop and googled Max Muswell. There was no shortage of information. She skipped to the section on his infamous divorce. Apparently he’d fallen for Azzura Vermillion, a p**n star with a real name of Wendy Wiggins from Dagenham, East London. He’d funded all manner of enhancements and reshaping and had gotten her into the mainstream movie business. They got married and all seemed well. She was making a film with the womanizing Romano Poxato on location in Istanbul. Seemingly, she offered her charms to him for a one-night gig and returned pregnant to her loving Max when the filming was completed. He commented on her slight increase in size but believed her explanation that the movie had required her to play the part of a belly dancer. As a true professional she’d eaten lamb kebabs with a box of Turkish Delight chocolate as dessert every day. Seemingly there was laughter in the divorce court. Max Muswell told the press he felt humiliated by his gullibility, but that he’d loved her so much he wanted to believe her.

Azzura Vermillion attempted to disguise her pregnancy with corsets but finally fled to Romano Poxato’s villa in the Bahamas, where he had installed a French teenage actress with a view to giving her screen tests. He turned his back on Azzura and she wound up in a hospital in Miami having given birth to a premature infant alone in a motel room. She abandoned the babe at the hospital and instructed lawyers to sue Max Muswell for divorce on the grounds of cruelty. Sidelined by Romano Poxato, she never objected to Max becoming the sole parent.

She clicked through his early life. Zero academically. He’d made some money as a fighter in unlicensed boxing in the East End of London. He’d made and lost a million as a professional gambler by the time he was twenty-five. He’d bought some racehorse stables during the good times and built a multi-million-dollar training and stud business. After his divorce he’d gone back to backstreet fighting, in his own words, to deal with his anger issues. He’d wound up injured and while recovering bought the bankrupt Meadowchef Foods business for a dollar, as a project to rebuild his mind.

She let out a sigh and closed the screen. How small her own life seemed. If only half of the Wiki story was true he was a remarkable man, but no less obnoxious. She hoped she’d at least landed a couple of blows on his bullying ego. She was more than a little worried about Leroy Prentice and the way she’d let him escape. In hindsight she’d done the wrong thing because that security guard and the revolting Nigel knew that’s what had happened. It was just on the spur of the moment she’d let him go. She could have locked him up and gained a few brownie points from the bosses. How was a community officer supposed to balance friendship and identity with the merciless law? She was pretty certain that Max Muswell would never have understood her actions. For now there was no point in worrying. She’d lied and now that lie was her truth. Any weakness or confession, and the system would skin her alive. As a professional police officer she knew she should file a report about the workers at Meadowchef Foods. She knew that nothing would happen. The local commander was under pressure because of the rate of street robbery. The last thing he would want was a can of non-English-speaking worms tipped out on his desk. It wouldn’t hurt for her to do some digging, check out who exactly delivered the labor and where they were kept when they weren’t working. Tomorrow was scheduled as another afternoon shift and perhaps she’d take a look. Her first priority was sleep.

She awoke to the constant groaning of the traffic on Camberwell Road. The Number Forty red London buses trundled past day and night between Aldgate and Dulwich. Her home was a small bedsit above an empty shop. The view from her window was of a run-down taxi office and a hairdresser’s salon. It was a little damp and creepy with the deserted premises underneath but it was just about affordable for a woman on her own. That expression bugged her. On her own. Yes, she was on her own. No one said she was independent, proud, resourceful, dedicated to her work. No; she was on her own. She wasn’t afraid of spiders, could unblock a sink, put a hard knee into a man’s groin, and cover up her loneliness with her work. And above all else, she could drive a bus. She’d spent three years of her life driving a London bus before she had joined the police. She maintained her license as a badge of pride and as a testament to her having a foot in the teeming struggle of life outside the police. More than anything, it still gave her eyes other than those of a cop through which to view humanity.

She was out of bed and away by 8 o’clock. She walked to the community center where the bus was stored. The battery was tired and she had to use jumper cables to get it running. Her mission was to collect a group of kids with learning problems from all over the area and take them to a day center. She scraped ice from the windscreen as the motor warmed up. Her mind turned to the obnoxious Max Muswell. His Rolls-Royce would be worth about a quarter of a million pounds. She’d settle for a couple of new batteries. Her first stop was at the Lomond Grove High Rise to collect Irene, her escort helper.

Her round followed the usual pattern of kids not ready, with mums begging her to wait. Others stood pinch-faced and shivering, holding their child at cold bus stops. Irene scolded and cuddled kids equally in her loud embracing manner.

“Come along, come along. You late and others wait. Sweet Jesus loves a smile.”

“You’re a ray of Jamaican sunshine to me,” Paula yelled above the noise of kids, the belting music of Capital Radio, and the old rattly engine.

“Sun? God hides the sun to test our souls. It’s easy to be happy on a sunny day.”

Paula had known Irene for about four years and had built her into her own life as a kind of inner voice. Her existence was in the hands of Jesus with liberal doses of the Virgin Mary. Bad things were to test you as an individual person and good things were to be shared. There was no more and no less to life than that. Paula had no religious faith, a fact which Irene saw as an act of God.

“Jesus sent you to examine my beliefs. The more you doubt the more the Lord whispers answers in my ear. I pray to Jesus for you every day, Paula. He protects you because he’s afraid of what I’d say to him if he didn’t.”

“I think I’d be with Jesus on that one.”

They pulled into the day center car park at 9:30. Paula loved these kids and had known many of them since she’d started as a volunteer driver. A little girl named Lauren stopped as she got out, to show her a library book. It was The Incredible Mr Fox.

“Boggis eats three chickens a day,” she said in a tiny voice.

“Wow, that’s so greedy. You wouldn’t do that would you?”

“No. I wouldn’t do that.”

She watched her walk away. It didn’t look as if she’d ever eaten any portion of a chicken.

“Poor little mite. Her mother’s expecting a new baby. Lauren may have to go into a children’s home for a while if she can’t cope,” said Irene.

Paula sighed. There were so many sad stories around these kids, too many to focus on individual cases. In this context she wasn’t a cop. She wasn’t representing any vision of society, except her own sense of goodwill to others. Once she pulled on the uniform, she stood for the law and the system. Sometimes too much of her inner self spilled over into her work. Like when she’d let Leroy Prentice go.

She did some shopping for groceries, did the reverse bus run at 12:30 and just about had time to be ready for duty at 2:00 p.m. She liked her life this way. She joined the gaggle of cops in the parade room at Brixton police station.

“Why do I always think of hearts and flowers when I see you, Paula?”

She laughed as a cop ten years her junior, known as “Basher” called out to her. He was famed as a police boxer and had a certain reputation for an over-physical approach to his work.

“’Cause you’re an oversexed moron,” said another officer. “Paula’s pledged to me, ain’t ya?”

She glanced at the speaker, a pleasant-faced rounded guy who’d been widowed a couple of years back.

“I said I’d taken the pledge, Jim. You should get your ears cleaned out,” she replied.

The boys laughed. In the main they were young, far younger than her. The youngest candidate for her affections had been twenty-two. He’d invited her to play on his Xbox. His enthusiasm crashed when she had to admit that she’d never played a video game.

The sergeant began to list the wanted suspects, the latest thefts, robberies and burglaries, the missing juveniles, the latest hangouts for dealers, the intelligence on who had firearms, a general memo from Scotland Yard about terror attacks with vehicles, and finally a warning from the district commander about officers not wearing their caps and helmets. Paula knew that most of the information was a waste of time. Brixton received hundreds of emergency response calls every day. Every officer fought fires for nearly all of their shift.

The door opened and a young inspector came in. He walked to the front of the room and looked at the late-shift crew. There were guys there with twenty-five years’ service, guys with commendations and medals for bravery. The inspector raised his hands in a gesture for them all to stand.

“f**k me! It’s Jesus raising the f*****g dead,” said an old-sweat called Vic-the-nick on account of his nose for crooks.

Paula giggled and a few guys laughed aloud. The inspector lowered his hands indicating they could all sit down. This had to be a jerk. Obviously he was a college-boy entry on the accelerated promotion scheme.

“Good afternoon. I’m Inspector Crispin Bissel. I am your shift inspector for the next few months. I’m really looking forward to getting to know you and joining you on patrol.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever breathed in one of Basher’s farts, guv,” said a gruff voice.

The inspector looked a little nervous at such disrespect. He carried on his introduction.

“You’ll all get to know me, I hope. I only see opportunities and challenges.”

“Better mind the f*****g steps, then guv,” interrupted Vic-the-nick.

The crew laughed. Paula felt a shred of sympathy for the young man. He was out of his depth, but soon enough he’d be thrown a line and rescued back to Scotland Yard for further career development and promotion. All he knew was college life of essays and lectures. This was the front line and these guys faced it day after day. One of the shift was sick with a fractured skull. Another had just come back after a stab wound. Little management jargon pep talks were not the flavor at Brixton.

“Can I let this lot out to provide the public with the a***e and maltreatment they deserve?”asked the sergeant.

“Yes. Do we have PC Middleton here?”

“It’s the short, beautiful one dressed up as a woman,” he replied.

Inspector Bissel visibly winced at the political incorrectness. Paula smiled.

“I hear you’re pretty short in some places, sarge.”

“That’s the last time I’ll call you beautiful. If ever you want to check out my dimensions, Paula?”

“I’ve lost my detective’s magnifying glass, sarge.”

“Go on you lot, f**k off and don’t dare bring me any stinking hobo fleabags for drunk and disorderly. If you have to just push them over the border into Camberwell.”

The inspector had turned to a ghostly white. He’d fallen into a boiling vat of s****m and outrageous cynicism. In five minutes the foundations of his superior rank and management confidence had been washed away by a flood of reality.

“PC Middleton, I need to speak to you in my office.”

“OK guv, did I get caught on CCTV with my hat crooked?”

“There’s been a complaint.”

Straightaway she had a good idea of what it would be.

“My conscience is clear, sir.”

The inspector re-inflated himself as she used the correct term to address him. She followed him through a couple of corridors narrowed by filing cabinets and bags of riot equipment that had no proper home. He seated himself at his desk and motioned for her to sit.

“At this stage, Paula, this matter has not been elevated to Scotland Yard’s complaints bureau, but it is a very serious matter.”

“It’s the crooked hat isn’t it? It’s the shape of my head, sir.”

Her heart was pounding. She’d bluffed out a lot of s**t over the past thirteen years and so far she’d survived.

“I believe you went to Meadowchef Foods yesterday?”

“You got me there, sir. That’s true.”

“A Mr Max Muswell has complained that he has received a report from his security guard.”

“Don’t tell me. I parked in his parking bay?”

“I must ask you not to interrupt me. This is a serious matter. He alleges that you chased a suspect who was carrying items stolen from his depot, but that you let him go.”

“I saw a man running, but I didn’t catch him. I did stop a guy and search him but he was clean.”

“So you followed all the procedures of filling in a search form and recording all his details?”

“Nah. I’m a community cop. That means keeping things cool.”

“You’ve no record?”

“No.”

“That in itself is a serious breach of the regulations and the Police and Criminal Evidence Act code of practise.”

“Look guv, I’ll plead to that, OK. No contest. Stop the fight.”

“If this case goes up to the Yard it could mean your suspension and dismissal.”

“Wouldn’t look too good on your first day, sir.”

“That’s impertinent, constable.”

“I’m looking at you, guv, and I’m wondering whether or not to help you out or let you hang yourself.”

Inspector Bissel sat back in his chair almost gasping like a landed carp. She smiled at him and softened her face. Perhaps he was a lost boy who needed a friend?

“OK, explain yourself.”

“The guy I stopped was not the thief, so we can forget that, and no one can prove otherwise. Mr Muswell runs a shady business with illegal slave labor and I told him I was aware of it. He told me to f**k off and mind my own business and I told him to f**k off in equal terms. He’s not a man to stand up to if you don’t want a fight. He doesn’t want me on his case, so he’s decided to fit me up with some lies to get me off his back. He hopes you’re going to fall for it. You’re young and green and he’ll make bullets for you to fire at your own troops.”

“This is outrageous, constable. I imagine you’ve filed all the necessary reports detailing all your suspicions about slave labor.”

“I’ve just filed it now, sir.”

“But you did not submit an intelligence report.”

“No. I went home and drank a bottle of wine instead.”

“You give me no option but to pass this file up to the formal complaints bureau for investigation. We still have the option to resolve this locally.”

“How?”

“You concede that you made an error and did not follow proper procedures.”

“With respect, sir, you can f**k right off. Look, let’s get the resources to nail this prick for exploiting those poor souls. We all know the hoods who supply them.”

“Do we?”

“Look, you’re as green as the f*****g Serpentine Lake. The local end is the McCarthy boys. They do the delivery and enforcement for Russian thugs and I mean real murderous bastards. I mean people who cut your d**k off and make you eat it.”

“How do you know this?”

“We all know. Every toe-rag knows the McCarthy boys. This Max Muswell is tough and has a heart of stone, but he can’t get them off his back. You, inspector, could make a name for yourself by wiping your a*s with that report and getting some resources to go to war with this lot.”

“To defeat the Russian Mafia, a bunch of racketeers, and a semi-celebrity billionaire business man like Max Muswell?”

“Yeah, and anyone else who pops up as a target.”

“I note your comments of course, but I’m afraid I must follow complaints procedures. I hereby serve you with a copy of the complaint and ask you if you have any formal comment. You do not have to say anything but anything you do say….”

“Yeah, blah, blah, blah, sir. Last thing while I’m here. I propose to arrest the depot manager for attempting to bribe a police officer.”

“How?”

“He offered me a whole sack of brussel sprouts if I might care to join him in his love nest.”

Inspector Bissel avoided eye contact.

“Can you prove it?”

“Not exactly, just like they can’t prove the guy I stopped was the thief. I know it and you know it.”

“I order you not to arrest this man. It could look like a reprisal.”

“That’s fine, sir. I’ll bring that up when I’m interviewed by the Complaints Bureau detectives. In the meantime, what shall I do about the hungry slaves and the Russian Mafia?”

“Constable, I can’t lift the lid on something like that.”

“There you are then. Max Muswell got what he wanted. Nice to talk to you, sir.”