“Friday Fiction” series: “The Recruit,” Part One…
[Note from Steve: This is the second story about the “Earl of Penrith.” There might be a third. Stay tuned.]
The Recruit
Copyright 2022, Steven M. Moore
DI Earl Wilson was already walking around the crime scene leaving DS Sally Hill to other chores. She’d be taking notes on her moby too, mostly about the obvious; he’d be looking for things that weren’t so obvious. They were a good team.
He was a police veteran who had started out as a patrol constable in London, a “bobby” or “top” as they were called, the latter for the helmet—and then bounced around the country after being promoted from PC to DC and finally DI, finally ending up in the Lake District, where he suspected he would retire someday because he loved hiking and fishing.
He was a big bear of a man, an oversized version of that American telly detective, Columbo, complete with old car and dirty raincoat, but he didn’t smoke cigars and didn’t drink much. In fact, for his age, he was in good shape. A criminal might outrun him, but they’d be hard-pressed to outfight him. He had once broken one’s jaw, but he’d gone to the hospital later to apologize to the hand-cuffed scrote for doing that.
Sally was from the other coast, loved the Lake District as well, and loathed southern England. Her birthplace was Morpeth, a regional capital not far from Newcastle-on-Tyne, so she felt right at home in Penrith that might be considered a left-coast town in comparison to Morpeth, without any political meaning intended—the area along the border with Scotland was a conservative one.
Twenty years younger than her guv’nor, she was coming into her own as Earl’s partner in policing. She was fleet of foot and good enough at martial arts to compensate for her small size, as many a criminal had discovered. She also could turn on the charm, though, if she felt inclined or needed to do so in an interview or interrogation.
“Seven combatants dead, lass. Looks like Fallujah or some other killing fields in the Middle East, not here in our Lake District.”
“Um, I recognize this bloke, Guv,” Sally said, bending over one of the bodies to study the face, its features distorted by the rictus of death. “Ed Chance, muscle for the Crystal Boys. Clean shot to the heart.”
“Turf war between two gangs then? Who’s invading whose patch?”
“Being as near to each other as they are, I’d think they joined forces and were pursuing someone.”
“Going after some yob who betrayed both gangs? Isn’t greed wonderful?” He’d already moved far away from the inglorious seven. Across a pretty lea and about a soccer field away, he halted. “Blood traces here. Whoever they were after stood his ground and blew them all away. Weird.” Earl picked up one shell. “Automatic weapon. Maybe a Chinese copy of an Uzi? We see more of those than the Americans’ AR-style rifles. None of them legal outside our ARUs or military units, of course. And I don’t think our Rambo wasted much ammo. I count only ten shell casings. So maybe a semi-automatic?” His gaze became more distant as he surveyed the abandoned farm. “If this place were drier and had a bit of sagebrush, I’d compare the bloke who did this to the Earps at OK Corral.” He spotted the pathologist and SOCOs’ vans moving up the track that led to the farm’s main buildings. He pointed. “We’ll let Harry and his science lads and Doc Simpson do their bit here. Let’s take a look down there.” He pointed to the main buildings nestled in a dale. “Our morning exercise, lass.”
In the old farmhouse, they found some interesting evidence. An empty sitting room contained only one chair. Ropes that had been sliced through still hung from it. There were some blood traces on the old rug around the chair, new stains to add some color to the old ones.
“Someone was being held here.”
“And maybe tortured?” Sally said.
“But he managed to escape. Our lone shooter with the Uzi copy?”
She walked around the rest of the sitting room and visited the outside hall while he went into the kitchen that featured a relic from the past, a handsome wood stove. In the back corner by the door, he found something more interesting than the stove.
“Lass, back here,” he called out. When she appeared, he pointed to the corpse. “Might be who had the task of guarding the prisoner?” A penknife was sticking in the man’s neck, its damage leaving the man’s head resting in a large pool of blood. Using his many years of experience, Earl put all the data together to make a tentative theory. “Crystal Boys and/or the other gang holds the bloke for whatever reason, he escapes his one guard while they’re off somewhere else, kills the guard, and does a runner, taking the guard’s weapon along as a memento. The gang members return and chase him, he stops and turns, and blows them away.”
“Good enough theory for now. But how does the other gang come to be here?”
Earl shrugged. “They were both after the yob. Maybe he was a snout working against both of them? They were either in business together or temporarily joined forces to take him down, but everyone forgot he had the guard’s weapon.”
“Harry and his SOCOs might be able to refine your theory.”
“Or show it’s completely wrong. In any case, seven gang members, no, eight, counting this yobbie here, are dead. That’s a miracle. Eight against one. And don’t forget the bloke was able to cut through those ropes binding him. He’s good.”
“Admiring him, are you?”
Earl shrugged again. “Enjoying it, I dare say. Eight gang members we no longer have to worry about in our patch, I dare say. And maybe a message to scrotes elsewhere? Is Ed Chance from Manchester?”
“One of their local reps, if memory serves.”
Earl nodded and pulled out his mobile. He told Harry Simpson, the lead SOCO, that his team would need to go over the farm buildings after finishing their work at the shooting site.
“Now the question becomes: Why were all these lovely maggots who live in England’s underbelly here at this old farm?”
They were outside now. She pointed. “There’s a newer building up on the hill, Earl.” He squinted. The lead SOCO was still on the line. That building was nearer the SOCOs, so Earl suggested to Harry that they hit that building first.
“Katie thinks it has surveillance cameras,” the SOCO said, referring to one of his team members.
“It might be why all these thugs were here,” Earl said. “I’m willing to bet the gangs were using the abandoned farm for a manufacturing plant. Fine-tooth comb and all that, lad, and some surveillance video would be much appreciated.”
***
Hours later, Sally and Earl were examining their third surveillance video. The newer building had been a lab to make illegal or controlled pills, and a lot of product was still there, hence the videocams. Number three was wide-angle and provided a panoramic view of the shootout in the vale below.
It was like watching an action film on the telly. A young man came running out of the old farmhouse. Gang members from that same farmhouse poured out in pursuit. Earl thought the young bloke might be between twenty- and thirty-years-old. The seven gained on him because he was limping slightly. Why didn’t they shoot? Suddenly their quarry turned and sprayed them all with bullets. He then disappeared behind the same hill where the drugs lab sat on top, going out of the range of all the cameras.
“Wow!” said Earl.
“I agree!”
They’d been so engrossed in the action that they hadn’t realized that a tall stranger now filled Earl’s office doorframe.
He stood. “Who the hell are you? How’d you get into our CID? And how long have you been watching?”
The stranger smiled. “Rick Barnes, MI5 agent, at your service.” He offered a handshake to Earl, who ignored the offer as if the hand belonged to a zombie-like Putin. The stranger then showed his credentials. “Duty sergeant waved me through and no one else tried to stop me. And I saw most of what you saw. It has increased my appreciation for that lad’s skill.”
“Okay. Just what do you want? Why is MI5 interested in this case?”
Rick sat in the other guest chair without being invited and pointed at Sally’s laptop. “I’d like to watch that video with you again.” Sally looked at Earl; he nodded. At one point just as the lad turned to face his pursuers, the agent said, “Stop there.” The video now showed a still image, a good shot of the lad’s face after Sally blowed it up. “Meet Simon Edgewood. That’s not his real name, though. It’s a new one given to him because he’s in witness protection. Or was. I can’t say he was a willing participant, but we had our reasons for doing it, and I can say we failed to protect him as we should have.”
The coppers were told he had testified against some gang leaders in Northumberland, Newcastle-on-Tyne area. Sally nodded knowingly; she probably recognized the names of some of the particulars. In the courtroom, they’d vowed to get even and put a price on Simon’s head from jail. The authorities had given him a new life in the Lake District, but somehow the local gangs in Earl’s patch had learned who he was.
“Was he back in the business?”
“I doubt it. He’s been here almost ten years. He testified in Newcastle when he was only fifteen. Nice lad who went astray early. Same old story. Tippler father, druggie mum. Poor, no future, no education, although he’s intelligent enough and self-taught. And I’m here for more reasons than trying to protect one of the Crown’s star witnesses. NCA’s as well as MI5’s, to be precise. We want to recruit him.”
“What?” Earl glanced at Sally. She shrugged, so Earl returned his attention to the smiling agent. “He’s obviously a killer! Why would MI5 want a yob like that working for them?”
“He’s intelligent, resourceful, and skilled, all good qualities for a field agent. He’s also been clean since those Newcastle trials. He would have stayed clean except for that bounty. The two gangs here probably thought it could win them some favors with the syndicate in Newcastle, I suppose. NCA tells me they’re trying to link up with the east-coast fellows.”
“I’d guess he’s a dead man walking now,” Earl said, somewhat mollified. Had he jumped to conclusions? “Damaged goods, I dare say.”
“So, you would just toss him to the wolves, Earl?” Sally asked him.
He glanced at his sergeant. She called him Earl only when she was unhappy with his behavior. “Obviously not my call. And maybe not our case?” The question was directed at the agent.
“Your case is basically closed, but I would like to ask for your help in finding Simon. He won’t do our program any good if he’s dead.”
“Your program?”
***
“I don’t get it,” Sally said, adding to Earl’s question with a comment. “Does MI5 or NCA make a habit of recruiting troubled young people? How could they be reliable agents?”
“That’s exactly what we do. I head the program.”
“Is it successful?” Earl said.
“Better than I hoped for. So far we have about a thirty percent success rate. As you guessed, Sergeant, it’s a combined program with NCA. After three years intensive training, the young recruits choose the agency they prefer to work for.”
“Isn’t something lost by their not coming up through the ranks?” Earl said. He had a low opinion of those police officers who used a similar program that took university graduates and started them out as detective constables; they lacked the street and community experience that uniformed PCs acquired.
“They’re on probation for another three years as well, working with a seasoned agent.”
“No disastrous failures?”
“Less than five percent repeat offenders. The others just prefer to live ordinary lives, which we’re okay with.”
“What about mental and physical screenings?” Sally said.
“They’re periodic throughout the training and probationary periods.”
“Are MI5 and NCA that desperate for personnel?” Earl said.
“Yes. We had a lot more than normal attrition because of Covid. Also, seasoned agents are retiring early because, as you two probably know well, policing is a thankless task that few in the public appreciate or understand, and the politicians are always looking to cut our budgets. Our funding as a special program is more secure, and will continue to be as long as our success rate continues.” He stretched his legs and crossed them. Earl now expected yet another sales pitch. “Moreover, the UK is becoming a lot more diverse, and our police and other authorities should reflect that changing diversity. My program offers a chance to disadvantaged groups to go into law enforcement, which is a steady job with benefits. You must know how blacks and Asians have had a tough time getting a good-paying job and owning a house in ye olde merry England. There was that banking scandal about mortgages not that long ago.”
“This Simon is white,” Sally said, pointing at the screen.
“He’s a poor Geordie boy who had no chance early in life. He matured in the witness program and became a model citizen until those two gangs discovered his identity and went after the bounty. That was more to win points with the Newcastle syndicate, of course.”
“So, did he go over to the dark side now?” Earl said. “He left eight bodies behind at that farm. That’s a fact.”
“I don’t know, but from the video, we could consider that self-defense. There’s no way to tell if that shooting exhibition was that of a cold-blooded killer or a young lad just trying to survive.”
“I don’t know either,” Earl echoed. “So, I guess we should talk to him and find out.”
“Without giving the rest of the gangs’ members a clue to his whereabouts.”
***
The police officers’ investigation, with MI5’s Rick Barnes as observer, now became a manhunt for Simon Edgewood. It would be a strange investigation because on face value the person they were looking for had done nothing wrong beyond defending himself, if the MI5 agent was to be believed.
Of course, Rick’s program resisted any investigation into Simon’s personal life in the Lake District. Earl wanted to ignore that constraint.
“How can we find him if we know anything about his stay here in the area?” he said to Rick. “My God, man, we already know he was in the witness program. He’s been exposed!”
“We have to protect those who are involved in his new life here.”
Earl handed his handcuffs to Rick and held out his arms. “Put them on me then. I can’t help you find him. You’ve made that an impossible mission.”
Rick handed them back. “Okay, I see your point. But how do we keep everything about who Simon really is quiet then?”
“Our police investigations are always made in secret except for the meddling media. Sometimes even people we interview blather to a reporter if only to see their name in print in the pages of Penrith’s local broadsheet. And if we tell them they could be prosecuted under the Official Secrets Act, which MI5 and NCA might feel inclined to do, they’ll just stop talking, and our investigation will fizzle.”
Rick sighed. “We’ll have to take it case by case with those who know Simon. I don’t like threatening anyone, but I reserve the right to veto any interview. His new life here will mostly include people who know nothing about his previous one. Let’s keep it that way.”
Earl smiled at his small victory. “In that case, we’ll tell everyone he’s a missing person we’re worried about and looking for because we fear he’s in danger?”
Rick nodded but had a worrisome rejoinder. “Some VIPs in those gangs will know that’s not true.”
“But they won’t want his past to become public either. They want new business deals with that Newcastle syndicate.” Sally glanced from one man to the other, who she probably likened to farmyard roosters, one old bird and a challenging young one, facing off. “And maybe a bit of revenge as well as bounty?”
“Yes, let’s assume they’ll keep quiet,” Rick said. “Their losses have to be an embarrassment. Let’s just focus on finding him as stealthily as possible.”
Earl nodded. “How about getting us started? You must know something about Simon’s life here because you claimed he turned himself around.”
Rick perched on the corner of Earl’s desk, looking more relaxed now. “He works at an auto repair shop and leases a bedsit above it. He has a girlfriend, a nice young woman from a hardworking but poor family. That’s about all I know. The girlfriend or garage owner might know more.”
“Thanks,” Earl said. “Now, was that so painful?”
“Yes. I want to protect the young lad.”
“So do we,” Sally said, “The best way to do that is to find him. He might be running scared right now.”
“And hopefully still around, not gone to Ireland or some other place overseas,” Earl said.
“We’re watching Penrith, Liverpool, Bristol, and the southern ports. And foreign travel is difficult outside the UK now without proper documentation because of Brexit.”
“The lad can steal that. You’d better check airports too. And I’m not sure you need any documentation to take a ferry to Ireland.”
Rick only nodded.
***
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Fear the Asian Evil. This third book in the “Inspector Steve Morgan” series might seem ripped from the headlines after reports that President Biden strongly warned President-for-Life Xi about invading Taiwan. The book deals more with China’s long-standing policy of industrial espionage—they’d rather steal ideas than have to invent them—and fomenting unrest in western democracies. While it starts out as a typical police procedural—the sister-in-law of Morgan’s sergeant is shot—it acquires a spy-fi flavor that goes far beyond Christie’s typical British-style mysteries. Available wherever quality ebooks are sold (but not on Amazon).
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
