Criminal Revenge (2 page)

Fifteen years earlier, Richard Bernstein waddled down the stairs of the three-bedroom semi-detached that he shared with his parents, older brother and younger sister. He was fourteen years of age, fat, spotty, and Jewish; not a great combination for making friends and keeping a low profile in the schoolyard.

“Straighten your tie, Richard,” his mother fussed. “Tuck your shirt in, for heaven’s sake. Have you brushed your teeth properly?”

Richard rolled his eyes skyward and screwed up his face as he walked into the tiny kitchen, making his older brother laugh. His brother was his hero, slim and handsome, and as hard as nails, which was very handy at school. He never teased Richard about his weight, unlike his sister, who teased him all the time. The kitchen was warm, and he could smell the familiar odours of toast and strong coffee. His father was reading the Daily Telegraph, a broadsheet which almost hid him completely from the rest of the family. It was his barrier at the breakfast table, and no one spoke to him unless the newspaper was folded up and put down on the table.

“Here, Einstein,” his brother David laughed as he handed him a small plate loaded with four pieces of hot buttered toast. Einstein was his pet name. Richard Bernstein came top in all his subjects. He was also the best chess player in his year; only a few of the older students could still beat him, and he was improving every year.

“You’re so gross,” his sister Sarah moaned. Richard shoved half a piece of toast into his mouth in one go, and then showed her the contents of his mouth as he munched it. He loved his younger sister, even though she avoided him like the plague at school. She was part of the trendy set in her year, and far too pretty to be associated with her nerdy fat brother. She had beautiful deep brown eyes and dark hair, inherited from her Jewish ancestors. Richard noticed with humour that her school skirt seemed to get shorter every term, and boys flocked around her like bees to a honey pot, much to the annoyance of his brother David. David had got into a few schoolyard scraps with boys who had been pestering her. Mr Bernstein was also becoming aware of her ever-decreasing hemline.

“I need a note for games, Mum,” Richard said. Toast sprayed from his mouth as he spoke.

“Do not speak with your mouth full, Richard Bernstein,” his mother scolded him. She clipped him gently behind the ear. Richard worried her. He was by far the most intelligent child she had ever encountered, but he was a loner. She knew why he had no friends; it was because he was fat and Jewish. He had no confidence and was awkward in company. The only real friend he had was his brother David, but he was growing up so fast, and she didn’t think he would be around forever to look after his younger brother. “Why do you need a note for games?”

“Because he’s too fat to run,” Sarah sniped. She pulled out her tongue and grinned.

“Sarah!”

“I’m only joking,” she said. Richard blushed and sat down, staring at the piece of toast in his hand. He laughed but the comments always hurt inside. Another dollop of lime marmalade numbed the pain slightly.

“Well, you’re not funny, young lady. That was very cruel.” His mother cleared the plates and dumped them in the sink. Richard managed to salvage one last piece of toast as she whizzed past him.

“We’re supposed to be doing cross-country running today,” Richard explained. He hated all sports, full-stop. Getting changed in front of his schoolmates was far too traumatic. Not only was he embarrassed by his weight, but also he was not as sexually developed as his classmates were. Most of them had pubic hair, but he had none yet. He had a small penis compared to the other boys he had seen naked. Some of them had hair on their arms and chest already. His body was way behind the average adolescent, which the other boys were very quick to point out. Richard would rather sit in the warm library and read than run anywhere.

“Why would they want you to run across country, you’re such a clever boy,” his mother tried to soothe his embarrassment. “It’s such a waste of your brains, I’ll write you a note before you leave.”

Sarah rolled her eyes and pretended to vomit, making both her brothers giggle. A knock at the front door prompted a flurry of activity. David slipped on his blue, fur-lined parka, kissed his mother and ruffled Richard’s hair as he left.

“That’ll be Nick,” he said as he opened the door. “Hiya, mate.” David high-fived his best friend, which wasn’t easy because Nick was so tall. He towered above his schoolmates. His height and exaggerated features made other students wary of him.

“Why don’t you let Richard walk with you to school?” his mother shouted after him. She tried hard to slot Richard into the mix with his brother at every opportunity. David looked at his brother uncomfortably. Nick and David had a crafty cigarette when they walked to school in the morning, and he didn’t want his younger brother to see him.

“I’m not ready yet, and I need my note for games,” Richard smiled at his brother, knowing that he had let him off the hook. David smiled back and put up his thumb.

“See you later, Einstein!” David shouted. The front door was still ajar, and Sarah made a dash for it before her mother could make her walk to school with her fat brother.

“Bye, Mum!” she called as she slammed the door.

“I don’t know why everyone is in such a rush these days,” his mother muttered. She fumbled in her handbag for a pen, finally rescuing one from the deepest reaches. “I’ll say that you have a chest infection, and you’re not to do games for a month.”

“Thanks, Mum.” Richard felt a wave of relief sweep over him. School was torture. He enjoyed the academic side of things, but he was the target of bullying and ridicule from morning to dusk. Things had become almost unbearable lately. There had been an influx of Asian kids the previous year, and they were particularly cruel to the white students, especially to Richard because of his religion. They called themselves the ‘Asian Invasion’, and they ran riot at school, ridiculing pupils and teachers alike.

“Here, get yourself some sweets from the shop on your way to school, and don’t tell your sister.” His mother winked at him, handing him a crisp green pound note. She knew that she shouldn’t encourage him to eat rubbish, but she could tell that school life was going to be difficult for her middle child, and if she could brighten his world, then she would do it.

“Thanks, Mum,” Richard kissed her on the cheek and struggled into a grey duffle coat as he headed for the door. The toggles stretched over his chest and belly. “Bye, Dad!” he shouted as he closed the front door, knowing that his father would grunt from behind his paper.

It was a bright and breezy morning, and Richard called into his favourite shop on his way to school. They sold mixed bags of toffee for twenty-five pence each. He bought three bags, and two packets of salt and vinegar crisps, leaving enough change for a tin of Panda Pop cola. The cola was nowhere near as good as the real thing, but it was half the price, meaning that he could afford more sweets. The wind was biting as he headed across the park, and he pulled up his hood to keep the cold off his ears. Sefton Park was a mile across, and it was a kidney shape. Richard loved the walk to school, especially passing the boating lake. There was a full size pirate ship in the middle, inspired by the tales of Peter Pan. As he walked by, he would imagine being onboard, sailing around the lake repelling all boarders and firing the cannons at his imaginary foes.

“Hey, Richard Head,” a voice called out from his left. He recognised the voice and his heart almost froze with fear.

“What is short for Richard?”

“I think it’s fat head.”

“No, It’s Dick.”

“Oh, you’re right. I know, Dick. Dickhead!”

The taunting continued. He glanced towards the source of the abuse, his throat went dry and he had a sick feeling in his stomach.

Richard pulled his hood tighter around his head and picked up his pace. He could see his abusers walking along an adjacent footpath. It was the Asian kids from his school. There were seven of them in total. Their leader was Malik, and he was the toughest kid in Richard’s year group. He was also the best footballer, best cricketer and most successful boy with the girls. Everything Richard wasn’t.

“Have you got any sweets, fatty?” another voice called out. Richard stuffed his toffees deeper into his coat pocket. ‘They’re not getting their filthy hands on them,’ he thought. The gang neared, laughing and jeering at him, egging each other on. Richard wanted to run, but he couldn’t outrun them. They were fit and athletic. He looked around for help, maybe David would be in the park with Nick somewhere, but there was no one around.

“I said, have you got any sweets, you fat bastard,” a lanky kid called Ash snarled. Richard ignored him, putting his head down and walking faster.

“Hey, Jew boy, I’m talking to you!” Ash kicked the back of his trailing leg, and Richard stumbled onto his hands and knees. His knees stung, scraped by the impact with the concrete, and one of his trouser legs was torn. Richard tried to stand up.

“Are you deaf?” Ash stamped on his fingers. Richard felt his fingers throbbing. He tucked his hand under the opposite arm and concentrated on not crying. Malik and his gang always tried to make other kids cry, but Richard was determined that he would not.

“Leave me alone. What have I done to you?” Richard whimpered. His voice cracked as he spoke. Clumsily he stood up, still clutching his injured fingers beneath his arm. His pants were wet and torn at the knee, his hands muddy. Tears welled up in his eyes and he could feel his chubby cheeks reddening with embarrassment and anger. He hated being fat, more than being Jewish. The other kids always picked up on one or the other, and usually both.

Ash didn’t attempt to reply; instead, he punched Richard in the face. The blow stung like hell, stunning Richard. His eyes watered involuntarily, and he could feel blood running from his nose. The second punch hit him square in the mouth, splitting his top lip against his front teeth. Richard fell backwards and landed heavily on his backside.

“What a shot.” Malik patted Ash on the back. The youths roared with laughter.

“That must sting, does it sting, fat boy?” Ash taunted Richard.

“Fucking bully!” Richard spat blood on the floor, trying to right his bloated frame. Tears of anger ran down his cheeks.

“What did you say?” The baying teenagers fell silent. Ash leaned over Richard threateningly. His dark eyes flashed with hatred and anger.

“I called you a bully, you Paki.” Richard sat up, blood and mucus smeared around his nose and mouth. Months of abuse had finally forced him to strike back in the only way he could, with his words.

Ash pulled a lock knife from his trendy Farah pants and opened the blade slowly. Years later, Richard would remember wishing he hadn’t called him that. He wasn’t a racist, being Jewish had taught him that prejudice was evil, but it was the only thing he’d been able to think of at the time. There was no way that he could fight Ash, let alone the gang behind him. Richard wet his pants as Ash approached with the glinting blade.

He remembered being surprised at how many times he could be kicked and punched in the head without being rendered unconscious. The blows came from all angles, and he was sure that he was going to die. Richard struggled to stand up at one point, but the beating was relentless, and they hammered him back down again and again. Ash used the knife several times; if not for his thick duffle coat, the slash wounds would have been much deeper, probably fatal. A voice called from the distance.

“Hey! Leave him alone!” a dog walker interrupted the melee.

“Mind your own business, Mister.”

“I’m calling the police, I know which school you are from!” The dog walker ran towards a red telephone box. He fumbled for change with shaking fingers. Someone was taking a terrible beating, and he wished he had the courage to do something about it himself, but he was no fighter. He called the emergency services and ran back towards the fight. The boys were a writhing mass of arms and legs. The body on the floor twitched with every blow.

“I’ve called the police and an ambulance!”

“Leave it, Ash, split up and let’s go!” Malik Shah gave the order to leave, and the attackers scattered in different directions.

The Good Samaritan kneeled next to Richard Bernstein, covering the injured victim with his coat while he waited for the ambulance to arrive.

“You hang on there. The police are on their way. You’re safe now.”

Richard was semi-conscious when the ambulance team cut off his clothes and dressed his wounds to stem the bleeding. He remembered thinking that his mother would be mad that they’d cut his grey duffle coat. It had cost a fortune. The ambulance journey was a blur of blue flashing lights and sirens. His mind became numb as the drugs circulated through his broken body, and seven names flashed through his mind over and over again.

“Morning, Will.” Superintendent Alec Ramsay walked into the large open office space which housed the Major Investigation Team. It was just past seven in the morning and he was all set to face the trials and tribulations of the day ahead. They were three floors up in the fortress-like Canning Place building, situated on the banks of the River Mersey. It was the home of the county’s uniformed and Special Departments senior hierarchy. The MIT office was L-shaped, and the windows were full length, giving it a bright and positive feel. The ambiance helped to lift the team’s spirits, as the cases they investigated were the worst possible. It was all too easy to become de-motivated when the details of a gruesome case weighed heavy on their minds. Chasing human monsters could be relentless and frustrating. A handful of dishevelled-looking detectives were sat in a semicircle around DI Will Naylor’s desk area.

“Morning, guv,” Will replied. He looked tired and his appearance was shabby. It was a sharp contrast to his usual razor-sharp demeanour. His shirt collar was undone, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Dark stubble suggested that he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. In contrast, the Super looked and smelled like he had just stepped out of the shower. The scent of Fahrenheit wafted in with him.

“Have you been here all night?” Alec raised his eyebrows, knowing what the answer was.

“We’ve been doing some digging, guv.”

“Well, if one of you good men would like to put the kettle on. I’ll make you all a brew and you can fill me in on what you’ve found out, and then you will all go home, get showered and shaved, have a few hours sleep, and I don’t want to see you until this afternoon. Is that clear to everyone?”

“Right, guv,” a ginger-haired detective saluted and headed into the kitchen area. “Does everyone want coffee?” he mumbled as he left the group.

“By the look of them we’ll need the full pot.” Alec shook his head and patted each of them on the back as he followed. He was proud of his team. In his opinion, they were the best detectives on the force, and their dedication and commitment never failed to impress him. He returned a few minutes later with a pot of strong black coffee. The ginger officer followed him with a tray holding six mugs. “Right then, what’s so important that you haven’t been to bed?”

Alec poured coffee into all six mugs and handed them out to each of his detectives in turn. He picked up the last one for himself and sipped the scalding black liquid as he waited for his DI to gather their findings together. He looked through the full-length window and watched a ferry leaving the Pier Head, white foam frothing behind it as it headed across the river.

“The plates on the van were genuine, guv. It’s registered to a landscape gardening outfit in Sussex. We ran the usual checks and the company doesn’t exist. The postcode belongs to a derelict factory unit which hasn’t been used for five years or more, according to the local plod.”

“Sounds a little too clever for our skinhead goose-stepping friends,” the Super commented. Top of the list for the Counter Terrorist Units were Neo-Nazi organisations. Alec knew that they would be interrogating every name on the activist list for the next few weeks. There would be some tough skinheads wetting their pants right now.

“Uniform Division have come up with zilch as far as known extremists are concerned, and the intelligence service say there has been little to no information from their undercover agents regarding planned activity for the groups they monitor” Will said, sipping his brew. “The Counter Terrorist Units are working closely with MI5, but so far no one has claimed responsibility, making it unlikely that it’s a political gesture.”

“Okay, we thought as much.” Detective Superintendent Ramsay doubted from the off that the bomb was the work of right-wing groups. It was too sophisticated.

Will continued. “Initial reports from forensics on the van and the bomb fragments are very interesting, guv.”

The superintendent raised his eyebrows and slurped his coffee. “I’m all ears, detective,” he smiled. Will Naylor’s tenacity made him chuckle to himself. His enthusiasm rubbed off on his team, hence they had not been to bed yet.

“The fertiliser mixture was a very special blend. It had been cooked and dried to remove all the moisture, and then mixed with aluminium powder and diesel. Forensics haven’t seen a mixture that well prepared since –”

“Northern Ireland,” Alec Ramsay interrupted. Everyday fertiliser absorbed moisture from the atmosphere, and would not burn or explode as a result. There were only certain grades of ammonia or nitrogen-based compound suitable for bomb making, and they needed careful, painstaking preparation before they could be turned into explosives. The superintendent was familiar with bomb makers’ signatures. “Every bomb maker has their own individual method of mixing the ingredients, some more successful than others. Cooking and mixing the fertiliser is the sign of an experienced bomb maker.”

“Exactly, guv. They have also found evidence of a mercury motion switch, and remnants of a photocell trigger switch. Forensics reckons this one was created by an expert, nothing of this type has ever been attributed to any extremist group.”

“A mercury switch would have triggered the bomb if the van was towed away, and the photocell would have detonated the bomb if the back doors were opened.”

“Yes, guv.”

“That bomb was going to explode no matter what happened.”

“It was, so why risk being close to the van to trigger it by remote?” Will pushed his sleeves up as he asked the question.

“Unless they were targeting someone specific?” Alec Ramsay answered thoughtfully. He stroked the dimple on his chin with his thumb. “What does the guest list tell us?”

“We’ve checked and double checked the guest list for the opening of the mosque,” Will handed a list of names to his detective superintendent.

“Anything interesting?”

“Nothing at first glance, guv.”

“Nothing stood out at all, until we looked at the casualties.”
He handed another shorter list to Alec. Alec sipped his coffee as he read the list of names. It contained the two photographers,
the traffic warden, and the Patels. At first glance, it was not a remarkable list.

“The photographers and the traffic warden are collateral, so I’m assuming that the Patels have something more to them than meets the eye?”

“Correct, guv.” Will handed a pile of papers over as he explained. “Amir Patel is the director of two limited companies, both haulage businesses with international contracts.”

“Looking at this, everything seems to be above board.” Alec flicked through details information downloaded from Companies House and the Inland Revenue sites.

“It is, guv,” the ginger detective nodded as he spoke. “I’ve been through it with a fine toothcomb. His tax returns are submitted on time, his VAT is spoton and he has never appealed any decision that has gone against him.”

“What are you saying, Smithy?” The superintendent looked up from the paperwork.

“It’s too neat and tidy, guv.” Carl Smith, or Smithy as he was known, had spent years on the fraud squad before joining the MIT. “He’s turning over millions and never questions a single tax demand. It’s screaming ‘Don’t look at me’. If I was laundering money, then my accounts would look like that.”

“So we can rule out the Inland Revenue as possible suspects,” the superintendent joked. The group of detectives laughed, and the coffee pot was refilled and then shared out between them.

“That’s not everything, guv,” Will said, taking another gulp from his mug. The caffeine was having the desired effect. “Patel is also on the board of directors for another six limited companies. Now this is where it gets interesting.”

“Come on, come on.” Alec made a winding motion with his arm. “Get to the point, Smithy wants to get to his bed, eh, Smithy?” The detectives laughed. They liked working with the superintendent; he got the best out of people.

“Two names appear on the director’s lists again and again, Malik Shah and Ashwan Pindar.”

“Their names have cropped up many times over the years, drugs, prostitution, one or two gangland murders that I can remember, but the Patels don’t mean anything to me.” Alec shrugged.

“They didn’t to me, until Smithy remembered Shah was being investigated in the late nineties, linked to importing engine blocks full of smack from the Far East.”

“What happened?” Alec turned towards the ginger officer.

“Nothing, guv, there was nothing concrete, and he walked. He didn’t even get charged, but Patel was questioned about a large sum of cash which was deposited into his business account at the time. I had to follow the money trail, but it was a dead end. He bought legitimate properties in Spain and the Algarve with it. The DI was adamant he was money laundering, but they couldn’t touch him, guv.”

“It’s all a bit tenuous at the moment, but if Shah and Pindar are smuggling heroin into the country, then a couple of international haulage companies under their umbrella would be handy,” said Will, looking. “I’ve spoken to the DI at the drugs squad, and he thinks Shah and Pindar are responsible for bringing in most of the heroin and ecstasy that comes into the country. They’ve been watching them for years, but so far they haven’t put a foot wrong.”

“Well, now, that changes everything.” Alec ran his fingers across the dimple in his chin. “This could have nothing to do with the mosque being a target, the evidence tells me it’s a hit.”

“It makes sense, guv. What do you think?”

“I think you have all done a good job. Now go home and get some sleep, we’ll crack on later this afternoon.”

The detectives moved as one, packing up papers, moving files and putting on jackets. Superintendent Alec Ramsay watched the team drift off towards the lifts. As they left, the day shift were beginning to arrive. He greeted them and headed to his office to mull over the new information. It was going to take the investigation in a completely different direction. It looked like Malik Shah and his associates could be the targets, and that changed everything. At the moment, CTU and MI5 were running the show, but if the bombing turned out to be the assassination of a high profile crime family member, then it would fall to the MIT to investigate. Detective Superintendent Alec Ramsay felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He had a gut feeling that this was going to get messy.