Authors: Andrew Snadden
Then came the hardest update he would ever have to give.
“Sgt Marriot's.................”
Snakes and Ladders
Chapter Five
DI Anaura sat behind his desk in the Vice unit office in the City's Central District Police Station. He looked down at his stylish Storm watch, and not for the first time that week he saw that it had gone past eight o'clock in the evening, three hours after the time he should have finished. Anaura rubbed his closely cropped hair while tilting his head to one side, his wife Laura was not going to be happy with him; again.
Detective Inspector Peter Anaura, warrant number A001, was an unusual sight in the City's Police Force, not to mention the UK in general because of his unique appearance. Anaura, the product of a mixed marriage between his mother a British doctor, and his father a New Zealand Maori, was very distinguishable from those around him, something that had been a positive from time to time with the opposite sex.
In nineteen sixty seven, Anuara's mother, Kate, had emigrated to New Zealand to practise as a physician after finishing university and feeling as though she had missed out on the opportunity to travel after spending seven years qualifying as a doctor in Southampton, Hampshire. Kate had seen the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, see another country and use her hard earned Ph.D. to finance it. After arriving in the country it hadn't taken long for her to become fascinated with the Maori people and their culture after treating a number of the interesting ethnic group in her hospital in Wellington.
And on one weekend during a busy double shift in the Emergency room, she was met by the sight of a tall, good looking and colossal Maori named Mani Anaura. Mani had been playing rugby for a local team when his eyebrow had been torn by a stray boot stud from the opposition during a 'Forwards' maul. It would have been a stretch to call it love at first sight but it was certainly lust at first sight; love came later. After a year of dating the couple married in a Christian church followed by a traditional Maori ceremony called a Karakea and moved into an apartment in the centre of Wellington.
Peter Anaura was born on 13th August nineteen seventy one, a year after his parents union. And with what seemed to be a running trend in Peter's family, he was big, weighing in at over ten pounds, a fact that his mother reminded him of whenever he complained of an ache or pain. In her eyes whatever injury he had sustained, it could never have been as bad as what she had gone through giving birth to him. The approach meant that he would only ever moan if he was really hurt which was when his mother would rush to care for him. The family lived in New Zealand for a further twelve years before moving to Portsmouth, Hampshire in England when his maternal grandfather’s health had deteriorated. During the years in New Zealand, Peter had taken an interest in Rugby and Maori culture whilst never forgetting his Western roots, something his father had instilled in him. In his father's words he 'wasn't Maori or British; he was both.
After his arrival in Portsmouth in nineteen eighty three, Anaura enrolled at the prestigious Portsmouth Grammar School which was not far from the city's harbour. Although he was excited at the prospect of attending school in his mother's homeland, it didn't take long before his 'differences' were noticed. Looking more Maori than white quickly drew the negative attention of the older school bullies who felt the need to terrorise the new foreign boy. However, Peter was not your average sized twelve year old and gave the misguided, older pupils a good kicking, almost getting himself expelled in the process. Luckily for him, a P.E teacher saw potential in this five foot seven twelve year old and got him involved with the school's rugby team which diverted the head teacher’s wrath away. Four years later and in college, Anaura, who was now more disciplined, had decided that he wanted to follow in his maternal grandfather's footsteps by becoming a copper. The decision was welcomed by his parents who were concerned that his sole obsession with becoming an England Rugby player was a little unrealistic and at the time, not for pay!
Fast forward twenty four years, and two years shy of that in the Police Service, Anaura was now a forty two year old, six foot three man, with a smile as big as his frame. Although being in his early forties, Anaura had a fresh, youthful and lightly tanned complexion that gave the impression he was ten years younger than he really was. And after years of playing Rugby and fitness training, he had a developed powerful body to go with it. These combined attributes were not wasted on the fairer sex with women becoming dizzy in his presence. Whether it was his female colleagues or women in the street, everyone noticed him, something which made his wife of 13 years, Laura, proud but equally jealous at the same time.
Other women's desires aside, what made Laura the most jealous was his relationship with the 'job', a mistress that her and their two children, Anya and William had to battle with to get their fair share of his attention. Yet in difference to this perceived devotion to his job, Anaura's family was everything to him, and had Laura ever asked him to quit or be posted to a quieter department, he would have done it a heartbeat. Laura being who she was though, would never ask him do that.
On this night like so many others before, with most of his staff gone, Anaura sat behind his office desk in his usual tie-less, brightly coloured shirt and a black suit. This favoured tie-less look of Anaura's had managed to piss his superiors off on a number of occasions as it was seen as an unprofessional look. In spite of this he would continue to rock this look to wind up the ambitious rank ladder climbing snakes in command (as he referred to them) because it was one of his favourite hobbies. In Anaura's opinion a lot of the command ranked officers had joined the job to become political desk jockeys and not true coppers. It was an unreasonable opinion but in some people’s case, it was very true.
Tie or no tie, Annaura believed that he looked smarter, stylish and more approachable than they ever could with their ties and uniforms. Although it wasn't just the lack of a tie that wound them up the most, it was the way that he would listen to their orders, and then do his own thing anyway in spite. Command may have agreed that he had some great ideas, but they would never have let him know that. The constant battle between him and 'them' was a pointless waste of time but it was far too much fun to stop.
Anaura was just finishing up reading through some statements concerning a spate of drug related robberies, when he heard the voice of DC Jennifer Valera, an extremely attractive detective of Portuguese descent, coming from the doorway of his office.
“Goodnight boss” she purred, emphasising the 'night' part of the sentence in an attempt to make Anaura's brain think of nocturnal related 'activities'.
In reply he pulled his genuine trademark smile and said bye in a warm deep voice that had a hint of his homelands accent which no one could ever place. Valera reciprocated with a cheeky smile and slowly turned around in the door way so that the shape of her pert backside could be seen through her pencil skirt prior to her leaving the Vice unit's office. Whenever she would carry out this 'ritual', Anaura would always laugh to himself, yeah she was stunning and had an amazing body but there was only one woman for him, and besides it all seemed like a big act with Valera. There was definitely more to her than she let on, a hidden vulnerability.
Anaura's phone began to ring on the desk. Engrossed in his work he attempted to grab the phone without looking at it, something he soon abandoned when he failed to retrieve it after two attempts. Turning to answer it, he saw the picture of Laura with the kids on his desk. He suddenly remembered; he hadn't called her to say he was running late.
“Peter!?” Laura said, making a statement as opposed to posing a question.
“I'm sorry gorgeous, you know........I lost track of time” he replied, his cheeks becoming flushed with the knowledge that she wasn't happy with him.
Somehow despite his large stature and toughness, Laura had always managed to reduce Peter to a mere school boy whenever she gave him a look and said his name with an authoritative tone. It was this effect and power over him that was part of his attraction to her, he knew full well she had him wrapped around her little finger but there was no place he would have rather been. Laura was his dream girl, seven years younger than him with a stunningly beautiful face, lovely deep brunette hair and a toned but curvy figure. She was a firecracker behind closed doors but exuded an elegant and classy persona to the world that instantly drew people to her. A successful business woman, Laura had quit her high flying job in London to make sure that at least one parent was at home, making inference towards him when she suggested it. If there was one thing that was plainly obvious in their relationship, it was that she was unequivocally the boss; although in a nice way.
Laura had fallen in love very quickly after they had met but did have one reservation about him, and that was that if they ever married, her surname would rhyme with her first name, something she said would sound ridiculous. However in the name of love, she accepted it.
“Peter, I suggest you get your sexy, tanned arse home right now before I throw the lovely curry I made you in the bin!” She replied sternly to his usual feeble explanation for his lateness.
“Yesssss sir! Ha ha, yeah see you soon, Bye” Anaura replied with a smile on his face. He hadn't eaten since the afternoon and his wife's amazing cooking would help soothe the hunger pangs he had been having for the past few hours; he had to get home. After hanging up, he wasted no time in tidying his desk and then switching his computer off. Just as he was about to stand up to put his suit jacket on, a figure appeared in his doorway.
“Wife trouble Peter? Oh and I see the mystery of your disappearing ties continues!?” Peter looked up feeling a sense of repulsion welling up inside him. He knew the owner of the voice before he even looked up.
There arrogantly leaning up against the door frame stood Chief Superintendent Robert Drayson, the former head of Serious and Organised Crime Unit, aka SOCU, before he had stepped aside in preparation of a promotion to Assistant Chief. Drayson was a man in his early fifties, six foot' two tall with short sandy hair who liked to wear expensive Ozwold Boateng tailored suits most of the time, something which Anaura envied with his love of stylish suits and wondered how he afforded them. But that wasn't what made him dislike the chief superintendent.
Drayson was one of the career ladder climbing snakes that Anaura despised, but the worst type, the type that still thought he as one of the boys, one of the team despite stepping on those below him to get ahead. In Anaura's eyes he was anything but one of the team. He didn't trust Drayson and although he couldn't put his finger on it, there was something wrong about him. Anaura was rarely wrong when it came to people, it wasn't quite a sixth sense, he just seemed to be able to sense what a person was about moments after meeting them and whether they were good or bad, or more importantly liars. However although he didn't trust Drayson, he wasn't as easy to read. The thing that pissed him off most with Drayson though, was his jack the lad style character and the way that he would front up to him whenever the two were standing in front of each other, in an attempt to display how hard he was. It didn't impress or intimidate Anaura one bit and although Drayson may have been a similar height, he was of a slim build and would have been knocked silly by him. Anaura may have had the warmest personality but underneath it he was one tough bastard who just didn't feel the need, unlike Drayson, to show it. If Anaura was ever asked what his opinion of Drayson was, the answer would be short and sweet “He's an arsehole!”.
“Yeah, the same as usual I guess” Anuara answered.
“Are you talking about the wife or the fucking tie Peter?” Drayson replied in an obnoxious tone.
“Both Sir. Anyway, I'm late so I better get home to the old 'trouble and strife'. Always a pleasure to see you Sir” quipped Anaura with a sarcastic tone, making fun of Drayson's fake cockney affectations before pushing past him to make good his escape. For someone who was from Eastings, the chief superintendent sounded affected and more like someone born is the east end of London. Just as Anaura was reaching the exit, he heard Drayson call out to him.
“Oh by the way Anaura, if you want to get promoted any time soon, you best start getting those shitty little drugs dealers of yours locked up” he said with a belligerent tone and a smug expression.
Anaura just nodded back with smile that was far from being a genuine one. Anaura had no interest in being promoted, especially if it meant chasing petty criminals to bulk out his detection rate to look good. And besides, contrary to what he had just said, Drayson never chased the small fish as he seemed to have a talent for hooking the big boys, almost if the evidence had fallen in his lap. In Anaura's mind his success rate didn't add up but then again, some people were just born lucky.
He turned his back on Drayson and walked away, quietly muttering the word “prick” in his British, New Zealand accent, with a part of him hoping that he would hear him; he hadn't. Without delay he rushed to his car, hoping that Laura hadn't thrown his curry in the bin.
A Very Public Hearing
Chapter Six
“This is Janet Hill reporting for the BBC from outside The Old Bailey Court House in London, where five men are standing trial for terrorist related offences. One of the men, Adam Jennings of Poland Lane, is also to stand trial for the murder of police officer, Sergeant Kevin Marriot and the attempt murder of Constable Alex Moore during what is being described as, a bungled police operation!”
“I'm pretty sure there must be something more entertaining on the TV other than the BBC news” said Liam Balham, the Firearms Unit's Inspector before he switched off the LCD screen that was on the wall of the court's police room. He knew full well that the sensationalist style of reporting that the media loved was not what the team needed to hear at that time.
The team of eleven SFO's from the operation sat in a horseshoe shape formation around the room, all deep in thought. The hearing should have been straight forward, a group of terrorists were about to commit serious atrocities but apprehended and stopped; end of. Well that's how every officer on the unit and probably everyone else in the country saw it. However it wasn't going to be simple, nor could it ever have been. A police sergeant had been murdered, an unarmed suspect had been shot dead and another police officer had been seriously injured during what, as the reporter on the TV had said, was a bungled operation. Questions had to be asked, and answered concerning why there was very little planning, what the available intelligence was, why one of the terrorist had been shot dead and another sustained appendage deforming injuries, and of course the officers favourite, defending the statement made by the defence barrister “My clients were not terrorists but victims of an over the top police operation!”. You could always count on a defence lawyer to try and turn the story back on the 'corrupt' police officers, a tactic that the media tended to adopt too. It came across as though someone in power had received one too many speeding tickets and was now hell bent on destroying the police.
Balham looked around the room. The media onslaught had really enraged him but at least the public had been supportive of them with a very different opinion from that of the media; they were scum bag terrorists who deserved to die and even mutterings of bringing back hanging! The country had spoken, they were unreservedly fed up with the terrorist threat and wanted an end to it, even if it meant using aggressive measures to achieve it. Unfortunately the public support for the police and their hatred for treasonous scum had done little to prevent the media and legal attack on the officers, namely Foster and Conan, from happening.
Conan being the tough guy who didn't care about people's opinion of him, sought counselling within weeks of the operation finishing, as he saw it, he needed help prior to facing the court as Op Barrier had been 'relatively' traumatic. He did however, always remind his colleagues that he felt no remorse for permanently disfiguring Jennings and maintained that he would have happily slotted him if the ramifications were not there. His only true regret was that he wished he had been able to get to his MP5 instead of the shotgun, the accuracy of the rifle would have meant that he wasn't just disfigured; he would be rotting in hell. After a few months he was back to his normal self, although he was beginning to become less enthused with risky work and fancied a move to the Traffic Unit, something which drew huge amounts of piss taking from the others, but Conan didn't care, it was a good role that didn't have all the constant bravado crap that went with the Firearms Unit. Once the hearing was over and done with, he would request an immediate transfer; and get it. One thing wasn't wasted on him, he was going to have to answer some difficult questions regarding his actions on that night although it would be made easier by Jones developing amnesia about the way Conan had acted towards Jennings. It was not his word against Conan's, it was obvious who the jury would believe.
For Jones there had been one comical moment when he gave evidence in the box (although it should have sent shivers up his spine) when he was asked whether he had threatened to have Jennings raped in prison. The question causing one of the jury to burst out laughing, almost having him punished for being in contempt of court. Jones response to the barrister was perfectly executed “As a copper, how would I know, or find a prisoner that would rape Jennings on my say so?” And the truth is, he wouldn't but it had made Jennings shut his pathetic weasel mouth that night. Looking back though, he kind of wished that Conan would have taken his foot out of Jennings armpit and let the little bastard bleed to death; that would never have been proved. For their involvement, Simpson, Allen, Evans, Collins and Palmer got off pretty lightly in the witness box as their line of questioning mainly revolved around the intelligence they had received and their individual involvement. And although the operation was called by the Gold Commander Superintendent and Chief Inspector Murray, their questioning seemed a little tame considering that the team would not have been there without their say so. It wasn't wasted on the unit that there was a political agenda and some scapegoats were needed; and they were not going to be command level officers. In fact, even Phelps got more of grilling for just advising Murray. It was clear that only the constables were going to be at fault that day.
Moore, still suffering from his injuries, was given the easiest time as the defence were astute enough to know that their case wouldn't be helped by trying to pin a hero's 'bloody carcass' to the witness box through. The term 'bloody carcass' was used by top flight barristers, denoting their enjoyment of destroying a witness and reducing them to a proverbial carcass in order to win their case. Even though the term was in regular use with the highly paid lawyers, the irony of it all was that it was the officers who were seen as suffering with psychopathy. And of course Jennings who was still yet to fully heal from his horrific injuries, gave his version of events which although followed the same time line as the officer's accounts, managed to paint him as the victim of the state and police brutality. It was clear from the Jury's faces that they were not buying his story, especially when a wealth of extremist propaganda, assault rifles and other assorted weapon and explosives had been found at the house. Jennings was seriously deluded if he ever believed that he would be seen as the victim and have the public's support (who wanted to hang him in Leicester square). The court case had so far run into weeks. It was mid-March, barely four months since the job, and the weather was uncharacteristically warm and humid making the airless court room unbearable.
Apart from the stress of the court case, Op Barrier had left another legacy with the unit and the wider police family. The serious nature of it and the death of a police officer meant that it was shrouded in darkness and profoundly affected a lot of people. Marriot's funeral had been and gone, a grand ceremony befitting his great personality and bravery, and although Conan and Jones had been distraught when they saw Marriot's family and the pain they were going through, they needed to move on and get back to work to shake off the grief as soon as they could. However, there was one person who hadn't been able to adjust since that night and that was Foster who had begun to struggle with his state of mind almost immediately after shooting Mahood. And when the team had attended a secret location to be debriefed straight after the operation, he went missing for forty minutes.
After a while of searching the large secret location, O'Keeffe found Foster in one of the upstairs toilets with a ghost like complexion, gazing into the mirror at himself as if trying to work out who it was staring back at him. O'Keeffe asked whether he was alright but Foster didn't answer and continued to stare. On the third time of asking, combined with a little shake of his shoulder, Foster spun around and faced him with a distant expression on his face that O'Keeffe put down to being the result of shock at first, however it wasn't just that and he knew deep down that something else was going on behind Foster's cold fixated eyes.
All of a sudden Foster grabbed him, breathing heavily with a severe frown and huge dilated pupils. His grip was so tight that O'Keeffe didn't know whether to punch him or yell at him. However there was something scary going on inside Foster that he knew had to be dealt with cautiously.
“Ease up mate!” O'Keeffe said.
Foster began to push him backwards until he paused and then dropped to his knees, sobbing into his hands. Shocked, O'Keeffe put his hand onto Fosters shoulder which suddenly made him spring up with a face devoid of emotion. Apart from the redness of his eyes, it was like he had never been crying.
“You OK mate, what the fuck is going on?” O'Keeffe asked in confusion.
Foster shook his head and with a shrug of his shoulders answered “Nothing!” prompting O'Keeffe to tell him that he had been missing for over forty minutes. He pondered what he had said to him with confusion before replying that he had felt sick after the command team had congratulated them on a good job done and left to get some air. He then explained how his thoughts had started to race to a degree where he felt as though the only way to stop them was to bounce his head off a wall. O'Keeffe looked back at him with a sense of profound concern whilst trying to figure out how he could have gone from a cold stare, to crying, to being back to his old self again within a space of a couple of minutes and not been aware of it; it didn't make sense.
“Why were you gone for so long though? You could have asked me to come with you.” O'Keeffe enquired.
“I guess I just wanted to get away, although I can't really remember what I was doing in here! It's strange but I don't even recall you coming in!” Foster said with an element of bafflement.
O'Keeffe, realising that his friend wasn't himself or fully aware of his surroundings, took the sensible way out “Ha ha, well you were so intent on sorting out your hair in the mirror, I guess you didn't notice me coming in!”
“What? When was I looking into the mirror? Why can't I remember any of this!” asked Foster with concern
“Ah don't worry about it mate, you've just been subjected to an inordinate amount of stress! You just need a bloody good rest and you'll be fine! Come on let's get back to the others before they send out a search party” O'Keeffe replied as the two men began to walk out of the toilets. Foster looked back at the mirror, desperately trying to remember what he had been doing in the toilets. He couldn't remember, but knew one thing for certain; he didn't feel himself.
“Bloody hell, that's me down with firearms work, I'll not go through that again” a severely perspiring Conan said as he walked back into the police room. Inspector Balham asked him why and how it had gone in the box, despite knowing that there was an obvious answer to his question from Conan's appearance. Conan recalled how he'd been questioned for over two and a half hours on what he had said to Jennings and whether he had pointed a gun to his head after shooting him. The shooting itself was barely mentioned, a perfect example of how the legal system worked in the country with the human rights of violent deranged criminals being more important than anything else; even their victims. It had not been a pleasant experience for him and his sweat soaked white police shirt was indicative of that. Conan was dead serious about being finished with the unit, over the years he'd grown weary of the politics of it all and how you could be criticised by others for a split second decision when you were under the highest level of pressure, he'd had enough. The traumatic nature of Op Barrier and the repeated nightmares that followed were something that would stay with him forever so he didn't fancy risking it happening again, Conan needed a fresh start and would leave the unit within a few weeks. Another thing that hadn't helped Conan was when he and Foster had been involved in a stand up row in the firearms unit's office after he had taken umbrage to Fosters new antagonistic and aggressive personality. Since the shooting Foster had been a changed man and although this was plain to see for everyone, no one had stepped in to talk to him, fearing that he may flare up at them. As the months rolled on, the womanising and drinking went up a few levels, he had even started to be aggressive towards his friends, including O'Keeffe. But no matter what he did, the others just saw it as him letting off steam and something that would get better with time, although underneath they knew he wasn't right. MacNeil on the other hand, who was one of the most level headed guys on the unit quietly approached him away from hearing shot of the others and asked him to open up. However Foster replied that he couldn't work out what everyone's problem was with him and that he hadn't changed, and cited that everyone else had. MacNeil had become even more concerned during the conversation when Foster had begun stating that he believed the organisation was plotting against him and how he had been considering joining the Intelligence services to become a spy. None of it made any sense.
Now sat in the police room at the court house, Foster was waiting to give his evidence, the last to do so. O'Keeffe and MacNeil had already been asked about their involvement within the bedroom where Mahood had been shot. The cross examination the pair received was mainly concerned with their own actions in the room and whether they had perceived Mahood to be an immediate threat, something which they both confirmed, citing that with the intelligence of automatic weapons and way in which Mahood burst into the room, they had honestly feared for their life.
Despite the understandable nature of why Foster had fired, Foster himself could not get it right in his head, not because he was concerned about Mahood dying, it was the flashbacks and fear that he may have been found guilty of an unlawful killing if the jury went against him. This was of course an unlikely proposition, but after most of the media attacks had been directed at him and his name had been released in the papers, Foster had begun to crack up even more from the pressure. He had by now, lost the ability to control his own mind. And despite once being a very popular member of the team, Foster was now sat alone in the corner of the room sporadically muttering to himself quietly, his extreme behaviour and aggressiveness towards his friends and colleagues had meant that even O'Keeffe had started to distance himself after Foster accused him of being a traitor and 'one of them'.