Full Marks

Neal James

Description

Dennis Marks thought he had seen it all. That was before Solomon Goldblum crossed his path - after that, things were never the same again. The trauma which the old Jew had inflicted upon him had brought about a near psychological collapse. That the DCI had been able to conceal the fragility of his mental state from the shrink whom the Met had forced him to see had been down to his sheer determination.Now, all of that effort was about to be challenged by one of the most daunting figures at New Scotland Yard - Superintendent Eric Staines. The Independent Police Complaints Commission were about to take Marks' life apart, professionally and personally, and Staines, as one of its fiercest inquisitors, was not a man inclined to show mercy.A month was all that the DCI had to prove his innocence of a range of charges dating back to his days as a detective sergeant. A career spent putting away the dregs of London's criminal world was to hang in the balance, and he was, he believed, for the first time...alone.Book reviews online @ www.publishedbestsellers.com

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Pneuma Springs Publishing
• Date de parution: 21 mars 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782282853
• Langue: English

Extrait

Full Marks


Neal James
Copyright

First Published in 2013 by: Pneuma Springs Publishing
Full Marks Copyright © 20 13 Neal James
Neal James has asserted his/her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this Work
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Illustrations by Rachel Beardmore
Mobi eISBN: 9781782282778 Epub eISBN: 9781782282853 PDF eBook eISBN: 9781782282938 Paperback ISBN: 9781782282631
Pneuma Springs Publishing E: [e-mail] W: www.pneumasprings.co.uk
Published in the United Kingdom. All rights reserved under International Copyright Law. Contents and/or cover may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written consent of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, save those clearly in the public domain, is purely coincidental.
Dedication

To the staff at Maple Leaf House in Ripley, Derbyshire.

With thanks for all the kindness shown to Joyce.
Acknowledgements
Once more it falls to me to extend thanks to a range of individuals whose efforts have eased the flow of ‘Full Marks’ to its conclusion as a published novel.
Robert Eldridge, my editor, and a fierce adherent to the art of English grammar. His attention to the minutest of detail amongst the 100,000 words has been the boon which all authors would give their right arm to enjoy.
Ian Robertson (BA, FCIS). Thank you for being the Reader of Full Marks, and also for scrutinising and correcting the legal inconsistencies in the text. Evenings spent trawling through the intricacies of the English legal system have given me a fresh insight which will be of immense value in the future.
Rachel Beardmore for the drawings in the text. This talented young lady is at the threshold of a promising career, and it has been my pleasure to work with her in the detail of the eleven wonderful images which illustrate the novel. Also, Tracey Mosley in particular, and the Heanor Gate Science College Art Department in general.
My wife, Lynn, for the snippets of advice and ‘word gems’ which have been constantly demanded from her during the year which it has taken to get ‘Full Marks’ to its finished state.
Pneuma Springs. What more can I say that I have not already said? You took a chance, and now I’m right here. For all of the support, artwork, promotional material, and advice, a simple ‘thank you’ just doesn’t seem enough.
List of Illustrations
George Groves was in his fifties and stood just over six feet in height
Dave Monk was a big man, standing just over six feet two
“Listen, Mr Detective Inspector Marks, that Miles Thomas was one dirty operator
“Take a seat, Barry. There’s something I’d like you to take a look at.”
The sudden cold made Goldblum shiver involuntarily
Picking up the whisky once more, Staines drained the glass and checked the time
“Back to the lab then?” said Spencer
“Yes, can I help you?” She had a voice which could charm the birds down from the trees
“Mrs Yates?” The question came from a man in his fifties
“You can’t just walk out on me, you pencil-pushing little weasel!” Shaw yelled…
“What did I tell you?” Groves beamed
The Novel
Friday, 17 th March 2006
Dennis Marks’ professional world was about to fall apart. Today had, so far, been one of those run-of-the-mill episodes in the life of the typical Detective Chief Inspector in the Metropolitan Police. Now in his mid-fifties and married for thirty years, he had just about seen and done it all in his career. From the verge of a nervous breakdown in the not too distant past, he had recovered to be a much more pragmatic and open-minded individual.
The sessions had been hard, very hard at the outset, and the catalyst of Solomon Goldblum served only to expose all of the frailties inherent in the human psyche. Years of solid, factual police work had simply left him unprepared for the world inhabited by the old Jew. He had been sceptical, very sceptical, at the outset of the psychiatric techniques which laid his mind bare. The near collapse brought on by the case had been the least of his worries at the time. June, his wife, had been a rock, but the nightmares, when they came, had pulled her into the darkness which had started to drag him down. The eyes - Goldblum’s burning, demonic eyes - lay in wait for him each night he tried to sleep. The treatment, in the end, had been a clear instruction from those above – it had been an ultimatum, and one which he had tried in vain to ignore.
He was five feet ten, of medium build, and, for a man of his years, took pride in the fact that he could still run a mile in under eight minutes. The glasses, which he wore for effect in meetings (though they were strictly for reading only), lent him an air of authority to which younger officers deferred without question. He had progressed through the Met in the old way of pounding the beat, and earning promotion by virtue of deed rather than word.
All of that was about to change with the arrival of the man now making his way down the office. Like the Red Sea before Moses, those officers present stood aside. Marks never saw him coming.
Eric Staines – a name to strike fear into any copper operating within the Metropolitan Police. With the rank of Superintendent, he ran his own Professional Standards Department within the Independent Police Complaints Commission with an iron fist forged in the controversies surrounding the appeals of The Guildford Four in 1989 and The Birmingham Six in 1991. As an inspector in his mid-thirties at the time of both scandals, he had been involved at a senior level, and his name had become synonymous down the years with a determination to root out corruption whatever the cost. A number of high-ranking officers had suffered the ultimate penalty as a result of his work.
He had read the file on Dennis Marks, and although the DCI seemed, on the face of it, to be a typical hard-working senior officer, there was no room for sentiment. A number of issues had been raised, and there were some inconsistencies in the man’s record. It would not be the first time that a top-ranking detective had fallen foul of the rules.
He walked into Marks’ office unannounced - it was always the best way.
“Detective Chief Inspector.” He flashed the dreaded ID card before Marks’ face. “Eric Staines - IPCC.”
It was customary for anyone approaching a private office to at least knock before entering, but not these boys. Staines was held in a combination of repugnance and fear by anyone operating at New Scotland Yard. Since the days of the original trial of the Birmingham Six in 1975, police forces up and down the country had operated under the increasingly powerful shadow of anti-corruption squads from within. The Stephen Lawrence Inquiry of 1998 had laid a charge of institutional racism right at the Met’s door, forcing radical changes to operations. Marks could not suppress the involuntary shudder which ran up and down his spine. He tried to outstare the man – he failed.
“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?” The DCI’s tone was brusque and businesslike. It was always advisable to be upfront with IPCC investigations. Anything else was apt to be treated as a weakness, and thus be seen as suspicious.
“Your warrant card will do for the moment. You are suspended from all duties with immediate effect, pending an inquiry into your record.”
The flat, impersonal statement hit Marks like a dagger to the heart. He had known of colleagues falling foul of the internal discipline routine in the past, and even those few coming out of it exonerated were never the same coppers as before.
“Suspended? What are you talking about?” Marks scowled.” What is it that you think I’ve done?”
“Just the card for now, Chief Inspector. Any charges will be notified to you through the usual channels. You will be escorted from the premises and driven home, but do not attempt to leave the area. You will be sent for if we need you, but I would advise that you contact the Police Federation... and get yourself a good solicitor.”
Behind Staines stood Marks’ boss, Superintendent Gordon Davies; he was shaking his head almost imperceptibly, and nodded in the direction of the office door. The look on the man’s face told the DCI that there was more to this than met the eye. They had been colleagues for a number of years, and the body language was a clear indication that more information than Staines was revealing would be divulged in private. Picking up his coat, and throwing the warrant card down on the desk, he walked out.
Back at home, Marks slammed the front door behind him and threw his coat over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. June heard the noise and came from the kitchen to see her husband, in a state of ill-concealed despair, sitting with head in hands on the hall chair.
“Dennis, what’s the matter?”
“The bastards!” He growled. “They’ve suspended me!”
“Suspended?” She followed him into the lounge. “What for? What have you done?”
“If I knew that, June, I’d be as wise as they are!” He saw the hurt on his wife’s face at the last remark. “Sorry, love; they dropped it on me suddenly, and I haven’t a clue what’s behind it.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the front door, and the grave face of George Groves greeted June as she opened it.
“Where is he?”
“In the lounge, George. You’d better come in.” She closed the door, and returned from the kitchen with a bottle of wine and three glasses.
“Dennis, I just heard. What on earth’s wrong with them?” Groves sat down.
“You could be in trouble just for being here, George. I don’t think anyone’s supposed to be talking to me while the suspension’s in operation.”
“Doesn’t aff