A Time Honoured Killing Read online

  A Time Honoured Killing

  Love Lives Forever

  Samesh Ramjattan

  Epiphany Books

  Oxford, United Kingdom

  Copyright © 2018 Samesh Ramjattan

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

  Print ISBN – 978-1-64467-814-5

  Ebook ISBN – 978-1-64467-815-2

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Samesh Ramjattan has a Masters in Business Administration from Oxford Brookes University and prior to becoming a bestselling author was an award-winning restauranteur. He began his career writing film screenplays before his first novel, a self-help spiritual guide Be Your Higher Self, followed by the detective thriller entitled A Time-Honoured Killing and the sci-fi action adventure trilogy entitled Beyond. He lives in Oxford, United Kingdom, and has a passion for cooking and travelling off the beaten track.

  Find out more at: www.sameshramjattan.com.

  For my Brother,

  Yogesh

  1

  The Independent Police Complaints Commission Courtroom was unusually full with every seat taken and some even standing at the back. Hearings like these had the habit of bringing everyone who had ever had a dispute with the London Metropolitan Police or Scotland Yard, as it was more famously known. The proceedings had been drawn out for weeks on end and the fatigue of bureaucracy was evident on the faces of the entire court, particularly the Officers of the court who went about their mundane duties in their respective boxes. The Chief Prosecutor Miles Munroe stood calm and collected despite the hot summer sweat that plagued everybody else. Miles stood tall, as though he were appointed by a higher sense of justice, the unwavering command of the law elevating his somewhat impish demeanour. He paraded around the court floor like a veteran actor embellishing the carefully chosen role and rehearsed dialogue, calling out:

  “The Prosecution calls Narendra Shankar to the stand.”

  Nick Shankar stood up purposefully and walked from the galleries, displaying a confident swagger in each step, realising that all eyes were on him. He was light skinned, with a hint of cinnamon that complimented a delicately chiselled face and sculpted jet-black hair. He glided toward the dock, his tall and muscular frame filling his debonair suit, stepping before the Bailiff who placed the Bible before him.

  “Place your…er, do you need another book? Koran maybe?” the Bailiff stuttered. Nick stared the man down with slight contempt, confirming, “I’m half English.”

  “Place your,” the Bailiff continued eager to get this minor infraction over with and return to his day-dreaming.

  Nick placed his hand in the appropriate position and began to slowly mouth the words, “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth…” But found himself hesitating on the final few words. He took a small welcome breath of the stale court-room air and then muttered, “…so help me god”.

  “Thank you. You may take your seat,” the Bailiff said as he hurriedly desisted and returned to his seat. Nick sat down welcoming the relief that accompanied as Miles slowly sauntered up to him. Miles offered a rapacious smile similar to the sharpened teeth a predator might brandish before a kill.

  “Mr Shankar, please state your name and rank,” he opened.

  “Nick Shankar. I mean Narendra Shankar T-D-C. Most people call me Nick,” he said casually.

  “That’s Trainee Detective Constable correct?” Miles enquired further.

  “That’s right,” Nick confirmed, as he sunk into his chair and made himself comfortable. He gazed into the gallery to find his superior Officer, Chief Superintendent Rory McNeil, who sat with a pronounced superiority and permanent stiff upper lip, and Detective Sargent Ron Allen, whose large frame sat hemmed in his seat. Ron caught Nick staring at them and grinned making the courtroom proceedings seem farcical.

  Miles had noticed the exchange between the men and this only served to motivate his defamatory tone in the line of questioning.

  “On the night of January twelfth, two thousand and twelve, both you and Detective Sargent Ronald Allen, entered the flat of one Tyson Dix, a dealer in narcotics, from Pimlico.”

  “Yes. That’s correct,” Nick confirmed as he felt the Prosecutor building toward something, but he was unsure what it was.

  “According to the arrest reports, you and D-C Allen had come about this information from a, as you put it, reliable informant, named Carley Banks.” Miles stated further, as he began to circle the dock, turning his back to the Detective.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  By this point Miles had returned to the desk where he had been seated and picked up a file and began to scrutinize it. Nick scanned the court once more as the audience waited for Miles’ next words.

  “Carley Banks, a youth offender with a conviction for dealing Cocaine, not to mention burglary, shoplifting, and assaulting an Officer.”

  Miles then spun around to face Nick, eager to hear what the Detective’s response would be to his next question.

  “That Officer of course being you.”

  Nick had turned his attention inward at the mention of Carley Banks but then looked up to find that Miles was eye-balling him in a blatantly accusatory manner.

  “And you would deem her reliable, Constable Shankar?” Miles followed up.

  Nick turned his attention again to McNeil and Ron. Both were avoiding him now and Ron was less insolent.

  “Carly…” Nick blurted, but then quickly rephrased as the formality of his surroundings begged.

  “Miss Banks had spent convictions and had since cleaned up her act. As for assaulting me, I let her off with a caution and she brought me regular information. Tip offs which were more valuable, especially in this case, which checked out.”

  “Would you describe this relationship as one which was more than just a street snitch?” Mile probed, reallising he had discovered a vulnerability.

  “I’m not sure what you mean by that?” Nick retorted defensively. But Miles was preparing to probe even further.

  “You and Miss Banks share a close romantic relationship. Isn’t that true?” Miles declared moving in to face Nick as they weighed each other up like two determined prize-fighters. The courtroom broke into a mild murmur but not enough to warrant the use of a stern gavel by the Chair of the Commission.

  “We are friends. That’s all,” Nick responded adamantly trying to fend off the underlying implications of collusion and guilt.

  “Friends? She was one of Tyson’s ex-girls. One whom he beat up so badly, he almost killed her,” Miles lauded at the top of his voice. “She had good reason to bring you this information.”

  Nick maintained his resolve against this obvious chink in his battle armour. He knew he had to rise above this onslaught and sway the court back in his direction. A light sheen of sweat glazed over his brow, but he could not wipe it as this would show weakness. It would demonstrate that he was waning under Miles’ line of questioning.

  �
��Tyson was not only a major player in the London drugs trade. C-I-D had been after him for years with no success. I saw an opportunity and I took it!” Nick retorted vehemently. Miles sniggered under his breath as if he was personally appalled by the response. “Did that mean ignoring proper arrest procedure?” Miles asked, but swiftly held his hand to Nick dismissing any kind of response, and quickly stated, “Please tell the court the events of that night and why you alone decided to hold the tactical officers at bay?”

  “It’s all in the report,” Nick snarled defiantly.

  Exasperated, Miles turned to the Commissioner, “Surely these proceedings deserve better cooperation from the Detective than this?”

  The Commissioner swiftly turned to Nick and belted out sternly, “Detective Constable, the court will not tolerate this sort of behaviour. Please respect these proceedings by answering the Chief Prosecutors question.”

  Nick squirmed awkwardly in his seat as he realised that his proactive defence had crossed into insolence which he quickly reigned in. He glimpsed McNeil looking back disapprovingly and Ron burying his head in his hands, massaging his agonized forehead. The gravity of this situation began to permeate through the false bravado.

  “Tyson lived on the top floor of one of the city’s worst tower blocks – drugs, knife crime, robbery – you name it,” Nick began humbly. “We had to hold Tactical back, because Tyson paid local hoodie gangs as look outs. If they spotted us in the area, Tyson had enough time to hide any incriminating activity.”

  Nick began to reflect back to the night in question.

  It was Pimlico at night. That night was particularly cold, and he could feel the icy wind invade the spaces between his skin and the layers of clothing. He could remember thinking that he was not cut out for this cold. His father had come from India. Gujarat, he thought but couldn’t really be sure despite the countless times his father had bored them to death with the story of his childhood growing up under the British Raj. His father would reminisce about the glorious hot weather and cooking his spicy mutton curry. He would go on about that curry. But for some reason and on some level, Nick related to those stories. He grew up on a council estate not unlike this one, but his father’s tales of idyllic warmth seem to captivate and help him escape. Thoughts of his father stayed with him as he followed Ron into the graffiti stained lift. Ron pressed the button and the door ground to a reluctant close.

  He remembered the stench of urine crawling up his nose to the point where he could barely tolerate it. But he had to endure. Endure all of this if he wanted to get ahead. And boy did he want to get ahead.

  It wasn’t long before Ron announced that they were there as they stood before an unexpectedly red-coloured door with the polished brass numbers nine-one-nine smartly mounted in the middle. Nick recalled how the door seemed out of place for such an occupant, almost as if it belonged to a dear sweet old lady resembling one’s grandmother. His mind spun into all sorts of detail about the imaginary old woman who should have been in this flat. But then he found himself dismissing his imagination with an authoritative “shut-up”. That seemed to do the trick as the imaginary sweet old lady was soon vexed but equally an almost overwhelming fear crept up from the centre of his body and practically froze him solid. Only a firm elbow to the midriff from Ron seemed to release the spectre of fear.

  “Ready?” Ron barked. Nick nodded trying to restore his lost confidence. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. Then Ron thumped on the door.

  A period of silence followed. Nobody seemed to be coming to the door. This waiting took its toll, exacerbating the fear as Nick’s heart began to beat faster. Thoughts began to betray his composure.

  Did they have the right place? Was this some kind of set-up? Did Carley betray him?

  This time Nick thumped even harder – each strike qualified a hope that things were not about to go wrong.

  Nick held his breath as he heard a commotion behind the door and after a minute of fumbling the door opened to reveal a waif-like fourteen-year-old girl. She looked almost emaciated, pale and purple – bruised from years of addiction. She turned and motioned them to enter without any real care as to who they were. The elaborate detection measures that had kept them at bay for so many years didn’t seem so elaborate after all.

  The girl made her way through the kitchen which had not seen home cooking in decades and Nick’s fantasy of a sweet old lady tending a quaint cosy flat was soon dispelled as the decay of fast food cartons, strewn vodka bottles and discarded hypodermic needles became the aesthetic.

  The girl eventually led them into the living room, to find a young black man in his mid- twenties, slouched low on a tatty worn out sofa watching a distinctly out of place plasma screen TV. The girl crawled back on-to the sofa next to him.

  Nick studied the young man. So, this was Tyson he thought, feeling underwhelmed at the meeting and thinking that he could be mistaken for any kid off the street and not someone who was a criminal kingpin in the making.

  Nick and Ron stood before Tyson who barely acknowledged them as they entered. The girl picked up a tinged Crack Pipe off the floor and began to take deep puffs from it. She gasped as the white smoke irradiated her swollen lungs and infected her bloodstream, invoking a coma inducing high. She slid into a cuddle next to Tyson who elbowed her away, repulsed by the show of affection.

  “This is my partner Shank I told you about,” Ron announced loudly attempting to get things moving, but his words made no impression as Tyson stayed glued to the TV set. By now Nick’s pulse was racing. He couldn’t work out whether this was Tyson’s inert strategy to try and size them up or that he was so high that he wasn’t even aware that they were present. Whichever it was, there seemed to be a pervading sense of foreboding that filled his senses.

  “Tyson!” Ron lamented again, breaking through Nick’s introspective. He looked at his partner who was equally nervous but demonstrated it in different way. He knew that his partner had a reputation for violence, although he had never directed any of that well-known temper his way.

  “Wait a minute blood,” Tyson finally uttered.

  “We going to do this or what?” Ron urged as his infamous temper rose. But Tyson gave no reply. Ron began to sway as his eyeballs rose in his head like a thermometer about to blow.

  “You need to chill!” Tyson said in an animated tone that seemed to bring him to life. He sprang to his feet squaring off equally with Ron. Nick’s nervousness reached panic, as he prepared to react to the apparent threat to his partner. But none was forthcoming as Tyson suddenly deflated into a more welcoming demeanour and grabbed Ron’s hand in a brotherly bond.

  “Shank ma’ man,” Tyson celebrated as he took Nick’s hand in a similar manner and held on. Nick breathed a sigh of relief, confirming that Tyson was sizing him up in some strange ritual that only he was party to.

  “You stay here and keep Gina company,” Tyson quipped. “Ron and I gotta talk.”

  Gina smiled wryly at Tyson as he gestured for Ron toward the kitchen. Ron looked back at Nick gesturing for him to accept the cordiality of their unlikely host.

  “You want some pipe?” Tyson offered Ron as they left the room.

  “No, I’m good,” Ron declined.

  “Sure? It’s some good shit. What about you bruv?” Tyson turned to Nick who had become uneasy at the prospect of being left alone in the room with a drug addicted minor. Nick hesitantly looked at Ron then back at Tyson, realising that by accepting he would be committing a crime and risked failing the Met’s random drug testing, not to mention being disciplined and sacked. But then he realised Tyson might take it somewhat personally and he might blow his cover. He decided to throw caution to the wind, “Sure. Why not.”

  “Gina, you heard the man, give him a hit,” Tyson barked to the girl who seemed to disregard his request. That only enraged Tyson and he bellowed, “And clean some of this shit up.” There was still blatant disregard from her to which Tyson muttered, “Bitch!” as he disappeared in to the
kitchen with Ron.

  Nick smiled at Gina as she exhaled a puff of smoke. She was only a few years younger than Carley and Nick couldn’t help but think that until recently, Carley had filled a similar role in Tyson’s entourage. She wore an old faded floral summer dress that, when it fit a few years ago, held the mark of an expensive high street fashion store. Now it was short enough to expose her panty-less vagina and small but erect breasts as she reclined on the sofa without any care for her dignity. Nick could see that she could have been attractive had the drugs not taken its toll on her looks and her ambition. She was clearly around for his amusement, a sexual plaything trading sex for a high. He had known many girls like her. Guys like Tyson hooked them early straight out of school. Some made it out, some over-dosed and some just disappeared – trafficked into the sex trade. At least Carley made it out. He had made sure of that.

  The courtroom had become eerily silent at the sound of his testimony, almost as if they had been in the grubby flat with him experiencing every sight, sound and smell.

  “Everything was going to plan until I heard the gunshot,” He muttered dolefully.

  “And that’s when you entered the kitchen?” Miles asked more considerately this time. Nick looked firmly at Miles as his earlier derring-do faded into a more woeful exchange.

  “That’s correct,” Nick affirmed.

  Gina planted the pipe haphazardly in Nick’s lap and then looked at him with her brown eyes fully open. Her hands were still clasped around it as he took it. Their hands touched and for a moment a part of her true self made a connection as she looked into his eyes and recognised a forgotten empathy in them. He saw her for who she was and not something to use and discard. But then the illusion of the drugs returned, and the reality of her predicament dawned, “Wanna fuck me?” she said flippantly.

  Nick recoiled at the remark, handing her back the pipe. She took it and turned away emotionlessly, drawing on the pipe again. The interaction left no latent emotion and she dismissed the exchange with a callous disregard almost as if she was concluding a failed transaction.