This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The Case of the Missing £1.5 Million. Chapter 1.
Stealthily, he crouched down to Sam’s eyelevel, fingered a small pot of black boot polish and smeared the contents unwillingly over Sam’s face. “Numpty night ops, I need you in full kit, infra-red goggles, the works,” he ordered. “This is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill.”
In his hard-back chair, Sam reeled back from the new leader, not knowing he was going to be this hands-on. He fearfully mumbled something about pen-pushing, but his trembling made it inaudible to the remaining members of the team.
Wilko stood back up, reached for his war-stick, swung it wildly above the heads of the troops and shaved the last few strands of hair from the top of Davies’ balding crown. While Davies locked in shock, Wilko bought the baton down firmly on the table-map of Miltshire, precisely landing it close to the village of Potshot.
With swift and certain drive, he manoeuvred ten plastic M4 Sherman tanks across the map to face the centre of the village. “Battalion five CPA, stand by at the pond, 51.3492° N, 1.9927° W is that clear?” he commanded, any question was interrogation, rhetorical anyway, fail to comprehend it and you will be called a numpty, or better still, shot.
“Ground troops will move in at 06:02, synchronise watches, and back up with battalion six,” he continued, “any of you bender boys cut the shit and bail, I will personally slice you a new arsehole, is that clear?!”
All in attendance remained hushed, just nodding with dread.
“Now, Combat Search and Rescue squadrons, Apache, Sikorsky HH-60 Pave Hawk, I need you guys held back by the A362, MRI the surface, carpet bomb, shoot to kill any survivors, joggers and dog walkers; they might be in on it.”
Police chief Andrews sighed, “we’ve only got the one Bell 429 GlobalRanger, and that’s kind of broken at the moment, thanks to Martin for jumping on the skids.”
Sitting in the back, colouring in a Jimbo and the Jetset colouring-in book, Martin giggled, “was funny though….”
“I was just going to send in Sandra,” Andrews explained.
“Sandra? Really?” Wilko looked sternly at him, “a woman? Have you lost your balls as well as your mind, Andrews? State your number!”
“Sir!” Sandra protested.
Wilko pointed at her, “isn’t there some mugs and doughnut plates need washing up in the staff kitchen?!”
“With all due respect, sir,” Andrews retorted, as Sandra threw her jacket on the floor and left, mumbling some rather strong words about how she felt about the new PCC, and about quitting too. “It is only a teenager who nicked a pork pie from the village community shop!” he added.
“Crime is a disease, chief numpty,” Wilko responded in anger, “I am Miltshire’s cure! First a pork pie, next a full pack of six pasties, then who knows what, the scum will suicide-bomb the Ginsters’ factory. Evidently, you have underestimated the gravity of this crime, as the numpty you quite clearly are. The village of Potshot, chief numpty, what does this suggest to you?”
“A, erm….” Andrews started.
“An open invitation for junkie scum to congregate,” Wilko rudely interrupted, “that’s what! This stoned-out dissident has quite obviously been radicalised by far-leftie woke parish councillors, thinks he can satisfy his munchie cravings by outright robbery, and I will not stand idly by while he terrorises good conservative villagers with inexcusable pie theft!”
The police force sat silently, with either expressions of confusion, shock or plain astonishment.
“Theft of savoury snacks is equally as significant as smoking crack!” Wilko added.
“Tee-hee,” Martin giggled, “you said crack!”
Wilko drew his pistol and open fired, placing a bullet in Martin’s temple, his head collapsing onto the desk in a pool of blood.
“Well, done,” Andrews said, “he was getting the next round in tonight down the Dog N Duck.”
Wilko shifted over to Andrews’ back, placing his hands gently but threateningly around his neck, “Helmand province, October 18th, 2001; one private, the joker of the pack, told a joke about a man going to the doctors with a bright orange cock, the punchline, something about watching porn and eating Wotzits, caused a recalcitrant uproar within the troop. While they laughed, rebels snuck in, killing two of my best men, chief numpty. With a gunshot to my left leg, I carried their mutilated bodies over my shoulders, across the barren plains of Karabakshi to Turkmenbashi, took control of a Turkish civilian vessel by force, charted passage back to the UK, where I marched nonstop to their respective hometowns of Hull and Newcastle to deliver their remains to their families. As I watched their children break down and cry, deciding it was in their best interest, given their grief, to shoot them and put them out of their misery. So, you see, I will not stand for jokers in my battalion, numpty, they are a liability!”
“I erm,” Andrew was lost for words, “I don’t think that sort of thing will happen here, though, just, like, you know, saying?”
“Are you disrespecting the service of these men, chief?” Wilko angered.
“No,” he answered nervously, “merely saying, it’s just a kid, pinched a porkpie, is all. We need to think intuitively, about the negligeable……”
Receptionist Becky called from the hallway and broke the awkwardness of the moment, “Police Commissioner, I’ve a James Seedless on line one for you, sir! He says there’s been a murder in Broomhamton!”
Wiko frowned, “perhaps you think I’m being unfair, chief numpty? I will not have a man down on my watch, take the thief out by use of extreme force, if necessary or not, it’s the way things will be around here, and if you’re too woke chickenshit, I suggest you join the girl guides instead.”
Sincerely sounding, yet in a mocking way, he bowed down to Andrew’s level, “Once the mission is complete, and the target is eliminated, you will find I am not such a bad person after all, numpty. We shall drink to our new union triumphant, and I will personally pay for some oriental whores, for all of my battalion, from any brothel in Miltshire, your choice.” Producing a digestive biscuit from his top pocket he smiled, “now, the last one to cover this digestive in their own spunk gets to buy the first round, I need to take this call…”
About foot, he marched ardently from the room, smashing Davies on his now completely bald head and pointing at the lifeless body of Martin. “You, numpty, clear up that mess you made!”
To be continued……..