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120 pages

English

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A serial killer tortures and slays his prey. In his bloody wake comes hard-eyed detective Jack Raven, and his young protege, Rosie Diamond. As the mystery unfolds, the action switches from the wealthy and powerful in the monied enclaves of London, to the drug-riddled, impoverished slums of South America, and the endangered settlements of the Brazilian rainforest. As Raven and Diamond pursue their quarry, an evil network is revealed, leading to an anguished moral dilemma.

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Publié par	eBookPartnership.com
Date de parution	18 novembre 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781783015733
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

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KNOCK DOWN GINGER
John Swinfield
2014 John Swinfield
John Swinfield has asserted his rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in eBook format in 2014
ISBN: 978-1-78301-573-3
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.
All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either the product of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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KNOCK DOWN GINGER
Jack Raven, known for his cold eyes and hot temper, and his prot g Rosie Diamond, in pursuit of a desperado on a murderous rampage. A high-octane thriller set in the violent and impoverished favelas of Brazil, the endangered communities of the Amazon rainforest and the monied enclaves of high-society Britain. As Raven and Diamond close in on their prey, an evil network comes to light, its diabolical tentacles reaching across the globe. International in its scope, with a profound moral dilemma at its heart, Knock Down Ginger is a compelling page-turner. A highly readable, steely thriller, it grips the reader from first page to last.
The author
John Swinfield is an ex-Fleet Street journalist, broadcaster and historian. A former Industrial Journalist of the Year, he was an on-screen reporter with Nationwide (BBC1) and The Money Programme (BBC2). For ITV/C4 he made the Enterprise series about global business moguls. He has three Royal Television Society awards and won the Sandford St. Martin Premier Award for his film Beggars in Paradise (ITV) shot in Peru, one of several documentaries he made about dispossessed peoples in the teeming slums of Latin America and south-east Asia. Previously the executive producer of Arts Features for Anglia Television, he is widely published and a well-known public speaker. His MA degree is in maritime history. His existing works include Airship: design, development disaster, published by Conway Maritime the US Naval Institute Press, and Sea Devils: pioneer submariners , published by The History Press.
For Bridgit and my family. For those who have suffered and still are. For those of courage who labour in adverse circumstances around the world. They know who they are. My thanks to police sources and friends and contacts in south-east Asia and South America. They must remain anonymous.
CONTENTS
PART 1
PART 2
PART 3
PART 4
PART 5
EPILOGUE
PART 1
He was on the cracked leather chesterfield in the Admiral Keppel snooker room. A cue rammed so hard into his mouth it poked out through the back of his neck. Dark suit, white shirt, regimental tie. At The Imperial he was known as the Captain. Down from Norfolk on Britain s east coast for a night in London. Scissors had been jabbed in his left eye. His right popped and bulged. He was tied hand and foot. Before the cue had been rammed into his mouth he had been gagged with black duct tape. The spinal cord had dislocated the atlantoaxial joint connecting the head to the neck. Usual procedures. Forensics, pathology, DNA sampling. Inch by inch searches. The club closed. Rooms taped off. Members and servants quizzed.
* * *
Detective Inspector Jack Raven would lead the investigation. Known for his cold eyes and hot temper. He sat on the Captain s bed in the chamber in the eaves. The club roof and cupola were being refurbished. Forgotten attics turned into more chambers. The club fa ade on Pall Mall in London was clad in scaffolding. The dead man was Frank Arthur Gleeson. Formerly of the Royal Engineers. Latterly an executive with Cathedral Insurance. The porter said Gleeson had arrived in the middle of the afternoon. He had taken tea and toast on the balcony overlooking the atrium with its black and white floor and busts of dead members. From there he had gone to his room in the roof. At some point he had visited the snooker room. To be slaughtered. Raven sat on Gleeson s bed. The chamber was suffocating. The roof-light had jammed. The air conditioning had malfunctioned. Gleeson travelled light. Shaving bag, underclothes, silk tie, shirt.
* * *
The choking, gurgling. Gleeson s face running with sweat as he closed in with the scissors. Gleeson told him about Capes. Her part in it. He watched the fish. Round and round it swam. He rolled the ball in his hand. Heavy. Smooth as glass. He d sealed Gleeson s mouth with duct tape. After stabbing him in his eye he d torn off the tape. Gleeson s head lolled forward, mouth agape. He d driven the cue into his mouth.
* * *
The ancient snooker room looked like an abattoir. Blood which had soaked the chesterfield was splattered over the panelled walls, floor, the green baize of the table and a large, morose oil painting of Admiral Keppel.
* * *
Rosie Diamond had the mild diffidence of a police officer promoted beyond her experience. To be assigned as Raven s deputy was an important promotion. He had a formidable record. His reputation was that of a moody loner. While other policemen followed football, he kept a small yacht on the River Deben in Suffolk. They said that he had always sailed close to the wind. The nearest Rosie had been to water was fighting off dudes on the muddy banks of the River Quaggy in Lewisham in south London where she had grown up. Old hands said Raven s temper became worse after his wife died. Volcanic they said. They d spiced it up for Rosie s benefit.
* * *
Rosie thought there were three reasons she d been promoted. She was black, a woman and a Cambridge university graduate. Though flattered by her selection, she was convinced she was too inexperienced. Raven had deliberately requested her. She was quick witted and self-deprecatory. He liked officers who could laugh at themselves. Too many detectives were all swagger and no deduction. He liked strong individuals. In the past he d led big manhunts. He understood the value of team work. But he also knew its limitations. Teams of detectives could pull in the wrong direction. The less able hiding their shortcomings in a crowd. With murder there were no short cuts. Each needed instinct, tenacity and an iron determination.
* * *
Raven s bosses were pleased he d asked for Rosie. But some fretted she d be tainted by the habits of a detective who could have gone higher if he d stuck to the rules. He d been reprimanded about his casual disregard for proprieties as often as he d been commended for his effectiveness. In the upper echelons of the force Diamond was seen as a flier. Clever, personable, black. The personification of public relations policing at its best. She was the subject of jealousy. More senior officers had been keen to work with Raven. To see if his well-honed feel for murder inquiries might rub off on them. Behind her back there was bitchiness. It didn t worry Raven. He wanted brains and instincts. Some senior officers chose to surround themselves with dullards, knowing they would never challenge or usurp them. Raven had confidence in his abilities. In those around him he sought excellence over mediocrity. He saw Diamond s lack of confidence as modesty. It would be better than being with cocky bastards. Refreshing to work with somebody who didn t think they were God s gift.
* * *
At the police station - the nick - autopsies were called canoe trips. Raven hated them.
Autopsies. Forensics. Sods in white coats think they can solve everything.
Carter was one of the brightest pathologists. He skinned Gleeson s face. Rolling the skin down. Settling it like a scarf round the chin. He took out the brain, slicing into it, poring over it.
Touch of dementia, he said.
Holding it closer to the lamp.
Bit of a way to go before he was barking. We re all mad in the end ..
He stared at Rosie over his mask.
Cutting Gleeson s body open from the neck to the lower belly. Pulling the folds of flesh to one side. Digging his fingers in. Lifting out each organ.
Good liver. It d win a rosette.
He delved into Gleeson s abdomen.
Toast, apricot jam.
When hollowed out the cadaver looked like a canoe.
* * *
Raven thought back to when he had first joined the force. He was twenty. His first canoe trip. His stomach had churned. Back then when the pathologist had finished he had instructed his assistant to reassemble the corpse. The young apprentice had rolled the facial skin from the chin up and back over the skull. Kneading it this way and that to make it fit as snugly as possible. After smoothing out the crinkles the apprentice had suddenly looked up at the newly-enlisted Raven and shouted Boo! The pathologist had reprimanded the boy. Telling him that the dead deserved as much dignity as the living. He later told Raven: The lad s a scallywag. But it was very funny. You looked as white as a ghost. As pale as death itself.
Raven had never forgotten. He turned to Rosie.
You alright?
She nodded, forcing a smile.
Ever seen a black girl turn white?
* * *
Gleeson had lived in the 18 th century Decoy Cottage in the remote village of Stocking Easter in Norfolk s Broadland, an idyllic network of rivers and lagoons called broads or meres. Stocking Easter lay a mile from the sea. Lonely dunes and tufted banks of marram grass offered scant protection from the icy winds and ravages of the North Sea. Gleeson s wife, Vicky, had died years before. She was remembered in the village as a typical army officer s wife. Brisk, organise