real trouble started about six months ago.”
“Real trouble?” Matthewson asked.
Rafi ignored him, didn’t even acknowledge him with a glance.
“And what I’m about to tell you, I will never ever repeat outside this station, let alone a courtroom. You don’t realise how evil these men are.”
Ashley and the solicitor inched ever closer.
“Father had noticed the trouble had been getting steadily worse. Sure we’d had an odd break-in and some shoplifting, the sort of thing you’d kind of expect in the not too salubrious areas of Newcastle but really nothing out of the ordinary.”
He hesitated, paused for a second. Ashley noticed his hands trembling as he pressed them into the table.
“But then things escalated out of all proportion. We were getting almost daily reports of incidents from the shops. Bricks were hurled through the plate glass windows every other night. We installed shutters in all the shops but stolen cars and vans ram-raided them before they were even bloody paid for.”
He reached over for the cigarette packet Ashley had slid across the table. The youth nodded his appreciation and, as Ashley struck a match, he bent his head down, cigarette at the ready. He stretched back, took a long pull and blew the smoke high into the air. The nicotine fix hit instantly. He seemed to relax… ready to go again.
“The insurance companies refused to cover us. We were finding it hard to stock the shelves and the takings were dropping almost daily. And then…”
He took another long drag on the cigarette and laughed.
“And then our saviour arrived.”
“Billy Graham,” said Ashley.
The youth nodded. “Correct… He turned up to see Father dressed in a suit and tie. Father said he looked ever the part of a successful businessman.”
Matthewson shook his head, reached for Ashley’s cigarettes and added to the pollution in the small interview room.
“Said he could help, said he’d heard we’d been having trouble but it would stop overnight if we could meet his ‘expenses’ as he called them.”
“Protection money,” Ashley whispered gently.
Rafi shrugged his shoulders, took another pull on the cigarette before exhaling.
“Only it was never called that. Father said that the man claimed he had certain contacts and the perpetrators of these crimes would be taken to one side and warned of the consequences should they shit on the doorstep of the Patel shops.”
Rafi Patel looked at Ash. “He refused. Father knew it was a racket and didn’t want any part of it.”
“So he turned nasty, pulled in the heavies.”
Rafi shook his head. He continued.
“Quite the opposite, Mr Graham couldn’t have been nicer. He shook Father’s hand, thanked him for his time, even left a business card. But as he left he told Father he would implement a month’s trial regardless, at no cost.”
Rafi Patel stood up, stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and turned to look up at the barred window two feet above him.
“And, surprise, surprise, during the month of February 2001 not as much as a single packet of chewing gum was robbed from any of the five Patel shops.”
He turned round to face Ashley and the solicitor.
“A minor miracle, gentlemen. And, of course, Father was delighted. The staff were happy again, takings were up and towards the end of the month we even had a phone call from an insurer offering to quote us again.”
It was old hat to Ashley Clarke. Time and time again he’d seen the same thing happen in Hammersmith and Tottenham and Kilburn and just about every district he’d ever worked in London.
In they’d come: the gangsters, the hard men, Neanderthal Man. Without the intelligence or know-how or confidence or ability to attempt to start a business of their own. They’d latch on like a parasite to an already successful well-established operation and bleed it dry.
Why be judged on their own efforts? Why take a risk to earn a crust? No! Let’s just sink our shit-ridden claws
“Real trouble?” Matthewson asked.
Rafi ignored him, didn’t even acknowledge him with a glance.
“And what I’m about to tell you, I will never ever repeat outside this station, let alone a courtroom. You don’t realise how evil these men are.”
Ashley and the solicitor inched ever closer.
“Father had noticed the trouble had been getting steadily worse. Sure we’d had an odd break-in and some shoplifting, the sort of thing you’d kind of expect in the not too salubrious areas of Newcastle but really nothing out of the ordinary.”
He hesitated, paused for a second. Ashley noticed his hands trembling as he pressed them into the table.
“But then things escalated out of all proportion. We were getting almost daily reports of incidents from the shops. Bricks were hurled through the plate glass windows every other night. We installed shutters in all the shops but stolen cars and vans ram-raided them before they were even bloody paid for.”
He reached over for the cigarette packet Ashley had slid across the table. The youth nodded his appreciation and, as Ashley struck a match, he bent his head down, cigarette at the ready. He stretched back, took a long pull and blew the smoke high into the air. The nicotine fix hit instantly. He seemed to relax… ready to go again.
“The insurance companies refused to cover us. We were finding it hard to stock the shelves and the takings were dropping almost daily. And then…”
He took another long drag on the cigarette and laughed.
“And then our saviour arrived.”
“Billy Graham,” said Ashley.
The youth nodded. “Correct… He turned up to see Father dressed in a suit and tie. Father said he looked ever the part of a successful businessman.”
Matthewson shook his head, reached for Ashley’s cigarettes and added to the pollution in the small interview room.
“Said he could help, said he’d heard we’d been having trouble but it would stop overnight if we could meet his ‘expenses’ as he called them.”
“Protection money,” Ashley whispered gently.
Rafi shrugged his shoulders, took another pull on the cigarette before exhaling.
“Only it was never called that. Father said that the man claimed he had certain contacts and the perpetrators of these crimes would be taken to one side and warned of the consequences should they shit on the doorstep of the Patel shops.”
Rafi Patel looked at Ash. “He refused. Father knew it was a racket and didn’t want any part of it.”
“So he turned nasty, pulled in the heavies.”
Rafi shook his head. He continued.
“Quite the opposite, Mr Graham couldn’t have been nicer. He shook Father’s hand, thanked him for his time, even left a business card. But as he left he told Father he would implement a month’s trial regardless, at no cost.”
Rafi Patel stood up, stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and turned to look up at the barred window two feet above him.
“And, surprise, surprise, during the month of February 2001 not as much as a single packet of chewing gum was robbed from any of the five Patel shops.”
He turned round to face Ashley and the solicitor.
“A minor miracle, gentlemen. And, of course, Father was delighted. The staff were happy again, takings were up and towards the end of the month we even had a phone call from an insurer offering to quote us again.”
It was old hat to Ashley Clarke. Time and time again he’d seen the same thing happen in Hammersmith and Tottenham and Kilburn and just about every district he’d ever worked in London.
In they’d come: the gangsters, the hard men, Neanderthal Man. Without the intelligence or know-how or confidence or ability to attempt to start a business of their own. They’d latch on like a parasite to an already successful well-established operation and bleed it dry.
Why be judged on their own efforts? Why take a risk to earn a crust? No! Let’s just sink our shit-ridden claws
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