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  “Certainly, Danny, could we have a quick look at the vehicle first?” enquired Frank.

  For the life of him Danny couldn’t make out what game Carter was playing, but he needed to get out now, so he replied: “Of course, can I go then?”

  “Yes you can, Danny, and I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you.” Danny was starting too really worry now.

  Frank led Danny out of the interview room and along the corridor past the Sergeant’s office. As they passed it, Frank, this time politely, knocked the door.

  “Sorry to trouble you Sergeant,” he said, “I’m about to send Mr Gallagher on his way, would you accompany us to his car, I just need to have a quick look around first?”

  The Sergeant looked puzzled. Why the fuck waste my time looking at this bloke’s banger when the shit has hit the fan, he thought, still he was a Chief Super, so not much he could say apart from, “Yes Sir.”

  The three men walked into the car park. Frank enquired if Danny had the keys, which he had, as PC Evans had given them to Danny once they had arrived at the station, after all the car wasn’t impounded and Danny was hardly going to bolt for it.

  “Just open up the boot please” asked Frank.

  Dannys stomach flipped, did as he was requested and as the boot was raised, all three men saw there in the well of the car, three sawn off shotguns and three hand guns.

  “I think,” said Frank “You had better tell Madge you’re going to be late.”

  Frank Carter had had one of the best days of his illustrious career He had apprehended a major villain, (the fact he had fitted him up with a cast iron piece of skulduggery was of no consequence), and certainly Frank didn’t feel a tinge of remorse, he knew Danny was involved in the blag, and all Frank had done was a good old fashioned piece of Policing. However, best keep it to himself, he thought, in the old days he would have been the hero of the saloon bar and the whiskey chasers would not have stopped all night.

  The criteria now was to get to Danny to spill the names of his accomplices. Frank was aware this was going to be no easy task. Danny, like himself, had been round the block on more than one occasion, and the only way to get him to cough was to offer him a carrot he couldn’t refuse.

  Firstly though, they needed to get Danny moved to a secure location, His team would by now have realised Danny had been collared, so there was always the possibility that they might have a go at getting him out of the Police Station; unlikely, but these were ruthless people. That had been established earlier in the day. So Frank had organised a local Magistrate to issue a warrant to remand Danny in custody that same night, and Danny was whisked off to Paddington Green Police Station, the highest secure nick in London and the Home Counties.

  As for Danny, his world had fallen apart in those few short hours since the raid. He knew Carter had fitted him up, but he also knew the more he protested the harder it would go for him. He was also canny enough to know that he had some small bargaining power left, and that he was bang to rights with the shooters, but there was no direct evidence linking him with being on the blag- circumstantial, yes, but a good brief could sow doubt in a Jury’s mind, and thank God that the British Judicial System did not accept circumstantial evidence. Things were bleak, but they could have been worse.

  The following morning Frank Carter had his first, and as it happened last, interview with Danny.

  Overnight Danny had been charged with armed robbery and various other offences all relating to the previous day. Danny had spoken first.

  “I’m not going to fuck about, Carter, you bastard, this is the deal and I’m not negotiating. If I grass up anyone I think may have been involved in that blag, I’m dead, no ifs or buts, I’m destined for the pigs” (a well known method of disposing of unwanted bodies by the Essex pikies). He continued: “so I need twenty four hour protection, a new passport, a new identity and enough money to start a new life”

  “Danny, in all honesty, I would think about your proposition, to me it would be worth getting those other three, you clear off and they’re banged up for the rest of their natural, that’s four dangerous bastards off the streets and where they belong. However this is the new world and the Chief Constable would have none of it, he’s never done a days policing in his short life, he wouldn’t get it, so there’s no chance.”

  “OK then” said Danny “If that’s the way it is, no deals, let’s go to court and see what my Brief has to say to the Jury.”

  That wasn’t exactly how Frank had hoped it would go, and he tried one last tactic.

  “Then you’ll be doing the bird for everyone,” he threatened.

  “So be it” was Danny final comment.

  Chapter 21

  St Albans Crown Court, 1 Month Later

  The Honourable Mark Handford sat in residency for the trial of Crown v Gallagher. The Judge had been hand picked for this role by the Lord Chancellor. Mark, a previous Queen’s Councillor and Crown Prosecutor, was known for his right wing views; he was a product of bygone days, and thought that young offenders would benefit from the birch, and more serious felons deported to a land they could do no harm in, the Arctic Circle for instance.

  The criminal fraternity were well aware of his Honour’s reputation; however, unlike a suspicious juror, they had no recourse to complain or object and have him changed. If they got him, it was just hard luck.

  It was most unusual for a case of this magnitude to have come to court in such a quick time; the Director of Public Prosecutions had been under no illusion that it was in the public interest to have this one dealt with in the utmost haste, and he in turn had put the necessary pressure on the Crown Prosecution Service to fast track the legal paperwork to get Gallagher in the dock. There was some nervousness on the part of the prosecutors that a good brief might swing it for Gallagher; after all, apart from the shooters, the evidence was circumstantial. However, the orders had come way up from the top of the food chain, and so the case, such as it was, was ready.

  Danny Gallagher was in remarkably good spirits considering the magnitude of the charges; he had the best defence lawyer in the business and was, quite frankly, expecting a not guilty verdict on all charges. His mood changed somewhat as he was escorted from the holding cells into court- he knew of the Judge’s reputation, so when one of his custodians mischievously whispered in his ear who the Judge was today, he inwardly groaned.

  Danny stood in the dock and observed his surroundings; the public gallery was packed, mainly with the press, both local and national- this was a big case, and one the public at large would follow with interest. The court usher summoned the gathered ensemble to rise as the Honourable Mark Hanford made his way into the chamber. Fourteen charges were read out, and after each one Danny was asked how he pleaded. He replied, “Not guilty” to each one.

  The Judge instructed the Prosecution to begin, but in a moment of madness Danny addressed the Judge:

  “Excuse me, Your Honour” he said, “You are accusing me of all these grave crimes, of which I am innocent, and yet the one charge I am guilty of in this case you have not bothered to mention.”

  The judge was not impressed by this breach of protocol, nonetheless he spoke:

  “And what might that be then?”

  “Failing to display a current tax disc” Danny quipped.

  A ripple of laughter broke out in the Courtroom, and Danny studiously watched who on the Jury laughed. They all did; he had broken the tension that the Jurors must have been feeling and he considered he had just made a very smart move. However; his Honour was not of the same opinion.

  “Mr Gallagher, during the course of this trial you will speak when asked, and only then, one more interruption and you will be further charged with contempt of this court,” he said slightly red faced.

  For the next three days, witnesses came and went: bank staff, the police, the public, forensic experts, PC Evans, the tractor driver and any one the Prosecution felt might add a blow to the nail they were driving into Danny’s coffin.


  At the end of the prosecution, it was Danny’s lawyer’s turn to address the jury. His speech was eloquent and well presented, he disseminated all the evidence that had gone before, and demonstrated the thread running through the prosecutor’s case was one of circumstance- there was not one single piece of evidence that put Danny at the scene of the robbery, and therefore under the law of the land Danny could not be found guilty. The members of the Jury might believe Danny was guilty, but it was not their job to second guess, they had to know Danny was involved by the evidence presented to them, and this had not been the case.

  The Right Honourable Mark Handford summed up, and in his usual jaundiced way, just fell short of instructing the Jury to return a guilty verdict on all counts. With that, he instructed the eight men and four women of the Jury to retire to the ante room and discuss the case. When they had reached a unanimous verdict, they would inform the court Bailiff, who would bring them back to deliver their decision.

  Before Danny was taken back to the cells, he was allowed a few minutes with his brief.

  “Well, Michael” he asked “What do you reckon?”

  “In the bag, dear boy,” came the reply. “I watched their faces as I spoke, and I’ve been reading Juries for two decades, and they’re not sure. Danny you’ll be a free man by sunset.”

  Those in the know at the Courthouse were confident this was going to be a long haul; they were fully expecting a couple of over nighters, followed by a return of the Jury failing to reach a unanimous decision, and then being ordered to return to their deliberations to consider a majority guilty verdict at best. So when after barely three hours, the Courthouse tanoy announced the Jury in the trial of Danny Gallagher was returning, and all participants were to return to court no 1 immediately, it was quite a surprise.

  With all seated, the court usher instructed the foreman of the Jury to stand.

  “Have you reached a verdict on all fourteen counts?” he enquired of the foreman.

  “We have, sir,” came the reply.

  “And are you unanimous on all counts?” he asked

  “We are,” the young lady representing the Jury replied.

  “In that case, I will read out the charges and after each one you should reply either ‘guilty’, or ‘not guilty’, is that clear?”

  And with that concluded, the bailiff began reading out the charges- one by one came the reply: “Not guilty.”

  The Bailiff had reached the twelfth charge of which the not guilty verdict had been delivered. Danny was beaming like the proverbial Cheshire cat, and so he should be, he was home and dry.

  The bailiff spoke: “The thirteenth charge, carrying firearms for unlawful reasons, how do you find the defendant?”

  “Guilty” the foreman replied,

  “And the last charge, the shortening of a shot gun for unlawful reason, how do you find the defendant?”

  “Guilty” the young woman answered.

  Danny was in a daze, so nearly home and dry. Fuck it, he thought, but shouldn’t be too long a stretch, he barely heard the Judge thank and then dismiss the Jury.

  It took several minutes for the courtroom to quieten down. The press were laying bets on what Danny would get, and the prosecutors’ were in deep conversation. It took his Lordship several moments of banging his gavel on the desk to bring the place to order.

  The honourable Judge placed his half glasses on the end of his nose, not a good sign for the accused or as in this case the guilty. His huge bushy eyebrows had returned to their normal position, having nearly gone into orbit as he had listened incredulously to that stupid woman pronouncing Gallagher not guilty.

  With the court room now silent, the Judge began, “Danny Gallagher, you are a hardened criminal with a history of violence, and the Jury have found you not guilty on all major charges in this case. However, the two charges you have been found guilty of remain extremely serious.” His honour was at his sanctimonious best. “Therefore, on the charge of carrying unlicensed firearms, I see no reason other than to impose the maximum sentence, seven years imprisonment.”

  Even the hard nosed hacks winced; the judge was living up to his reputation.

  “On the charge of shortening a shot gun, once again there is no reason other than to impose the maximum sentence, seven years imprisonment.”

  Once again, a stunned court room were shocked by the severity of the sentence. Danny was working out mentally what this meant in terms of actual imprisonment, and he’d concluded he would serve less than four years, just about manageable, when the judge spoke again:

  “Furthermore, the sentences are to run consecutively. Court adjourned, take him down, officers.”

  This time there was an audible gasp from nearly the entire contingent of number one court. The judge had effectively sentenced Danny to fourteen years, unbelievable, consecutive sentences were unheard of in this day and age, but part of the judicial system which could be used if a judge saw enough reason to justify it. Danny hadn’t registered what had just happened, he wondered why the congregation were looking so shell shocked, and then it dawned on him, that satanic monster had effectively sent him down for life. He’d be over seventy when he got out, oh my God, his stomach turned a somersault and his bowels loosened.

  Later that evening, the Honourable Mark Handford was sitting in a cubicle of the Hare and Hounds public house, a quiet country pub on his way home. There were no other patrons at this early hour and the judge, sipping a large brandy, was feeling pleased with himself.

  Chief Inspector Frank Carter entered the pub, spotted the Judge in his corner, and made his way across. Frank Carter was a man’s man, one of the boys, after all was said and done; he had a begrudging respect for the villains he had spent a lifetime chasing, but this man sitting before him he despised. He knew his type, members of the upper echelon of the establishment, people who believed the law was theirs to administer as they saw fit, but not there for them to follow; these people believed they were immune to the rules and regulations that the rest of society had to follow, and to a large extent this was true. When these people transgressed they would expect their misdemeanours to be swept aside, they were practically invincible.

  “I trust our business is satisfactorily concluded, and the matter closed Inspector,” the Judge said.

  Frank could barely conceal his contempt of the man.

  The story was that the judge was a little too fond of underage boys. The Vice Squad were aware of his behaviour, and even had a dossier on him which included several explicit photos which would incriminate even this great man. Of course, in the normal path of events, if the judge had merely been Joe Public he would already have been doing some very nasty porridge with the paedophiles and perverts in the Scrubs, but he was too well connected, had too many friends in the right places, and too many of those friends shared the same tastes as the judge.

  So Frank, who had been told about the dossier from one of his many friends in Vice, had borrowed the photos and paid the judge a visit two weeks prior to the trial. For maximum effect, he had called on the Judge at home and been made most welcome. As the Judge’s wife had retired to the kitchen to make the men some coffee, Frank, not known for his subtle ways, has produced the photos and without a word thrown them over the Persian carpet in the Judge’s sitting room. This had the desired effect. Mark Handford absolutely panicked, and just about managed to gather the pornographic material up before his wife re entered the room. He asked her if she could leave them alone whilst they discussed an up and coming case, and hissed after she had left: “What the hell do you want, you’re not going to arrest me or you would have done so by now, so this must be blackmail, how much?”

  Frank grinned. “You have no idea, you perverted ponce, here’s what I want. I want you to make sure you’re presiding in a trial due in St Albans in two weeks, it is the blag at Barclays, St Albans The defendant stands a chance of getting off, but we know him, so you’ve got to influence the Jury. This bastard Gallagher’s got to go down one way or
another, so you have to ensure he does, the deal is this, he gets twelve years or more, you get the photos back. Under twelve the photos go to the DPP, or worse, the News of The World, and believe me it will happen.”

  Frank didn’t give the Judge chance to remonstrate. He apologised to the Judge’s wife, but some thing urgent had come up back at the Yard, so the coffee would have to wait for another time. Frank shut the front door on his way out,

  “What a lovely man,” commented Celia Handford as Frank left.

  Back in the pub Mark Handford was getting cross now. “Look here, Carter, I’ve done my bit, I gave him fourteen years, now you either give me the photos or you can consider your career over, I’m a personal friend of your Chief Constable” he said smugly.

  With this, Frank rose from his chair and placed a two pound coin on the table.

  “What’s this?” the judge asked angrily.

  “I suggest you purchase an early edition of this Sunday’s News of The World” was Frank’s reply.

  Chapter 22

  Jock Wallace

  Since Jock and Mike had arrived back in Hereford, things hadn’t gone well for Jock. To make matters worse, with Mike’s departure to Australia, Jock had felt very much alone He had effectively lost the three mates he had lived with for the last six months. He knew nothing else other than the Army, so unlike Mike, who he felt a certain envy of, he had stayed on at Sterling Lines but his heart wasn’t in it. As much as he tried, his motivation was gone, therefore it came as no surprise when he was summoned to a meeting one morning with the CO.

  “Jock, we have to discuss your future with us,” Major Morley started. “You must be aware that since you returned from that fracas in Pakistan you have not been up to speed, in fact, Jock, to be brutal, you would not be accepted into this unit on your current performance. You would be a liability on any operation we might have to handle in the near future, and I can’t allow that. As much as it pains me, I have no alternative other than to recommend you are Returned To Unit immediately.”