WWW.BENBRUCE.CO.UK
First published in Great Britain on Amazon Kindle Direct in 2024 by Ben Bruce
Ben Bruce has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.
Cover design by Sean Strong
Edited by Sophie Bristow
This book is a work of fiction, except in the case of historical fact. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 9781999846954
Other books by the same author
The Regulators
There’s a mercenary on the streets of London, protected by a gangland boss and bankrolled by members of the government, all of whom are embroiled in a plot to subvert democracy and risk the lives of thousands.
The Regulators: Shadow of Malice
When a child escapes a vile criminal gang, Thea Watts realises she can't trust the system to keep the boy safe. There’s only one man who won't let her down, Jack Quinn, a vigilante with his heart set on doing one thing; the right thing.
The Regulators: Dead Line
When an old source turns up dead, Adam Morgan finds that a case he thought closed is far from it. But this time, it's him and the rest of The Regulators in the firing line, as a shadowy organisation emerges to tighten its grip on Britain.
Praise from readers for The Regulators series:
"Really enjoyed this book. The further into it I got, the better it got. Couldn't put it down towards the end."
"One of those books which are incredibly hard to put down. Short, snappy chapters and great characterisation. I could so easily see this as a film."
For Jim, Edith, Alec and Ruth.
1.
The sun rose after seven that morning. Crisp light fell on the city, casting long shadows that slipped across the frosty ground like pools of ink, keeping what they covered from the growing warmth of the day as they spread. Yellow reflections danced on top of the river, twinkling as the tips of waves caught the low light. A thin veil of haze threatened to form as the frost began to melt and then rise back into the sky, but no sooner did it begin to appear than the sun cut it down.
A quiet hum of life had begun. Even here, on the east side of London, on the edge of the Royal London Dockyard, in a smaller, quieter section of warehouses, noises and movement signified that life had returned. Around the yards, rows of terraced houses remained still and impassive, their windows curtained, the eyes of their inhabitants still firmly closed, or turned away from the outside world. No one looked out, save for the odd nightwatchman making his irregular and scant patrol.
The smell of damp wood, and the oil and diesel in the river merged to create a unique bouquet that hung in what should have been fresh morning air, mingling with the smoke of coal fires being started in houses, factories and warehouses all over the city. Eventually, the smoky smell would blot out the odour to all but those immediately next to it. A small comfort perhaps, although not the perfect remedy. Down here, the smells of the docks could cut through almost anything that London had to throw at it.
Another smell hung in the air that morning. The unmistakable sickly-sweet scent of death.
Flies braved the cold, homing in upon the scent, whilst rats emerged from their hiding places, following the trail. Generations of evolution were working to tell them that something had perished nearby, drawing them inescapably towards it as they prepared to feed. They didn’t care what it was. Didn’t care if this smell was different.
They didn’t care that, this time, it was human.
All of this was lost on Gerald Trainer. Everything was lost on Gerald Trainer, as he was lost to the world. His eyes were open, staring straight out in front of him, their dark brown irises surrounding pupils that no longer reacted to the light that now found them. Already clouded over as death marked its territory on his prone body.
He lay on his front, his head tilted slightly, looking out to the river where boats moaned and creaked gently as they bobbed on their moorings. Nearby lay a collection of smaller barges and tugs, but further upriver and on the opposite side, huge hulks of container ships sat alongside passenger boats that would ferry people out to the North Sea and then beyond. His right arm draped over a row of sandbags which had been piled up on the side of the river, like the cranes that loomed over the tops of some of the ships, their arms reaching into the sky, chains dangling down immobile in the still air like a giant’s gallows. The fingers on his left hand lay in a pool of ice-cold water that had frosted over during the night. The dark skin of his fingertips had turned pale, through both the cold and the rigor mortis that had begun to stiffen his body where it lay. His clothes crumpled around his body, one trouser leg running halfway up his shin, whilst the lapel of his coat flapped down onto the bottom of his cheek, as if it had been pulled up to keep him warm. He could easily have been mistaken for a dishevelled drunk who’d had one too many the night before and slept where he had stumbled to the ground.
Under the lapel, his face wore a look somewhere between confusion and resignation. His mouth hung limply downwards. Across the back of his head, a crusty cap of dark red and black blood had formed, clinging to his hair, lingering around the edges of a vicious wound, his skin split and curling along an axis that ran diagonally along his skull. A large scrape ran up the cheek that tilted away from the ground, the skin peeled away from where his face had been rubbed against something, revealing copper-coloured pockmarks of blood that now would never fully heal.
Already, one disinterested dock worker, called in early to stoke the fires in the factory to ensure warmth for his co-workers, had missed Gerald’s body. The sandbags had hidden it from view as he trudged past, head firmly down inside the collar of his coat, his cap pulled down over his forehead, keeping as little of himself exposed to the cold as he could. But as the traffic began to get back to normal on the river, as the barges and cargo ships and other vessels that travelled the Thames began to pass by more frequently, someone would eventually find him.
In the meantime, he waited. That was all he had left now. He waited to be discovered. Then he waited for the authorities to be alerted and finally make their way to where he remained, to begin to pore over his body, looking for clues. Finally, he would wait for justice.
*
“They find him here?” Ray Cribbs pulled the well-chewed blunt end of a pencil from his mouth and gestured towards where Gerald lay.
“Yes, sir,” the officer replied. Joseph Walsh watched Ray, waiting for more information that never came. Joseph turned his attention back to Ray as he ambled forward, bending over Gerald Trainer’s body.
“Huh,” Ray grunted. It could have been a question. He peered even closer, as if waiting to hear the answer whispered from the lips of Gerald. When spontaneous reanimation didn’t occur, he stood and turned to Joseph. “I need you to find whoever’s in charge and get them to give you a list of whoever worked last night.”
“Yes, sir.” Joseph nodded, happy that he had an order. It wasn’t that Joseph was a yes-man or a brown-noser or anything like that. But Joseph Walsh needed to be told. He needed to be ordered. That was the way the world worked. Different levels of people all stacked on top of each other. Smaller, more powerful groups at the top. Larger but more passive groups at the bottom. A hierarchy. When someone above made a request of Joseph it was his duty to follow it. As a child, orders had kept the world safe from tyranny. Sometimes horrific orders that those giving them knew would cost the lives of those carrying them out. But always for the greater good. Always to keep people safe, no matter the cost. Duty called. There were no wars now, thankfully. Joseph would never have to go that far. But he would do what he could to keep people safe and he would follow the orders he was given.
He turned to look around the yard for some clue as to where might be best to start. The comfort from having an order drained away quickly as he realised that it would now require him to have to think for himself.
2.
The dockyard was one of the smaller ones on the Thames. It was owned by a company called Boon’s. The peeling paintwork on the name of the first building Joseph approached suggested it had been called that for quite some time. He found a worker inside the building, who sent him in the direction of the gates where he’d first entered. There he found a two-storey wooden building, not much bigger than a signal box. He climbed a rickety wooden staircase that crept up the outside of the building and ended in a small platform, ringed by a less-than-sturdy wooden handrail. Inside he found Derek Nadderley, busily stoking a small coal burner. He stooped low, a recently emptied coal scuttle next to him, blowing the flames in the small burner, trying to get the heat going. He sighed as he turned to face Joseph.
“Mr Nadderley? I’m Sergeant Joseph Walsh, CID M Division. Mind if I have a word?”
