SX63A Hard Place

A Frank Dix Story

By

Nigel Williams

Based on the characters created by

Alan Lloyd MBE

Nigel Williams is a lecturer in fine art at a college in

Swansea. He served as a police offer in the

Metropolitan police, serving in Brixton from 1981 to

1984 before transferring home to Wales. During his

time in South Wales he worked beats in Cockett and

Swansea Central before moving to Traffic in Baglan

in 1987. Whilst on Traffic he trained as a Special

Escort and VIP armed driver and was involved in

the protection duties of many visiting dignitaries.

In 1994, he was hit by a stolen vehicle on

duty, fractured his spine and was forced into early

retirement. During his service he received 7

commendations.

In 1997, whilst recuperating from his injury,

he was accepted to study art at Swansea Institute and

achieved a First-Class Honours degree. A Post-

Graduate Certificate of Higher Education at Cardiff

University and a Master’s Degree at Swansea

metropolitan University followed. He has lectured at

College since 2001.

X63 is his seventh book.

Nigel lives in Ystradgynlais in the Swansea

Valley with his wife of twenty-seven years, his three

children and a dog named Zac.

©Nigel Williams & Alan Lloyd and Estate 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

“A primary purpose of the police is to enforce the delusions of those with lots of green paper.”

― Derrick Jensen, Endgame, Vol. 1: The Problem of Civilization

Chapter 1

Even a rat has a heart and some value to society.

It’s often difficult to know what that value may be,

but I’m sure someone could tell me. The truth is that

everything must have some kind of purpose for

existence. I was beginning to think of the dead guy

they pulled out of the dock as a rat but couldn’t help

thinking that he too probably had some value to

someone; it was just a matter of perspective.

I walked past the huge reinforced concrete

building housing Weaver’s flourmill, and along the

north dock towards the inlet where the body had

been found two days before.

The sun was already an hour into its regular

journey across the sky by the time I paraded at

Central police station. Rays of light cut through the

fog riding the gentle sea breeze.

Having received the briefing for the day, I

walked from the station down to my beat on the

docks a little over a mile or so away.

The area was now clear of any evidence of a

major incident. Anyone arriving on one of the many

ships that docked to load or off-load coal and other

goods would have no idea that a fellow seaman had

been floating face-down in the water for four days

before being discovered by a traumatised crane

operator. The bloated body had been a sight the man

would never forget.

The victim was an Indian seaman, a guy who

had arrived on a cargo vessel from some sunnier

climes and whom had made a bit of an impact as

soon as he’d landed.

Pissed-up on the local beverages, it was

rumoured that he’d been causing a bit of a ruckus in

the pubs near the docks. Things had kicked off after

he’d smashed a beer glass in the face of the landlord

of the Trafalgar Arms and then gone on to put the

local beat bobby in intensive care.

I’d been allocated the docks as my beat for

the foreseeable future as a punishment for upsetting

a local member of the Watch Committee. He’d

alleged I’d told him to fuck off, but of course I’d

denied making such a remark to a respected

luminary.

I’d only been on the dock for a couple of

days when the body had been found.

I was surprised that I hadn’t taken any flak

for not being on point when it happened, but I

guessed the fact that my pocket book had been

signed by the sergeant to prove I was a considerable

distance away from the scene at the material time

kept the wolves from my door.

The body had been recovered and taken to

the morgue for a post-mortem examination and the

preliminary whispers were a little confusing. I’d

heard, through rumours in the mess-room, that the

body had signs of serious damage to the head.

Marks had also been found on both wrists,

consistent with having been bound a short while

before the time of death.

To my surprise, I’d heard the incident was

being treated as an accident.

Who am I to question it? I’m just a raw

twenty-seven year-old, new-recruit, not yet out of

probation, but I’d already learnt to keep my own

counsel. I had plenty of practice keeping my gob

shut during my National Service and the couple of

years that followed in Bletchley Park.

My stroll down to the scene of the ‘accident’

had no significance other than to satisfy my

curiosity. It was on my beat and I was expected to

patrol the area at least twice during my eight-hour

shift.

The death had nothing to do with me. People

died in strange situations every day but it didn’t

necessarily mean that there was any foul play

involved.

But something about this death was wrong

and it was beginning to bother me.

I stopped at the inlet; a narrow channel of

water that flowed into the north dock from a small

underground river, and placed my helmet on top of a

concrete bollard near the edge of the dock. I was

beginning to like the beat. It was a busy place to

work but on morning shifts it was quiet enough to

stroll around the place without too many distractions

of the nuisance kind. There was the hourly call I

had to make to the station from the police box, but

apart from that, as long as I recorded the building

checks and my route through the day I was pretty

much my own boss.

I stood and gazed across the dock at the

Indian cargo vessel towering above me and watched

a long-armed crane lift a large canvas bag off the

dock and swing it over the hold of the ship.

I’d always been interested in ships. I love the

sea, the sight, the sound and the smell. Even

spreading traces of oil discolouring the water held

fascination for me. I was determined that I’d have

my own boat one day.

I wondered where the cargo ship would head

next.

I knew the captain had been to the station and

made a statement about his deceased crewman but

he hadn’t seemed bothered. I had taken the

statement from him under the watchful eye of my

supervisor; Sergeant Bert Harris.

The captain’s English was pretty good and I

guessed it needed to be to travel in and out of British

ports. But I was more surprised at the seemingly

lack of any concern or empathy for the dead man.

He just didn’t seem to give a shit.

Bert Harris had pretty much pushed the

statement along, interrupting me on regular

occasions when I wanted the captain to elaborate on

certain bits of information. Sergeant Harris made

sure that didn’t happen. He clearly wanted the

matter tied up nicely without any ambiguity.

“Keep it simple, Dix,” he said. “What you

don’t know can’t hurt you.”

I’d heard that saying a few times over the last

week or so and I was beginning to smell a rat.

I was about to leave the dock to make my call

to the station when I noticed something on the

ground next to the bollard; something shining

against the grey concrete. I bent to get a closer look

and picked the object up. I was very familiar with it.

Indeed, I had five attached to my tunic. It was a

Swansea Borough police tunic button.

Chapter 2

I took my gloves from my kitbag and

dropped the bag on the floor of the gym before I

stepped up into the ring.

The place was buzzing with activity but no-

one was paying me any attention. I squeezed my big

hands into my gloves and went through some simple

neck-roll routines and some general loosening up. I

wasn’t one for training for boxing but I kept pretty

fit through playing football and swimming most

days.

I’m a half-inch under six-foot tall and my

friends say I’m as wide as I’m tall. I have to admit

that my chest dimensions don’t seem to be what

most people would consider normal. It’s also a bit of

a pain when it comes to buying shirts or jackets.

Fifty-inch chests are not common in Swansea.

A side door clattered against its stops as my

opponent for the next three minutes jogged across

the floor and leapt up into the ring. He was a new

guy, someone who had moved to the area to train

with Dai ‘Pretty-Boy’ Davies. “Pretty-Boy’ was a

nickname that had clearly been endowed on Dai as a

piss-take at some time in his fighting career. Dai had

been a contender for the British title back in the late

thirties but had taken more blows to his nose than is

conducive to good looks. His vein-covered

proboscis was flat against his face and only the

bottom inch or so made a pathetic effort to regain

some form of semblance to a nose.

Dai had slowed down considerably too. He

had barely made it out of the side door when the

new guy began prancing about the ring. I think he

was trying to impress me but he’d have to do a lot

more than prance to do that.

I stood my ground and watched the boxer

shuffle about, drop onto his gloves and push out a

dozen or so press-ups.

Still not impressed.

I waited until Dai struggled up into a corner

opposite me. He was puffing from the effort and I

felt sorry for him. He had been reduced to a

shuffling shell as a result of his love for his sport but

I knew he still had a sharp mind.

“Okay, Bomber. This is Frank,” Dai slurred

as he pointed to me.

The guy called Bomber barely nodded and

then planted his feet shoulder width apart and began

banging his gloves together.

I smiled.

“Same as usual, Dai,” I asked.

Dai nodded and held out a pound note.

I felt I had to do something boxer-ish so I

tapped my gloves together and stepped towards my

new opponent. I kept my eyes on him as I heard Dai

ring the bell for the one and only round that I’d fight

today.

Bomber began dancing around me as I turned

to keep him in sight. I’ve always been versatile and I

can fight off both hands so it didn’t matter to me

where he went. I was here to give Dai’s new boy a

three-minute workout. In return, I’d receive the

pound note that Dai was still brandishing like a

carrot before a donkey.

I knew what was expected of me. This wasn’t

the first time I’d sparred for a quid. All I had to do

was last three minutes with the new guy and I’d earn

my money. Police pay was piss-poor in 1963 and a

quid went a very long way to supplement my

copper’s wages.

Bomber eventually stopped prancing like a

prima ballerina and feigned a left hook to my head

before throwing a pretty obvious right hook towards

my stomach. I knew I could have blocked it but I

wanted to feel what the guy could deliver. And

anyway, you only get tougher by taking blows not

giving them. The punch was solid but not the

hardest I’d felt.

Feeling confident, Bomber began raining

punches at my head and body. His hands were quick

but none of the punches felt like they were really

intended. Perhaps it was because he knew we were

only sparring? I glanced quickly at Dai and I saw

him nod. That was my signal to turn up the heat a

little.

I let a sharp left jab off at Bomber’s nose and

heard the thunk as it landed cleanly on his conk. A

small spurt of blood also told me that he had a bit of

weakness that all boxers fear. A weak nose is no

reflection of a boxer’s ability or his resolve. It’s just

one of those things – genetic perhaps? But once you

have a bleed anywhere on the head your career is

going to stall at some stage.

A bleed will inevitably cost you a fight. Still,

it was my job to test him and to see what he could

do. I soon found out.

Riled by the bleed, Bomber began slamming

punches into me. Head, body, even kidney’s, all

took a hammering. Some of the shots were pretty

strong but none of them felt like they would stop me

making the three minutes.

I ducked and dived and moved only as fast as

I needed to. My job wasn’t to win or to hurt my

opponent, just to last the three minutes and then

leave with my just reward.

Bomber began getting more and more irate.

He was clearly a decent boxer. He had all the moves

and could throw a reasonable punch but I’d already

found his weakness with the one and only punch I’d

delivered.

The bell rang for the end of the round and I

kept my guard up until Bomber took a step back.

The guy was clearly frustrated. He looked at Dai

who shrugged his shoulders and waved him over.

The boxer reluctantly walked over to his trainer and

I stepped into the opposite corner. A few words

were exchanged. Bomber dropped down out of the

ring and disappeared through the clattering door.

Dai smiled sadly and I wondered if I’d ruined

another dream? That was the game and I played the

part I was being paid for; nothing more, nothing

less.

I walked over to collect my prize.

“Thought about my offer?” Dai mumbled.

I shook my head. “Not interested,” I said as I

held out my hand for the pound note.

Dai reluctantly handed it over.

“You know there’s an awful lot more where

that came from if you only let me train you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said as I ducked

between the ropes, dropped to the gym floor and

retrieved my bag.

“The offer stands,” Dai shouted as I slipped

out through the door.

Chapter 3

I used the phone in the police box and made my

hourly call to the station and wrote down the number

of a Wolseley 1500 that was been driven by a local

toe-rag.

Billy Stephen Jenkins was a well-known

burglar who had recently begun to move into a

relatively recent business opportunity that was

sweeping the town. He called himself an

entrepreneur – whatever the fuck that was.

As is tradition in Wales, Billy had to have a

nickname. The milkman was Dai-the-milk. The

Baker was Jeff-the-Loaf. The gobby twat who

always picked a fight was Tom-Childish and the

man who lost half his ear in an accident

underground was Dai-eighteen-months – think about

it – ear and a half! So, in keeping with the tradition

of naming people after their occupations of

personality traits, Billy became Billy-the-Bastard.

Although there had always been drugs

floating about for those who knew where to look for

them, Billy-the-Bastard had teamed up with some

arse-holes from London to push Heroin, LSD and

Cocaine on the kids that were seemingly caught up

in the whole psychedelic-sixties thing that was

taking off and I believed was being promoted by the

new music that was being played over the wireless.

Billy was a couple of years older than me and

had been a villain a lot longer than I’d been a

copper. I’d never known him to be straight and I’d

known him before I went away for National Service

on my eighteenth birthday. Billy-the-Bastard had

avoided that delight. Billy had played on a dodgy

eardrum that he claimed messed up his balance. All

I knew was that his balance was good enough to let

him run across the roofs of houses and factories in

the dead of night. The man was a twat and I didn’t

like him. Don’t suppose he liked me either, but I

wouldn’t lose sleep over it.

The great thing about working a beat is that

once you’ve established trust with the locals there’s

a wealth of information in the form of ‘tip-offs’ that

are constantly dropped into conversations.

Sunday morning is a great time to catch-up

with some of the personalities I’d come to like and

respect on the beat. Sunday’s were pretty quiet, but

the docks were always active with workers

maintaining the equipment or carrying out other

work that couldn’t be done during the chaos of the

working week.

I’d spent some time investigating a break-in

at a fruit distributor on the north dock and built up a

trust with the owner, a nice rotund gentleman who

had shown his appreciation for my work by donating

regular samples of his wares for my shift sergeant,

Bert Harris. I didn’t like taking the fruit off the

bloke but Bert was my supervisor and would

ultimately be the man who decided whether or not I

should be recommended for appointment after my

probation ended. So, reluctantly, I paid a weekly

Sunday morning visit to the fruit warehouse to

collect Bert’s treat.

It was on one of these visits that the owner,

Albert Duncan, mentioned that he’d seen a Wolseley

1500 that matched the description of Billy-the-

Bastard’s car. It had been seen crawling between the

warehouses on the south dock earlier in the morning.

I collected the fruit sack and thanked Mr

Duncan and decided to take a stroll down to the

south dock to check out Duncan’s tip-off.

South dock was dead. A large container ship

was tied up at the moorings but there was no sign of

life inside or out.

A large black, corrugated metal building was

dwarfed by the ship. Three tall, movable cranes

stood still; three sleeping giants awaiting the call to

action that would inevitably come in the early hours

of the next day.

I stepped under one of the big cranes and

ducked beneath the heavy metal spars that held it all

together and caught sight of something in my

peripheral vision.

Between the big, black building and a smaller

tool shed was the Wolseley 1500. I checked around

for signs of its owner but Billy-the-Bastard was

probably doing something dodgy somewhere else on

the dock.

I heard voices, a foreign voice and a local,

but I couldn’t see either of the men. A long walkway

extended down from the deck of the ship onto the

dock and, after I’d zoned in on the sounds, I guessed

the voices were coming from somewhere above, no

doubt on the deck.

I left Bert’s fruit sack at the bottom of the

walkway and slowly climbed towards the voices. As

I neared the deck, I could see the back of Billy’s

head. As I crept nearer I caught sight of the other

man, an Indian fellow who also caught sight of me.

The Indian disappeared and Billy turned and ran. I

got to the deck and saw the Indian guy disappear

trough a steel hatch into the ship but Billy had no-

where to go.

He ran for the prow, which must have been

nearly a hundred yards away to my right and I took

off after him. This wasn’t the first time I’d chased

someone with no idea why. I guessed that if he was

running he had done something that needed a

‘collar-feeling.’

Billy leapt over discarded ropes and assorted

tools as he raced to the end of the vessel. I slowed

down, thinking I had the bastard bang-to-rights for

something – whatever it was. Billy had nowhere to

go. I had him, or at least I thought I did.

As Billy reached the prow he did something

that surprised me. The bastard climbed over the side

and disappeared from sight.

I quickened my pace to a full-out run and got

to the prow just as Billy had got to the half-way

point in his climb down the big rope that tethered

the ship to the dock.

“Stop there, Billy,” I shouted, but Billy kept

clambering down the rope like a bloody monkey. It

was a climb I didn’t fancy, I don’t have problems

with heights but Billy is a small-time criminal and I

wasn’t going to risk my life for a small-time arrest.

I sprinted back to the walkway and raced

down the incline as Billy disappeared from sight

behind some buildings. At least he was too far away

from his car to drive off and had clearly thought a

quick exit on foot was more prudent under the

circumstances. He also probably thought I hadn’t

seen his car or that if I had I wouldn’t necessarily

know it belonged to him. No doubt he’d come back

for it later, but I had other ideas. If he did return to it

he’d have to bring a foot pump because I let the air

out of all his tyres. The car was going nowhere.

I was also intrigued by Billy’s connection

with the bloke on the ship. The dead Indian had

worked for the same shipping line and had sailed in

to Swansea a week or so ago.

I was new to the job and wasn’t sure whether

I had any power to enter a ship from another country

without a warrant, so I decided the best course of

action was to report the incident to Bert and the

detective investigating the death in the dock.

I picked up Bert’s fruit and was about to walk

back to the station when I had another idea.

I returned to Billy’s car and checked out the

doors. The rear, passenger side window was open

just a crack but enough to get my thick fingers

through and to force down far enough to slip the

latch on the door.

Inside, the car was a mess. It was only a

couple of years old but Billy clearly didn’t have

pride in his wheels. The cream and red leather seats

were covered in old clothes, bits of paper, Mars bar

wrappers and a half-full milk bottle that contained a

pungent mutation of its original contents. I gagged at

the stench.

I was about to tip the bottle contents onto the

driver’s seat, out of spite, when I noticed the glove

box in the dashboard was not fully closed. I

dropped the little walnut door and found a small

paper packet. Inside it was a white powder that even

I knew wasn’t talcum powder.

Heroin? Cocaine?

I put the packet into my pocket and closed the

doors of the car. Billy was clearly following a road

to a new career in crime, one which was likely to

bring misery to many of the innocent kids that

seemed convinced that ‘recreational drugs’ were

cool or ‘hip’ as they liked to say these days.

Well, it wasn’t bloody hip. It was a

disgusting trade and one that made me very angry.

I looked at Billy’s car and thought how

someone like me couldn’t afford to buy one. Yet

here was Billy-the-Bastard driving around in

comfort.

Not after today.

I climbed up on to the bonnet of the car and

stepped onto the roof. The metal began to buckle

under my weight so I helped it along with some firm

stamps. The roof collapsed under me and the

windows crashed out. When I jumped off the car the

roof was flat onto the seat backs and not a single

piece of glass remained intact.

It was a shame to see the car in that state but I

couldn’t help grinning at the thought of Billy

returning to find his saloon had morphed into a

convertible.