After the report appeared in the online edition, the newspaper received a large number of comments:
‘Perhaps a simpler way to sort dealers out would be to make them take all the drugs found in their possession in a ten-minute period, after making them eat all the money found on them. If they survive, arrest them, if they don’t chuck them in a skip...’
‘The police do a fantastic job when they can, but their roles are constantly pre-programmed for paperwork and other stupid tasks, and when the court system and prisons release before the paperwork is done, this must be really demoralising for the police to see these people back on the streets. Support your police, more bobbies on foot... remove the scum from the town...’
‘It’s costing too much in resources to deal with the illegal drugs problem and so we need a quick method of dishing out effective punishment to deter illegal drug use.’
‘For users of illegal drugs, thrash their bare backsides with ¾” bamboo, so that they wouldn’t dare risk a repeat.’
‘Dealers of all kinds of illegal drugs, execute them.’
‘They’ve got the right idea in Indonesia and we should learn from them.
To wannabe junkie hopefuls of the legalisation of any illegal drug, please note that tobacco, alcohol and caffeine are all legal and don’t need including in the debate. Comprende?’
‘The prison system is a mess. Practically privatised to security companies who under staff them for maximum profit while they overflow with inmates who seem to rule the roost. Don’t blame the judges; they haven’t got anywhere to put the criminals. Blame the people at the top, the government. This ongoing period of austerity is strangling public services.’
(reply to above comment):
‘Yes, British prisons are permanently several hundred places below maximum capacity. It’s why we often see cases where we scratch our heads wondering how on earth the defendant wasn’t sent down. The magistrate or judge never say we’re under instructions to only jail those we absolutely must, instead they pretend to swallow some feeble mitigation. Crime numbers are through the roof while copper numbers have been cut by 20,000. The government say “we’re skint” while this year it is gifting, yes giving away, thirteen thousand million pounds in Foreign Aid. We’re being taken for mugs.’
‘I was driving through Waterloo Road last week; it’s like a tribute to the Thriller video. It’s not like it’s one or two every so often; there’s an infestation of people who are out of their mind on God knows what. Who wants to go to Hanley for their shopping when people are out of their skulls? Yet the council talk about regeneration – top marks for sense of humour, I guess. Nostradamus predicted that the dead will rise – maybe this is what he saw.’
‘There’s no point spending police time arresting these dealers if the courts are just going to kick them straight back onto the streets.’
According to the police, there is virtually no use of this particular drug in other towns or cities. It seems the epidemic of monkey dust is restricted to Trentbridge. What little intelligence the police have been able to gather suggests one of the local drug lords has exclusive access to the ‘product’. But, as yet, who that is remains unclear.
Two paid informers came forward to reveal the name of the person they saw supplying the drug to various dealers around the local night clubs, which led police to suspect who was behind it all.
However, for the past two months the drug squad had been watching his vehicles and known associates on and off and hadn’t seen anything which led them to believe he was involved. If he was, he certainly didn’t appear to be using the usual method of bringing the goods in by road. Maybe he had found another method, but so far they really didn’t have a clue.
Chapter Two
KEVIN O’CONNOR - JUNE
The advert in the classified section of the Trentbridge Times was exactly what Olivia Adams had been looking for. She couldn’t be doing with all this new-fangled internet stuff. It probably wouldn’t last anyway. No. The local newspaper was the first place she always looked.
It promised a fast and reliable service and special rates for the elderly from a well-established local family business.
Since her husband had passed away nearly four months earlier, and now into her eighties, she was finding it more and more difficult to look after the garden they had tended together for the past fifty-two years. So a company who offered tree-pruning services to the places she couldn’t reach anymore was perfect.
And such a wonderful service. She had only phoned the number in the advert just that very morning, and now the tree expert and his helper arrived to make everything right.
It was her lucky day. The company had received a last-minute cancellation so they could call round to see her straight away. And Mr O’Connor seemed like such a nice gentleman. By coincidence, it seemed his elderly mother lived not far away, and she has a garden much like Olivia’s, and with the same problems.
She hadn’t realised she had problems before, but now they were being pointed out to her she could see them.
“As you can see, Mrs Adams, the trees have powdery mildew on them.”
Funny she hadn’t noticed it before he went up his ladder and examined them.
Olivia put the side of her hand just above her eyes to avoid the bright sunshine as she looked up at the figure of Mr O’Connor towering some six inches above her five feet two. His broad Irish accent reminded her of Mr Kelly, her previous neighbour who, when he lived next door, had always given her a cheery “Top of the morning to you” as he left for work.
“The best way to treat
