Part 7

In an incredibly short period, he was running a one-man crime syndicate so successful, it was only a matter of time before his activities came to the attention of the authorities. In a sly sting operation by the big Tesco just off the main coast road, the supermarket, with a little help from local private detective Alan Fallon – a former police officer with a grudge and a nose for the master criminal – finally apprehended Pinky Goose with a cache of stolen goods concealed on his person so extensive that it constituted most families’ weekly shop:

– 200 B&H cigarettes (and how he had opened a locked drawer behind the lottery counter at the front of the store was never satisfactorily explained)
– 8 cans of Special Brew
– 2 boxes of Miniature Heroes
– Nivea For Men shower gel, 100 mL
– 1 whole chicken (cooked)
– 1 whole chicken (uncooked)
– 32 Duracell batteries (family pack)
– 136 Original Gillette Sensor replacement razor cartridges

That Pinky Goose would receive a custodial sentence was as inevitable as a rampant nymphomaniac’s need for sexual gratification.

In court, Jeanette Green, among other highly respected members of the community including former pub landlord Pete Swindle, gave sterling character references, attesting to the troubled state of Pinky’s mind following his mother’s tragic death from a brutal form of cancer.

But there was no way the wheels of justice were ever going to turn in Pinky’s favour.

“While the court would typically apply leniency in such cases involving first offenders,” said the presiding judge, 98-year-old Gregory Houndstooth II, “we simply cannot overlook the severity of the defendant’s actions. Over a nine-month period, he launched a one-man crime spree on this town that cost local businesses hundreds of thousands of pounds. Much of which will ultimately be passed on to the customer, hard-working people like you and I, in the form of steep price hikes. It is my sad duty, therefore, to give Mr. Pinky Goose a two-year sentence with the recommendation that he serve at least nine months in a low-security prison.” He glanced over to the dock. “You can take him down now.”

* * *

Sadly, even low-security facilities have their daddies. Worse still, Pinky Goose’s cellmate for the next nine months – Leon Brinks-Matt – had most certainly obtained that title since his internment at the Class C facility just outside of Ipswich. Through intimidation of tax evaders, non-TV licence or council taxpayers, and the odd unrepentant flasher, Brinks-Matt quite literally enjoyed the run of the place.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with your arms, son?” he asked when Pinky first trudged into the cell. “You been stretched out on a rack or something?”

Pinky flashed him a puzzled look. Over the years, he’d become such a likeable and familiar character in his hometown, people rarely if ever mentioned that pair of gargantuan arms anymore.

“Never mind. Take a pew.” Brinks-Matt pointed to the plastic-backed chair next to a pristine if slightly dated and seatless toilet. “There’s a few things you need to know about this place. First and foremost: I’m the governor ’round here.”

But when the two men had the inevitable exchange of ‘What you in for?’ and Pinky relayed his list of incredible shoplifting crimes, Brinks-Matt’s aggressive demeanour changed out of all recognition.

“So, let me get this straight,” he said, propping his elbows on his knees, “you actually managed to steal cigarettes from a supermarket, even though they’re under lock-and-key and behind a counter? Genius.” He threw back his head and laughed. “You know something, son? Fate may have put you and me in the same cell for a reason. Yeah, I reckon we could make quite a team on the outside.”

“Cricket and tennis, you mean?”

Brinks-Matt threw back his head and laughed all over again. “‘Cricket and tennis’? You’re a card, you are, Goose. I’m talkin’ ‘bout a job. A bank job.”

“But I’ve never worked in a bank before.”

“I’m talkin’ ‘bout robbing one, you plonker. And with those great big arms of yours, you’d be my ideal wingman.”