Curtly Richardson

Height: 1.90m
Weight: 92kg

That left Mum to bring me up on her own. To be honest, she didn’t do a particularly good job. To be totally candid about it, though, I probably was not a good son either. One thing she always did do, though, was work extremely hard. She, usually, had two jobs on the go at any one time. Before she retired, she worked as a secretary for a firm in the centre of Birmingham. When the cleaner retired she said she would cover the vacancy, after work, in addition to her everyday duties. She never ever knew that I set her up in this job. She was too proud to take handouts from me. I could easily let her have a generous stipend. I was invited to her retirement do just before the covid pandemic closed us all down. Her boss, Alistair, took me to one side and told me she will be sorely missed. She was a terrific asset to the company. I looked into his eyes and failing to find any untruth lurking therein and told him, “Thank you. That means a lot.” I could not have been prouder of her. When Sue-Beth and I were making our way back to Suffolk I confessed to her that Mum and I had both come through one disaster after another but we had, just somehow, managed to get through. She squeezed my hand.

I remember that I used to enjoy primary school but then I went off to high school. It was a monstrously large school in the inner suburbs of the city. I soon started to bunk off. Two lads from my street, Charlton and Randolph Soames, did not seem to make much of an effort to go to school either. They were meant to be in their last year. I started to hang out with them. They had a little gang and before long evolved from a few mindless idiots loitering on street corners to minor criminals.

They started off doing shoplifting. I was the lookout. I was a good lookout in that I never got caught. I managed to alert the gang that they were about to be found out but not quite in time. They would be caught. I never really liked what they did so it never bothered me and they never discovered that I was doing it deliberately. I wanted out. They would get carted off to youth custody and I returned to school.

I did get my head down whilst I was there but as sure as eggs-is-eggs the two wannabe gangsters would be back on the streets. They were much older than me so I was a little frightened to walk away. They gradually upped the daring of the crimes. We eventually started robbing rural post offices. Randolph had, unbeknown to me, got himself a gun from somewhere. Even I begun to believe it would make us invincible. It was a thing of awe and beauty to me. It was only later that I realised what a load of rubbish it was. I have been trained in the use of modern firearms including sidearms. His gun had been old and, probably, well beyond it’s best by the beginning of the last century! And, it hadn’t been cleaned or maintained since the end of the Second World War.

Shortly after the weapon arrived on the scene, I had been reconnoitring potential targets in Herefordshire. One evening I found myself in a Ledbury pub throwing darts at a board. There was only one other person, a white guy, in there. He asked me if he could join me in a game. We have remained the best of friends ever since although we were forced apart by circumstances almost immediately.

I wanted more of the action. The gun gave me wings. Soames, by this time there was only one of them as Charlton was already in prison, let me in on the act. I am fairly sure we must have worn stockings to hide our faces. We arrived late at the target and when we burst in it was full of children getting after-school treats. The gun went off in Soames’ hand and we bolted. He got to the car ahead of me and urged the driver to get a move on. I saw him cajoling the driver to get away as I was coming out of the building. I was on my own.

I ran through country lanes until I thought I was safe. I made my way to the pub and met up with my new friend for a beer. So much for “All for one and one for all” and everything that went with it. I wanted out and I wanted it bad.

The news report about the armed raid came on the small portable television behind the bar. Sean Bryant, the name of my new pal, who also happened to be a journalist, saw my reaction to the story. He realised there might be something juicy for him to get his teeth into. He was working for a small provincial publication back then, a far cry from the lofty perch he now holds as one of the most revered investigative journos in the country.

We left the pub and went to his flat. It is all a bit of a blur but before I knew it, I was speaking to a copper friend of Sean’s and confessing everything. He asked me if I would give evidence against the gang. I agreed providing I wouldn’t get in trouble. He told me it was too late for that but he would do his best. After a while he came back with a deal.

Eventually, I got my time in Court even though I was sharing the dock with the two others. I was absolutely bricking it. I told the truth, the whole truth and all that sort of thing. I had fingered my partners-in-crime. I was shocked to stand for the sentencing. Expecting either a suspended sentence at worst, or a slap on the wrist at best, I just stared at the Judge when he sent me to prison for five years. That had not been in the script. I looked across to where Duncan Cobbold, the policeman, was sitting but he couldn’t even bring himself to look at me. I smelt a stitch-up. I was angry.

The wheels of subterfuge had started rolling. I was separated from the two idiots immediately and taken to another prison. I never saw the inside of a cell. Instead, I was taken to an office where, after a debriefing it was agreed I would get a new identity. Did I have a name in mind? I love cricket and, given my heritage, always loved West Indian cricket. Curtly was the first name of my favourite bowler and Richardson, the surname of my favourite batsman and, for good measure, I threw in the middle name of Vivian. No one ever asked me why I chose the name. They all agreed that it sounded suitably Caribbean and agreed to go forward with it.

I was relocated to the south coast, a period of my life I loved, and got my head down. Proving how smart I was I crammed for GCSEs and A levels. I went to Southampton Uni. After I finished my degree, very aware that I wanted to make the most of my fresh start, I applied to join the Hampshire police. To my utter astonishment I was accepted. After a short time in uniform, I joined the detective programme. Not sure how I achieved it but I passed with distinction.

By this time Cobbold, whom I had stayed in contact with, had been appointed to run the Home Security Team. He told me that I was the first person he thought of when he had been appointed by the then Home Secretary. I joined the fledgling organisation and, as they say, the rest is history.

Soames had issued death threats against me, Bryant and Cobbold along with our families. Part of my identity change ruse was that I had died in prison. Soames, of course, claimed that he had ordered my execution and would, once released, take his revenge on the other two.

I got the news; he was released while I was enjoying a nice little cruise in the Med. A chopper was sent for me and I was transferred to Suffolk. Cobbold had wanted to make sure we protected Bryant and his family. Bryant had been kidnapped which left his family vulnerable to attack from the madman. I was assigned to protect Amelia and the girls with a good mate who used to be SAS. We ambushed Soames in the hallway of the Bryant family home. He did not recognise me. Why should he? A, he thought I was dead and, B, thanks to hours in the gym pumping iron I was not the gangly teenager anymore. Even if I say so myself I was bristling with muscle, was far more athletic than I ever had been and had shaved my head. My hair had started to fall from my scalp at a very young age so it was the obvious thing to do.

Love? Well, there’s the thing! I had dalliances with girls at school but nothing serious. When I met a dancing girl in Sorrento I was blown away by her beauty and brains. We had a brilliant couple of days together and, even after such a fleeting time, I was convinced she was the one. When I couldn’t raise her by phone, text or email I returned to Sorrento. It knocked the stuffing out of me when I was told she had been killed in a terrorist attack in Rome. By this time I had met a gorgeous woman named Gillian. She was older than me but over the next few months our friendship blossomed into love. A passion I had never known before burned inside. We were married and, then, very soon after she was pregnant. She was the headteacher at the village school and one day, when talking to a tradesman in the school, a small thug, the son of a right-wing racist bigot, picked up a claw-hammer and swung it into Gill’s abdomen. Gill survived, only just, but we lost our baby. Maybe I should have done more to support Gill, who knows, but once, when I was away on a job, she took her own life. I was devastated. As some sort of atonement, I guess, I went to town and got my one and only tattoo. It is an image of a horse, depicting the badge of her favourite football club, Ipswich Town, with FOREVER inked above the icon and GILLIAN below. It is strategically placed over my still aching heart.

Sue-Beth Walters, an ex-soldier, who by now, was my partner in the HST was a great support. She went above and beyond in her support for me. After a reasonably lengthy time she was asked by her landlord to vacate the property she, her son and mother-in-law had been renting in the heart of our village. She was contemplating buying the property. I put another idea to her. Three months later, she and her family moved in with me. It is a long story but I bought the Bryant house when he moved his family into a massive old farmhouse, at the other end of the village. My house was far too big for me to live in on my own. After all, it should be a family home.

Not only is Sue-Beth my partner, in the business sense of the word, but she is also one of the best human beings I know. We have grown to love each other over the years but our relationship has remained platonic. I think she hopes that one day, we will move it onto the next level, I certainly hope that will be the case. That will have to wait while we work for the HST. We are both convinced that should we move our love for one another to the next level one of us will be killed in action. This was borne out to us recently when we lost an incredibly good friend during service. Not a risk worth taking.

Sue-Beth dreams of running away to the North Norfolk coast where we can start a B and B. I am yet to be convinced, though, as I am not sure we can cope with the mundane lives of some of our potential guests. Watch this space.