Essex Boys, The New Generation Read Free Page B

police and an arsenal of the firm’s weapons found. Naturally, everybody questioned suffered bouts of amnesia and couldn’t remember anything that might have assisted the police with their inquiries.
    It was, to say the least, a thought-provoking journey to Beverley’s modest home. It made me realise that my mother could easily have been in Beverley Boshell’s shoes and I could have been buried alongside Dean, Tucker, Tate or Rolfe. Gangsters? What a joke! They are only good for keeping florists, undertakers, police and prison officers in employment.
    I parked my car in the quiet cul-de-sac where Beverley lives. Opening her wooden gate, I made my way along a path, through her well-kept garden. Before I could knock on the front door, Beverley opened it and invited me inside. Entering the lounge, I noticed three photographs of Dean – one on top of the television, one in a cabinet and one on the wall of him as a child. A greenfinch chirped and whistled as it flapped about in a cage near the door. Scattered all around the room were toy or ornamental polar bears. Beverley noticed me looking at them and said that she had been collecting them for years.
    For the next five minutes, she talked non-stop about the polar bears, the greenfinch, any subject other than her son. I could tell that she was dreading discussing a subject that had already caused her so much anguish and pain. When she did eventually pause to take a breath, I asked her if she was up to talking about Dean.
    ‘This jumper that I am wearing was Dean’s,’ she replied. ‘I wear it now and again, to feel close to him.’ There was nothing I could say in response to such a statement and for a few moments we sat together in an uneasy silence.
    Beverley kept looking up at a photograph of her son, as if she were seeking some sort of reassurance from him. Her hands opened and closed continuously, as she nervously turned and pulled at the numerous rings on her fingers. After clasping her hands tightly together, she inhaled deeply and began to talk.
    ‘The first thing I want to say is that the police have advised me not to assist you with the book you are writing. Why they said this to me, I don’t know. Perhaps the truth about my son’s murder is more terrible than I have been led to believe. I am in no doubt whatsoever that the whole truth about his death has never been told. There are too many loose ends and unanswered questions. I really hope that your book will help to answer them all.’
    I agreed with Beverley’s sentiment and promised to do all I could to help her learn the truth in the hope that she could have some sort of closure. I explained that in order to do so I would need her to tell me everything she could remember about Dean’s life and the events that followed his death.
    ‘OK,’ Beverley replied, ‘I suppose the best place to start is at the beginning.
    ‘On Valentine’s Day, in 1975, I married Dean’s father, Fergus Paul Boshell. I still wonder why I went through with the marriage. We were far from compatible. Fergus was a drinker and would turn violent after consuming as little as a pint of cider. When I was seven months’ pregnant with Dean, Fergus got drunk and decided to use me as a punch bag. After hearing my screams for help, my brother telephoned the police. When they eventually arrived, they wrote down everything I said had happened and promised that it would be acted upon in the future if there was any further violence. I wasn’t impressed. The next assault could have resulted in the death of my unborn baby, or mine, or both of ours. I wanted them to take action that day, but they refused to do so.
    ‘On 13 April 1976, my son Dean Fergus Boshell was born in Basildon hospital. Life didn’t start off too well for him. I was discharged from hospital just six hours after his birth. It was a cold, foggy day, but his drunken father insisted on taking him out in a pram to visit relatives. When he eventually staggered home, I had