Horse's Arse Read online

  'Greaves? Are you mad, woman?' said Gillard, raising his voice. 'He's likely to turn up stark bollock naked, if he gets there at all. He's as mad as a March hare; I don't want him going anywhere near this.' Inspiration began to come to him. He could get rid of her for the day. 'No, I want you to take this on,' he continued. 'Get down to the scene and speak to the Brothers, and then on to the hospital to see the rider. Make sure you get a Traffic Accident investigator to the scene as well. You've obviously got a feel for this, Hilary, so I think you should deal. Anything else?'

  Bott stood and stared open-mouthed at him. 'You want me to deal?' she spluttered finally.

  'Yes I do,' said Gillard firmly. 'You do know what to do, don't you?'

  'Of course I do,' she blustered. 'It's just that I am your deputy here, and—'

  He interrupted her. 'Precisely. My deputy, and I want you to deal with the Brothers' POLAC. I'd like an interim report on my desk by close of play today. Don't forget the telex to

  Headquarters. Let me know if you need any help. Thank you, Hilary,' he said dismissively, looking down at a suddenly important piece of paper. She continued to stare at him for a moment before turning on her heels and hurrying out of the office. As the door slammed shut behind her, Gillard punched the air in triumph.

  'Fuck you, you stupid bitch,' he said quietly to her imaginary back. He chuckled at the thought of the merry dance the Brothers would lead her. She hadn't a chance. They were a punchy pair of bastards, but what he wouldn't give for a nick full of Brothers, especially in a toilet like Horse's Arse. He had a very good idea of what had happened and was confident that they'd be completely exonerated after the investigation. After all, Bott s report would have to come through him for final action. If need be, he'd simply lose it.

  He picked up his phone and dialled the front office. It took the Blister a while to answer.

  'You took your time,' he barked.

  She recognised his voice straight away. 'Sorry, guv, I was dealing with someone at the counter,' she lied.

  'Are you sure they haven't had a shit whilst they were there?' he said, and continued before she could reply, 'What do you know about Yankee One's POLAC?'

  'Not much, other than it all finished at the boating lake in Grosvenor Park. They picked the bike up in Bolton Road and the rider's gone to Handstead General. Broken legs, I think.'

  'Let the Brothers know that Mrs Bott is on her way to deal,' he said curtly, before putting down the phone. He knew they'd cope with her, but forewarned was forearmed. He shuffled the papers around on his desk and found what he was looking for. The cruise to the Norwegian fjords looked good, but Mrs Gillard fancied a bit of sun on her back. He supposed it would have to be the Caribbean. He sighed and searched for that brochure. Decisions, decisions.

  Back at the boating lake, the Brothers had watched as Frankie was loaded into an ambulance, cursing and swearing.

  'I suppose one of you will be coming with us?' said an ambulance man as he shut the back doors. 'Seeing as he's under arrest.'

  'Nah, we'll hang on here, mate,' said H. 'Besides, he's hardly likely to have it away on those toes, is he?' He and Jim began to roar with laughter, whilst the ambulance man merely smiled and got back into his vehicle. He knew the Brothers of old. Pair of mad bastards, but very handy when things got out of hand in the casualty department at the weekends. At least there, the recipients of their violence didn't have far to travel for treatment.

  As the ambulance pulled away, Jim's personal radio hissed into life.

  'Yankee One, Yankee One from Hotel Alpha.'

  'Go ahead, Hotel Alpha,' he replied.

  'Yankee One, be advised Inspector Bott is en route to deal with your POLAC,' said the Blister.

  'Thank you, Hotel Alpha,' said Jim, and the Brothers looked at each other.

  'Bott?' said H incredulously. 'She's got a root growing out of her arse into her chair. What's she coming for?'

  'Two guesses, H, and we can discount the one about her coming to do us any favours. Have another look at the motor - I'll check the bike.'

  As H returned to Yankee One, Jim went to the wrecked bike and knelt down to examine it closely. He spun the buckled rear wheel until he found the telltale signs of contact, but otherwise there was nothing on the bike to indicate their direct involvement in the crash.

  H was kneeling at the bumper of Yankee One, again looking closely for damage, when he heard a loud whoosh' from behind him. He turned to see Frankie's bike enveloped in flames and a large plume of black smoke heading heavenwards. Jim was walking back towards him with a big grin on his face.

  'Fuck knows how that happened,' he said innocently. 'Lucky I wasn't standing too close. I might have got hurt.'

  'Electrics must have shorted and ignited all that petrol,' offered H helpfully.

  'Must have, yeah,' said Jim, turning to watch the blaze as he pocketed his lighter.

  'Better call the Brigade in a minute,' said H.

  'Yeah, in a minute,' said Jim. 'Motor all right?'

  'Not a mark that I can see. Have a look, will you?'

  Jim knelt down, and after careful examination agreed. 'Fine. All we need to do now is keep the story straight and simple. Frankie got the line wrong, went too fast and fucked himself.'

  'Agreed. We kept well back and he made a terrible mistake. Happens all the time. Christ, I'm soaking. Let's get back in the dry until Bott gets here.'

  The Brothers got back into Yankee One and awaited the arrival of Gillard's Chosen One, completely unaware of the forces working on their behalf. It was significant that they always referred to 'us' and 'we' in their discussions. There was never a suggestion that as the driver, only H might be in the firing line. They accepted joint responsibility for everything without question.

  As the blaze took hold, Jim reported a sudden fire and requested the attendance of the fire brigade. On arrival they surveyed the smouldering wreck and departed without even using a hand-held extinguisher. A surly, disinterested Traffic Accident Investigation Unit sergeant arrived shortly afterwards, announced there was nothing for him to look at, took some cursory measurements and departed after confirming that his very short report should go to Bott. She arrived some time after he had gone, having had a devil of a job finding the boating lake.

  'Well, what happened, then?' she demanded of the Brothers, who had left their vehicle and were standing, arms folded, eyeing her warily.

  'He got his line wrong, was going too fast and piled it into the fence, ma'am,' said H.

  'How did it catch fire?' she asked suspiciously.

  'Not sure. Probably the electrics shorted and ignited the tank. Brigade have been and gone; nothing for them.'

  'Any damage to your vehicle?' she continued, peering at the front of Yankee One.

  'No, nothing. There shouldn't be, either. We didn't touch him,' said H indignantly.

  'I'll be the judge of that, and the Accident Investigation Unit,' she said pompously.

  'He's been and gone, said there was fuck all for him.'

  Bott began to get flustered. 'Who was it? I'll want to speak to them personally.'

  'Don't know his name. Traffic skipper, but he knows you're dealing.'

  'Right. I'll need statements from both of you. Who was driving?'

  'Me,' said H.

  'I'm suspending you from all driving duties until I've completed my inquiries. Your colleague can take over behind the wheel.'

  'What?' exploded H. 'I never touched him. You're having a laugh, aren't you?'

  'I've never been more serious. Get yourselves back to the station and make a start on your statements. I'll see you when I get back from the hospital.'

  She stalked back to her vehicle as Jim laid a restraining hand on H's shoulder.

  'Leave it, H,' he said quietly. 'She's going nowhere and you'll have your permit back in a couple of days.'

  H was breathing deeply as he struggled to keep his composure. 'I can't fucking believe she's done that, Jim. She's suspended me,' he sai
d desperately.

  'Relax - it'll only be for a few days. Come on, let's get back and do our statements before the stupid cow finishes at the hospital.' He guided H to the passenger door of Yankee One, took the keys from him and settled himself in the driver's seat. H was seething. Jim looked at him sympathetically.

  'H, forget it,' he said firmly. 'We've had a fucking good result. Whatever Frankie says, it's his word against ours. He's a disqualified driver riding a nicked motorcycle. Where's it going to go?' He started Yankee One up and drove slowly across the grass, over the path and back towards the play area they had first crossed.

  Bott's visit to the hospital was a waste of time. Frankie had been taken straight into the crash room where a doctor adamantly refused to allow her to see him. He'd then gone to X-ray which confirmed his collarbone and both legs were broken, and a rib had punctured his left lung. Before she left, he'd been transferred to the Intensive Care Unit. The hospital eventually provided her with his personal details and she decided to inform his next of kin of what had happened.

  Fifteen minutes later she arrived at his shabby house and looked distastefully at the overgrown garden as she knocked at the front door. The Bitch answered it and glared at Bott.

  'Yes?' she said aggressively, folding her arms and leaning against the doorframe.

  'Are you Mrs Turner?'

  'No.'

  'Oh, well, do you know Frankie Turner?' continued Bott, immediately unsure of how to deal with this appalling, unkempt woman.

  'Yes.'

  'I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you. Can I come in?'

  'Is he dead?' hissed the Bitch.

  'No, but—'

  'Fuck it, then I don't want to hear about it. Fuck off, you toffee-nosed bitch.' She turned her back and slammed the door in Bott's face. Bott stood on the doorstep, speechless. These people were savages. How on earth do you reason with them? She bent down to the letterbox and pushed it open.

  'He's in Handstead General after a road accident,' she called. 'Why don't you let me in and I can fill you in with the details over a cup of tea?' She remembered reading somewhere that the relatives of accident victims often reacted strangely to the news and a cup of tea never failed to remedy the situation. The reply was a blast from an air-freshener aerosol that caught her full in the face, causing her to stagger backwards, coughing and spluttering. As she stood, bent double on the path trying to recover her breath and her senses, the front door opened and the Bitch appeared holding a very soiled baby's nappy.

  'If you're not out of that gate in five seconds, you'll be eating this,' she shouted. 'Now fuck off.'

  Bott beat a hasty retreat to her car and sped off coughing like a sixty-a-day navvy, her eyes watering. The Bitch threw the nappy into the long grass and slammed the door.

  Bott drove quickly back to Horse's Arse and tried to get into her office unseen. Gillard however spotted her creeping up the stairs and shouted from behind his desk: 'Here a minute, Hilary. I need a word.'

  Scowling, and with her eyes still watering, she stood in front of him like an errant convent girl up before the Mother Superior.

  'How'd it go?' he asked, looking up from his brochure.

  'Fine. Everything's in hand. Rider's in intensive care but not likely to die. The Brothers should be in doing their statements and I've suspended Walsh from driving.'

  'What the fuck for?' yelled Gillard, forgetting the door was open and attracting the attention of two passing clerical workers. He got up, slammed the door shut, and repeated the question.

  'Well, because it's a serious accident,' replied Bott.

  'I know that, but is there any suggestion that they caused it?' he asked testily.

  'No, not really, not at the moment, but I haven't finished my inquiries,' she replied nervously.

  'Did you examine both vehicles?'

  'The motorcycle was burnt out.'

  'What about Yankee One?'

  'Undamaged,' she said flatly.

  'Any skid marks to look at?' Gillard pressed.

  'No. The fire brigade and ambulance had churned everything to mud. Accident Investigation apparently found nothing either.'

  'Did you breathalyse Walsh?'

  'Um, no, no I didn't. Why?' she stammered, licking her lips. Gillard saw the chink in her armour.

  'Force Orders are quite clear on this matter, Hilary. Officers involved in road accidents are to be breathalysed. But you didn't. I thought you said you knew how to deal with this,' he said crushingly.

  She didn't reply, but hung her head and began to bite her lower lip.

  'Still,' continued Gillard, 'I suppose I should be grateful that you followed Road Traffic Act procedure at the hospital. You did do that, didn't you, Hilary, with the rider? Asked the doctor to take a blood sample and all that?'

  'No.'

  'Jesus fucking Christ, Hilary,' he said, shaking his head and clasping his hands in front of him, you've completely fucked this up. I hope you realise it'll be going nowhere now. Let me have your interim report in an hour and I'll do my best to keep your head above the shit line. Thank you, Hilary,' he finished dismissively, pursing his lips and sighing loudly. As she turned to leave and opened the door, he said loudly enough for passers-by to hear, 'That perfume you've got on is dreadful. Smells like you've spent the morning on the toilet.'

  Bottom lip quivering, Bott slunk back to her adjacent office, shut the door and burst into tears. Worse would follow shortly when she went into her radioactive toilet to dry her eyes and wash her face.

  In his office, Gillard heard her muffled sobs and smiled grimly to himself. 'That'll stop your farting in church, madam,' he said quietly, and went back to his brochures.

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  Marjorie Wallis was the 58-year-old wife of an ICI director who perfectly reflected what she was. Portly, rather than overweight, she was made up to the nines, had dressed herself that morning in her latest Gucci trouser suit, overcoat and crocodile shoes, and liberally doused herself in her hideously expensive Chanel No. 5 parfum.

  Travelling through Handstead in her Mercedes sports convertible with personalised plates, she stood out like a sore thumb, but she rather enjoyed showing the cave dwellers how the other half lived. She was accustomed to getting her way and expected instant, due deference and respect from those she considered to be her social and evolutionary inferiors. That included just about anyone not related to an ICI director.

  She excelled at bawling out waiters, and delighted in making her gardener's and maid's lives a daily misery. She was a pompous, arrogant old harridan.

  Marjorie was on her way to pick up a girlfriend from the other side of town for a day at a health spa, and was now wishing she hadn't decided to travel through Handstead to get there. She was starting to get seriously pissed off with the driver of the battered old Ford Cortina in front of her, who kept missing his gear changes, was slow away from traffic lights, hadn't a clue how to negotiate a roundabout, and, when he was moving, did so at 20 m.p.h. in a cloud of filthy smoke. Try as she might, she couldn't get past him.

  'Come on, you bloody idiot,' she bellowed, hitting the Merc's horn for the umpteenth time and flashing her lights. The elderly driver of the almost as elderly Cortina took not a blind bit of notice, and the car belched a blacker cloud of smoke in reply. She hit the horn again and kept it pressed down.

  Psycho had parked up in a lay-by to kill time before breakfast and plot his further acts of psychological warfare against Bott. He heard the strident, blaring car horn coming from some distance away, and wound his window down to better judge its direction. Shortly afterwards, he saw the old Cortina pass from his right with a Merc convertible inches from its back bumper, lights flashing, and the fat woman driver banging the car horn with her hand as if she was going mad. She was purple with rage, and despite the distance between them he could just about make out that she was screaming at the top of her voice. He smiled contentedly to himself and pulled out into the traffic behind the Merc,
slowing the driver behind with a raised hand out of the window. This could be fun, he thought.

  Marjorie was blind with rage, and completely failed to notice the police car that had slipped in behind her. She kept her hand on the horn and only snapped out of her road rage when she heard a car hoot her from behind.

  'Fuck off,' she yelled, briefly looking into her rear-view mirror. Psycho lip-read her request,' hit his horn again and put on his vehicle's blue light.

  'Foul-mouthed old slag,' he muttered to himself, and flashed his headlights.

  Marjorie again glanced at her rear-view mirror and groaned. Just what she didn't need. Some jumped-up little oik in a uniform going to lecture her about her driving. This shouldn't take long. Soon send him on his way with his Neanderthal tail between his legs. She indicated left, pulled slowly over to the pavement and watched as the police car pulled in behind her and its occupant got out. This one is just out of the trees, she thought to herself, a real bottom feeder. She wasn't far off the mark, but failed completely to interpret the smile on the approaching officer's face. As he came alongside her car and knelt down, she wound the window down, looked him in the eye and said haughtily, 'Yes?'

  Psycho's grin grew wider and his eyes twinkled. She was going to help him add to his legend.

  'Morning, sweet buns,' he said pleasantly. 'You're a bit old to be making all that noise, aren't you? This your grandson's motor?'

  Marjorie was thunderstruck. What had he said? Were her ears deceiving her?

  'What did you say?' she thundered. 'How dare you, you insolent oaf.'

  Psycho continued to smile sweetly at her. 'You should know better at your age. Touch of PMT, or the menopause, do you think?'

  'You bastard,' shouted Marjorie, 'I'll have your job. I want your number.' She began to free herself from her seatbelt. Psycho stood up and moved away from the door as she wrestled her plump little body out of the low-slung car and stood opposite him. Her eyes were blazing and she began to jab her finger into his chest as she berated him.