Horse's Arse Read online

  'You're not fucking putting that in me, you bastards,' shrieked Bott. 'I banged my head, I'm fine, it was already there. Fuck off. . .' She trailed off as they unceremoniously turned her on to her front.

  'Incoming . . .' muttered the ambulanceman as he hauled her skirt up, exposing her huge wobbling bottom encased in a suspiciously grey pair of shapeless knickers. The group pulled lemon-sucking faces at the spectacle, and glanced at each other. The unspoken question 'How could anyone fuck that?' passed between them. Psycho, who had the morals of a tomcat (if it moved, he shagged it; if it didn't he pissed on it), quickly assessed her as at least a fifteen pinter. Even after that copious alcohol intake it would still be a toss-up as to whether he'd rather shag the horrible old lesbian or stick pins in his eyes. Perhaps a shag would put her back on the straight and narrow. He'd have to think about it.

  'Fire in the hole,' shouted Psycho from the door as the needle was thrust into her buttock.

  The result was almost immediate as Bott completely relaxed and seemed to sink into the floor with a loud sigh. Her eyes glazed over and a stream of spittle ran from the corner of her mouth as she slurred, 'You bastards . . .'

  The ambulanceman pulled her skirt down as his colleague went to fetch the chair. Gillard and Evans helped to load her into it and a blanket was wrapped around her, tucked up under her chin. They lifted her down the stairs, preceded by Psycho who opened the front office doors for them again.

  The rest of the Grant Flowers raiding party were in the corridor as he did so, and watched in astonished silence as the gibbering Bott was wheeled out into the front office.

  'I banged my head,' she drooled. 'It was already in there . . .'

  Psycho tapped the side of his head as he looked at the others. 'Gone mad after a massive shit apparently,' he said in his best diagnostic manner.

  Evans had stayed upstairs to let the first floor know all about Bott's predicament whilst Gillard had followed her downstairs and then outside. He watched as she was loaded into the back of the ambulance. He'd give her husband a ring shortly to tell the poor sap of her plight. He looked up at the front of the nick to see a mass of smiling faces at every window. She'd endeared herself to everyone in such a short space of time.

  'I always thought she was full of it,' he muttered as he walked back to his office, 'but Christ, that must have hurt.'

  Psycho loitered around the front office long enough for the Blister to confirm in her own mind that Bott's departure to hospital had everything to do with him. She sidled up to him as he peered out at the departing ambulance.

  'You've excelled yourself this time, haven't you? What on earth did you do to her?'

  'Nothing,' replied Psycho, entirely unconvincingly.

  'So your visit to her office this morning was to leave her a bunch of flowers, was it? Or chocolates perhaps?'

  'Leave it out, for fuck's sake,' hissed Psycho. Only the Blister knew he'd been up there earlier and he wanted it kept that way. 'I'll tell you all about it later if you like. Why don't you pop over after work?' It had occurred to him that he might be able to buy her silence with another shag, perhaps two or three. It had also occurred to him that if those bastards mentioned the Polaroids to her, he was dead. He hadn't for a moment envisaged an outcome like this. The success of his campaign had exceeded his wildest dreams, but the fly in the ointment was the Blister. She could put him away in style if she had a mind to. He'd have to speak to the lads again about keeping quiet.

  'Yeah, OK,' said the Blister, who like Psycho never looked a gift horse in the mouth. Spending the evening being pumped up by Psycho was marginally better than listening to her elderly mother complain about the queue in the post office. 'I'll be over about six.'

  'Great, look forward to it,' Psycho lied. God, the sacrifices he had to make for his art. He walked out into the yard where the rest of the raiding party were standing.

  'Psycho, you're single crewed today, aren't you?' said Clarke.

  'Yeah, why?'

  'Can you take the van for us? It'll be better for getting bodies and property back. Is that OK?'

  'Sure, no problems,' he replied and went back into the nick to collect the keys for the divisional van from the control room.

  'The van was a battered old Ford Transit with bench seats running down either side in the back. It was used to collect the drunk and dirty prisoners and, despite regular washes with industrial-strength disinfectant, stank. Night Duty officers had abandoned it in the far corner of the yard, reversed up to the far wall of the cell block, with its exhaust pipe hard against a ventilation brick. Having collected the keys, Psycho settled into the driver's seat, opened the manual choke wide and fired the engine. It coughed into life and was soon roaring merrily, pumping noxious exhaust fumes through the ventilation brick and into the cells occupied by the Mafia. Psycho kept the revs high for several minutes before moving off, completely unaware of the havoc about to ensue in the cell block.

  For the last two hours, the Mafia prisoners had been really performing, shouting and hammering at their cell doors, demanding to see solicitors and generally abusing Collins and his gaoler. He'd decked a couple of them through their inspection hatches, but it hadn't led to a lull in the din. After a while, Collins had ceased to notice it. What he did eventually notice was the silence. Puzzled, he called out to his gaoler.

  'Go and have a look at that lot, will you, make sure they haven't escaped,' he said, only half joking. He'd never lost a prisoner during his years as a custody sergeant, and he didn't want to break his duck by losing one, or all, of the Mafia prisoners. He'd never hear the end of it.

  The gaoler smiled and ambled into the cell corridor, jangling his bunch of keys. He rushed back very soon, ashen-faced and coughing. Collins looked up at him from his desk.

  'What's up?' he asked worriedly. 'They're all there, aren't they?'

  'Oh yeah, they're still in their cells, sarge, but you'd better come and have a look,' the gaoler replied between coughs and splutters. Grabbing his keys, Collins followed him into the cell corridor, and immediately noticed a strong smell of petrol. A blanket of wispy smoke hung across the corridor at about head height.

  'What the fuck is this?' He coughed.

  'Smells like exhaust fumes,' spluttered the gaoler. 'Have a look in the cells, sarge.'

  Collins went to the first cell, flung open the inspection hatch and peered in. Deep amid the billowing yellow fog inside, he could vaguely make out the shape of a body on the floor. 'Fucking hell,' he yelled, unlocking the cell door and running inside. He grabbed an arm and pulled the body out into the corridor. He looked down at Peter Jeffries, one of the Mafia, and couldn't detect any sign of life.

  'Get the others out quickly,' he shouted to the gaoler, and dragged Jeffries out into the main custody reception area. 'Blister,' he bellowed. She appeared from the front office quickly. 'Call for some ambulances. All the fucking prisoners have been gassed. Let Gillard know we're in deep shit.'

  'Gassed?' asked the Blister incredulously. 'How'd that happen?'

  'Never mind that,' roared Collins, 'get on the fucking phone on the hurry up.' Blister hurried back to the front office as Collins began to slap Jeffries about the face and was relieved to see his eyelids flutter as he began to regain consciousness. 'Thank fuck for that,' he muttered as the gaoler dragged two more prisoners into the room, pulling them along the floor by their shirt collars. 'How many more down there?'

  'Seven,' coughed the gaoler. 'They're down the far end.'

  'Get the windows and doors in here open,' commanded Collins. 'Look after these three and I'll get the others.'

  Holding a handkerchief to his nose and mouth, he disappeared back into the poisonous fog and a few minutes later had all his prisoners laid out in the reception area. All were gradually recovering, but lay where they were, coughing and moaning.

  'What the fuck happened?' asked the gaoler, who was leaning out of the window gulping the fresh air.

  Collins shook his head. 'Christ knows,
' he said quietly. 'Jesus, that was close. Too bloody close. Get me the custody records, will you? We'd better make sure all the visits are up to date, and make sure the Blister's called for some ambulances, will you?'

  He slumped into his chair and gave silent thanks to the patron saint of custody sergeants. Leafing through the custody records, he was relieved to see that his gaoler had been on the ball and all the prisoners were shown as Visited and all correct' shortly before they'd been found unconscious. As long as none of them died, it was unlikely that anyone would look too closely at the timings of the visits. Collins pushed the papers to one side and waited for the inevitable shitstorm. It wasn't long in arriving.

  Gillard could scarcely believe his ears as he listened to what the Blister had to tell him. She had to repeat herself twice.

  All the prisoners have been gassed?' he said very slowly to ensure he'd got it right. Are they dead?'

  'No idea, guv. Sergeant Collins didn't say,' she replied calmly. Gillard slammed his phone back on to its cradle and put his forehead on his desk.

  'Jesus fucking Christ, what is it with this place?' he asked his blotting pad. 'One thing after another. It doesn't happen anywhere else, only here. Every fucking time the shit rolls downhill it ends up here.'

  He picked up his phone again and dialled the custody office. Collins let it ring twice before answering. Before he could speak, Gillard was off and running.

  'What the fuck happened, Andy? How bad are they, any of them likely to die, whose fault is it?'

  Collins pondered the questions put to him and smiled as he considered who might have been at fault.

  'Difficult to say what happened, guv, but it looks like a vehicle in the yard filled the cells with exhaust fumes. It wouldn't be the first time; you'll probably remember the memo I sent you last year concerning the problem we had then. I recommended that the ventilation bricks were blocked up and extractor fans fitted.'

  There was silence from the other end as Gillard frantically racked his memory. Christ, yes, he did vaguely remember the memo, but what the hell had he done with it?

  'I can't say I do, Andy,' he lied finally. 'More to the point, how are the prisoners?'

  'Recovering nicely, I think, but they're all going to need medical attention. We're going to have to arrange escorts and guards in hospital.'

  'I'll be down in a minute,' said Gillard, putting down his phone. He began to rummage through his desk drawers before he finally sat back holding a sheet of paper in his hand. 'Fuck,' he said quietly. It was Collins's memo, and other than a date stamp showing it had reached him the previous November, nothing had been written on it. He pondered his predicament for a few minutes before he smiled broadly and began to write. Under the existing date stamp, he wrote, 'Inspector Bott to deal and report ASAP. This is a serious issue that needs resolving.' He then altered the date on his desk stamp and stamped his instructions for two days after he had received the memo. Quickly, he went to Bott's empty office and began to go through the files she kept in one of the desk drawers. He found one labelled 'Memos - Outstanding', and another, 'Memos - To Deal'. He opened the 'To Deal' file and found a draft proposal for a crime prevention initiative in the summer. He slipped the offending memo in amongst the draft and replaced the file. He was back in his office seconds later. He'd covered his arse very nicely, and ensured that Bott would take any blame if it came to it. Things were working out quite nicely on the whole. She was in hospital gibbering like an idiot, and if she ever got back to work the memo would be ticking like a time bomb in her desk. Yes, all in all, things could be worse, he assured himself as he went downstairs to the cell block.

  He breezed into the custody reception area and almost tripped over one of the prostrate prisoners who was coughing and spluttering on the floor. Stepping gingerly over him and the others, he went to Collins's desk.

  'I do remember your memo, Andy. I passed it to Mrs Bott to deal. I take it you heard no more about it, then?'

  'Not a thing, guv.'

  Gillard shook his head and tutted. 'Oh well, I'm sure she's looking into it. Not the sort of thing you'd want to sit on, is it?'

  'Not now the shit's hit the fan, guv,' said Collins slowly, looking suspiciously at the Chief Inspector. He knew him of old. Gillard was a slimy, devious old bastard, and a little voice was telling Collins that Big Chief speaks with forked tongue. However, he kept his suspicions to himself.

  'This is going to fuck up the CID's inquiries,' said Gillard, looking at the wheezing prisoners. 'They won't be able to speak to this shower for days.'

  'No great loss,' replied Collins. 'None of them would have said a thing. Those two' - he indicated Dawes and his wife - 'are in for handling. They've not been interviewed yet either.' He deliberately made no mention of Morgan's interview.

  'Who's dealing with them?'

  'Stewart and Malone. They've gone out with the CID to nick the other Mafia,' he said, keeping his voice down for the benefit of the prisoners on the floor. 'Thinking about it, I'd better let them and Control know that we're closed for a while. I'll send all prisoners to Alpha Tango if that's OK.'

  'Yeah, fine, Andy,' agreed Gillard. 'I'll let Division know what's happened. Is everything tidy on the paperwork front before I do that?'

  'No problems, thanks, guv.'

  Gillard picked his way out of Custody and retreated to the sanctuary of his office. He rarely gave a moment's thought to what the officers under his command did on a daily basis, or how they coped, but seeing Collins downstairs, barely keeping his head above water, made him grateful that promotion had lifted him out of the swamp. He knew what Collins would, in all likelihood, now face. The lizards from Complaints and Discipline would be all over him like a rash, looking for any minor indiscretion to confront him with. Collins was good at his job; he knew his stuff and Gillard genuinely hoped that he was as watertight as he seemed to think he was. But any mistakes and those bastards would find them.

  He phoned Division to speak to the Chief Superintendent and spoil his day. That phone call sparked a forest fire chain reaction. Within a few hours, Horse's Arse would be visited by more senior officers than it had seen over the last decade. Even the Chief Constable himself announced that he would venture from his ivory tower and mingle with the infidels. Gillard got the phone call from the Chief's staff officer and felt his blood chill. The place was in danger of imminent meltdown, his deputy was drooling in hospital and now the Chief was coming to visit. He knew he wouldn't be coming to shake hands and slap backs. He'd have all sorts of fucking stupid questions about use of resources and deployment strategies. Gillard briefly considered leaving the building, but knew the staff officer would drop him in it. The other alternative was a huge heart attack, and he felt that probably wasn't far away. He decided to make sure that the i's had been dotted and the t's crossed on the fiasco in the cell block, and got on the phone to Collins again.

  At Headquarters, Chief Constable Robert Daniells, QPM, sat in his large, sumptuous office on the sixth floor, reading for the third time a telex message received from Chief Superintendent 'B' Division. Perhaps sumptuous was too grand a description of the office. Although larger than most senior officers' offices, it was still furnished with the same spartan 1960s Home Office furniture. Glass-fronted bookcases filled with legal tomes unopened since their distant publication, high-backed, foam- filled chairs for his visitors, and a low coffee table littered with copies of the Force's annual report. He had a large desk with drawers on either side and the whole ensemble was in the same polished, beech finish. The only concession to his rank was his reclining padded leather chair and the carpet and wallpaper that at his insistence had not come from the Force housing department's catalogue. Their drab samples would not have looked out of place in a Moscow housing development and he had put his foot down. A youthful Queen Elizabeth surveyed the bureaucratic lack of taste with barely concealed disdain from her frame on the wall behind his desk.

  He leant his portly, six-foot frame back into his chair
and let out a large sigh as he glanced around at the numerous group photographs on the walls. He pushed the telex message back across the desk to his staff officer. Inspector Kevin Curtis picked it up and looked quizzically at him.

  'What the hell is going on at Hotel Alpha, Kevin?' the Chief asked. He knew bloody well what was going on down there, but he enjoyed watching his ridiculous staff officer jump through fiery hoops. Daniells had spent his entire thirty-four years' service with the same Force, almost unique amongst chief officers. He'd got his hands dirty as he rose through the ranks on merit alone, and had served at Horse's Arse as a DI. That had been some years ago, before the town came to resemble a war zone, but he had always recognised the potential for serious trouble there. His predecessors in the top job had handed him a poisoned chalice by never getting to grips with the place, and since his appointment two years ago he had been wrestling with the problem. He suspected, quite rightly, that the crux of the problem lay in a complete lack of leadership. It had been his idea to send Hilary Bott there to sort things out. The telex informed him, amongst other things, that she was now in hospital following complications whilst passing a stool. He shook his head.

  His obsequious, 25-year-old staff officer drew on his nonexistent experience and launched into a lengthy explanation of simmering social discontent and inappropriate policing methods that required immediate addressing through open meetings with the discontented locals. Curtis was a classic 'Bramshill Flyer', fast-tracking through promotion on the back of a degree in archaeology from Cambridge. His operational experience was limited to two years as a probationary constable when he was wrapped in cotton wool at a quiet rural nick, followed by promotion into the training department. He hadn't set foot out of Headquarters for five years. He knew his Greek and Roman ruins, but he knew the square root of nothing when it came to real policing.