Horse's Arse Page 14

  'Complete bollocks, Kevin. The place has gone to rat shit, pure and simple,' said Daniells, leaning forward in his chair and glaring at him. 'What are we going to do about it?'

  'Encourage dialogue?' said Curtis timidly.

  'Dialogue? Are you fucking mad?' barked Daniells. 'Dialogue be fucked. We're going to send the Patrol Group in there for a couple of weeks and kick shit out of the place. What d'you think about that?'

  Curtis stared open-mouthed at his Chief. He was never sure if he was joking. His Bramshill instructors were nothing like him.

  He hated his current job, but viewed it as a necessary evil to achieve his next goal, promotion to Chief Inspector. There wasn't a back he wouldn't stab to achieve it, but he knew the Chief had little time for either him or the system that had promoted him so quickly. 'Bringing through a bunch of limp-wristed cocksuckers,' he'd shouted at him one day when he'd reminded him of a seminar he was due to attend at Bramshill.

  His role as staff officer was a 24-hour one, with regular overnight stops away from Force with the Chief when he attended conferences and the like. Curtis's wife was beginning to tire of his long days and regular absences, and life at home had become distinctly awkward.

  'The Patrol Group, sir? Is that wise? You know what they're like. They could inflame things badly.'

  You complete knob, thought the Chief to himself, and taking a deep breath. 'How could things get any worse, Kevin?' he said aloud. 'What have we got to lose? We need a new commander in there to support Hilary; a couple of weeks of the Patrol Group on a long leash and things will quieten down. The place is a complete shithole, but I'm buggered if a group of young thugs is going to be allowed to terrorise the few decent folk there whilst we organise group meetings to discuss the problem. The problem's clear enough. Arses need kicking on both sides of the fence.'

  'If you say so, sir. Are you sure?' stammered Curtis.

  'As sure as I can be. Have you told that imbecile Gillard that I'm going to pay him a visit?'

  'Yes, yes I did, sir,' replied Curtis, immediately regretting the phone call which had been no more than a professional courtesy.

  'Wish you hadn't. Never mind, though; it'll give him time to work himself into a real lather. Maybe bring on that huge thrombo he's due. When are we going?'

  'Any time you like, sir. Your car's downstairs.'

  'Fine, let's do it now,' said Daniells, grabbing his cap and coat from a hatstand in the corner and striding purposefully out of the office, followed at a respectful distance by his bag carrier. The office enjoyed views across playing fields to Heston Lakes, and only four miles beyond them Horse's Arse. Daniells could see the Grant Flowers tower block from the office and he glanced briefly in that direction as he left. As he did so, the raiding party neared the flats.

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  The Patrol Group that Daniells saw as part of the answer to the problems at Horse's Arse comprised three mobile units that covered the whole county with a brief to make short, sharp visits to divisions with a specific problem. Each unit consisted of a sergeant and ten constables, and for the most part they patrolled in liveried Ford Transit vans fitted with grilles on all the windows and heavy rubber skirts around the wheel arches. Their speciality was public disorder and each vehicle carried riot shields and NATO helmets which they liked to utilise as often as possible. A two-year attachment to the group was viewed as a major achievement and generally officers only got on to it having proved themselves elsewhere as a good thief-taker and handy in a punch- up.

  The rivalry between the three units sometimes manifested itself in fistfights during the monthly training day when the entire Patrol Group got together. They would practise deployment from their vans with shields, storming buildings, riot control - when petrol bombs were thrown at them - and, bizarrely, huge exposure to CS gas in a hut on a disused airfield. They were all trained in the use of .38 Smith and Wesson handguns and Remington pump-action shotguns and were regularly deployed, fully armed, at high security trials at the local Crown court.

  The units built up close camaraderie and proved enormously successful wherever they went. They were responsible for huge numbers of crime arrests and had recently begun to take on responsibility for drug offence investigations around the county. They wore their hair slightly longer than divisional officers, Jack Regan sideboards were 'de rigueur', and their caps were usually worn at a jaunty angle on the back of the head. The real 'hotdogs' preferred slashed peaks rendering normal vision virtually impossible. They were issued with overcoats that were exclusive to the group and revelled in their reputation.

  Above all, they had a reputation for violence. Officers on the Patrol Group accounted for two thirds of all complaints currently under investigation by Complaints and Discipline. Unit Three, which covered 'B' Division and Horse's Arse, had worked hard to cultivate their reputation as mad, bad motherfuckers, and with four officers on their complement who had served at Horse's Arse it was not one they would lose in a hurry.

  Unit Three were based at, and run from, County Headquarters, but had offices at the stations they covered where they would retire after an operation to get their evidence sorted. This morning they were at their Divisional HQ at Alpha Tango, writing up their pocketbooks about a drugs raid they had undertaken the night before. They'd had a good result: six prisoners including the main dealer, several pounds of cannabis resin seized, and nearly forty wraps of white powder which was due to go to the lab for analysis later that morning. The dealer had received the kicking of his life before he'd given them the whereabouts of his stash, and now his car lay in pieces in the back yard as two officers systematically dismantled it looking for more drugs.

  Six other officers were at their desks, talking quietly and writing their pocketbook entries, all carefully corroborating each arrest, seizure of drugs and report of admissions. Their sergeant, John Frost, was in the small adjoining kitchen making tea when the phone in the main office rang. He left the kettle to boil, went into the office and picked up the receiver.

  'Patrol Group,' he said abruptly.

  The voice at the other end belonged to the inspector who ran the Patrol Group from County Headquarters.

  'Hello, John. Nice result last night, I hear.'

  'Yeah, very nice, guv. Six bodies and quite a bit of gear recovered.'

  'I take it your boys are still writing it up. Any idea how long you'll be? I've got a job for you that's right up your street.'

  'Couple of hours, that's all, guv. Why, what you got for us?'

  'Things have gone tits up at Horse's Arse again. The Mafia went on the rampage last night and the Chief's decided to stamp on them. He wants to put a unit in there for a couple of weeks with a blank cheque to sort things out. If you're tucked up I can use Unit Two — they're only doing some shoplifting operation at the moment.'

  'No, don't do that, guv,' said Frost urgently. 'We'll finish up here on the hurry up and be with you as soon as we can. We'll deal. Unit Two don't know Horse's Arse. We do.'

  'OK, John. Let me know when you're on your way. I'll have more details by then.'

  'Thanks, guv. See you later,' said Frost, hanging up the phone, ignoring the boiling kettle and going out to the office where his boys were still writing.

  'Listen up, lads, good news,' he said. They stopped and looked up at him. 'Horse's Arse needs another visit from us,' he continued. 'The Mafias been playing silly buggers and the Chief wants it sorted. No questions asked. We need to finish up here and get back to HQ as soon as we can.'

  The group of writers erupted in joyous whoops and shouts and resumed their scribing with renewed urgency. Frost went out into the yard to speak to the officers stripping the dealer s car and received an identical response. He then wandered over to their van and began to check that they had everything they'd need for their visit. He loved his job and regarded his boys with paternal affection. Satisfied that the shields, helmets and pickaxe handles were all in place, he busied himself checking fuel, o
il and water. They'd be on their way soon enough, back into Horse's Arse where they really belonged.

  As Morgan had told the two detectives, the other Mafia were indeed at Alan Baker's flat, and still fast asleep. After their escape from the pub, they'd burgled an off-licence and drunk until the early hours of the morning, smoking huge spliffs and generally whooping it up. They were the kings of their squalid universe and confident of their invincibility despite the capture of eight of their number. The Mafia's code of conduct demanded complete non-cooperation with the police and it was strictly enforced with brutal beatings of those suspected of even slight deviation from the path. There was no way that those locked up at Horse's Arse would tell the Old Bill anything. Not a chance. Not even the youngest and newest member. No fucking way. Morgan had been discussed during the piss-up and despite some reservations all had eventually agreed that he knew what was best for him. 'He'd fucking better,' Alan Baker had growled, 'if he wants to keep eating solids.'

  Baker was a vicious, tattooed young thug whose appetite for violence had propelled him into the upper echelons of the Mafia, second only to Bobby Driscoll. A true psychopath, Driscoll ran the Mafia like a feudal warlord, utilising the less intelligent Baker to enforce his perverted will. Driscoll and Baker were a formidable duo. Driscoll, full of animal cunning, was an accomplished manipulator. He operated a Stalinist 'divide and rule' doctrine, keeping the Mafia at each other's throats with snide innuendoes and insinuations. Even Baker, his right-hand man, was not spared. From time to time, Driscoll would identify another member of the Mafia to him as having indicated that they fancied moving into his place. All complete rubbish, of course, but sufficient to goad the mentally unstable Baker to administer a brutal attack on his perceived challenger and maintain the air of brutalised instability that Driscoll thrived on like a malodorous baboon pack leader.

  Driscoll was something of an oddity amongst the group he led in that he had stayed at school until he was seventeen and was relatively well educated. However, Adolf Hitler's observation that 'knowledge is ruin to my young men' was never truer than in his case. Physically no match for most of his group, he had discovered at school that the ability to bullshit soon had the bullet-heads furrowing their brows and looking at him with lower jaws sagging. His hardcore, original Mafia had all been at school with him from an early age. They had run as an unruly pack in junior school, but it was not until they entered the local comprehensive that the group of about twenty, all resident on the Park Royal estate, came under his sinister spell and gelled into what became known as the Mafia. The original Mafia were now all in their early twenties and liked to keep themselves apart from the younger, newer recruits like Morgan. Including the newer recruits, Driscoll had at his disposal around forty aggressive young hoodlums, though in reality it was rare for as many as half of that number to be together at any one time. The fifteen that had tried to run the Hoop and Grapes had been an exceptional turnout. Losing eight to the Old Bill was quite a setback, but he was confident none of them would tell them anything. Not even Morgan.

  There was a lot riding on Morgan's keeping his nerve, not just the liberty of those who had escaped capture at the Hoop and Grapes. Driscoll had brought him into the 'senior' Mafia against the wishes of some of the others, Baker included, and during the piss-up he was acutely aware that the doubts expressed about Morgan were indirectly aimed at him. His warped intellect and contrived rage eventually brought grudging agreement that Morgan would keep quiet, but Driscoll could see cracks appearing. He knew he'd have to get them fighting amongst themselves again very soon, but first he had to get Baker back onside, which wouldn't be difficult. That was where Myra Baldwin, the only female in the Mafia, would come in useful. Her primary task was to provide Driscoll with sex as and when it was required and she obliged without question. She was Driscoll's to use and abuse as he pleased.

  As the stolen drink and the drugs began to take hold of them all, Driscoll had called Baldwin to him, taken her by the arm and led her to Baker's bedroom. Pushing her into the room, he turned back to the rest of the group and summoned Baker to join them. Puzzled, but with his light-bulb brain beginning to glow, Baker had hurried to join Driscoll and Baldwin. The others returned to their revelries without comment. They had a very good idea of what was going to happen, even if Myra didn't. She was Driscoll's property and it was clear to them that he was going to share her with Baker. Theirs was not to reason why. In the bedroom, Myra had her arms round Driscoll's neck when she heard the bedroom door shut and turned to see Baker leering at her.

  'Fuck off, retard,' she snapped dismissively before gazing adoringly into the face of the man she worshipped. 'Tell him to fuck off, Bobby.'

  'I promised him he could watch,' Driscoll whispered into her ear, 'give the twat a bit of a treat.'

  She pulled back from him and looked questioningly at him. 'Watch? Why?'

  'Don't worry, it'll be fine,' he breathed into her ear, his tongue flicking around the lobe. She trusted him and relaxed into him. Over her shoulder, Driscoll grinned like a wolf and winked at Baker.

  The group had finally passed out around 5 a.m., lying on the floor and slumped across chairs, blissfully unaware of the gathering storm and strangely confident. They knew they could expect a pull from the Old Bill in due course, but Bobby had taken care of things. They'd be all right.

  The Chief's vehicle swept into the back yard at Horse's Arse just as the cast of Ben Hur hurried out through the front. As news of the impending visit had spread, suddenly everyone had urgent inquiries elsewhere. Gillard saw them go and again considered mingling with the crowd and vanishing. He watched the Chief and his staff officer get out of the rear of the vehicle and saw the Chief speak briefly to his driver before walking to the back doors. He had in fact told his driver to remain with the vehicle at all times to prevent its ending up on bricks minus its wheels. Running his trembling hands through his bouffant hair, Gillard took a deep breath and hurried downstairs to meet him. The Chief was still waiting outside the back doors when he got there, with a face like a slapped arse. His repeated pressing of the buzzer had brought no response from the control-room operator who was busy on the phone telling a colleague at Alpha Tango of the shitstorm enveloping Horse's Arse. Gillard opened the door and proffered a handshake, which was pointedly ignored.

  'Chief Constable, good to—'

  'What in hell's name is going on here, Mr Gillard?' said the Chief, pushing past him, followed by Curtis. Curtis smirked as he entered. He was never happier than when the shit hit the fan and none of it was likely to land on him.

  'Little prick,' muttered Gillard as he followed them into the custody area. Daniells stopped in his tracks when he entered and saw the prostrate prisoners, now being tended to by the crews of three ambulances that had parked at the front of the nick. Collins rose to his feet as Daniells entered and acknowledged him with a simple 'Sir'.

  'What happened, Sergeant?'

  Collins offered the same explanation he had given Gillard but diplomatically avoided mentioning the previous incident.

  'Has it happened before?' barked the Chief, rendering his diplomacy redundant.

  'Um, yes, I'm afraid it has, sir, late last year. Same thing but only one prisoner affected.'

  'Were you on duty then?'

  'Yes I was, sir.'

  'What did you do about it?'

  There was nothing Collins could do but mention his memo.

  'Brought it to the attention of the powers that be that day, sir.'

  'You mean Mr Gillard, do you, Sergeant?' said the Chief, looking at Gillard, who looked as if he'd just had a pineapple stuffed up his arse.

  'Yes, yes, that's quite correct, Chief. I remember the memo well. I passed it to Mrs Bott to deal. I'm not sure how far she's got with resolving the problem,' Gillard said quickly, wringing his hands.

  'Fucking nowhere by the looks of this fiasco,' shouted Daniells, causing the ambulance crew to look up at him. 'Where's Mrs Bott now?'

  'Handst
ead General in an observation ward, sir. She had to be sedated to get her out.'

  'Jesus Christ. Mr Curtis, get hold of Superintendent Grainger at Complaints. Tell him to drop whatever he's doing and get over here now. I want this mess examined today, understand?'

  'Understood, Chief,' said Curtis joyously, before hurrying out to find a telephone.

  'What's happening with the inquiry into the attack on the landlord? I understand prisoners are outstanding?' the Chief continued.

  Collins came to Gillard's rescue, realising that he'd have little idea of what was going on. 'Eight nicked last night, sir, amongst this lot. CID and some of the Early Turn have gone out to nick the others. Could be as many as seven more.'

  'They won't be coming back here, I take it?'

  'No, sir. They'll all be going to Alpha Tango. I've warned Custody over there to expect them and the CID have been told the good news.'

  'And what about this lot?'

  One of the ambulance crew answered the question for him. 'They're all suffering various stages of carbon monoxide poisoning. It's not life threatening because your lads got them out in time, but they're going to need to be kept under observation for at least twenty-four hours.'

  'And under guard,' said the Chief. 'Have you sorted that out, Mr Gillard?'

  'All in hand, sir,' he replied, looking desperately and hopefully at Collins, who discreetly nodded in the affirmative.

  'I've got a unit of the Patrol Group coming over to get stuck into this toilet, Mr Gillard. I'd like a detailed breakdown from you on where they can concentrate their efforts by this afternoon. Understood?'

  'Perfectly, sir,' the Chief Inspector answered meekly, resolving that the second piece of paper he presented his superior with would be the notice of his retirement. Fuck this for a game of soldiers.