Horse's Arse Page 15

'Why's this one naked?' asked Daniells, pointing at Morgan who lay shivering, barely covered under a blanket, amongst the group of prisoners. The Chief Constable noticed the livid purple welts on his lower back but decided not to pursue it.

  'Vomited earlier, sir,' replied Collins quickly. 'I was on my way down to him to give him a fresh suit when I found what had happened.'

  Daniells still looked puzzled.

  'He's one of the Mafia, sir. We seized all his clothing for forensic,' explained Collins.

  Satisfied, but not convinced, Daniells turned on his heel and left Custody, followed by Gillard. The less he knew the better.

  'We'll use Mrs Bott's office for the time being,' he said over his shoulder as they climbed the stairs to the first floor. As they walked, he noticed the slightly less strong smell of piss but said nothing until he had seated himself behind Hilary Bott's desk. There was an overpowering smell of cheap air freshener in the room. Gillard noticed his twitching nostrils.

  'Mrs Bott's accident, sir - it was rather unpleasant,' he offered.

  The Chief said nothing but looked Gillard straight in the eyes. He'd spotted Collins digging him out of the shit in Custody, and his years as a detective had alerted a sixth sense about his response to the memo concerning the ventilation problems in the cells.

  'Go and find Mr Curtis and tell him to meet me here, and then find out which unit of the Patrol Group are on their way,' he said, without expression.

  'Sir,' said Gillard, hurrying from the office. He expected the Chief to start looking for the memo but was not unduly worried. He'd taken care of things.

  As soon as the office door shut, Daniells began to go through the drawers in Bott's desk, carefully examining each piece of paper and replacing everything in the same order. After just a few minutes he found what he was looking for and leant back in the chair to read Collins's memo. Dated 23 November 1975, it was detailed and to the point and ended with two recommendations. First, that vehicles should be prohibited from reversing towards the cell block when parking up, despite the drawbacks when it came to achieving fast exits from the yard, and second that the ventilation bricks be covered over and extractor fans fitted in the cell block to provide ventilation. The memo ended with the observation that they had been lucky to avoid a tragedy. Under Collins's signature was a date stamp reading Sub-Divisional Commander's Office 25 November 1975, indicating that it had taken two days for the memo to travel one flight of stairs to Gillard. There then followed Gillard's instructions to Hilary Bott to deal, concluding with what the Chief thought the typically pompous observation that this was a serious matter. Those instructions had then been stamped Sub-Divisional Commander's Office 27 November 1976. It was too pat; he knew Hilary Bott would never have sat on her hands for two months without doing anything about the matter. Something was wrong and he read the memo again. And then he smiled, pushed the memo on to the desk and waited, arms folded, for Gillard to return.

  Gillard had eventually found Curtis in the sergeant's office speaking to Complaints on the phone.

  '. . . he says tell him to drop everything and get his arse over here on the hurry up,' he heard the staff officer say as he walked in. 'The place is in uproar ...' Curtis trailed off and replaced the phone when he saw Gillard glaring at him.

  'Chief wants you in Bott's office now, Inspector,' he said harshly. 'And find out which unit of the Patrol Group are on their way over.'

  Curtis didn't reply, but picked up the phone and dialled HQ switchboard. He asked to be put through to the Patrol Group admin office, spoke briefly and replaced the phone.

  'Unit Three, briefing first at HQ, then due here within the hour,' he said. 'Shall we join the Chief?' He pushed past Gillard and made his way back to the first floor, closely followed by the Chief Inspector, who was determined not to miss anything that passed between him and Daniells. He need not have worried. When he entered Bott's office, hot on the staff officer's heels, he was surprised to find the Chief beaming merrily.

  'Everything OK, sir?' asked Curtis.

  'Couldn't be better, Kevin,' he replied cheerfully. 'I found Sergeant Collins's memo, Mr Gillard,' he said, leaning forward and pushing it towards the Chief Inspector.

  'Oh, good,' said Gillard awkwardly, glancing at it but not picking it up. 'Had she made any progress with it?'

  'Absolutely none at all, Mr Gillard,' said the Chief mournfully, shaking his head, 'but then that's not altogether surprising as she's never set her eyes on the fucking thing, is it?' he finished with real venom in his voice.

  'What — what do you mean?' said Gillard, swallowing hard as his mouth began to dry out.

  'Have a look for yourself, man,' replied Daniells.

  Hands trembling, Gillard picked up the memo, and having read it looked blankly at the Chief. 'My instructions are quite clear, sir . . .' he began.

  'Yes they are,' interrupted Daniells, 'but she won't get those instructions until later this year, will she? Look at the date.'

  Beginning to shake, Gillard focused hard on the stamp he had recently added to the memo. The colour drained from his face and he felt faint. He'd changed the day but accidentally pushed the year on by one. He threw the memo back on to the desk and thought he was about to be sick.

  'You're finished, Mr Gillard,' said Daniells quietly as Curtis stared open-mouthed. 'Get out of here and remain in your office. Mr Grainger will interview you as soon as I've briefed him. Don't bother to submit any papers to retire just yet, will you? There are a few matters to sort out before you creep off to the sun. Once Mr Grainger has seen you, you may take whatever leave you're still owed, or go sick if necessary, but you are not, under any circumstances, to set foot in this station after today. Do I make myself clear?'

  Gillard nodded. Seeing nothing, he turned and shuffled out of the office a broken man. He returned to his office and slumped in his chair, staring at a wall.

  Back in Bott's office, Daniells located an A4 plastic wallet and carefully placed the incriminating memo in it. 'I don't think we'll need it,' he told Curtis, 'but a pound a penny to a pinch of shit, the fingerprints on there won't belong to Hilary Bott.'

  'Unit Three will be here within the hour, sir,' the flabbergasted Curtis said eventually. He'd just witnessed the end of the career of a senior officer who'd tried to ensure that a subordinate took the can for an incident that had enormous ramifications for the Force. He still couldn't quite believe what he had witnessed. He couldn't wait to tell his wife. There was going to be a vacancy for a Chief Inspector, albeit at Horse's Arse. Right man in the right place at the right time and all that. But at Horse's Arse? He'd speak to Mrs Curtis, if she'd speak to him at all.

  'Let's get a cup of tea, Kevin,' said the Chief, getting up from the chair and handing him the memo to look after. 'I'm as dry as a nun's cunt after that. And contact Oscar One for me,' he added, naming the main Force control-room inspector, 'to divert the Patrol Group direct to the Grant Flowers flats. The CID officers there can do the briefing. No point them coming here.'

  Curtis blushed profusely and scurried after the Chief. He just could not get used to his profanities, which usually came thick and fast when they were alone together. In the company of other senior officers Daniells generally managed to act in an appropriate manner, but the rough edges were still there and endeared him to the junior ranks who knew he'd been there, done it and got the T-shirt.

  Clarke, Benson, Lloyd and Thompson were sitting in their unmarked Ford Escort behind the Grant Flowers tower block in complete silence. The Brothers, Bovril, Pizza, Ally and Piggy were parked up behind them, still waiting for Psycho to arrive in the van. All had heard the message directed to the CID officers. Oscar One had contacted them on the main radio set with nothing but bad news. Their prisoners were en route to hospital under guard and out of reach for at least twenty-four hours, and the Chief Constable himself had directed that they were not to take any further action until a unit of the Patrol Group arrived at their location. The only half-decent news was that it was
Unit Three on the way and their ETA was only fifteen minutes. Clarke had acknowledged the message with a simple 'Understood, standing by and was silent for a few moments.

  'Something's gone seriously pear-shaped,' he said finally. 'I mean, how often does the Chief get involved in poxy little jobs like this?'

  'Best we get it spot on then,' remarked Benson. 'We're struggling without some forensic with these bastards.'

  They all expected Morgan to retract his statement once he got anywhere near a solicitor. Whilst they were confident they'd got enough on him anyway, they really wanted the rest of the hardcore Mafia. They couldn't rely on identification parades as their witnesses were bound to be got at.

  'I'm worried about those mad fuckers we've got with us,' Benson continued, indicating the marked vehicles parked behind them. 'I can see what's going to happen, Bob. They're going to batter the bastards senseless and we'll end up with claret everywhere.'

  'I hope not,' said Clarke with a sigh. 'They know what we need, but you can't really blame them for wanting to do a number on them. They deal with this shit all day, every day. When we get to them they've usually had some of the shite kicked out of them.'

  Benson nodded in agreement. He sympathised with the uniforms at Horse's Arse but sometimes wished they'd be a little more discriminating with the violence they administered. There were other ways to get what you needed, as he knew only too well.

  None of them was aware of what had happened back at Horse's Arse, or of Daniell's decision to hammer the Mafia as of today. He wanted the Patrol Group in for the first cull and was already drafting a press release with Curtis which referred to an operation involving 'local officers assisted by the Force's elite Patrol Group against a gang of dangerous local criminals who posed a serious threat to the decent, law-abiding citizens of Handstead'. Such citizens were something of a minority in Handstead, but the real message would be sent to the Mafia and other like-minded hoodlums.

  'At least it's Unit Three,' remarked Jim to H, 'but there aren't going to be enough prisoners to go round at this rate. We'll have to tell Bob that we go in first and the Patrol Group can have what's left.'

  H nodded his agreement and Jim got out of Yankee One and went over to the CID car. He knelt at Clarke's window, had a brief conversation and returned with a smile and a thumbs-up for H.

  'It's Horse's Arse's job. They're only here as back-up,' he said as he got back in and slammed the door.

  Unit Three had completed their paperwork at Alpha Tango and had been racing to the briefing at HQ when Oscar One had diverted them directly to Horse's Arse to liaise with CID officers at the Grant Flowers flats.

  'It's starting early, lads,' Frost shouted excitedly from the front passenger seat as he struggled to make himself heard above the screaming engine and occasional blast of the sirens. 'Don't forget, we're taking out some nasty fuckers, so no fannying about. Lay them out first and worry about the rest later. Anything goes, the Chief said.' His boys smiled grimly and patted the weapons they'd selected for the job. This was going to be a real humdinger.

  Bovril watched the rain running down the windscreen of his car. He'd left the engine running to keep warm, but turned the windscreen wipers off. Pizza could see virtually nothing and kept wishing Bovril would at least put the wipers on intermittent, but he said nothing, not wishing in any way to offend his new-found ally.

  'What d'you thinks up?' he asked finally.

  'Christ knows,' replied Bovril, not taking his eyes off the rain-streaked windscreen, focused a thousand yards away on infinity. He slid down into his seat and pulled his overcoat closer around him. Despite the car's heater, he felt chilled to the bone and uneasy. He was desperate to get to a phone and make the most important phone call of his life. He had to tell Lisa, and was raging that he'd missed his opportunity earlier. He just wanted to get this bloody operation out of the way, keep on the periphery of the inevitable violence (there'd be plenty of willing volunteers), and tell her. He wondered where she was, what she was doing. Was she thinking about him, was she wondering how he felt about her? God, why hadn't he told her?

  'What'll it be like when we get in there?' continued Pizza nervously. Bovril hardly heard the question and only answered when he realised that Pizza was looking hard at him.

  'Sorry, Pizza. What'll it be like? A fucking bloodbath in all likelihood, but don't worry, you'll be fine if you stay close to me and don't get separated.' He looked at him and saw the apprehension in his face. The poor kid had never experienced real violence; it was unlikely he'd ever hit anyone before, seen a man's face split and bleed because he'd caused it to. Bovril laughed gently and patted his arm to comfort him. 'Stick with me, Pizza; do as I do and do as I say. We'll be fine, I promise you.'

  Feeling better, but not wholly convinced, Pizza peered through the windscreen at Ally and Piggy's vehicle ahead of them.

  'This is a fucking joke,' moaned Piggy, banging his hands on the steering wheel. 'We might as well fuck off if Batman and Robin are on the way. We've still got Dawes and his slag wife to sort out. I was hoping to get home sometime today, and I'm hungry,' he finished plaintively.

  Ally had the passenger seat pushed back as far as it would go, and fully reclined. His cap was over his face as he tried to snooze.

  'Shut the fuck up, Piggy. You're always hungry. You look like you've had a footpump stuck up your arse as it is. Dawes and his missus are going nowhere for a few days; CID'll want to speak to them anyway. This is the best chance we're going to get to really screw the Mafia.'

  'Yeah, I know all that, but we're going to be tucked up for fucking ages.'

  'And getting paid, you lazy fat bastard. Just shut the fuck up, will you,' snapped Ally, leaving little doubt that their conversation was at an end. He was thoroughly looking forward to getting to grips with the Mafia. Thomas particularly, whom he'd encountered for the first time not so long ago. He'd been amongst a small group of Mafia that Ally had thrown out of a chip shop where they'd been abusing the Chinese owner. Not enough to nick them, but once Thomas had put sufficient distance between himself and Ally, he'd given him a mouthful of abuse concerning his shape, ancestry and lack of a father. The shop owner had identified Thomas to him and Ally had promised himself that one day he'd ram those insults down the little arsehole's throat. He was a great believer in JFK's enlightened observation: 'Don't get mad, get even.' Please God, let him be in the flat, he thought to himself. Piggy on the other hand, as he'd demonstrated earlier, needed a different motivation to inspire him to violence.

  'You OK, Bovril? You seem miles away,' said Pizza, keen to break the silence.

  'Yeah, I'm fine,' he replied without taking his eyes off the windscreen. 'I've fucked up, that's all.'

  'Fucked up how?'

  Bovril smiled. 'I should have told someone something important but I bottled out. I'll do it later, but I wish I'd done it before.'

  'Anyone I know? Nothing really important, I hope?'

  'No, no one you know, but it's important to me and I should have told her.'

  'Her?'

  'Leave it, Pizza, just leave it', said Bovril, and Pizza understood that the topic was now closed. He kept quiet and wished Bovril would put the wipers on so he could see what was going on.

  Psycho arrived at the rendezvous at the same time as the Patrol Group. He remained in the van and watched as John Frost got out of the unit's vehicle and hurried over to the CID car, turning his collar up against the drizzle. He knocked at the passenger window, which was wound down by Bob Clarke.

  'Hi. John Frost, Patrol Group, Unit 3. Understand you need a hand here.'

  'Not really, sarge. Something's gone tits up and the Chief's decided to get you lot involved. We've got plenty of local lads here, but I suppose a couple of yours would always come in handy. Have you got a couple of horrors on board? Then you can give us a hand to get the bodies back to AT.'

  'No problems. Got a couple of ex-Horse's Arse headbangers on board positively foaming at the mouth. What's the job?'


  'The Mafia kicked the living shit out of a pub landlord last night and we're going to take the hard core out here now. We're expecting seven more in the flat, all nasty bastards, so tell your boys to get their revenge in first. More importantly, sarge, we're light on forensic, so we're looking for bloodstained clothes, shoes, the usual really.'

  'Understood,' said Frost. 'I'll speak to my lads now. When do you anticipate going in?'

  'Soon as they're ready.'

  Frost ran back to his van and quickly briefed the two lucky candidates in the back. Whilst the others complained loudly, like children denied an ice cream, the chosen two selected their pickaxe handles and stepped out into the rain as the CID officers got out of their vehicle. Taking their cue, the Brothers, Bovril, Pizza, Piggy and Ally joined the huddle by the CID car. They all recognised the Patrol Group officers, nodded in acknowledgement, but said nothing.

  'All ready then?' said Clarke. 'The Patrol Group lads are along for the ride. It's our job and the prisoners are ours, understood?' he said pointedly to the Patrol Group officers. They nodded in agreement. No problem at all. They'd get to beat the crap out of some of the Mafia and have none of the paperwork to worry about.

  'Come on then,' continued Clarke, leading the way to the front door of the flats. 'We'll take the stairs. No way I want us all stuck in the lift in this fucking shit hole.'

  Pizza observed happily that, without exception, they all kept looking up until they were through the doors.

  The walk up the graffiti-scarred, urine-stinking stairs to the sixth floor took five minutes, and once on the landing the group paused to draw breath. The corpulent Piggy was breathing through his arse and slumped against the wall for support. Clarke spoke again, this time in a whisper.

  'That's the one, 612,' he said, indicating a peeling red door on the far side of the silent, rubbish-strewn landing. They could hear nothing from any of the flats and edged quietly to the door. Clarke put his ear to the paintwork and listened intently. He then knelt down, gingerly opened the letterbox and peered into the darkened flat. He could see down a corridor to the main living room where he could just about make out a number of motionless, prostrate bodies on the floor and a battered old sofa. Two doors on either side of the corridor were closed, but the door to a small kitchen on the right was open. The unmistakable, sickly sweet smell of cannabis and alcohol began to seep through the letterbox. Shutting it carefully he stood up.