Horse's Arse Read online

  'But we call him Pizza,' said Bovril, walking alongside and placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. Pizza looked at him, saw Bovril smile at him and give a barely noticeable nod. He knew what it meant. He looked at the others and thought that they too were looking at him differently. The Brothers were staring at him. They said nothing but their glares were definitely softer. He had arrived; they had accepted him as one of them. He swelled with pride, felt the hurt and rejection slide off his shoulders like a heavy blanket and was worried he was near to tears.

  'Good job, Pizza,' continued Bovril, patting him on the back. 'Your little find sounds like it's going to make all the difference. You must be feeling quite pleased with yourself.'

  Pizza couldn't speak because of the lump in his throat, but nodded.

  'Should do too,' agreed Clarke, 'but we're still one light. Where's Baldwin?' No one spoke. 'Anyone done the bedroom yet?' Clarke continued. Again, silence.

  'We'll do it,' said Bovril. 'Come on, Pizza,' and guided him out of the living room.

  The bedroom door was shut and Bovril opened it gingerly, located the light switch and stepped into the room ahead of Pizza. They stood together and looked at Myra, still lying under the duvet in the foetal position. She lay looking at them with her eyes sparkling and her lips drawn back over her teeth in a dry smile. Bovril knew her of old, Pizza only by reputation.

  'Up you get, Myra,' said Bovril gently. 'You're all nicked for GBH. You know the score.'

  She didn't move or change her expression, but her breathing had quickened. Bovril frowned as his sixth sense told him that something was wrong.

  'Come on, Myra,' he repeated, slightly less confidently as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his stomach begin to churn. Pizza had felt his new friend's confidence and bonhomie vanish and was looking from him to Myra and back with a puzzled expression on his face.

  'What's up, Bovril?' he whispered anxiously.

  'Something's wrong,' Bovril replied quietly without taking his eyes off Myra. 'Go and get some help in here. Don't startle her, just go quietly.' He was struggling to keep his composure. His instincts told him to turn and run away as fast as he could. Get away from this strange, evil, grinning bitch. Run away now — something is wrong. You're in danger. But how could he run away in front of Pizza, a brand-new probationer who was looking to him to do the right thing, show him how to do the job properly? But the right thing to do was to run away, live to fight another day. What would Pizza think of him, running away like a scared child from a woman lying under a duvet? But something's not right, her eyes are telling you things are very seriously not right. Get the fuck out of here - now.

  'Get some help in here, Pizza,' he said again as his brain raced madly. As Pizza began to edge past him to the door, Myra sat upright on the bed, the duvet falling from her shoulders, still covering the hand holding the gun. She was still smiling and staring at Bovril, unaware of Pizza's presence. She knew why he was in the room; it was what every man was after but she was determined that it would never happen again. If he took a step towards her, she would kill him. Bovril moved nearer to the bed with his arms outstretched.

  'Listen, Myra, I'm not here to give you any grief. Just get yourself dressed and we'll be on our way.'

  He froze and the colour drained from his face as she quickly pulled her arm from under the duvet and levelled the gun at his chest.

  'Jesus,' he whispered, as his heart leapt into his throat and his breathing became frantic, 'Jesus, no.'

  Pizza heard him and half turned to see what she had done now, and watched what followed transfixed. He couldn't speak, or shout out or move. His body and all his senses except his sight stopped working. He saw Bovril's lips move again as he spoke to her, saw his face etched with fear, his eyes fixed on her, saw him stretch both his arms out in front of him, hands up, take a step back and mouth the single word 'No'.

  Myra pulled the trigger without altering her expression or taking her eyes off Bovril. Pizza saw the flash and recoil, saw Bovril tilt forward slightly, grab at his stomach and then collapse like a deck of cards on to the floor. It looked as though all the bones in his legs had suddenly been removed and the muscle and flesh had collapsed under his weight.

  The 158-grain jacketed soft-point round, travelling at 1300 feet a second, had passed through his tunic like a hot knife through butter. It struck the bottom rib on his left side, shattering the bone, and fragmented into four pieces, the largest of which began to tumble up into his body, pulverising his liver and tearing through the aorta before lodging in his spine. He was haemorrhaging massively before he hit the floor, still conscious and feeling as though he'd been heavily punched in the solar plexus. He felt no other pain but knew what had happened and began to pant as he panicked and struggled for air. He could feel liquid escaping inside him.

  Myra looked at him, still with the strange smile on her face, and then put the barrel of the gun into her mouth and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. She frowned, looked down at the gun and pulled the trigger again. With his sound still off, Pizza watched as the back of her head exploded. Pieces of skull like coconut shell, blood and brain tissue sprayed against the wall behind her and she slumped forward, her face distorted, eyes bulging as the bullet's gases escaped from every orifice in her head. She lay in a kneeling position with the hole in the back of her head pumping blood over her shoulders onto the bed. The pair of pants was still stuffed between the cheeks of her backside, and, bizarrely, it crossed Pizza's mind that she looked like a rooster from hell. Only five seconds had passed since Myra had first pulled the trigger, and now she lay dead on the bed that was changing colour as she drained into it, and Bovril was dying on the floor.

  The two shots in quick succession momentarily stunned the other officers out in the living room. Benson reacted first, looking at Clarke, asking, 'What the fuck ...' and running into the corridor. Psycho came out of the kitchen holding a cupboard door, looking stunned. He looked at Benson.

  'What the flick?'

  Without answering him, Benson burst into the bedroom. It was a gruesome scene. Pizza had recovered from his paralysis and was kneeling on the floor alongside Bovril, who lay on his back with his hands pressed to his chest. He looked deathly pale and his eyes were wide and staring at the ceiling. Pizza was talking desperately to him, telling him to hold on, tears running down his face.

  'What the fuck happened?' said Benson, looking towards Myra on the bed and the gore on the wall behind her.

  'She shot him,' answered Pizza tearfully. 'Get a fucking ambulance, for Christ's sake, he's been shot.'

  Benson turned and shouted to the group who were now gathered behind him at the door. 'Someone get an ambulance on the hurry up and tell Control this has gone to fucking rat shit.' Piggy hurried out into the living room to make the call on his personal radio.

  Benson knelt down next to Bovril and looked closely at him. He could see very little blood around the hole in his tunic. Bovril's eyes were opening and closing and his lips were moving.

  'Stay with him, keep him awake,' he instructed Pizza, who had his ear close to Bovril's mouth as his lips moved. Benson stood up, went over to the bed and looked dispassionately at Myra's corpse.

  'Fucking bitch,' he snarled and spat into the still-bleeding hole in the back of her head. Then he saw the pistol lying by her right knee and called Clarke over to him. He and the ashen-faced detective quickly discussed what to do next.

  'We haven't got long, Bob. We're going to have to make the best out of this that we can. This gun'll come in handy.'

  'How?' asked Clarke, glancing over at Bovril. He was consumed with guilt, incapable of thinking straight. He repeated his question.

  'What's happened in here is tidy. This bitch is dead, but we can still score some points. Some more fingerprints on the gun would come in handy, wouldn't they?'

  Clarke still didn't understand.

  'We can tie someone else in to the gun, Bob,' said Benson urgently, picking it up w
ith a Biro stuck up the barrel. 'Driscoll's prints on the shell cases would go down a treat.'

  At last Clarke nodded his understanding as Benson took a handkerchief from his pocket and spread it on the bed next to Myra. Then, using the handkerchief, he opened the chamber and ejected one live round and the two spent cartridges. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that one or two of the group were watching him.

  'Get them out of here, Bob. Fewer people who know the better,' he whispered. 'Find something for them to do while I get this sorted.'

  Benson wrapped the bullets in his handkerchief and walked back into the living room. Driscoll and Baker still lay unconscious side by side and obscured from the other groaning Mafia by the sofa. Kneeling alongside them, he quickly forced Driscoll's right thumb and forefinger on to both of the spent cartridges, and for good measure did the same to Baker with the live round. Smiling grimly, he walked back into the bedroom, where he found Clarke kneeling alongside Bovril and Pizza. The others had disappeared. Clarke looked up as he entered.

  'OK?' he asked.

  'Done and dusted,' replied Benson, going over to the bed and carefully replacing the live round and the spent cartridges in their original places in the chamber. Snapping the pistol closed, he threw it alongside Myra's body. 'That should fuck them,' he said quietly, turning back to the group on the floor. 'How's he doing?'

  Bovril could feel the liquid running even faster inside him, almost gurgling like a stream in flood. He felt cold and dizzy and was still struggling to breathe. He couldn't focus his eyes but was aware of people around him. One of them was Pizza. Pizza was talking to him but he couldn't hear him, the buzzing in his head was too loud. Lisa. Lisa. He had to get a message to her. He had to tell her he loved her. Perhaps Pizza would pass it on. He'd tell her himself when he got out of hospital. There was only one bullet inside him, he was sure he was going to survive. But what was that gurgling sound? Why was he so cold? Why couldn't he hear or see properly? Pizza, Pizza, listen to me, you have to tell Lisa something for me. Nobody knows about her yet, but I love her and I need her to know that. You have to tell Lisa that for me. Pizza, Pizza, can you hear me? You have to tell Lisa. Lisa. And Bovril slipped into unconsciousness, bleeding to death on the floor of a dingy bedroom in a squalid flat in the arsehole of the world, a whispered name on his lips.

  He opened his eyes in a very dark place. He didn't know where; it was so dark he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. He turned slowly round in the dark, but dare not move any further. A few minutes passed. Then he noticed that he was beginning to cast a shadow in front of him and he turned to see a bright light some distance away. Despite its intensity, the light didn't hurt his eyes and he began to walk uncertainly towards it. The light warmed him and as he got closer he saw a figure silhouetted deep inside it. He strained his eyes and then smiled with relief as he recognised the figure. Bovril ran into the welcoming, warm light, all fear and pain gone. The light closed around him and he was gone.

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was still raining when they buried Bovril two weeks later; no one could swear that it had ever stopped. Low, scudding, leaden clouds, whipped along by a biting northerly wind, added to the melancholy air in the small churchyard a few miles west of Horse's Arse. The surrounding trees, stripped of their leaves, thrust their branches into the sky like blackened, arthritic fingers and bent against the chilling blast. Circling rooks added their menacing tones to proceedings, completing the depression that hung over the churchyard.

  Situated on the side of a hill, the place offered little defence against the elements, and the crowd gathered around the grave huddled closer for protection. The thousand-year-old oak at the far corner of the graveyard, however, had provided cover for mourners and revellers alike for as long as the church had stood. In the summer, its heavy, low branches, which touched the ground in places, provided solace from the beating sun, and now it protected the slim young girl from the wind and rain as she watched the proceedings below her.

  The gravel path to the church door was lined with uniformed officers wearing white gloves. They had stood silently to attention as Bovril's coffin, draped with the Force flag with his helmet balanced on top, had been borne along the path and into the church by a party made up of the Brothers, Piggy, Pizza, Andy Collins and Psycho. Ally was still sulking, as he'd been thrown off the original party on account of his height, which caused the coffin to tilt alarmingly. During a dress rehearsal, they'd dropped it. The church had been packed to the rafters with officers from all over the county and Bovril's relatives. Some of those, Psycho had noticed happily, were well worth a shag and he'd resolved to get after them once the funeral was over. Most of the officers there had no idea who Bovril was and had certainly never met him, but his funeral was a great opportunity to get away from tedious divisional duties elsewhere. But the 'B' Division officers who knew of him and the Horse's Arse officers in particular, who knew him well, were there for all the right reasons. The Chief had given his eulogy prompting one or two raised eyebrows, but generally decorum was preserved. Even Inspector Greaves at the back of the congregation was on his best behaviour, though he very publicly needed his wife with him as an emotional crutch.

  The service over, the coffin party had crunched along the path to the prepared grave where they gathered round for the service of interment. Pizza had deliberately absented himself from the throng and stood on his own with his back to the driving rain. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He'd felt like that since the shooting, preferring his own company and so far refusing to discuss the matter with the rest of the group. The CID officers who'd investigated Bovril's murder had found Pizza bloody hard work when they'd questioned him. It wasn't that he was stupid or being awkward; he really couldn't talk about the death of his friend. His find in the garages had proved crucial in tying Driscoll and his cohorts in the flat to the attack on the pub landlord. All fourteen were now languishing on remand in Strangeways charged with the assault; Driscoll and Baker also faced additional charges relating to the gun used by Myra to murder Bovril and the assault on her revealed by the post-mortem. They were all looking at substantial prison sentences with luck, but Pizza drew no comfort from his part in their downfall. As he snapped out of yet another flashback to that fateful day, he gave a deep sigh and looked beyond the huddle at the grave to the oak tree at the far corner. He could see a young girl sheltering under its branches and covered his eyes from the rain to see if he recognised her. He didn't, and out of idle curiosity walked slowly over to the tree and joined her in its shelter.

  'Hello. My name's Alan Petty,' he said quietly. 'Were you a friend?'

  'Yes, sort of I suppose,' she said hesitantly.

  'He was my best mate,' continued Pizza, growing quickly in confidence with this apparently vulnerable and very attractive girl. 'I was with him when he was killed, in the same room.'

  'With him?' she said, suddenly very interested and looking intently at him. 'What happened, can you tell me? Are you allowed to?'

  Pizza sighed, looking at his shoes and then towards the grave as his throat tightened and his eyes filled. 'It's difficult for me. I'm sorry, but sometimes I can't talk about it,' he said hoarsely. 'He was my best friend and I was standing next to him when she shot him.'

  'It must have been very frightening,' she said softly, slipping an arm through his. 'Did he suffer at all?'

  'No, I don't think so. He was alive for a few minutes after, but I don't think he really knew what was going on. He was sort of delirious, I think, in and out of consciousness, and then he was gone.' His throat began to ease.

  'How long had you been friends?' she asked.

  'Not very long really, but we were really tight, know what I mean?'

  The girl had moved round to face Pizza and began to gently probe his memory and remove the layers that tried to cover the nightmare.

  'What happened in the flat?' she asked softly.

  Pizza swallowed hard as he remembered.
He wanted to tell her everything. Strangely, he felt better as he talked to her.

  'We were there to nick this mob for GBH, but he and I kept out of all the aggro. We went to search the bedroom and she was in there. He tried to talk to her. He was really pleasant about things and then she shot him. Just like that, and then she blew the back of her own head off.'

  'Why didn't you get involved at the start?' she asked, sensing somehow that it was significant. He shivered as the wind gusted hard and thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets.

  'Don't know really. He didn't seem interested, didn't want to be there. He had something on his mind, I think.'

  'What makes you say that?'

  'Well, before we went in he was miles away and I asked him what was up. He just said that he'd forgotten to tell someone something important. No, not forgotten, "bottled out", that's what he said, and it was a woman. He was going to tell her whatever it was later, but Christ only knows what it was all about.'

  The girl smiled sadly. 'Did he say anything else?'

  'No, I don't think so, not until after he'd been shot and he was delirious. His voice was really quiet, almost a whisper. I had his head in my lap when he died. He was trying to talk, looking at me like he was desperate to tell me something. His lips were moving but I couldn't hear what he was saying.'

  'Nothing at all?'

  'No, he was too quiet. It sounded like he was saying a name or something like that, but I couldn't make it out.'

  'A girl's name, do you think?'

  'Could have been, but I couldn't hear him properly. It sounded like "Leaf" or "Leach" or something like that but it didn't make any sense.'

  He noticed that the girl's eyes had filled with tears and she was quiet, looking back at the ceremony at the grave. 'Are you OK?' he asked gently.

  'I'm fine. Thanks for being so kind and telling me about things. I'm glad you were with him when he died. I know he'd have got a lot of comfort from you.'