Horse's Arse Page 4

  'Why, what the fuck have I done?' he'd pleaded with his Detective Chief Superintendent on the squad.

  'Sorry, Bob,' the DCS had said, 'out of my hands now. I hear the place is like a fucking war zone and they need some old heads. You're in the frame, old mate,' and poured him another very large Scotch from the bottle he kept in his bottom drawer.

  'Horse's Arse, Horse's Arse,' Bob had kept repeating to himself. 'Jesus Christ. Horse's Arse again.'

  Now Clarke pulled himself gingerly from his chair and walked down the one flight of stairs to the ground floor, through the front office and the station sergeant's office, and into Custody. Collins looked up and smiled at him.

  'Hello, Bob. Cheer up, I think we'll be able to deal with most of this lot without involving you, but the Mafia are yours.' He passed across their eight custody records. Clarke recognised all but one of the names.

  'Never heard of Morgan, Andy. Is he definitely Mafia?'

  'Oh, yes. Been with them about two months and made the most noise when he got lifted. He's sobering up quicker than the others and I think his arsehole's dropped out. First time he's been nicked as an adult and it's dawning on him that he's all on his lonesome and in deep shit.'

  'I think we'll concentrate on him first up, then,' said Clarke.

  'Most definitely,' said Collins, who'd spotted the opportunity earlier and had intended guiding them in that direction anyway. 'Who's on at eight to help you?'

  'Benson,' grinned Clarke.

  Andy Collins and John Benson were very old mates and Collins gave a low, knowing chuckle when he heard his former partner's name.

  'This stupid little shit doesn't know what's coming, does he?' he said, taking the custody records back from Clarke.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  The Brothers had made their way to the Pound Court estate and driven quickly past their target vehicle. It was in roughly the same place but facing in the opposite direction to when they had last seen it.

  'Been used, then. Today's the day,' said Jim quietly as he gazed out of his window. 'He won't be on the move until later. Spin past his house, H, and let's see if there's any sign of life.'

  H nodded and turned Yankee One towards Bolton Road where Frankie Turner lived. Light drizzle had begun to fall and the still dark streets shone like black marble. The intermittent wipers made an oddly comforting sound and the Brothers listened with little more than passing interest to the early morning radio traffic and static. Yankee One swished quietly the short distance to Bolton Road through streets lined either side by parked cars and ruined, rutted, iron-hard grass verges.

  Frankie Turner was a 35-year-old unemployed carpet fitter who was serving a two-year driving disqualification for his second drink driving offence. He had driven from court the day he was disqualified and had continued to drive his unregistered, untaxed and uninsured Ford Cortina ever since. He kept the vehicle a short distance from his home but had made the mistake of initially dumping it outside the bungalow of a sprightly 80-year- old widow. She knew Frankie and had remonstrated with him one morning about leaving the rusting hulk outside her house. He'd responded with a torrent of abuse and she'd reciprocated with an anonymous phone call to Handstead police. The Brothers had taken the job, and after some routine inquiries, Frankie was now in their sights.

  They drove past his house without slowing looking for signs of movement. All the threadbare curtains were drawn but a weak light glowed in an upstairs bedroom and two full milk bottles stood on the doorstep. The overgrown front garden had a variety of broken children's toys deep in the long grass and the front door was in such poor repair that the Brothers had initially not been able to see the number on it. Most of the pebble-dash around the door had fallen away, exposing the brickwork, and the single pane of glass had long ago been replaced by a sheet of plywood.

  Upstairs in the lit bedroom, Frankie Turner lay fast asleep in bed whilst his common law wife sat on the edge of the mattress breastfeeding their fifth child. The infant shared the room with his parents whilst the other four children, all under six years, were still asleep in rooms across the landing. Frankie had not been in long after a hard night with his card school. He'd gambled and drunk away what little money the family had, but consoled himself with the thought that he'd collect his benefit that morning. Perhaps the ugly cow wouldn't notice. Not that he was bothered if she did. She'd remonstrated with him once and he'd punched her front teeth down her throat. Now she had nothing to say about anything. The gurgling child disturbed Frankie who rolled over and yelled, 'Keep the fucking brat quiet, woman,' before pulling a pillow over his head. She briefly considered lying across it and smothering the bastard, but knew she was physically no match for him and didn't need another hammering. Silently she wished him the very worst.

  Outside, in the dark and increasingly heavy drizzle, listening quietly to the radio and passing occasional comment on what they heard, were the answers to her prayers. The Brothers were now killing time until Frankie made his move. They reckoned he'd leave for the benefit office about 9.30 a.m. to give himself plenty of time for the 10 a.m. opening. Even if they missed him going, they knew they could get him on his way home.

  They cruised the north area of the town doing nothing more than showing the flag to the few residents out and about. Without looking at him, H silently contemplated his partner of the last two years. Jim was a man of few words who chose his friends carefully and remained fiercely loyal to them once chosen. He was slightly over six foot tall and very slim, with not an ounce of excess fat on him. His three years' service with the Parachute Regiment had included a tour of Ulster and he had been in Londonderry on Bloody Sunday. That was shortly before he left the army to become a police officer, and there was little doubt in H's mind that events in Ulster had fashioned the man he now worked with. He never showed any fear or hesitation, and to those who knew him only slightly he appeared withdrawn and almost shy. With H, he had immediately felt comfortable, and despite their hugely different backgrounds they had gelled immediately.

  Married with two young children, Jim was a devoted family man. Whilst he enjoyed a drink with the Relief, he never strayed and always went home. For a man who worked the way he did, H always felt that was something of a paradox. They were inseparable at work but strangely saw little of each other off duty. The fact that they lived some distance apart had something to do with that, but subconsciously both the Brothers kept their work and home lives as separate as possible. Neither ever took the job home with him, preferring not to inflict what he had seen and done on his unknowing family. Both men, from decent families and with inherently honest intentions, had adopted personae and characters to fit the environment in which they worked and their families would never have recognised the pair at work.

  H had a daughter a little over nine months old, who in his eyes was the best thing ever to happen to him. She was the surprising product of a lengthy, loveless and soulless marriage from which he frequently sought relief. But he was discreet and went to great lengths again to keep that compartment of his life separate from the others. Some of the Brothers' colleagues considered their lack of banter and conversation to be a sign that they merely tolerated each other. The reverse was true. Each knew the other inside out and could predict how he would respond in any situation. They knew instinctively who would throw the first punch and when. Conversation was often superfluous.

  H took Yankee One back into the near vicinity of Frankie's car and parked up on a used car forecourt, in amongst the cars for sale. Frankie would have to pass them on his way into town.

  The first watery glimpses of daylight began to filter through the high reinforced windows of the cell in which Danny Morgan sat nervously on the hard wooden bed. Other than a badly stained toilet, the cell was empty. The toilet was full to the brim, but could only be flushed from outside the cell and his requests to have it flushed had all been firmly rejected. The cell stank of its many past occupants and the yellowing gloss walls were covere
d in graffiti, much of it dated by its various authors. A lot of it concerned the officers responsible for their arrests, but a surprising amount related to real or imaginary grasses held responsible for the writer's predicament. There really was little honour amongst thieves.

  Morgan had read it all a dozen times since he had woken and as the minutes passed he began to ponder on his plight. He had turned seventeen just two months ago and within weeks of his birthday had begun to run with the Mafia. He had been born and bred on the Park Royal, and it was the natural progression for a youth of little intelligence and even less imagination. His first few weeks had involved not much more than some window- smashing, a spot of shoplifting and the stoning of a passing police car. He had got away with that, as he had with numerous minor crimes as a juvenile, but now he was in deep, deep shit and he knew it.

  The Mafia decision to 'run' the pub on the neighbouring Lower Park estate - which simply involved jumping the bar, threatening the staff and then serving themselves for free all night - had gone horribly wrong from his point of view. Generally nobody resisted, but this time the relief manager of the Hoop and Grapes had fought back. Before he fought back, he'd phoned the nick, and of the fifteen Mafia kicking the shit out of him, eight had been captured in the pub. Morgan, on his first major outing with the Mafia, had smashed the vodka bottle on the manager's head and then stabbed him in the back of the head with the broken neck of the bottle. He'd been nicked trying to get out of a toilet window, covered in the manager's blood with shards of glass in his clothing and hair. He was fucked, and as he sat on the bed, shoeless and wearing a white paper suit to replace his own clothes which had been seized as evidence, he began to weigh up his options.

  The uniformed officers who'd nicked him had taken a little payback on him with their sticks and his body ached from the beating. He could cope with that - what he couldn't handle was the prospect of prison.

  'They'll love you in Strangeways, pretty boy,' one of the officers had sneered. 'You'll end up with an arsehole big enough to turn a bus round in.'

  'Yeah? Well fuck you,' Morgan had shouted as he tried to brave it out in the cell corridor, largely for the benefit of the other Mafia he knew were also there. He'd been lifted off his feet by a ferocious kick in the bollocks and had vomited from the pain. He felt dreadful and genuinely feared for his safety now. A huge, grey-haired sergeant had come into his cell earlier and lifted him from the bed by his windpipe.

  'Your mum's not coming for you, boy, and you can poke a solicitor up your arse,' he'd growled at him. Collins had seen the fear in Morgan's eyes and knew he was nearly broken. 'You tell the nice detectives what they need to know and you'll be on your way. Otherwise - well, you don't want to think about otherwise.'

  He'd thrown Morgan back on to the bed, smiled at him and left, slamming the door behind him. The echo lasted some seconds. Morgan had called out the names of some of the other Mafia he knew had been nicked but had got no response. Some of them had heard him calling and were worried. He was young and soft, and they knew the police would go to town on him first. Morgan had quickly become a liability and a very real threat to their future liberty.

  As he sat wringing his hands together, Collins came to the feeding hatch at the cell door. 'Breakfast, Morgan,' he called, and placed a paper plate with bacon, eggs, beans and toast on the open hatch next to a steaming cup of tea. Morgan's heart and spirits soared.

  'Thanks,' he said, getting to his feet and moving towards the hatch. As he reached out to take the plate and cup, Collins hit them both with the flats of his hands, sending the scalding tea into Morgan's chest and the food on to the filthy cell floor.

  'Got to be quicker than that, boy,' the sergeant said quietly.

  'You cunt,' screamed Morgan, staggering back holding his scalding chest and slipping on what remained of his breakfast. 'You fucking old cunt, you've fucking scalded me. Look what you've fucking done.'

  Collins unlocked the cell door and walked slowly up to Morgan. He took the cigarette out of his mouth as he spoke. 'That's a very naughty word to use,' he said. 'Don't you ever call me old again,' and he punched Morgan between the eyes with a jab that would have felled a bison and Morgan never saw coming. Morgan slumped back on to his bed semi-conscious, only vaguely aware that the sergeant was leaving the cell.

  The phone on his desk was ringing as Collins settled back into his chair and replaced his fag. He picked up the receiver.

  'Custody.'

  'Dr Collins?'

  He recognised the voice immediately as John Benson's and smiled. 'Hello, John. How's things? Has Bob Clarke spoken to you yet?'

  'Yeah, he's just getting the interview ready now. Can we come down in about five minutes?'

  'Should be fine, John. Patient's prepped and ready for his operation.'

  'Fucking hell, Andy,' said Benson. 'How bad is he? Is he going to be able to talk to us?'

  'He'll be fine, don't worry. Just a local anaesthetic, nothing serious.'

  Benson knew exactly what had happened. The CID had come to rely on Collins 'prepping' their subjects prior to interview, but on a number of occasions they'd had to deal with prisoners barely capable of speech.

  'I fucking hope so. We're going to need the names of the little shits that didn't get caught last night.'

  'Relax, big man, you'll get what you need. See you in five minutes,' said Collins, putting the phone down.

  In the CID office Benson turned to Clarke who was busy putting the finishing touches to a contemporaneous interview that Morgan would later sign. It was a work of art, complete with requisite crossings out, spelling mistakes, and gaps for inserting names, and amounted to a full and frank admission that implicated all the Mafia team that had been in the pub.

  'Andy's prepared the patient,' Benson said.

  Clarke looked up from his desk, which was strewn with statements concerning the attack on the landlord. He looked slightly worried. 'How bad is he?'

  'Says he's OK. I said we'll be down in five minutes.'

  'I fucking hope so. I'm nearly done, John. Have a look for me, will you?' He handed the completed pages of the interview to Benson, who quickly scanned the questions and answers. He nodded admiringly.

  'Very nice. Still, I think we'll have some sport with the little bastard as well.'

  Even though they had more than enough forensic evidence to nail Morgan, Clarke and Benson wanted much more. They knew that the other, older and harder members of the Mafia would refuse to speak to them, or even acknowledge their presence in the same room. They also knew that the manager and his staff would be intimidated in the weeks to come and their few independent witnesses would slowly but surely stop talking to them. They were confident the manager would pick out most of the culprits on the identification parades they planned to hold, but getting him to court would be much more difficult. It was always nice to have an early confession naming names along the way. They'd worry about court appearances later.

  'You about done, Bob?' Benson opened his desk drawer and removed the items he needed for the coming interview.

  'Finished,' Clarke replied, boxing the papers neatly between his hands. 'Got one for me?' he asked, indicating the interview items Benson was holding. Benson tossed one towards him, and he caught it in mid-air and tucked it into his trouser pocket.

  The pair strode purposefully out of the CID office and down to the custody block where Collins looked up and grinned as they entered.

  'He can't wait to see you two.'

  'I'll bet,' said Clarke. 'How is he?'

  'Cooking nicely. Should be about done now,' said Collins, collecting his cell keys and leading the CID officers down into the dingy cell corridor. He peered through Morgan's cell door peephole and saw that Morgan was now sitting on the edge of his bed holding his head in both hands. He sprang to his feet at the sound of the key in the lock and backed against the wall as Collins walked quickly towards him like the executioner come for his man shortly before the 9 a.m. drop. Theatrically, Clarke steppe
d in front of Collins and put an arm across his chest.

  'No more, Andy, he's had enough. Come with us, son. We've got lots to chat about, haven't we?'

  Morgan almost ran into Clarke's welcoming arms, passing Collins like a recently beaten dog. Father-like, Clarke put an arm round his shaking shoulders as he led him out of the cell into the corridor and towards the nearby interview room.

  'Bloke's a fucking basket case,' Clarke said pleasantly.

  'You're not kidding. Fuck me, I thought he was going to kill me. What's up with him?'

  'Always been like that, but he's slowing up a bit now. Still got quite a punch on him, though.'

  Morgan ruefully rubbed his forehead, which felt as if he'd been kicked by a horse. 'He fucking decked me back there. I'm going to have his job, the old cunt. I want to complain about him.'

  Clarke guided Morgan into the interview room, followed closely by Benson, who was grinning from ear to ear.

  'Who do I complain to . . .?' Morgan had started before Benson punched him as hard as he could in the back of the head. Morgan crashed face first into the far wall and slumped to the floor. His nose had burst on impact and the front of his tea- stained paper suit began to turn crimson. He shook his swimming head and turned, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, to face the CID officers. As his vision cleared he saw the man who had floored him. Benson was as large as his mate Collins, with jet- black, shoulder-length hair parted on one side, huge sideburns and a Frank Zappa moustache. His deep-set, piggy brown eyes sparkled with malicious glee and he smiled as he spoke to Morgan.

  'I deal with all complaints at this station. Who exactly do you want to complain about? Tell me what happened and I'll see to it that the culprit is dealt with immediately.' He towered over the prostrate Morgan and stood with his hands on his hips.