Horse's Arse Read online

  'And?' repeated the disinterested, indolent operator.

  'Well, what should I do with it?' queried the rapidly deflating Pizza.

  'You could take it to a launderette,' offered the operator.

  Several miles away on the used car forecourt, the Brothers were listening attentively to Pizza's radio message. It sounded as though he had stumbled on something that might be of interest later. And whilst they had little time for him, they had even less time for the operator.

  'He's a useless idle bastard,' snarled Jim, grabbing his radio and transmitting without identifying himself. 'Get it back to the nick and book it in,' he shouted in his unmistakable accent.

  Pizza heard the advice, replaced everything in the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and headed back towards the nick. If nothing else, he could kill an hour or so out of the rain booking it in. He might even be able to spin it out until breakfast.

  It took him ten minutes to get back. When he walked into the front office the Blister was still engrossed in her magazine. She buzzed him in and only glanced up when he dropped the bag on the floor next to her.

  'What's in there?'

  'A load of bloodstained clothes and boots; what's that smell?'

  'Rosie pissed herself earlier. I hope you don't think I'm booking it in. You brought it in, you book it in.'

  'OK, I didn't expect you to,' said Pizza, trying to sound aggrieved. 'Which register should I put it in?'

  'Miscellaneous Property,' said the Blister, imperiously waving a finger at a rack of registers and files above the front desk. Pizza located the register he needed, picked up the bag and began to walk down the corridor towards the report-writing room.

  Sergeant Jones was in the corridor sniffing the air as Rosie's aroma filled the nick. 'What the fuck is that smell, and what are you doing in?' he demanded of Pizza, determined to improve his day by making someone else's a misery.

  'Rosie the scat pissed herself earlier, apparently, and I've brought in a bag of bloodstained clothing.'

  'What for?'

  'She can't control her bladder, or her arse, apparently.'

  'The fucking clothes, not Rosie. Why have you brought them in?'

  Pizza was about to reply, 'Because someone shouted over the radio to do it,' but thought better of it. He considered the question again.

  'Well?' said Jones testily.

  'It's covered in blood and had been hidden away,' replied Pizza, finding inspiration, 'and I think that merits a little investigation.' Jones bridled at the perceived insolence and tried to think of a suitable response.

  'For fuck's sake,' was all he could manage before he hurried towards the toilets for the third time that morning.

  Pizza hung his soaking coat over a radiator and sat himself down at a desk to start logging the contents of the bin liner. 'Please let this be a decent job,' he said quietly to himself.

  'Hope Pizza's got something decent,' said Jim quietly to H, who still had his eyes closed. 'First time for everything, I suppose.'

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  Frankie Turner rolled out of bed shortly before 9 a.m., lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the mattress smoking. He could hear the bitch downstairs with the kids and decided to wait until she took them out before he did anything. He lay back on the bed, flicking his ash on to the floor, listening to the clamour downstairs. He was bored shitless with her, had no time for his children who were unplanned and unloved, and promised himself for the hundredth time that he'd bugger off soon. Only one thing had stopped him going before, the fact that he was an idle bastard incapable of looking after himself. He'd considered going back to live with his mother, but he hated her only marginally less than the bitch. He was stuck and he'd have to make the best of it. Still, today wouldn't be too bad. Pick up his dole; meet the boys at the pub, good drink, game of cards, pool. Who knows?

  He looked at his watch as he heard the front door open and slam shut. Nine o'clock. Best get ready; want to be there when they open up. Stubbing his cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray by the bed, he hurried into the bathroom, splashed some cold water on to his face and pulled on the smoky clothes he'd worn the night before and had thrown on to the floor when he undressed. He smelt dreadful, but that wasn't something that had ever bothered Frankie.

  Hurrying downstairs, he eased on his trainers and went into the kitchen in search of his car keys. They were nowhere to be seen. He was sure he'd left them on top of the fridge, but they weren't there now.

  'That fucking woman,' he shouted, opening and slamming drawers and cupboards in an increasingly frantic search for them. Slamming a drawer shut, he stood with his hands on his hips looking round.

  'Fuck it, fuck it,' he shouted. The town centre was only two miles away, but there was no way he was going to walk it, certainly not in this weather. The bus service was shit, and still involved a walk. He was going to have to make other arrangements.

  A few hundred yards away, the cause of his anguish gurgled contentedly as he sucked on the nice leather key fob his mum had given him, and stared at the nice shiny keys. Had his mum been aware of the chain of events she had unwittingly put into motion, she couldn't have been happier.

  The Brothers were both now sitting upright waiting for Frankie, wide awake and eager for what they hoped would happen. If they were really lucky, he'd play up after they'd let him run and then they'd get to beat the crap out of him. Fingers crossed. They were watching every vehicle passing from their right intently, even though they knew which car Frankie had been using. They were taking nothing for granted and hadn't ruled out the possibility that he had another car stashed somewhere. What they hadn't bargained on, though, was what he had under a tarpaulin at the bottom of his overgrown back garden.

  Frankie had found the single, worn key in a drawer in the bedroom, and ran to the bottom of the garden. He pulled the tarpaulin away and briefly admired the motorcycle he'd had tucked away for an emergency. Rolling it off its centre stand, he straddled it, put the key in and began to jump on the kick-start.

  'Start, you fucker, fucking start,' he shouted as the engine coughed and spluttered. He began to leap in the air as he kicked harder and harder, and at last the engine fired. He revved it hard until the whole frame shook and the garden filled with acrid blue and white smoke. He kept the engine screaming for several minutes before he was sure it had warmed sufficiently to be allowed to idle. He put it into gear and rode slowly through the long grass and up to the side of the house, slipping the clutch and keeping the revs high. He didn't have a crash helmet and he paused briefly as he considered the likelihood of a pull from the Old Bill. It was only a short ride; the odds were good. The Old Bill would be keeping out of the rain, he reasoned. He'd be fine. He stamped the bike back into first gear, accelerated down the path and across the pavement, and turned left towards the town centre.

  The drizzle had soaked him completely and his hair was now plastered to his head. He kept his eyes screwed tight against the rain and rode past the used car forecourt, completely missing Bravo Two Yankee One in amongst the cars for sale. H saw the helmetless motorcycle rider first, bent forward over the handlebars trying to coax more speed from the ancient machine.

  'Look at this prick,' he said. 'Can you fucking believe it? Any day but today.'

  As the bike passed them in a cloud of smoke, the Brothers leant forward to better see the rider and the numberplate.

  'Fuck me, it's Frankie,' shouted H, selecting first gear and moving quickly off the forecourt.

  'Are you sure?' asked Jim. 'It didn't look anything like him to me.'

  'It's Frankie, Jim. Do a check on the number, will you?'

  Unconvinced, Jim picked up the main channel handset and spoke quickly. 'Delta Hotel, this is Bravo Two Yankee One, moving vehicle check please, Bolton Road, Hotel Alpha,' and reeled off the registration number which was just visible through the choking smoke. There was a brief pause before the operator spoke.

  'Yankee One, that comes back to a
lost or stolen from Hotel Alpha since May last year. Your location now please?'

  'Bingo! The wanker's on a nicked bike,' yelled Jim, before speaking calmly into the handset again. 'Yankee One, we're still Bolton Road, towards Liverpool Road crossroads, speed forty m.p.h.'

  'Thank you, Yankee One. All units Hotel Alpha, be advised Yankee One has a lost or stolen red Honda five hundred cc motorcycle, on the move in Bolton Road towards the Liverpool Road crossroads. No assistance required at this time.'

  The radio traffic increased tenfold as other vehicles responded, giving their locations and intended intercept points.

  'Fuck off, you bastards, he's ours,' roared H. 'We don't want anyone else getting in the way.'

  'Yankee One, commence commentary please,' said the operator calmly.

  'Yankee One, we're now left, left at the crossroads into Stockport Road. Passing Chamberlain Grove, speed still forty m.p.h. Solo rider not wearing a crash helmet, white male, early thirties, wearing blue jeans and a green jacket. Don't think he's clocked us yet. Now passing Abbots Grove towards Hotel Alpha town centre.'

  The bike didn't have wing mirrors, but something made Frankie glance over his shoulder, where to his horror he saw Yankee One about fifty yards behind him. H flashed the front lights at him and waved. Jim picked up the handset and flicked the public address button. His voice boomed out.

  'Yoo hoo, Frankie. You're fucked.'

  Frankie faced forward again, cursing his luck. How the fuck did they know who he was? Jesus Christ, how had they got to him so quickly? He didn't recognise the two coppers. If he had, he'd probably have pulled over and got into the back of their car unassisted, but he decided to make a run for it. He opened the throttle up and powered the bike away.

  'He's off,' yelled H. 'Fuck me, that's a fiver I owe you, Jim.'

  'Easiest money I ever earned,' said Jim, resuming his commentary. 'Yankee One, he's off and running. Speed now sixty-five m.p.h, still Stockport Road towards the town centre. Traffic's light both directions. Now passing the Gables, speed is seventy m.p.h.' He released the transmit button. 'Fuck me, H, he's giving it loads.'

  'We're with him, Jim. He'll make a mistake soon.'

  Jim continued his commentary as H kept Yankee One purring in third gear, waiting for Frankie to get it all wrong. They normally did. Then Frankie decided to use the only advantage he had and mounted the pavement, barely reducing his speed, and rode up on to the grass verge and into a play area.

  'Bollocks,' swore H. He quickly spotted a gap between two parked cars, and powered Yankee One after the bike. Jim punched the blue light and airhorn buttons and the surrounding area began to resound to the thrill of the chase.

  As he crossed the grassed play area, Frankie began to feel the back end of the bike go as the power through the rear wheel proved too much for the virtually non-existent tread on the muddy ground. Barely managing to remain upright, he reduced his speed, allowing Yankee One to close.

  'Yankee One, he's left, left across the pavement on to a play area, speed fifty m.p.h. plus and accelerating towards . . .' Jim released the transmit button. 'Where the fuck are we going?'

  'Grosvenor Park.'

  '. . . into Grosvenor Park, still accelerating, no pedestrians, speed sixty-five m.p.h.'

  Around the town, the crews of other cars swore and made hurried recalculations, executed swift three-point or handbrake turns, and headed towards new projected intercept points.

  Frankie glanced over his shoulder again and briefly saw the two emotionless faces in the police car, which was getting closer and closer. The passenger was making cutting motions across his throat. H floored the accelerator and moved Yankee One to within inches of the spinning rear wheel of the bike, which was slipping from side to side as Frankie kept the power on.

  'Just to let him know we're here,' said H quietly and nudged the bumper against the tyre. Frankie felt the contact, which bounced him two feet clear, and his stomach leapt.

  Jesus Christ, these bastards are going to take me out, he thought. He continued across the grass and saw a tarmac path running across the park ahead of him. He steered to the right, hit the tarmac and felt the bike become more stable. He opened the throttle right out, sending the rev counter into the red.

  'Yankee One, he's turned right, right along a path, speed is eighty m.p.h plus, headed towards the swimming pool, still no sign of stopping.'

  H put Yankee One into fourth gear and kept the front of the vehicle just a few feet behind the bike. 'The mad bastards going to kill someone like this,' he remarked casually, ignoring the fact that he was right up Frankie's arse, giving him no quarter or margin for error. Jim smiled as he paused his commentary.

  'How long are you going to let him take the piss out of you, H? He's going to lose us at this rate.'

  'Fuck off,' exploded H, 'he's going nowhere. He can't ride it except in straight lines. Look at him.'

  Frankie had clipped the verge and again nearly lost it. His lack of control took him back on to the grass and he began to reverse his route.

  'Yankee One, he's left, left off the path back on to the grass and heading back towards Stockport Road. Speed sixty m.p.h. plus, he's all over the place but still refusing to stop.' The operator had left the channel open to allow everyone else to listen to the chase and only spoke briefly.

  'Thank you, Yankee One. Lost or stolen motorcycle is still in Grosvenor Park back towards Stockport Road.' A cacophony of voices followed as other units responded again to the change of direction.

  'Fucking hell, H, some other bastard's going to have him away soon. Take him out, for fuck's sake,' said Jim urgently.

  'Not yet. He'll make a mistake soon. Stop worrying.'

  Jim wasn't convinced, but said no more and resumed his commentary. Frankie continued along the grass and back on to the path and was now very seriously worried. He knew he was in Grosvenor Park, but had no idea which way he was going or how he could get out of the park. The last time he'd been there was as a child when an aunt had taken him to the small boating lake where he'd spent the time stoning the ducks. He saw the lake up ahead and decided to head towards it, simply because he recognised it. Swerving back on to the grass, he continued at the same speed.

  'Yankee One, he's right, right off the path towards the boating lake, speed still sixty m.p.h. plus,' said Jim in a calm, businesslike manner.

  The boating lake was a desolate concrete circle of black, rubbish-strewn water, surrounded by a rusting iron fence intended to keep the local dogs from fouling the area. Neglected since it was erected, the fence had lost numerous rods over the years, and like the rest of the park the boating lake area was awash with dog shit. Locals remarked that the changes in the seasons could be gauged by the smell of freshly mown dog shit from Grosvenor Park. Frankie spotted a small gap in the fence, and, beyond that, the narrow path that bisected the lake and gave pedestrian (and motorbike) access to the main road. He could just get through the gap; the bastards behind him could either wreck their motor or go round. Either way, he was home free.

  H had spotted the gap slightly before Frankie. 'He's going for that gap, Jim. Hold tight - time to finish things.'

  Jim understood, nodded, and sat further back in his seat as he continued his commentary. H dropped Yankee One into third gear, again floored the accelerator and moved closer and closer to the bike's back wheel. He knew Frankie s mistake was imminent.

  Almost subconsciously, Frankie had been aiming the bike either side of the piles of dog shit on the grass, and about thirty feet from the gap he did so for the last time. Having avoided the deposit of what appeared to be an elephant, he suddenly realised he was off line for the gap, panicked, came off the throttle and hit the footbrake. The bike slowed dramatically and skidded and H floored Yankee One. From where he sat, the decrease in the bike's speed and the increase in Yankee One's had the effect of making the bike seem to go into reverse. Yankee One's bumper touched the rear wheel, catapulting the bike forward and throwing Frankie back, his hands comi
ng off the handlebars. He remained on board until the bike disintegrated against the iron fence and he was thrown high into the air. H brought Yankee One slithering sideways and undamaged to a halt, and the Brothers watched dispassionately as Frankie flew in slow motion, end over end, across the fence, landing with a sickening thud on the concrete surround.

  'Yankee One, he's come to grief big time at the boating lake. Request an ambulance on the hurry up and supervisory for a vicinity only POLAC,' Jim said into the handset, using the recognised code for Police Vehicle Accident. 'We are uninjured, vehicle undamaged,' he added matter-of-factly as he replaced the handset. 'Nice one, H. I think he's dead,' he said, opening his door. H didn't reply, but couldn't see how Frankie could have survived the accident.

  The Brothers walked over to the fence, through the gap that was to have been Frankie's salvation and over to his crumpled body. His trainers had come off during his flight, and his jeans and jacket were torn from his landing. A pool of blood was forming under his head. His eyes were closed and he lay very pale and still.

  'Hmm, he looks well fucked,' said Jim, poking Frankie's back with his boot. Frankie groaned and the Brothers took a step back.

  'Fuck me, he's alive,' said H in amazement. 'Keep an eye on him, Jim. I'm going to check the motor.' He walked back to Yankee One, knelt down at the front bumper and examined it closely. The contacts with Frankie's back wheel had not marked it at all and he smiled for the first time since the chase had started.

  'Not a mark,' he called to Jim as he walked back to join him at the boating lake. 'How's he doing?'

  'You bastard, you tried to kill me,' whispered Frankie.

  'He's fine,' said Jim. 'By the way, Frankie, you're fucking nicked, and you owe me a fiver, H.'

  Benson and Clarke stood impatiently at the back of the custody sergeant's office as Collins finished charging and bailing one of the other overnight prisoners. They'd destroyed Morgan and thrown him back into his cell where he now lay shaking and crying, still naked, on the floor. Clarke held the pages of the interview on which now appeared Morgan's shaky signature. As the prisoner was led out of the door, Collins looked up at the two detectives.