Horse's Arse Page 9

  'How'd it go?'

  'Brilliant. Got the lot, Andy,' said Clarke, indicating his papers. 'We've got the rest of the team in the frame and an address for them.'

  'And a cough from him?'

  'Oh, yeah. He can be charged whenever you like. We'll get him to court this afternoon and get him banged up. With a bit of luck we can get them all by the end of the day.'

  'Result. Where are the others?'

  'All crashing at Alan Baker's flat at the Grant Flowers. They should all be there, according to Morgan. We need to get a team together to put the door in. Who's patrol skipper today?'

  'Mick Jones,' replied Collins.

  'Who, Mick Jones? Who's he?' queried Benson.

  'Yeah, fresh meat just got here from Alpha Sierra,' said Collins. 'He should be floating around somewhere. Have a word with him and see who he can lay his hands on.'

  'Thanks, Andy. We'll sort out a warrant and get a team together. Can we leave Morgan to you?'

  'Yeah, sure. But what about the other Mafia?'

  'We'll be back for them later. They'll all be no comment interviews so they can fucking stew. By the way, Morgan's going to need a new suit,' said Clarke.

  'OK, I'll deal with him in a minute. Let me know if you're going to be bringing bodies in and I'll clear some cells out.'

  'We'll keep in touch,' said Benson as he and Clarke left the room.

  They walked quickly back up the stairs, pausing only to comment on the strong smell of piss in the corridor, and back into the CID office. Two other officers were at their desks.

  'I'll sort out the warrant, Bob,' said Benson, opening a drawer in his desk, replacing the rubber bands and taking out a black hardback book. He looked at his watch. Nine thirty: the colonel should be awake by now. He opened the book, found what he was looking for and dialled a number. The phone was answered quickly.

  'Good morning. This is DC John Benson from Handstead police station. Could I speak to Colonel Mortimer please?' He paused and shortly spoke again. 'Morning, Colonel, John Benson from Handstead.'

  'Good morning, John. How are you?'

  'Ticking over, Colonel. You know how it is.'

  The colonel laughed. 'What can I do for you, John?'

  'The Mafia went on the rampage last night and GBH'd a pub landlord. We've got some of them banged up here, but the others are all in a flat at the Grant Flowers flats. I'm after a warrant to go and pay them an unexpected visit.'

  'How soon do you need it?'

  'Ideally, now, Colonel. I can pop straight over if it's convenient.'

  'Can you be here in ten minutes, John? I need to go out this morning.'

  'I'm leaving now,' said Benson. 'I'll be with you in five.'

  'Fine. The kettle's on,' said the colonel, putting down the phone. Benson turned to Clarke.

  'Just nipping out to get the warrant sorted, Bob. Be about half an hour,' he said.

  'Thanks, John. I'll get a team together. As soon as you're back we'll make a start.'

  Benson grabbed a set of car keys from a row of hooks by the office door and hurried down the stairs to the back yard. Clarke picked up his phone and dialled the sergeant's office downstairs. It rang for several minutes before an out-of-breath voice answered it.

  'Sergeant Jones.'

  'Hello, sarge. Bob Clarke from the CID. Andy Collins tells me you're patrol today.'

  'That's right,' said Jones, slumping into a chair as he recovered from yet another dash to the toilet. 'What's up?'

  'We need to go out shortly to lift the other Mafia involved in the GBH on the landlord. We're going to need some of your finest. How many can you let me have?'

  Jones hadn't a clue how many officers he had working that morning, or about the job that Clarke was referring to. His muster had been a nightmare he was trying to forget and he could only vaguely remember reading their names out, never mind their numbers.

  He paused. 'We're a bit tucked up this morning. I think the area car's busy. Have you tried getting hold of the Patrol Group?'

  'I need to do this on the hurry up,' said Clarke, quickly becoming exasperated. 'I can't wait for the patrol Group to get here. You must have a few bodies spare. You can come along, can't you? There's one?'

  Jones was horrified. Go out on a job? At his last nick the skippers shined their arses for eight hours before they went home. It hadn't even had a cell block where they could be gainfully employed. Go out on a job in Horse's Arse? This guy must be fucking joking.

  'Oh, I don't know about that,' he stammered. 'I think you'd better speak to Inspector Greaves. He's the Early Turn guvner, and he might not want to take officers off the street. He's in his office, I think,' he added, trying to sound helpful.

  'Wonderful. You've been a great help,' said Clarke curtly, slamming down the phone. At the other end, Jones stared briefly at his receiver before replacing it and hurrying off to the toilets again.

  'Problems?' asked one of the other DCs in the office as Clarke banged the flats of his hands on his desk.

  'The fucking woodentops are being awkward again,' he snapped. 'I need a hand to lift some of the Mafia and I get some arsehole skipper telling me they're too busy.'

  'If you need a hand, Bob, I'm about most of the morning,' said the DC.

  'Appreciate it,' said Clarke, picking up a station directory to find the number for the duty inspector's office.

  Jeff Greaves lay back in his chair in the inspector's office and closed his eyes. His soaked slippers and socks were drying on the radiator behind him and he had a huge grin on his face. He'd locked the door to avoid being visited unexpectedly and to give him time to prepare if necessary.

  Greaves had been a career detective who'd fallen foul of a previous Assistant Chief Constable who viewed the CID as a whole with grave suspicion. Not without reason, it had to be admitted, but when Greaves had appeared before a discipline board chaired by him, facing charges of falsehood and prevarication following the collapse of a robbery trial, there could be only one outcome. His return to uniform, but without loss of rank, was generally viewed as not a bad result; but the consequence that only the detectives in the Force took into account was the huge financial loss it meant to Greaves. As a DI he had earned vast sums in overtime alongside the occasional bung he took, as was the norm. Back in uniform, overtime for a divisional inspector was as rare as rocking-horse shit, and decent earners virtually non-existent. It was the loss of money that really hurt Greaves and he had resolved to make the Force pay. Very few people were aware of what he was up to.

  His plans to be pensioned out of the Job on the grounds of ill health had been carefully discussed with his wife and a few chosen confidants. After eighteen months at Horse's Arse playing the part of a broken dribbler, his mental breakdown was well documented. It had been his wife's idea that he come to work in his slippers, and he had to admit it had been inspired. He'd noticed the odd glances and shakes of the head his appearance had prompted. He knew the story would be round the nick before lunch. 'Heard about that mad sod Greaves? Turned up for Early Turn in his slippers, absolutely pissed through.' He laughed quietly to himself. It was only a matter of time before Gillard sent him to see the Force doctor and he was confident he could do a number on him. Everything he now said and did was part of the master plan. His piece de resistance was scheduled for next month when he was due to receive his Long Service and Good Conduct medal (despite his discipline record) from the Chief after twenty-two years' service. He would wear his light grey suit and wet himself as he and the Chief posed for photographs before bursting into tears. The assembled senior officers and members of the Police Committee would be horrified, and he'd be out of the door like a greyhound a few days later. He would be sorry to sacrifice his grey suit, but it would be worth it.

  He settled deeper into his chair with his hands folded in his lap and his bare feet up on the desk. With luck, he'd be working with his brother Ian in a few months, doing a job not dissimilar to his old one. Ian, who was two years younger, was an ex-D
S who had left the Force some years earlier as the fallout from a corruption inquiry touched on the Regional Crime Squad he had been an active member of. His involvement with a bent DI from Liverpool, who had been virtually running a team of blaggers, had surfaced during the inquiry. Whilst he had avoided criminal prosecution (the DI went to prison) he was left in no doubt as to where his future lay, or rather did not lie. He had resigned and now ran a private investigations business which had proved enormously profitable. He employed numerous serving police officers on an unofficial, casual, part-time basis, and had almost unlimited access to information and facilities through them. He got results and paid handsomely for them. His unofficial employees were looked after and they knew he would never let them down. For many of them, working for him had become their primary source of income. Greaves had done a couple of very profitable jobs for him, and when Ian had proposed that he join him as a partner, there really hadn't been much to think about. He had agreed to plough most of his retirement lump sum into his brothers business and the good times beckoned. First, though, he had to get out of this fucking job and into his index- linked pension.

  He began to drift off as he listened to the rain driving against the office window and the elderly radiator gurgling and banging behind him. He was shaken from his slumber by the sound of the phone. He let it ring for a while as he composed himself and got into character.

  'Hello?' he said timidly.

  'Inspector Greaves?' said a firm voice at the other end.

  'The shoes aren't mine and the spoons arrive tomorrow.'

  'Fuck off, Jeff. It's Bob Clarke and I need your approval for something.'

  Greaves relaxed and laughed. He and Clarke had been on the RCS together and Clarke was one of the few in the know.

  'Hello, Bob. Sorry about that, but I can't be too careful. What do you want from me then — me, just a fucking woodentop?'

  Clarke laughed. 'Woodentops is about right. Fuck me, I've just been speaking to your Sergeant Jones about taking some of your boys out to nick the rest of the Mafia, and all I get is him giving me a load of bollocks about being too busy. Said I should speak to you.'

  Greaves decided to prolong Clarke's annoyance. 'Oh, he's quite right, Bob,' he said. 'We've got motorists to fuck about and lost dogs to round up and you're whining about nicking villains. Dearie me, what are you thinking of? Where are your priorities?'

  Clarke was momentarily stunned before both men began to laugh. 'OK, you loony bastard, sulk over. Can you help me out?'

  'Sure, Bob. How many are you looking to nick?'

  'Could be as many as seven.'

  'Fuck me. Seven addresses to do?'

  'No, no, they should all be in a flat at the Grant Flowers.'

  'That makes things easier, but you're still going to need a few, aren't you? I can take it they'll play up?'

  'Not much doubt about that.' Clarke began to read from the interview he had in front of him. 'Alan Baker - it's his flat - Danny and Cliff Reilly, Bobby Driscoll, Peter Thomas, Des Anderson and that mad slag Myra Baldwin. Quite a collection.'

  Greaves whistled softly. 'Fuck me. A full house, and pretty much their hard core. Be a right result to take the whole team out, wouldn't it? How many you got locked up at the moment?'

  'Eight. We've interviewed one and got these names from him. The others won't give us the time of day, but this soft little shit gave us everything. If we get all fifteen we'll have pretty much sorted the Mafia.'

  'Yeah, you're right, Bob. You can have whatever you need. Tell that wanker Jones I've given you a blank cheque. If he fucks you about get hold of me on the hurry up. Let me know how it goes, won't you?'

  'Thanks Jeff,' said Clarke. 'Why don't you come along? Could be fun.'

  'Bob, I'm mad,' he replied, 'but not that mad.'

  John Benson drove the unmarked CID car up the sweeping gravel drive to the front door of Colonel Mortimer's imposing detached house, which stood in its own grounds on the outskirts of Handstead. Quickly, he filled in the blank warrant he had brought with him, resting it on the vehicle's logbook. Tucking it into his jacket, he crunched up to the steps, which were flanked by two large, mildewed dragons.

  He rang the bell and waited for a few moments until the colonel himself opened it. He smiled when he saw Benson, extended a handshake and ushered him in. As he was led towards the study, Bension considered the magistrate he had come to see. A man the CID at Handstead had come to rely on, Mortimer was in his late fifties, a former Ordnance Corps bomb disposal officer, with ice water running through his veins. During his three years on the bench, he had become the scourge of the local villains. He dominated his colleagues, and in reality every verdict that was handed down was his verdict. Defence solicitors would move heaven and earth to get their cases shifted from his court, and God help the lawyer defending a client charged with assaulting a police officer. Peering over his half-moon spectacles, Mortimer would regularly interrupt defence submissions with gems like Are you seriously asking this court to believe such an unlikely event?' or 'Please, please, you are beginning to enter the realms of fantasy now.'

  One memorable morning, a defence brief had been pleading on behalf of a client to pay a fine in 50p instalments. 'I imposed a fine on your client,' Mortimer had snapped, 'I did not invite him to join a book club,' before substituting the fine with a gaol sentence. He was a regular guest and speaker at police functions, and would take his lunch in the station canteen if he had a morning court. Over a convivial brandy at the bar after lunch, he regularly took the opportunity to discuss with CID officers cases that were likely to arrive before him in the future. He was a godsend, but the CID were careful not to take him for granted and occasionally bit the bullet and went to other magistrates.

  Mortimer motioned Benson to a deep, green leather chesterfield, and sat down opposite him. A large mahogany grandfather clock in the corner of the study chimed the quarter to the hour.

  "What have you got for me then, John?' Mortimer asked. He liked Benson because he detected in him some of the hooligan that he had been as a young soldier.

  'The landlord of the Hoop and Grapes had the living shit kicked out of him last night by fifteen Mafia. We captured eight at the scene; the other seven are in a flat at the Grant Flowers.'

  'Where did you get that information from?'

  'We interviewed one of the eight this morning. He made a full confession and volunteered the names of the others,' said Benson, smiling.

  'Interviewed, was he?' said the colonel, his eyes sparkling. He remembered the interviews he'd conducted when he served in Aden and the admissions he'd obtained. 'Are you sure he's telling the truth?'

  'As sure as I can be, Colonel. We've got him bang to rights with forensic and an admission to his involvement. I'd say he was telling the truth.'

  'Good, good, John. Got something for me to sign?'

  Benson reached into his jacket pocket and handed over the prepared search warrant. The colonel quickly read it and signed the bottom, then got to his feet and handed the warrant back. Shaking Benson's hand again, he led him back to the front door.

  'I know I promised you a cup of tea, John, but I'm going to have to kick you out without one. I've got to be elsewhere at ten.'

  'Don't worry about it, Colonel. I appreciate you seeing me so quickly. Perhaps another time, and maybe something stronger?'

  'Definitely,' replied the colonel. 'By the way, I assume your miscreants will be at court some time today?'

  'Not till after lunch, probably,' said Benson.

  The colonel nodded. 'Excellent. I'm sitting this afternoon. I take it you'll be making applications to refuse bail in all cases?'

  Benson laughed loudly. 'See you this afternoon then, colonel. Look after yourself.'

  He got back into the car and drove away. Mortimer watched the car turn on to the main road and looked at his watch. He still had plenty of time to get to his stress-relieving massage appointment. Put him in a better mood to deal with that scum this afternoon. Esp
ecially if he got that damn fine little wog girl again. That reminded him of Aden as well.

  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  Pat Gillard was teasing his bouffant back into place in front of the mirror in his office when there was a single knock at his door and Hilary Bott flounced in. He had showered and changed and was once again fragrant; his mood had improved considerably, but he raised his eyes to the ceiling as Bott heaved into view and his spirits plunged. He hated it when she just walked in without waiting to be summoned. The woman was starting to drive him mad. She looked at the sodden, stinking pile of uniform by the door.

  'Morning, sir. Problems?' she asked brightly.

  He glared at her before walking to his desk and sitting down. 'Nothing I can't handle, thank you, Hilary. What can I do for you?' He couldn't hide the contempt and boredom in his voice.

  'I thought you might like to know that the area car's taken out a motorcyclist in Grosvenor Park. The rider's on his way to hospital with two broken legs and a broken collarbone.'

  'Grosvenor Park? What the fuck were they doing in Grosvenor Park?'

  'Chasing the bike. It's a lost or stolen, apparently.'

  'Thank fuck for that. Who was driving?'

  'One of the Brothers,' said Bott darkly. Neither spoke for a moment as they held eye contact.

  'It's all kosher, I take it?' said Gillard finally.

  'Apparently,' replied Bott, 'but knowing those two I can't believe there isn't more to it. I believe the rider was a disqualified driver they'd been after for a while.'

  'Are we dealing with it as a POLAC?' asked Gillard.

  'They called it in as a vicinity only and asked for a supervisor to attend.'

  'Who's gone down?'

  'No one yet. They can't find the patrol sergeant so I suppose we'll have to send Jeff Greaves. He's Early Turn inspector.'