Horse's Arse (31 page)

    'One
of them's Mr Middleton's son, I hear.'

    'That's
right. So what?'

    'Nothing,
sarge. Just wanted to know if he was still here,' Pizza replied, the beginning
of a plan suddenly forming in his mind.

    'Be here
a while yet. Still pissed as a fart,' said Jones distractedly as he read
Middleton's custody record. 'I'll be phoning his dad a bit later. Got to make
arrangements to get him home eventually.'

    'But
not straight away?'

    'No,
not for a few hours, that's for sure.'

    'Thanks,
sarge. See you later probably, hopefully with a prisoner.'

    'Great,'
said Jones sourly, and Pizza departed in search of Psycho. He'd had an idea
that he knew Psycho could help him with.

    The
Brothers also drifted away from the maelstrom engulfing Ally and the Blister.
They had something much more important to discuss.

    'He
should be at home now,' said H, looking at his watch.

    'Yeah.
I can't believe he'll break his bail conditions first night out without some
help. We've got to find a way to get him out of the house and then we can sort
him out.'

    'First
up, let's make sure he's fucking there. There's a phone book in the
report-writing room. I'll give him a bell first.'

    They
made their way to find the phone book, the first step in their quest to capture
Bobby Driscoll and get him back where they felt he belonged.

    'If
he's in, how the fuck are we going to get him outside?' mused H as he flicked
through the phone book until he found the number he was after. Picking up the
phone, he got an outside line, dialled, and then waited as the phone rang and
rang. He was about to put it down when a very sleepy woman's voice answered it
with an irritated 'Hello?'

    'Bobby
there?' said H curtly.

    'Who
wants to know?' replied Driscoll's mother suspiciously.

    'Jimmy
Anderson,' he said, giving the name of the brother of one of the Mafia on
remand in Strangeways. She knew Des Anderson well and knew he had a brother,
but not his name.

    'Yeah,
he's here, Jimmy,' she said, her doubts about the caller allayed.

    'Can
I have a word? It's important.'

    'Hold
on a moment.' H then heard Driscoll's mother call, 'Bobby, phone.' After a few
moments he heard Driscoll ask 'Who is it?', his mother reply 'Jimmy, and
Driscoll repeat the name in surprise as he picked up the phone.

    'Hello?'
he barked.

    'You
piece of fucking shit, I'm going to rip your throat out before the end of the
night. Die, you cunt,' said H pleasantly.

    'Who's
that,' shouted Driscoll.

    'Your
worst fucking nightmare, you scumbag. I'm going to set fire to you, then cut
your mummy's throat from ear to ear and skull fuck her while she bleeds to
death,' said H, warming to his task and oblivious of the concerned looks Jim
was shooting him.

    'You
fucking bastard,' screamed Driscoll, covering his phone with spittle. 'When I
find you you're fucking dead,' he added rather impotently.

    'Don't
go to sleep, Driscoll. I'll be over later to gut you like a fish,' said H calmly,
before he put the phone down and sat back with a contented sigh.

    'You've
done that before, haven't you, you fucking head- banger?' said Jim, looking
closely at his colleague.

    'Certainly
not,' replied H indignantly, but not altogether convincingly. 'Inspiration came
to me, that's all. Got him going, though, didn't it? Fuck me, he was foaming,
but we've still got to get him out of the house somehow.'

    'A
fire might do the trick.'

    'Yeah,
right, Jim, we'll set fire to the house,' replied H, shaking his head
mournfully.

    'No?
Well, give the impression that it's on fire, then. Get something smoking
nicely, evacuate everyone and have him away outside somewhere.'

    'We
can't be seen anywhere near the house. We've got to be able to say we nicked
him miles away.'

    'Or
have him away then, keep him somewhere safe and produce him hours later having
just found him.'

    'Yeah,
I like that, Jim. Keep him somewhere until much later. Yeah, I really like
that. Where could we keep him, though?' said H thoughtfully.

    'Boot
of the car?'

    'We'd
never get away with it. How the fuck can we get him out of the house?'

    'Don't
fancy the fire, then?'

    'Nah.
Even if it got him outside, there'd be too many people about who'd see him and
there's no way he'd wander off too far. He'd hang around the garden or on the
pavement. We've got to get him some distance away from the house on his own.
Come on, Jim, think. What would get him away from the house at this time of
night in breach of his bail conditions?'

    Outside,
as the temperature hovered around the freezing mark, it had begun to snow. Not
the big, fluffy, cotton-wool snow beloved of Hollywood film producers, but
thin, wet snow driven by an icy wind that stung the face and eyes, forming a
treacly black film on everything it touched after dark. Only a villain or a
copper would venture out in weather like this. The rest of mankind took one
look at it, muttered 'Fuck that', and shut the front door. Those coppers
unfortunate enough to be working in shit weather regarded it with mixed
emotions. It was no fun being out and about in it, especially on foot, but it
was a truism: only they and the villains would be out in it. The chances of
pulling a completely innocent Joe Public were substantially reduced. Lazy old
lamp-swingers often solemnly intoned that 'bad weather was the best copper of
them all', because it kept most people at home out of trouble. Elsewhere
perhaps, but not in Horse's Arse, where the villains mistakenly believed that
the Old Bill would be tucked away in the warm and dry, and repeatedly got
locked up on what they regarded as 'dead cert' jobs. The Old Bill had worked it
out, but the villains had still to see the light on the road to Damascus.

    Pizza
found Psycho lurking in the locker room with a hunted look on his face.

    'Christ,
thank fuck it's only you,' he'd sighed gratefully as Pizza had entered
suddenly. 'I thought it was the Blister.'

    'Teach
you to keep it in your trousers, won't it?' said Pizza.

    'I've
only done her a couple of times,' complained Psycho, 'and now look at the shit
I'm in.'

    'Putting
her meat shots on public display was probably not one of your best moves,
Psycho, but listen up. I need your help with something. I've had a blinding idea.'

    Psycho
remained seated with his head in his hands. He didn't look up, or say anything.

    'Psycho,
will you give me a hand?' repeated Pizza, slightly louder.

    Psycho
raised his head and stared intently at him. 'What sort of idea?' he asked slowly.

    'Not
here. I'm town centre foot patrol. Pick me up in ten minutes outside the
cemetery, OK?'

    Psycho
was still dubious and unwilling to commit himself far. 'Hold on, hold on. What
sort of idea?' he insisted.

    Pizza
sighed loudly and looked conspiratorially around him. 'Jason Middleton,' he
said quietly, beaming like the Cheshire Cat.

    'What
about him?'

    'For
fuck's sake, Psycho, not here. Pick me up in ten minutes if you're interested. If
you're not there I'll assume you've lost your bottle and I'll do it on my own,'
and with that he turned and hurried out of the locker room, the bait laid.

    'You
spotty little cunt, I've pulled more fucking stunts than you've had shags,'
Psycho called after him. Fucking nerve of the little sprog, calling him out
like that. Him, King of the Stunts, the man responsible for Hilary Bott's
demise. He resolved to pick Pizza up and show him what a proper stunt was all
about. Saucy little twat. He turned back to his locker, rummaged through the
junk inside and finally found what he was looking for. Sitting down, he
unzipped the black plastic rifle case and carefully pulled out his .22 air
rifle with telescopic sight. Reaching inside the case, he located a tin of
pellets and grinned. He patted the stock affectionately, checked the sight, and
then carefully replaced the weapon in the case. If he had a few minutes to
kill, he planned to shoot up the gypsy site on the industrial estate, keep the
fuckers on their toes and encourage them to move out of town. With virtually no
legislation to deal with them, the officers at Horse's Arse had developed their
own way of dealing with gypsies and Psycho had taken things a step further as
usual. Other officers contented themselves with round-the-clock harassment; he
preferred the more direct approach, and the last time gypsies had arrived in
town he'd shot out the windows of six caravans. His campaign against them
culminated when he set fire to one of their Transit vans parked across the
entrance to their unofficial site. Realising they were dealing with someone
more dangerous than themselves, that particular group had moved on the next
day.

    He
grabbed some items from his locker and made his way cautiously out into the
corridor, listening intently for Blister's shrill voice or the sound of her
little pig's trotters on the polished lino floor. There was no sign of her and
he hurried out into the back yard and located his vehicle for the night, Bravo
Two Delta One. Delta One took the Park Royal estate and Psycho decided he'd
take Pizza up there later to show him the ropes.

    Three
cars up, Ally sat seething in the passenger seat of Delta Two. He'd been crewed
with Piggy again and had made no attempt to disguise his anger and
disappointment when the crews for the night had been read out.

    'Fucking
hell, not again,' he'd shouted. 'How come I always get the fat bastard? Why's
it always me? What have I done?' Collins had ignored his protests, again.

    Despite
his outburst, Piggy had merely smiled cheerfully and wiped the remains of the
huge curry he'd eaten before he left home from around his mouth. He looked as
if he'd let a child apply orange lipstick to his face, and now, even worse for
Ally, his guts were starting to bubble up nicely.

    'I'm
a bit windy tonight, I'm afraid, Ally,' he belched, before lifting a leg and
letting rip with a fart that bleached the curtains in the muster room.

    'You
do that in the car, you fat cunt, and you're dead,' Ally hissed venomously as
he joined the desperate dash to find fresh air.

    Now,
as he sat waiting, he saw his obese partner rolling towards the car through the
sleet. As he watched, Piggy paused, lifted his leg again and farted loudly
enough to be heard through the closed windows. Ally closed his eyes and
wondered how long it would be before he punched Malone very hard.

    'Better
out than in,' announced Piggy brightly as he opened the driver's door and began
to ease his bulky frame inside. The remnants of his gastrointestinal
disturbance followed him into the vehicle and Ally furiously wound down his
window and hung his head out in the freezing night air.

    'I'm
going to fucking kill you, fat boy,' he gasped. 'As soon as I can breathe
properly, I'm going to fucking kill you.'

    As
Psycho manoeuvred his vehicle towards the back gates, his headlights picked out
Ally hanging out of Delta Two. He wound down his window as he got close and
called out, 'You up for a bit of sport with the pikeys later? I'll give you a
shout.'

    'I
think I touched cloth with that last one,' said Piggy cheerfully as he settled
himself into the driver's seat and began to wriggle around. 'Yeah, I think I
followed through.'

    Ally
closed his eyes and allowed his forehead to drop on to the door sill. Tomorrow
morning seemed a long way away.

    Driscoll
had hurled the telephone back on to its cradle after H had rung off and stood
cursing in the hallway, occasionally rubbing his still-throbbing, extremely
painful kneecaps. Nervously, his mother opened the kitchen door and asked, 'Who
was that then?'