Horse's Arse (33 page)

    'What's
happened? Where the fuck's Driscoll?' Jim asked urgently, looking at the glass
on the road. H knelt down by the car window, and paused to catch his breath and
compose himself.

    'Fuck
knows. He got taken out by a motor and he's vanished. He's got to be dead, the
speed the car was going, but Christ only knows where his body is.'

    Jim
got out of the car and continued to survey the glass- littered road surface.
'Jesus, it's everywhere,' he said, squatting down and examining one of the
thousands of square pieces of windscreen glass. Holding it up to the street
light, he peered at it closely before announcing, 'It's covered in blood. Got
to be a chance he's inside the motor that hit him.'

    'Christ,
I hope not,' replied H. 'Be much better if we found him here. Besides, I'm sure
I saw him thrown clear.'

    They
walked slowly together towards the cul-de-sac until Jim stopped and looked over
a low wall outside a cable manufacturing company.

    'Over
here, H,' he called quietly. H joined him and there behind the low wall, lying
motionless on his back and wide-eyed, was a very dead Bobby Driscoll. He lay on
a small patch of grass with both legs at odd angles and his left arm tucked
under the small of his back. An ever-increasing pool of blood was forming under
his head, fed by a heavy flow from both his ears and his nose.

    'Dead
as a fucking doornail,' remarked Jim. 'Best we fuck off before anyone sees us.'

    'Did
you pass anything when you came in?'

    'Not
a thing. They must have pissed off up Balmoral Road. Did you see what it was?'

    'No.
Come on, let's make ourselves scarce. There's nothing to tie us in with this so
let's keep it that way.'

    Nothing
else needed to be said. The Brothers returned to Yankee One and left the
industrial estate quietly, confirming for themselves that they were unobserved
and the only living souls there.

    Driscoll
had died almost instantly, his last conscious thought being one of puzzlement
as he was flipped across the Capri's bonnet before his skull was crushed
against the windscreen cross beam. He continued upwards in a spin, his right
leg, hip and arm and all the ribs on his right side fractured. Both his lungs
were punctured, his liver ruptured and his gall bladder collapsed midair before
he landed behind the wall, breaking his left leg. He was dead before he hit the
ground; both lungs quickly filled with blood and his liquidised brain began to
ooze through the top of his head and ears on to the grass. He remained
undisturbed for another six hours until a cleaner arriving for work at the
cable manufacturing company noticed him when she stood in a puddle of blood and
brain tissue at the front door.

    Martin
and Chance, the wannabe Mafia, had not hung around to find out whom they had
run over. They too were puzzled by the lack of a body when they had turned round
in the cul-de-sac and were making their escape. Driscoll's body had slammed
across the bonnet and smashed the windscreen before disappearing over the top,
but they were not minded to make further inquiries as to its whereabouts. They
got away from the industrial estate as quickly as possible, discussing
hysterically what they should do. They agreed they had to dump the Capri
quickly and get it burnt to destroy all trace of their presence in it. As petty
criminals tended to do, they headed for home ground to dump and burn the car
before they vanished into the labyrinth of tight alleyways on the Park Royal
estate.

    Two
minutes later they passed Delta Two parked up in a bus stop with Ally and Piggy
arguing furiously. Ally was waving a clenched fist at Piggy, screaming, 'Next
one you're going to fucking die, you fat cunt,' before plunging his head out of
the car window into the fresh air. Martin and Chance took in the extraordinary
sight of a ginger-haired policeman hanging out of a police car gulping in air,
before Martin floored the accelerator and made a run for it.

    'Come
on, you fat cunt,' shouted Ally, coiling himself back into the car. 'Come on,
get after them quickly.'

    'What?'

    'The fucking
car with two little scrotes in it, no lights and I smashed windscreen,'
screamed Ally. 'GET A FUCKING MOVE ON.'

    Reluctantly,
Piggy got their panda car rolling, Ally withering his ears with constant
exhortations to go faster. As they got behind the Capri, Ally put the blue
light on, grabbed the radio handset and began to broadcast.

    'Delta
Hotel from Delta Two, we're chasing a red Ford Capri along Tavistock Place
towards the Park Royal estate. Vehicle has what looks like accident damage, no
lights, two up, failing to stop for police.' He read out the vehicle
registration number.

    There
was a pause before the operator informed them that the vehicle had no current
keeper and had not been reported stolen. Other police vehicle crews began
offering help and moving towards the chase.

    'FUCKING
KEEP UP,' screamed Ally at Piggy, forgetting he was still transmitting on the
radio. 'We're not going to lose these little fuckers. Thanks, Delta Hotel,
still towards the Park Royal, still failing to stop, speed is 55 m.p.h.'

    The
main set operator took the opportunity to tell Ally he had an open radio
microphone before she opened the channel completely to talk through as the
chase developed.

    In
the clapped-out Capri, Martin knew the wreck had little chance of outrunning
the police car behind him and decided to dump it before they got to the Park
Royal. He recognised where he was and realised he was travelling alongside the
Valley Forge Golf and Country Club, which lay on the right side of the railway
tracks. He lurched the Capri left on to a service road that ran up to a
greenkeeper's storage shed alongside the twelfth fairway, closely followed by
Delta Two. Ally knew where they were as well.

    'Delta
Hotel, he's off the main drag on to a dirt road up to the Valley Forge Golf
Club. Decamp is imminent. Is there a dog unit available?'

    'Negative,
Delta Two. The only dog unit this side of the county is assigned at Foxtrot
Sierra, continue commentary please, now towards the Valley Forge Golf Club.'

    'Fuck
it,' shouted Ally, again forgetting he was transmitting, 'get up his fucking
arse, you useless cunt. Delta Hotel, we're still on the dirt track which is a
dead end, vehicle slowing, doors open, decamp, decamp.'

    Martin
and Chance bailed out of the Capri as it was still moving, allowing it to run
into the side of the concrete greenkeeper's shed, and sprinted out on to the
twelfth fairway, disappearing into the inky sleet.

    'Come
on, you fat bastard,' roared Ally, throwing the microphone on to the floor and
flinging open his door to follow them.

    'They'll
be well away by now. There's no point,' whined Piggy, who didn't fancy a run at
the best of times, but certainly not on a freezing cold, pitch-black night.

    'Get
out of there and help, you bastard,' hissed Ally, leaning back into the car and
going nose to nose with him, eyes blazing. Reluctantly, Piggy eased his
corpulent frame out into the cold and lumbered off into the night after Ally.
It was no good. After only fifty yards he had lost sight of him, and, worse,
his stomach was starting to rebel against this unwelcome exercise. Fearful
however of further abuse, and possibly physical attack by Ally, he broke into a
fat person's run/jog and carried on into the dark. Disaster struck shortly afterwards
as his sphincter, unable to cope with the huge quantity of curry in his gut and
the totally alien exercise, lost the good fight and Piggy shat his pants 250
yards up the twelfth fairway from the competition fee, a good wood shot
distance, and adjacent to a deep fairway bunker.

    'Bollocks,'
he bellowed, standing bandy-legged and soaked in the dark. 'Thanks a fucking
lot, Ally.' He was unsure what to do next. Soaked to the skin anyway, he
couldn't go on in this state. Eventually, he took his shoes off, dropped his
trousers and gingerly eased his soiled bundies off, kicking them away in
disgust before having to retrieve them to clean himself up as best he could
with the unsoiled areas. Once he had redressed, he looked round to see where
best to dispose of his filthy underwear. His eyes lighted on the fairway
bunker. He kicked his pants into it, climbed in himself, scooped a deep hole
and then buried his pants, scraping the sand back over them with his shoes.
Stamping the sand flat and satisfied the evidence had been disposed of, he
wandered disconsolately back to the vehicles by the greenkeeper s shed,

    Ally
returned about twenty minutes later in a foul mood and without a prisoner.
'What the fuck happened to you?' he said darkly to Piggy.

    'I had
a good look round. We must have got separated in the dark. You had no luck,
then?'

    'What's
it fucking look like? If you'd been up their arses we could have had them.
Bollocks. Have you had a look in the motor yet?'

    'Erm,
no, not yet. I was just about to though,' Piggy lied.

    Ally
didn't say anything, but walked over to the abandoned Capri and peered in. Both
doors had remained open and the interior was now soaked.

    'There's
no current keeper for it, is there?' he said. 'No one's going to claim
ownership of this pile of shit, are they?' Frustrated, he took out his
truncheon and began to smash the windows.

    'What
the fuck are you doing?' asked a startled Piggy, who never ceased to be amazed
by Ally's sudden outbursts of extremely violent temper.

    'Well,
fuck it,' said Ally, 'look at it — no keeper, no tax, no insurance, fuck all.
Who's going to want it back? Who's going to come complaining that it's been
nicked and trashed?'

    'Well,
no one I suppose,' agreed Piggy uncertainly, 'but all the same, I mean .. .' He
trailed off as Yankee One rolled to a halt behind the panda car and the
Brothers got out and walked over to view Ally's handiwork. They had listened to
the brief chase, put two and two together and prayed that Piggy and Ally didn't
nick either of the occupants.

    'Didn't
get them then?' said H casually.

    'No,
fuck it,' snarled Ally, glaring at Piggy, who looked away, ignoring him.

    'Get
a good look at them?'

    'Couple
of young scrotes, that's about it. Got to be from the Park Royal.'

    'What
about if you saw them again?'

    'Not
a hope. Never got close enough, did we, Piggy?' added Ally pointedly.

    Again,
Piggy ignored him and wriggled uncomfortably.

    'No
keeper or anything, is there?' continued H.

    'Fuck
all.'

    'Give
it the treatment then, shall we?'

    Without
another word, H and Jim went to either open car door, unzipped their trousers
and pissed all over the seats and dashboard, then drew their truncheons and
trashed the inside of the Capri. If anyone ever queried it, they would simply
claim that was how the thieves had left the vehicle. More importantly, what
they had done was dispose of any evidence linking Martin and Chance to the vehicle.
Barring unlikely fits of conscience, they would never be brought to account for
Driscoll's death. The Capri was left where it was, open to the elements, and it
would be another three days before officers investigating Driscoll's death
connected with it. By that time the trail was cold. Driscoll's ironic demise
would remain unsolved. The only people who could ever throw any light on it
were not inclined to discuss it.

    As
agreed, Psycho had picked Pizza up outside the cemetery on the edge of the town
centre, and, still bridling at Pizza's insolence, had driven in silence out to
the Bolton Road industrial estate where the gypsies had taken up residence. The
silence didn't bother Pizza one bit. He had quickly learnt that being out of
the wet and cold was worth any price.

    'What've
you got planned, then?' asked Pizza, breaking the silence as Psycho turned off
the car headlights and pulled up in an unlit lay-by about a hundred yards from
the half-dozen caravans. A row of tall conifer trees completely concealed the
police car from anyone who might have been watching from the site.

    'Just
watch and learn, boy,' Psycho replied very smugly, getting out of the car and
going round to the boot. Pizza joined him and watched with increasing anticipation
as Psycho pulled out an air rifle with the largest telescopic sight he had ever
seen. The illegal .22 German-made rifle had been brought back from Hamburg by
Psycho after a trip to the city's fleshpots a few years earlier. Producing a
muzzle velocity of 17 foot-pounds and firing steel- cored Prometheus hunting
pellets, it was an absolutely lethal weapon. It had a massive kick when being
fired and it took a strong person to use it effectively.