Horse's Arse (35 page)

    'Not
here, sarge. I don't want us to be interrupted. Can't we use the sergeant's
office? I've checked and it's empty.'

    'OK,'
sighed Jones, getting wearily to his feet and reluctantly going out into the
corridor through the door Psycho was holding open for him. As the far corridor
door shut behind them, Pizza hurried unseen from the back yard into the custody
block carrying a plastic carrier bag. He quickly checked the two custody
records hanging on clips on the wall behind the desk to confirm that Middleton
Jnr was alone in the drunk cell. He noticed that even though Jones was working
without a gaoler, he had kept up to date with his visits to the prisoners,
visiting them only half an hour ago. Apart from his phone call from Curtis,
he'd had nothing to do since he took over at 10 p.m. Despite his initial fears
of a hectic evening, the night duty officers had yet to bring a body in; both
prisoners were left over from Late Turn. Quietly opening the desk drawer, Pizza
was relieved to see that Jones had not taken the cell keys with him. Holding
the large bunch tightly to stop them rattling, he made his way stealthily down
the corridor to the cells. The passage was lit only by the eerie red night
lights in the ceiling, and as Pizza paused by the gate to the cells themselves
he could hear only loud, rhythmic snoring. He inserted and turned a key in the
gate, which opened without a sound. He crept quietly to the drunk cell and
peered in. The cell was devoid of any furniture and its cold shiny stone floor
was only blemished by the shallow open drainage channels that led to a shallow
hole in the middle of the floor covered with a cast-iron grille, which was
bolted into the recessed gap. The design of the cell was intentional and
entirely in keeping with its function - in the morning a quantity of industrial-strength
disinfectant would be thrown over the walls and floor and a fire hose used to
wash all the vomit and shit away. It was a task all the Early Turn gaolers
loathed with a passion, though it could be fun if an overnight drunk was still
in residence.

    Lying
helpfully on his side in the middle of the floor, with his head almost in the
drainage channel, was Jason Middleton, snoring like a pig and covered in his
own vomit, which he had rolled around in as he had made himself comfortable.
Pizza gagged at the stench as he opened the gate and walked over to him. He
waited briefly to ensure he hadn't disturbed him before he reached into his
carrier bag, knelt down beside him and got to work.

    In
the sergeant's office, Jones motioned disinterestedly to Psycho to sit down in
the chair on the opposite side of the only desk.

    'What's
on your mind?' he asked, suspecting that as usual there would be very little.
Psycho wriggled uncomfortably, looking down at the floor and then at Jones
before he replied.

    'I
don't know if you're aware,' he started, 'but I'm gay and I need to run
something past you.'

    'Gay?'
shouted Jones, alarmed and sitting back firmly in his chair. 'Gay?' he
repeated.

    'Yes,
gay,' continued Psycho, pulling his chair closer to the desk as Jones tried to
push his through the wall, 'and I really like the way you move and hold
yourself. I wondered if you'd like to come over to my place for dinner one
night, perhaps make a night of it with a few other friends?'

    'No,'
bellowed Jones, looking towards the door, planning to make a dash for it if
Psycho got any closer. 'I'm no fucking shirt- lifter.' He noticed Psycho frown
menacingly at this remark and held up both hands apologetically. 'What I meant
was I'm not a homosexualist,' he blustered. 'Sorry, I didn't mean anything by
that last remark.'

    Psycho
ignored the apology. 'Not a homosexual,' he corrected. 'You're not gay. I
thought you were single now?'

    'Well,
yes, my wife's left me, that's true,' admitted Jones..

    'We
heard she caught you getting banged up the arse at your last nick,' Psycho
lied.

    'Christ,
no,' squealed Jones desperately. 'I had an affair with the wife of one of my
PCs; nothing wrong with me. No, I didn't mean that there's anything wrong with
you . . .' He trailed off in despair.

    Psycho
stood up and Jones tried to melt into the varnish on the back of the chair.
'You're definitely not gay?' he asked. Jones shook his head in reply. 'You sure
you're not gay?'

    'No,
no. I'm definitely not gay — I shag women, for Christ's sake,' yelled Jones.
How was he ever going to get away from this horror?

    'OK,'
said Psycho with a shrug of his shoulders, going over to the door. 'It'll be
our little secret, but if you ever change your mind, promise me you'll give me
a ring?'

    Jones
nodded.

    'Promise
me,' said Psycho, raising his voice.

    'I
promise,' whispered Jones, and Psycho strode out of the room. Jones momentarily
relaxed before Psycho put his head back round the door and looked at him.

    'Love
you,' he lisped quietly at his horrified sergeant.

    Jones
remained in the office shaking for quite a while, not returning to the custody
block for some time. By the time he did, the drunk cell had been locked, the
keys returned and Pizza was recounting his stunt to Psycho out in the car, both
laughing until tears ran down their faces. Absolutely jubilant, Psycho decided
to take a run down to the railway sidings to see if any of the local toms was
having a quiet night and fancied doing him a favour. 'Tanks need emptying,' he
announced, to the horror of Pizza, who had heard graphic accounts of Psycho's
blow jobs and was appalled at the prospect of having to witness the monster
having his plums sucked dry.

    Jones
tried to settle back into his newspaper but couldn't concentrate at all,
constantly jumping as he heard distant doors slamming, expecting at any moment
to see Psycho leering at him. The mere thought of it made him shudder.

    Mengele
appeared in the custody block shortly after 3 a.m., or rather he appeared to
float through the wall and hover in front of the desk. Jones was having a
horrific dream where a rampant Psycho dressed as Little Bo Peep and carrying a
lamb under a hairy arm was chasing him round a bedroom, and quite welcomed the
sudden visitor. He didn't recognise him and looked the stranger up and down
with barely concealed disdain. He was wearing a beige sports jacket with
leather patches sewn on to the elbows, green moleskin trousers and shiny brown
leather brogues. Under an open-necked cream shirt was a real eyesore of a red
and green check cravat. Two sinister blue eyes glared at Jones through round,
wire-rimmed glasses. Whilst faintly ridiculous, there was also an unmistakable
air of menace about the man. Jones, however, completely failed to spot it.

    'Yes?'
he demanded rather rudely.

    'Yes?'
bellowed Mengele. 'On your feet, you little cockroach. D'you know who I am?'

    'No,'
replied Jones defiantly, but getting up anyway. He recognised something in the
man's tone that said 'senior officer'.

    'Chief
Superintendent Middleton,' said Mengele testily. 'I've come to collect my son.
Go and get him and we'll be on our way.' Jones didn't move quickly enough so
Mengele snapped, 'Go on, you cretin, go and get him now.'

    Jones
coloured up at the insult and wished he had the balls to give the old twat a
mouthful back. But he hadn't, so he grabbed the cell keys from the desk drawer
and slunk away down the darkened cell passage. As soon as Mengele heard the
keys rattling in the call gate, he quickly viewed the three custody records on
the clips. Finding his son's, he pulled the papers free, folded them in half
and slipped them into his jacket pocket. He waited a couple of minutes before
Jones reappeared, walking ahead of a shambling, shuffling figure.

    'He's
a bit of a mess, I'm afraid, sir,' murmured Jones, belatedly trying to show
deference and respect. 'If you'll just sign for him you can be on your way,' he
continued, looking up at the empty clip where the custody record had been, and
then at his desk in case he'd left it there by accident. Where's his custody
record? he asked himself quietly, and then looked at Mengele who was staring
aghast at the shuffling figure that had come to a halt and was leaning against
the door frame. 'I can't seem to find his custody record,' he said, beginning
to open and close the drawers in the desk.

    'Jesus
fucking Christ,' exploded Mengele, his voice rising a couple of octaves, 'look
at the fucking state of him.'

    'Yeah,
he's a mess all right,' replied Jones, peering into the depths of one of the
larger drawers.

    'Look
at his fucking hair, you moron. What the fuck have you done?'

    'Done?
What you on about?' said Jones, getting to his feet and walking closer to the
stinking figure.

    'Look
at his fucking hair,' shouted Mengele again, striding towards his son,
gesticulating wildly. He grabbed Jason's shoulders and pulled him upright and
suddenly Jones saw what he was talking about. The boy's lank, dirty,
vomit-covered hair hung limply down to the left side of his head and face, but
the right side was as bald as an egg.

    'His
fucking head's been shaved, you cunt,' screamed Mengele. 'You've shaved his
fucking head.' His eyes were bulging madly and the veins in his forehead
straining.

    'Fuck
all to do with me,' sniffed Jones huffily. 'Must have been like that when he
was nicked. If I could find his custody record I could tell you. Haven't seen
it, have you?' he asked, looking Mengele straight in the eye for the first
time.

    The
officers of 'D' Relief were long home in bed and asleep by the time Marjorie
Wallace and Rachel Weinberg arrived at the ladies' twelfth tee at the Valley
Forge Golf and Country Club. As the Ladies' Captain, Marjorie had to maintain a
certain standard, and she was, as expected, dressed to kill. Her motorised
trolley contained a set of handmade Max Faulkner clubs in a hand- stitched
leather bag, and the cost of her golfing attire - Jack Nicklaus checked slacks,
Pringle roll-neck jumper and cardigan, black leather shoes and brand new white
leather glove - ran well into three figures. Wearing a Dunlop sun visor she
looked the part of the lady captain, but any resemblance to a golfer ended
there as her lack of any natural sporting prowess or hand-eye coordination
rather negated the effect. Her elevation to Ladies' Captain owed everything to
her status as the wife of an ICI director who didn't mind putting his hand in
his pocket when required. As a member of a private golf club where status and
money were everything, it had only been a matter of time before Marjorie rose
to the top of the tree, with her own designated parking space at the front of
the sumptuous clubhouse.

    She
had been the Ladies' Captain for the last four years, returned unopposed at
every annual general meeting. The rest of the lady members took the very
sensible view that while they had a cash cow in post it would be most unwise to
offend it. That was, however, until Rachel Weinberg gained membership. Married
to a hugely wealthy jeweller with premises in Deansgate, Altrincham and
Chester, she had let it be known that she was in a similarly happy position to
dole out her husband's cash to the golf club. The ladies' section had split
into two camps and the next AGM promised to be a bloody affair after Rachel
announced that she had 'graciously acceded to requests from lady members to
stand for election to the post of Ladies' Captain'. Marjorie had maintained an
icy, furious silence when the two candidates' names had appeared on the advance
notices for the AGM around the clubhouse, and the atmosphere around the club
became more and more electric as the AGM got closer. It went into meltdown when
Marjorie and Rachel were drawn against each other in the first round of the
Ladies' Challenge Cup, due to be played a week before the AGM. The incumbent
against the heir apparent. Everyone agreed that the result of the match would
probably sway the ballot for Ladies' Captain.

    The
prospect of a real battle ensuing drew a crowd of around fifty as the two
silent, glowering combatants drove off into the late-morning mist. Marjorie
played off a handicap of 20, Rachel, a slightly better player but-prone to
spectacular 'blow-ups', off 15. On paper she should beat Marjorie, but Marjorie
was nothing if not a tenacious competitor when it came to her social standing.
She played out of her skin, matching Rachel shot for shot, hole for hole -
going one up, back to all square, one behind, all square again, with never more
than a hole between them. It was a riveting match that enthralled the following
crowd, evenly split into two very partisan camps.

    
As
they stood on the twelfth tee, Rachel had the honour to drive first, having
gone one up at the eleventh, and briefly surveyed the challenge ahead. A
375-yard par four, dog leg right, the only obvious hazard being a fairway
bunker about two hundred yards ahead. However, it was a tight, narrow fairway
with gruesome rough and out of bounds on both sides to worry about. She was
playing sensible, percentage golf and decided to lay up short of the bunker and
leave herself a decent iron shot to the flag. She pulled her favourite driving
iron out of her bag after a brief discussion with her caddie, teed up her ball
and again surveyed the shot ahead. Her choice of club caught Marjories
attention and she realised that Rachel intended to lay up short of the fairway
bunker. It was an opportunity for her, albeit a risky one, but if she could
pass the bunker she'd have an easier shot on to the green. She whispered to her
caddie and watched intently, plump arms firmly crossed, as Rachel smoothly
despatched her ball straight as an arrow down the centre of the fairway. She'd
caught it perfectly and watched, frozen in position, as it flew high and true
before beginning its fall to earth. For a brief moment she feared she'd caught
it too well and it was headed for the bunker, but to her relief she saw it bounce
twice and roll to a halt on the damp turf alongside the bunker's edge. Smiling
contentedly and graciously acknowledging the polite ripple of applause, she
slotted her club back into her bag with a flourish and fixed Marjorie with a
withering stare. Marjorie waited for effect before striding out on to the tee
carrying her number one wood. Her choice of club drew comment from within the
crowd. It was a bold but risky choice. If she caught it right and carried the
bunker, she'd have little more than a short iron shot to the flag. Get it wrong
and she'd need a machete and beaters to find her ball. Still, she who dares
wins, and all that. Marjorie teed up her ball, got her stance comfortable,
wriggled her fat bottom twice, and swung for all she was worth. A gasp went up
from the gallery as they realised that the shot had not been perfect and that
she had hooked the ball badly. It was beginning to curve left from way out
right over the out of bounds, and with the extra power imparted by the wooden
club plummeted full tilt into the fairway bunker and plugged, the top of the
ball barely visible above the sand.