Horse's Arse (36 page)

    Marjorie
watched open-mouthed in horror as her ball flew into the bunker, whilst Rachel
turned away, barely able to conceal her glee. Disgracefully, one or two of her
supporters had given audible laughs, which drew dark looks and loud 'tuts' of
disapproval from the other camp. Things were getting serious. Thin-lipped,
Marjorie thrust the wood firmly back into her bag and marched off the tee
towards the fairway bunker, muttering inaudibly to herself. She was livid;
couldn't believe she had been so stupid and taken such a silly risk. Worse, she
hated bunker shots at the best of times and she knew this one would be
difficult. Probably plugged in the wet sand and still 175 yards to go to the
flag. She would be lucky to get out of the bunker, let alone make any distance.
It was very likely she was going to go two holes down with only six left to
play. Why had she been so stupid, she fumed. She glanced over at Rachel who was
talking animatedly with her caddie and looking very pleased with life. Bitch.

    Arriving
at the fairway bunker, Marjorie was surprised to see how deep it was, and when
she peered over the edge her heart sank as she saw the top of the ball just
peeking out of the sand. Worse, whoever had played out of the bunker last had
not raked it, leaving huge great footprints all over the place. What was the
club coming to, she thought bitterly.

    'That's
going to be difficult, Marjorie,' remarked her caddie sympathetically.

    'Thank
you, Grace,' snapped Marjorie unpleasantly, deciding to blame her for letting
her play that stupid shot. 'Any caddie worth their salt would have advised
against taking a wood off the tee,' she continued bitterly as she snatched her
sand wedge out of her astonished caddie's hand and climbed, grim-faced, down
into the bunker. She again glanced at Rachel, who was standing about twenty
yards away with a grin so wide it had to hurt. She'd seen how badly the ball
had plugged. Gritting her teeth, wobbling her bottom and clenching her buttocks
as hard as she could, Marjorie resolved to get the ball out of the bunker if it
was the last thing she did. Careful not to ground her club, she took a full
swing, dug into the sand behind the ball, felt some resistance as the club head
went in, but, as her numerous coaches had instructed her, played through the
resistance, under the ball and up. A huge spray of wet sand erupted in front of
her, in amongst which she was vaguely aware of a large grey object wrapped
around the club head. As she continued with the shot and the club head rose
above head height, the grey thing detached itself from the club and landed on
her head. It caused her to shriek and let go of the wedge, which thudded against
the side of the bunker whilst her ball, barely disturbed by her exertions,
rolled slowly to the back of the bunker into a small puddle. Horrified, but as
yet not sure why, Marjorie reached up to her head and pulled the dripping
object off and stared at it. The gallery and Rachel were now crowded at the
edge of the bunker and watched as Marjorie stared quizzically at Piggy's shitty
pants before she began to scream hysterically. Realisation had dawned.

    It
took four male members from the crowd to remove her thrashing, porky little
body from the depths of the bunker and get her back to the clubhouse, where she
lay in state in the darkened ladies' locker room until her husband was summoned
from a meeting to take her home. In the bar, amidst much hilarity, Rachel
called for a ruling on what had occurred to determine the outcome of the game.
The decision was made that Marjorie had forfeited the game by her refusal to
play on, and Rachel progressed into the next round of the competition and the
post of Ladies' Captain.

    Still
deeply traumatised by her meeting with Psycho, and now her public humiliation
at the hands of Piggy's pants, Marjorie decided enough was enough. At her
insistence, she and her husband moved out of the area and nearer her aged parents
in the West Country. She was a changed, almost pleasant woman, as anyone who
knew her would testify. Psycho and Piggy were blissfully unaware of the service
they had done to the rest of society.

    The
summons to meet DCI Harrison in the small, secluded country pub they sometimes
patronised had not come as any great surprise to Simon Edwardes. They had met
there in the past to exchange information or money, and he assumed this meeting
was for either or both purposes.

    Harrison
arrived earlier than the agreed time, as he usually did, and secured a table in
the far corner where he could sit with his back against the wall and watch the
bar and particularly the only door to the pub. Additionally welcome was the
proximity to the large open fire.

    He
was growing tired of his clandestine relationship and meetings with Edwardes
and had it in mind that now was as good a time as any to pull the plug on the
odious bastard. It was a big decision. The information on the local villains
that Edwardes regularly passed on was absolute gold dust. The results Harrison
gained professionally had made him look very good with the CID hierarchy.
Promotion to Detective Superintendent in the near future was a real possibility
and like it or not, Edwardes had played a big part in putting him in the
limelight. The news he had to pass on to him this evening, though, could
potentially sour things between them anyway. Ordering himself a pint, he sat
down at his table, lit a small cigar and waited and pondered. Keep him or dump
him, keep him or dump him. He was far too useful, Harrison finally,
reluctantly, admitted to himself, and the thought of someone else running him
and getting all the results swayed the decision. Repulsive as he was, Edwardes
wasn't expensive to run, even though Harrison paid him exclusively from his own
pocket. The Job knew nothing about Edwardes, only that Harrison had a quality
snout feeding him eighteen-carat information about the villains in Handstead.
They asked no questions whilst Harrison kept producing results, He quickly
patted his overcoat inside pocket, confirming the envelope of cash was still
there, and glanced out of the adjacent window, checking that his own car was
OK. He never used a Force motor for these meetings, knowing that villains took
a keen interest in the unmarked vehicles used by the CID. If he clocked anyone
he knew out here, he'd simply leave his car in the car park and get a taxi
home. He crossed his legs, sighed deeply, looked at his watch and waited,
watching the handful of customers for signs of recognition.

    A car
pulling into the almost empty car park distracted his attention and he turned
to see Edwardes arriving in an almost new Triumph Stag. Harrison frowned. Must
be paying the fat bastard too much, he mused. He couldn't afford a motor like
that, but at least it wasn't the convertible model. He was relieved to see
Edwardes park some distance from his own shabby Datsun before carefully locking
what was obviously his pride and joy and walking towards the pub.

    Edwardes
opened the creaky, black-beamed door, ducked under the low lintel and walked
into the warm, smoky, welcoming bar. He paused and glanced round at the other
customers before he spotted Harrison at the far table. Harrison merely nodded
in recognition, no smile, whilst Edwardes asked with a hand gesture if Harrison
wanted another drink. A small shake of his head and a raised hand indicated he
was OK with his pint and a few minutes later Edwardes joined him at the table.

    'Cheers,
Mr Harrison,' he said amiably, slurping the foam off his pint of gassy lager.

    'I
see crime pays then, Simon,' answered Harrison, ignoring the greeting and
gesturing towards the car park with a nod of his head.

    'What
d'you mean?'

    'Nice
motor you got there.'

    'Oh,
I see. Nothing to hide there, Mr Harrison. Bought and paid for by my parents to
celebrate my elevation to the Bar.' He laughed.

    Harrison
knew of the fictitious life Edwardes had created for the benefit of his elderly
parents and laughed grimly. 'You're a dodgy bastard, Simon.'

    'You've
never complained,' answered Edwardes archly. 'Anyway, what did you want to talk
about? The trial, no doubt?'

    'In a
manner of speaking, yes, but you'd better read this,' Harrison replied, pulling
an envelope from his coat pocket and handing it to Edwardes. 'Things have
changed, Simon; all deals are off.'

    'What
do you mean?' Edwardes, looking worried, put down his pint and opened the
envelope.

    'Read
it, Simon,' Harrison urged.

    Edwardes
quickly read through the two-page advice letter from the Director of Public
Prosecutions before he laid it on the table in front of him.

    'Attempted
murder?' he said finally.

    "S
right, Simon,' said Harrison, reaching across the table to retrieve the letter
and envelope and returning them to his coat pocket. 'He reckons there's enough
evidence to charge Morgan with attempted murder as well as the Section 18 GBH
as an alternative. The manager nearly died, remember, and we've got stacks of
forensic and some decent witnesses.'

    'What
about his evidence against the others?'

    'Don't
need it,' replied Harrison dismissively, stubbing his cigar out in the ashtray.
'Driscoll's dead anyway — he was always our number one target - and Baker and
the others will go away on forensics. We don't need Morgan any more, especially
now he's looking at attempted murder. No, I think his usefulness to us is at an
end.' He lit another, celebratory cigar, and blew a large cloud of smoke to the
grimy yellow ceiling.

    'Fucking
hell,' said Edwardes, fumbling in his coat pocket for a packet of cigarettes,
eventually putting one to his lips with trembling fingers. 'Where does that
leave us, then?'

    Harrison
leant forward with his lighter and lit Edwardes's cigarette, then settled back
in his chair and eyed him carefully. 'Your fee, you mean?'

    'Don't
fuck me about, Mr Harrison,' said Edwardes crossly. 'We had a deal and I was
going to keep my side of it. Now this happens.'

    'Don't
worry, Simon.' Harrison laughed and reached into his inside coat pocket, pulled
out the envelope of cash and tossed it on to the table in front of him. 'I know
there's nothing you could have done about it; it's not your fault. I trust
you,' he lied, 'and I want to keep you sweet, so there's what I promised you
originally, OK?'

    'What,
all of it?'

    'Yeah.
Our business arrangement still exists, OK? Any of the other Mafia come to you,
or any information comes your way, it comes to me - agreed?'

    'Agreed,'
replied Edwardes, tucking the envelope into his coat. 'Of course, you know this
decision is tantamount to a death sentence for young Morgan.'

    'Shame,'
replied Harrison, pulling deeply on his cigar and exhaling. 'When you going to
let him have the good news?'

    'I'm
instructing Counsel the day after tomorrow and have a visit arranged after
that, so probably then. I take it you'll be informing me formally of the new
charge in due course?'

    'Letter
went off this afternoon, Simon,' Harrison replied, 'but I thought we ought to
get things straight between us first.'

    'Quite
right, Mr Harrison. I appreciate the thought.' Edwardes got to his feet and
extended a handshake. 'I'll be in touch.'

    As
Harrison expected, the handshake was cold and flabby, but he took it anyway and
bade Edwardes farewell. He waited at his table until he had seen the Triumph
leave the car park in a flurry of pebbles as Edwardes wheelspun away, before he
satisfied himself there was no one in the pub he recognised and left
unobserved.

    As he
drove home, he considered the remark about the consequences of the DPP's
decision on Morgan. Edwardes was right. Everyone knew Morgan had grassed his
mates and now he was destined to spend a long time in prison. Unless he spent
that time in solitary confinement, one day someone would get to him and exact
revenge. It was the way of things, he reflected ruefully; always had been,
always would be. There you go. Nothing he could do about it now even if he
wanted to.

    The
trial opened at Manchester Crown Court three months later on a bright spring morning.
Pizza and the numerous other officers with evidence to give, had travelled into
Manchester in a Job Transit which they'd parked outside Bootle Street police
station. There, they'd had breakfast and discussed the approaching trial. All
had agreed it would be a dirty fight, but one they were determined to win.
Pizza contributed little to the conversation and banter, and was lagging behind
the others as they walked up Bootle Street towards the court. They turned right
into Deansgate and into Hardman Street whilst he became stranded on a traffic
island in the centre of the road, waiting for a gap in the heavy traffic. He
glanced up towards Crown Square, and on the opposite pavement amongst the dense
pack of pedestrians he saw a girl he thought he recognised. He stared hard at
her as he racked his brain, and then he remembered - it was the girl he had met
at the graveyard, Bovril's friend, the one who had made him feel so much
better. Smiling, he leapt into the traffic, causing a taxi to brake suddenly and
the driver to hit his horn in annoyance. The blast on the horn made Lisa look
up to see Pizza walking towards her, smiling, with his hand outstretched in
greeting.