Horse's Arse (5 page)

    An
operator acknowledged him and Jim sat back in his seat. Yankee One moved
slowly, and with an unmistakable air of menace, out into Horse's Arse.

    Back
in the cell area, Sergeant Andy Collins surveyed the evidence of the Night
Turn's endeavours. Fifteen prisoners lodged, most of them extremely drunk, for
offences ranging from grievous bodily harm to being drunk in charge of a pedal
cycle.

    Collins
had been round the block a couple of times and was totally unflustered by the
miscellaneous assembly before him. He was a huge man with a head of iron-grey
hair, hands like hams and a cigarette permanently clamped between his lips. He
dealt firmly with all his prisoners and was politeness personified until they
stepped out of line. Many a lippy young pup had discovered that man could after
all fly. His power of punch had earned him the accolade of 'the Anaesthetist'
and he really came into his element dealing with those who considered police
officers to be their social inferiors. The last to try it on had been a
corpulent 60-year-old accountant, nicked by Pizza for drink driving during the
last set of Nights he'd worked. Standing before Collins as the circumstances of
his arrest were explained, he had begun by sneeringly telling the officer how
much he earned every year.

    'How
much do you earn,
Cunt
stable?' he slurred.

    'I'm
a sergeant,' Collins had replied pleasantly, 'and you probably earn more in a
month than I do in a year. Now where do you live?'

    'You
can poke it up your arse, you grey-haired twat,' continued the accountant. 'I'm
very good friends with some of your superiors, you retard.'

    Collins's
face had begun to redden, and Pizza, recognising the danger signs, took a step
back. But Collins didn't hit the man. Instead he simply took the cigarette out
of his mouth and said, 'OK, let's log your property. Put everything on the
table.'

    The
accountant smugly emptied his pockets on to the table and stood with his arms
defiantly folded.

    'All
of it,' commanded Collins quietly.

    'What?'

    All
of it. Strip, you fat bastard.'

    'What.
. . what do you mean?' the accountant stammered, unfolding his arms as the
colour drained from his face.

    'Get
your clothes off, fat boy. I'm going to have a look up your hairy starfish to
see what you've got hidden up there.'

    'You
can't do this. I know you can't,' the man whimpered.

    'STRIP,
YOU FAT CUNT,' roared Collins, getting to his feet and showing his full size.
'Do it now or I'll do it for you.'

    Slowly
the accountant stripped in front of the scornful Collins and the hugely amused
Pizza. As he removed his shapeless baggy underpants and stood holding his
manhood like an errant schoolboy, he thought his degradation was over. But he
was wrong.

    'Bend
over and pull those lardy cheeks apart, fat boy. Pizza, have a gander.'

    Meekly
the accountant bent over and pulled his backside apart.

    'Blister,
get in here,' Collins had shouted and obediently the Blister had walked in from
the front office.

    'Ever
see tackle that small before?' Collins asked her, indicating the accountant who
was looking in abject horror over his shoulder at the Blister, his backside
still held wide open in both hands.

    'Only
on a humming bird,' she replied crushingly before leaving.

    Collins
really went to town on him shortly before he put him on the breathalyser
machine. 'Listen,' he said in a conspiratorial whisper, looking round in case
they were overheard, 'I might be able to help you beat this. My experience is
that the more physical exercise you have, the lower the level of alcohol in
your breath.'

    'Really?'
said the fat accountant, all ears.

    'Yes.
My advice would be to get some strenuous exercise in quickly.'

    'OK,
OK,' replied the accountant eagerly.

    'On
the floor then, fat boy, and give me fifty push-ups,' said Collins.

    'Fifty?'
queried the accountant who couldn't remember when he'd ever done one.

    'At
least,' replied Collins matter-of-factly.

    Wearily
the accountant got to the filthy floor of his cell and fifteen minutes later
looked up at Collins who was sitting on the bench picking his fingernails.

    'There,'
he gasped, red-faced and perspiring heavily, 'fifty push-ups.'

    'Took
your time, didn't you?' snapped Collins dismissively. 'Right, up you get and give
me fifty star jumps - got to get that alcohol out of your body, lard arse.'

    Twenty
minutes later the accountant collapsed in a heap, panting like a greyhound,
drenched in sweat.

    'Fuck
me, you'll get nowhere like this. On your back and let's have fifty sit-ups,'
said Collins, pulling him over on to his back where he lay like an overturned
tortoise.

    'I
can't,' sobbed the accountant, 'I can't. I'm exhausted.'

    'I
thought you wanted to hang on to your licence,' said Collins. 'Obviously I was wrong.
Never mind. Come on then, let's get you on the machine and get it over and done
with.'

    'No,
no, I'll try,' moaned the accountant, desperately heaving his flabby body from
the floor. He managed an extremely painful three sit-ups before he vomited. 'I
can't do any more,' he cried.

    Collins
allowed him to clean himself up and then hauled him to the breathalyser
machine, where the exhausted accountant blew twice over the legal limit and
looked in horror at Collins. 'But you said . . .' he started.

    'There
you go, some you win, some you lose,' said Collins, shrugging his shoulders and
then taking the accountant's arm and frog-marching him back to his cell.

    The
accountant was a changed man when he left two hours later with a charge sheet
and bail notice in his breast pocket. He shook hands with Collins who playfully
ruffled his hair for him.

    Thanking
the sergeant for his kindness, he fled the station close to tears.

    Collins
was a superb judge of human nature and character and had become an expert in
exploiting them. It was his greatest gift.

    He
glanced again at the fifteen names in his charge that morning and thought he
recognised most of them, particularly the eight nicked for the GBH on the pub landlord.
They were all members of the so-called Park Royal Mafia, arrogant young thugs
who were a constant source of trouble in and around the town. Collins picked up
his phone and dialled the CID office. He'd seen the Early Turn CID officer
slink in just after 6 a.m. hoping that nobody would clock him and spoil his day
just yet. Early Turn CID at Handstead was the shitty end of the stick because
you got to deal with most of the crap locked up overnight. And generally there
was plenty of it. Collins waited patiently for several minutes until the phone
was answered abruptly.

    'CID,'
barked a male voice.

    'Andy
Collins in Custody. Who's that, please?'

    'Oh,
hi, Andy. Sorry. It's Bob Clarke. How's it going?'

    'Very
much business as usual, Bob. Got a shedload down here for you. Want to pop down
so we can run through it all? We've got eight Mafia in.'

    'Great,'
replied Clarke wearily. 'Yeah, I'll be right down, Andy.'

    Clarke
replaced his phone and sat rubbing his throbbing temples for a while. He'd had
a skinful the night before; his eyes looked like a racing dog's bollocks and he
was suffering. He'd contemplated going sick but his DCI had been at the same do
with him and questions would be asked if he failed to show. The next CID
officer was due in at 8 a.m. and he knew that the rest of the day would now be
spent trawling through the cells with him. They would inherit all the paperwork
and the associated inquiries to get on with. He looked at his in tray which
contained the pile of paperwork and inquiries from the past two mornings spent
in Custody, and wondered when he would ever find the time to complete it.

    Clarke
had served at Handstead in uniform before escaping to CID and latterly to a
Regional Crime Squad. He'd completed his five-year secondment to the squad
before returning to Force and had been horrified to learn he would be going
back to Horse's Arse.

    'Why,
what the fuck have I done?' he'd pleaded with his Detective Chief
Superintendent on the squad.

    'Sorry,
Bob,' the DCS had said, 'out of my hands now. I hear the place is like a
fucking war zone and they need some old heads. You're in the frame, old mate,'
and poured him another very large Scotch from the bottle he kept in his bottom
drawer.

    'Horse's
Arse, Horse's Arse,' Bob had kept repeating to himself. 'Jesus Christ. Horse's
Arse again.'

    Now
Clarke pulled himself gingerly from his chair and walked down the one flight of
stairs to the ground floor, through the front office and the station sergeant's
office, and into Custody. Collins looked up and smiled at him.

    'Hello,
Bob. Cheer up, I think we'll be able to deal with most of this lot without
involving you, but the Mafia are yours.' He passed across their eight custody
records. Clarke recognised all but one of the names.

    'Never
heard of Morgan, Andy. Is he definitely Mafia?'

    'Oh,
yes. Been with them about two months and made the most noise when he got
lifted. He's sobering up quicker than the others and I think his arsehole's
dropped out. First time he's been nicked as an adult and it's dawning on him
that he's all on his lonesome and in deep shit.'

    'I
think we'll concentrate on him first up, then,' said Clarke.

    'Most
definitely,' said Collins, who'd spotted the opportunity earlier and had
intended guiding them in that direction anyway. 'Who's on at eight to help
you?'

    'Benson,'
grinned Clarke.

    Andy
Collins and John Benson were very old mates and Collins gave a low, knowing
chuckle when he heard his former partner's name.

    'This
stupid little shit doesn't know what's coming, does he?' he said, taking the
custody records back from Clarke.

    The
Brothers had made their way to the Pound Court estate and driven quickly past
their target vehicle. It was in roughly the same place but facing in the
opposite direction to when they had last seen it.

    'Been
used, then. Today's the day,' said Jim quietly as he gazed out of his window.
'He won't be on the move until later. Spin past his house, H, and let's see if
there's any sign of life.'

    H
nodded and turned Yankee One towards Bolton Road where Frankie Turner lived.
Light drizzle had begun to fall and the still dark streets shone like black
marble. The intermittent wipers made an oddly comforting sound and the Brothers
listened with little more than passing interest to the early morning radio
traffic and static. Yankee One swished quietly the short distance to Bolton
Road through streets lined either side by parked cars and ruined, rutted,
iron-hard grass verges.

    Frankie
Turner was a 35-year-old unemployed carpet fitter who was serving a two-year
driving disqualification for his second drink driving offence. He had driven
from court the day he was disqualified and had continued to drive his
unregistered, untaxed and uninsured Ford Cortina ever since. He kept the
vehicle a short distance from his home but had made the mistake of initially
dumping it outside the bungalow of a sprightly 80-year- old widow. She knew
Frankie and had remonstrated with him one morning about leaving the rusting
hulk outside her house. He'd responded with a torrent of abuse and she'd
reciprocated with an anonymous phone call to Handstead police. The Brothers had
taken the job, and after some routine inquiries, Frankie was now in their
sights.

    They
drove past his house without slowing looking for signs of movement. All the
threadbare curtains were drawn but a weak light glowed in an upstairs bedroom
and two full milk bottles stood on the doorstep. The overgrown front garden had
a variety of broken children's toys deep in the long grass and the front door was
in such poor repair that the Brothers had initially not been able to see the
number on it. Most of the pebble-dash around the door had fallen away, exposing
the brickwork, and the single pane of glass had long ago been replaced by a
sheet of plywood.