Horse's Arse (6 page)

    Upstairs
in the lit bedroom, Frankie Turner lay fast asleep in bed whilst his common law
wife sat on the edge of the mattress breastfeeding their fifth child. The
infant shared the room with his parents whilst the other four children, all under
six years, were still asleep in rooms across the landing. Frankie had not been
in long after a hard night with his card school. He'd gambled and drunk away
what little money the family had, but consoled himself with the thought that
he'd collect his benefit that morning. Perhaps the ugly cow wouldn't notice.
Not that he was bothered if she did. She'd remonstrated with him once and he'd
punched her front teeth down her throat. Now she had nothing to say about
anything. The gurgling child disturbed Frankie who rolled over and yelled,
'Keep the fucking brat quiet, woman,' before pulling a pillow over his head.
She briefly considered lying across it and smothering the bastard, but knew she
was physically no match for him and didn't need another hammering. Silently she
wished him the very worst.

    Outside,
in the dark and increasingly heavy drizzle, listening quietly to the radio and
passing occasional comment on what they heard, were the answers to her prayers.
The Brothers were now killing time until Frankie made his move. They reckoned
he'd leave for the benefit office about 9.30 a.m. to give himself plenty of
time for the 10 a.m. opening. Even if they missed him going, they knew they
could get him on his way home.

    They
cruised the north area of the town doing nothing more than showing the flag to
the few residents out and about. Without looking at him, H silently
contemplated his partner of the last two years. Jim was a man of few words who
chose his friends carefully and remained fiercely loyal to them once chosen. He
was slightly over six foot tall and very slim, with not an ounce of excess fat
on him. His three years' service with the Parachute Regiment had included a
tour of Ulster and he had been in Londonderry on Bloody Sunday. That was
shortly before he left the army to become a police officer, and there was
little doubt in H's mind that events in Ulster had fashioned the man he now
worked with. He never showed any fear or hesitation, and to those who knew him
only slightly he appeared withdrawn and almost shy. With H, he had immediately
felt comfortable, and despite their hugely different backgrounds they had
gelled immediately.

    Married
with two young children, Jim was a devoted family man. Whilst he enjoyed a
drink with the Relief, he never strayed and always went home. For a man who
worked the way he did, H always felt that was something of a paradox. They were
inseparable at work but strangely saw little of each other off duty. The fact
that they lived some distance apart had something to do with that, but
subconsciously both the Brothers kept their work and home lives as separate as
possible. Neither ever took the job home with him, preferring not to inflict
what he had seen and done on his unknowing family. Both men, from decent
families and with inherently honest intentions, had adopted personae and
characters to fit the environment in which they worked and their families would
never have recognised the pair at work.

    H had
a daughter a little over nine months old, who in his eyes was the best thing ever
to happen to him. She was the surprising product of a lengthy, loveless and
soulless marriage from which he frequently sought relief. But he was discreet
and went to great lengths again to keep that compartment of his life separate
from the others. Some of the Brothers' colleagues considered their lack of
banter and conversation to be a sign that they merely tolerated each other. The
reverse was true. Each knew the other inside out and could predict how he would
respond in any situation. They knew instinctively who would throw the first
punch and when. Conversation was often superfluous.

    H
took Yankee One back into the near vicinity of Frankie's car and parked up on a
used car forecourt, in amongst the cars for sale. Frankie would have to pass
them on his way into town.

    The
first watery glimpses of daylight began to filter through the high reinforced
windows of the cell in which Danny Morgan sat nervously on the hard wooden bed.
Other than a badly stained toilet, the cell was empty. The toilet was full to
the brim, but could only be flushed from outside the cell and his requests to
have it flushed had all been firmly rejected. The cell stank of its many past
occupants and the yellowing gloss walls were covered in graffiti, much of it
dated by its various authors. A lot of it concerned the officers responsible
for their arrests, but a surprising amount related to real or imaginary grasses
held responsible for the writer's predicament. There really was little honour
amongst thieves.

    Morgan
had read it all a dozen times since he had woken and as the minutes passed he
began to ponder on his plight. He had turned seventeen just two months ago and
within weeks of his birthday had begun to run with the Mafia. He had been born
and bred on the Park Royal, and it was the natural progression for a youth of
little intelligence and even less imagination. His first few weeks had involved
not much more than some window- smashing, a spot of shoplifting and the stoning
of a passing police car. He had got away with that, as he had with numerous
minor crimes as a juvenile, but now he was in deep, deep shit and he knew it.

    The
Mafia decision to 'run' the pub on the neighbouring Lower Park estate - which
simply involved jumping the bar, threatening the staff and then serving
themselves for free all night - had gone horribly wrong from his point of view.
Generally nobody resisted, but this time the relief manager of the Hoop and
Grapes had fought back. Before he fought back, he'd phoned the nick, and of the
fifteen Mafia kicking the shit out of him, eight had been captured in the pub.
Morgan, on his first major outing with the Mafia, had smashed the vodka bottle
on the manager's head and then stabbed him in the back of the head with the
broken neck of the bottle. He'd been nicked trying to get out of a toilet
window, covered in the manager's blood with shards of glass in his clothing and
hair. He was fucked, and as he sat on the bed, shoeless and wearing a white
paper suit to replace his own clothes which had been seized as evidence, he
began to weigh up his options.

    The
uniformed officers who'd nicked him had taken a little payback on him with
their sticks and his body ached from the beating. He could cope with that -
what he couldn't handle was the prospect of prison.

    'They'll
love you in Strangeways, pretty boy,' one of the officers had sneered. 'You'll
end up with an arsehole big enough to turn a bus round in.'

    'Yeah?
Well fuck you,' Morgan had shouted as he tried to brave it out in the cell
corridor, largely for the benefit of the other Mafia he knew were also there.
He'd been lifted off his feet by a ferocious kick in the bollocks and had
vomited from the pain. He felt dreadful and genuinely feared for his safety
now. A huge, grey-haired sergeant had come into his cell earlier and lifted him
from the bed by his windpipe.

    'Your
mum's not coming for you, boy, and you can poke a solicitor up your arse,' he'd
growled at him. Collins had seen the fear in Morgan's eyes and knew he was
nearly broken. 'You tell the nice detectives what they need to know and you'll
be on your way. Otherwise - well, you don't want to think about otherwise.'

    He'd
thrown Morgan back on to the bed, smiled at him and left, slamming the door
behind him. The echo lasted some seconds. Morgan had called out the names of
some of the other Mafia he knew had been nicked but had got no response. Some
of them had heard him calling and were worried. He was young and soft, and they
knew the police would go to town on him first. Morgan had quickly become a
liability and a very real threat to their future liberty.

    As he
sat wringing his hands together, Collins came to the feeding hatch at the cell
door. 'Breakfast, Morgan,' he called, and placed a paper plate with bacon,
eggs, beans and toast on the open hatch next to a steaming cup of tea. Morgan's
heart and spirits soared.

    'Thanks,'
he said, getting to his feet and moving towards the hatch. As he reached out to
take the plate and cup, Collins hit them both with the flats of his hands,
sending the scalding tea into Morgan's chest and the food on to the filthy cell
floor.

    'Got
to be quicker than that, boy,' the sergeant said quietly.

    'You
cunt,' screamed Morgan, staggering back holding his scalding chest and slipping
on what remained of his breakfast. 'You fucking old cunt, you've fucking
scalded me. Look what you've fucking done.'

    Collins
unlocked the cell door and walked slowly up to Morgan. He took the cigarette
out of his mouth as he spoke. 'That's a very naughty word to use,' he said.
'Don't you ever call me old again,' and he punched Morgan between the eyes with
a jab that would have felled a bison and Morgan never saw coming. Morgan
slumped back on to his bed semi-conscious, only vaguely aware that the sergeant
was leaving the cell.

    The
phone on his desk was ringing as Collins settled back into his chair and
replaced his fag. He picked up the receiver.

    'Custody.'

    'Dr
Collins?'

    He
recognised the voice immediately as John Benson's and smiled. 'Hello, John.
How's things? Has Bob Clarke spoken to you yet?'

    'Yeah,
he's just getting the interview ready now. Can we come down in about five
minutes?'

    'Should
be fine, John. Patient's prepped and ready for his operation.'

    'Fucking
hell, Andy,' said Benson. 'How bad is he? Is he going to be able to talk to
us?'

    'He'll
be fine, don't worry. Just a local anaesthetic, nothing serious.'

    Benson
knew exactly what had happened. The CID had come to rely on Collins 'prepping'
their subjects prior to interview, but on a number of occasions they'd had to
deal with prisoners barely capable of speech.

    'I
fucking hope so. We're going to need the names of the little shits that didn't
get caught last night.'

    'Relax,
big man, you'll get what you need. See you in five minutes,' said Collins,
putting the phone down.

    In
the CID office Benson turned to Clarke who was busy putting the finishing touches
to a contemporaneous interview that Morgan would later sign. It was a work of
art, complete with requisite crossings out, spelling mistakes, and gaps for
inserting names, and amounted to a full and frank admission that implicated all
the Mafia team that had been in the pub.

    'Andy's
prepared the patient,' Benson said.

    Clarke
looked up from his desk, which was strewn with statements concerning the attack
on the landlord. He looked slightly worried. 'How bad is he?'

    'Says
he's OK. I said we'll be down in five minutes.'

    'I
fucking hope so. I'm nearly done, John. Have a look for me, will you?' He
handed the completed pages of the interview to Benson, who quickly scanned the
questions and answers. He nodded admiringly.

    'Very
nice. Still, I think we'll have some sport with the little bastard as well.'

    Even
though they had more than enough forensic evidence to nail Morgan, Clarke and
Benson wanted much more. They knew that the other, older and harder members of
the Mafia would refuse to speak to them, or even acknowledge their presence in
the same room. They also knew that the manager and his staff would be
intimidated in the weeks to come and their few independent witnesses would
slowly but surely stop talking to them. They were confident the manager would
pick out most of the culprits on the identification parades they planned to
hold, but getting him to court would be much more difficult. It was always nice
to have an early confession naming names along the way. They'd worry about
court appearances later.

    'You
about done, Bob?' Benson opened his desk drawer and removed the items he needed
for the coming interview.

    'Finished,'
Clarke replied, boxing the papers neatly between his hands. 'Got one for me?'
he asked, indicating the interview items Benson was holding. Benson tossed one
towards him, and he caught it in mid-air and tucked it into his trouser pocket.

    The
pair strode purposefully out of the CID office and down to the custody block
where Collins looked up and grinned as they entered.

    'He
can't wait to see you two.'

    'I'll
bet,' said Clarke. 'How is he?'

    'Cooking
nicely. Should be about done now,' said Collins, collecting his cell keys and
leading the CID officers down into the dingy cell corridor. He peered through
Morgan's cell door peephole and saw that Morgan was now sitting on the edge of
his bed holding his head in both hands. He sprang to his feet at the sound of
the key in the lock and backed against the wall as Collins walked quickly towards
him like the executioner come for his man shortly before the 9 a.m. drop.
Theatrically, Clarke stepped in front of Collins and put an arm across his
chest.