Horse's Arse (7 page)

    'No
more, Andy, he's had enough. Come with us, son. We've got lots to chat about,
haven't we?'

    Morgan
almost ran into Clarke's welcoming arms, passing Collins like a recently beaten
dog. Father-like, Clarke put an arm round his shaking shoulders as he led him
out of the cell into the corridor and towards the nearby interview room.

    'Bloke's
a fucking basket case,' Clarke said pleasantly.

    'You're
not kidding. Fuck me, I thought he was going to kill me. What's up with him?'

    'Always
been like that, but he's slowing up a bit now. Still got quite a punch on him,
though.'

    Morgan
ruefully rubbed his forehead, which felt as if he'd been kicked by a horse. 'He
fucking decked me back there. I'm going to have his job, the old cunt. I want
to complain about him.'

    Clarke
guided Morgan into the interview room, followed closely by Benson, who was
grinning from ear to ear.

    'Who
do I complain to . . .?' Morgan had started before Benson punched him as hard
as he could in the back of the head. Morgan crashed face first into the far
wall and slumped to the floor. His nose had burst on impact and the front of
his tea- stained paper suit began to turn crimson. He shook his swimming head
and turned, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, to face the CID officers. As his vision
cleared he saw the man who had floored him. Benson was as large as his mate Collins,
with jet- black, shoulder-length hair parted on one side, huge sideburns and a
Frank Zappa moustache. His deep-set, piggy brown eyes sparkled with malicious
glee and he smiled as he spoke to Morgan.

    'I
deal with all complaints at this station. Who exactly do you want to complain
about? Tell me what happened and I'll see to it that the culprit is dealt with
immediately.' He towered over the prostrate Morgan and stood with his hands on
his hips.

    'No
one, no one. I've made a mistake,' said Morgan slowly.

    'I
like you. You remind me of when I was young and stupid.' Benson reached down,
took hold of the hair at the nape of Morgan's neck and lifted him from the
floor. Morgan screamed in agony and clutched desperately at Benson's huge hand
as the detective led him to a wooden chair behind a desk. The chair faced away
from the door towards a blank wall, thus ensuring that interviewees would only
be able to concentrate on their interrogators. Benson pushed him into the chair
and he and Clarke pulled up chairs opposite him. Morgan sat trembling looking
at them, rubbing his neck and occasionally wiping his still bleeding nose. His
eyes were the size of saucers and he was panting with fright.

    'Do
you smoke?' asked Benson.

    'Yeah.'

    Benson
took a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, handed one to Clarke, took
one himself and lit both with a lighter. He took a deep drag and blew the smoke
towards Morgan who looked questioningly at him.

    'I
wasn't offering you one, you prick.'

    Morgan
looked desperately at Clarke, who was blowing smoke rings to the ceiling.
Clarke smiled. He and Benson were only warming up.

    'Got
something for you to sign, young man,' he said, indicating the papers on the
desk in front of him.

    'You're
having a fucking laugh. I ain't signing fuck all.'

    The
CID officers looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.

    'That
suit looks uncomfortable,' said Benson.

    'It's
fine. You bastards took my clothes.'

    'It's
all messed up. Looks like you've dribbled down the front.'

    'That
old cunt chucked tea all over me.'

    'And
there's claret all over it.'

    'You
should fucking know.'

    'Take
it off and we'll get you a clean one once we've sorted things out.'

    'Bollocks.
My brief will want to see the mess I'm in.'

    'Brief?
Which fucking brief would that be? No one knows you're here, you twat.'

    Morgan
swallowed hard. 'I ain't taking it off. It's fine.'

    'It's
upsetting me, all that mess. Best you get it off,' said Benson, getting to his
feet and walking round the desk to stand behind Morgan. 'Let me give you a
hand.' He tore the flimsy suit off Morgan's back, throwing handfuls of paper
over his shoulder until Morgan sat hunched and completely naked in his chair.
Benson returned to his seat. He and Clarke smoked another cigarette each and
stared at Morgan who remained still, his head down, looking at the floor.

    'Don't
know about you, John, but I can hardly see the short- arsed little bastard. I
can't talk to the top of his head,' said Clarke.

    'Stand
up, boy.'

    'Bollocks.'
Morgan had a spark of spirit left.

    'On
your feet,' hissed Benson menacingly through clenched teeth.

    Morgan
raised his head when he heard Benson's chair scrape as he pushed it back and
walked around the table.

    'UP,'
Benson screamed, taking hold of Morgan's hair with both hands and yanking him
to his feet. Morgan yelped with pain and grabbed at Benson's hands in a vain
attempt to free himself.

    'See him
properly yet, Bob?'

    'He's
too small. Still can't see enough.'

    With
one hand, Benson reached down and grabbed Morgan's testicles, and in one
agonising movement lifted him on to the table. Bent double with pain, Morgan
crouched there with tears running down his face as the two detectives watched
him dispassionately. As the pain eased he gradually stood upright, clasping his
aching genitals in both hands. Benson and Clarke began to circle him like
vultures. Morgan turned with them, desperately trying to keep both in view.
Benson then produced the essential interview item he had brought with him from
the CID office: a two-foot length of industrial packing band which he began to
stretch. Morgan stopped turning and stared at him.

    'We're
going to need your signature on this interview and some names, son.'

    'I
can't do that, you know I can't,' stammered Morgan. 'Fuck off, you bastards,
you know I can't.'

    Behind
him, Clarke stretched his own two-foot elastic band wide and released it with a
resounding thwack into Morgan's buttocks. Morgan collapsed screaming on to the
table before crashing to the floor. A deep purple welt was already in evidence
as the detectives hauled the sobbing boy to his feet and threw him back on to
the table. Then the interview began in earnest.

    Piggy
and Ally had left the station shortly after the Brothers and made their way
directly to the rear of a 24-hour transport cafe just off the nearby motorway.
The proprietor, standing at the front window, saw their panda car pull up and
raised his eyebrows to the heavens. Another two free breakfasts pissed up the
wall, but when he recognised Piggy struggling out of the driver's seat he knew
only two breakfasts would be a right result.

    'Doreen,
that greedy fat fucker's back. How are we for everything?' he shouted over his shoulder
towards the kitchen.

    Doreen
knew whom he meant and walked to the window wiping her hands on her filthy
apron.

    'Oh,
Christ,' she sighed, 'he doesn't stop. Do you think he ever bothers to eat at
home? Look at the size of the bastard.'

    Piggy
was waddling, at speed for him, towards the back door, rubbing his hands
together at the thought of a lovely big, free 'fat boy' breakfast. He saw the
owner and his wife looking mournfully out of the window and waved cheerfully.

    'Morning,
Derek. We were just in the area,' he shouted. Any chance. . .?' He knew full
well there was every chance of a freebie.

    'Can't
even get my fucking name right,' hissed the owner, smiling through gritted
teeth and waving back. He walked to the back door, opened it and greeted the
two officers like a maitre d', albeit an unshaven, twenty-stone one clad only
in a pair of filthy tracksuit bottoms and a string vest.

    'Hello,
boys, how's things? Fancy a spot of breakfast?' he said, standing aside as
Piggy bustled in.

    'You're
a diamond, Derek. Only if you can spare it. Something smells good,' Piggy said
cheerfully, pulling up a chair to the table in the middle of the kitchen. He
glanced towards the main serving hatch to the cafe. 'Business good, then?'

    'Can't
complain. Good days and bad days, you know how it is,' replied the owner,
looking anxiously at his customers who had also seen Piggy and Ally arrive and
were clearing their plates as quickly as possible.

    'What
can I get you, boys? The full works? Cup of tea and bread and butter with it?'
He was keen to get his unwelcome visitors on their way as quickly as possible.

    'Hope
it's real butter, not that shit you normally slap on', said Ally sourly,
standing by the door with his hands in his pockets. The owner laughed
nervously.

    'Nothing
but the best for you, lads. Doreen, full breakfasts for the boys with all the
trimmings,' he shouted towards the back of the kitchen. With her back to them,
Doreen didn't reply, but cleared her throat and spat quietly into the frying
pan as she cracked some eggs on the rim. Piggy smiled contentedly as he
listened to the contents of the pan start to sizzle.

    'Can't
beat a good fry-up on a shite morning like this,' he said to no one in
particular.

    'Since
when did the weather become an excuse for you to fill your face?' said Ally,
pulling up a chair opposite him. Piggy ignored the barb and again glanced at
the rapidly emptying cafe.

    'Where
the fuck are they off to in such a hurry? This place is normally heaving. Hope
it's nothing to do with us, Derek,' he said in all innocence.

    'Christ
no, of course not. Probably all got things to do. They'll be back later, don't
worry.'

    Piggy
couldn't give a toss if they came back or not, but felt he should show some
sort of gratitude for his free breakfast. 'Well, I hope not. I know it must be
difficult to make a business like this profitable.'

    Especially
when a fat bastard like you eats me out of house and home for fuck all every
time you turn up, thought the owner venomously as he placed mugs of tea in
front of the officers with a big cheesy grin. Ally said nothing but took his
mug in both hands and gingerly sipped the weak brown liquid. He immediately
spat it on to the floor in a huge spray.

    'Fuck
me,' he yelled. 'Is it me, Piggy, or is this tea absolute piss or what? Have
you had your knob in the tea pot?' he bellowed at the startled owner. Piggy
looked at his partner in horror. He could see his free breakfast disappearing
into the distance.

    'You've
put that fucking evil long life milk in it, haven't you?' continued Ally, who
was eyeing the remaining contents of his mug with suspicion.

    'Bloody
hell, sorry about that,' said the owner, hurriedly taking the mug from him.
'I'll do you another one, full cream milk, OK?'

    As he
poured the offending tea down the sink, Piggy leant across the table and hissed
at Ally, 'Will you fucking behave? I'm hoping to get a spot of breakfast
without you fucking things up. Just behave and we'll be on our way.'

    Ally
looked at Piggy with unadulterated scorn. 'You make my skin crawl, Piggy, you
greedy fat scrote. You know I fucking hate coming here poncing food off that
slag,' he whispered as he leant forward to go nose to nose with Piggy. 'He's a
fucking villain and needs locking up.'

    'A
villain? What the fuck are you on about?'

    'Jesus
Christ, Piggy, where the fuck have you been? He's a fence, one of the busiest
on the Division. How many of those arseholes who've been leaving since we got
here do you think were here to refresh themselves? They were here to buy and
sell bent gear.'

    Piggy
looked at him in amazement. 'Derek, a fence?' he finally gasped. 'How do you
know?'

    Ally
rolled his eyes to the ceiling and leant back in his chair. 'His name's Reggie,
Reggie Dawes. Not Derek. Never has been, you twat. He's been in the frame as a
fence for years. Have you ever bothered to read any of the stuff coming out of
the collator's office? All those fags whizzed out of that bonded warehouse at
Bandley last month apparently came through this shithole.'