Horse's Arse (13 page)

    'Yankee
One, he's come to grief big time at the boating lake. Request an ambulance on the
hurry up and supervisory for a vicinity only POLAC,' Jim said into the handset,
using the recognised code for Police Vehicle Accident. 'We are uninjured,
vehicle undamaged,' he added matter-of-factly as he replaced the handset. 'Nice
one, H. I think he's dead,' he said, opening his door. H didn't reply, but
couldn't see how Frankie could have survived the accident.

    The
Brothers walked over to the fence, through the gap that was to have been
Frankie's salvation and over to his crumpled body. His trainers had come off
during his flight, and his jeans and jacket were torn from his landing. A pool
of blood was forming under his head. His eyes were closed and he lay very pale
and still.

    'Hmm,
he looks well fucked,' said Jim, poking Frankie's back with his boot. Frankie
groaned and the Brothers took a step back.

    'Fuck
me, he's alive,' said H in amazement. 'Keep an eye on him, Jim. I'm going to
check the motor.' He walked back to Yankee One, knelt down at the front bumper
and examined it closely. The contacts with Frankie's back wheel had not marked
it at all and he smiled for the first time since the chase had started.

    'Not
a mark,' he called to Jim as he walked back to join him at the boating lake.
'How's he doing?'

    'You
bastard, you tried to kill me,' whispered Frankie.

    'He's
fine,' said Jim. 'By the way, Frankie, you're fucking nicked, and you owe me a
fiver, H.'

    Benson
and Clarke stood impatiently at the back of the custody sergeant's office as
Collins finished charging and bailing one of the other overnight prisoners.
They'd destroyed Morgan and thrown him back into his cell where he now lay
shaking and crying, still naked, on the floor. Clarke held the pages of the
interview on which now appeared Morgan's shaky signature. As the prisoner was
led out of the door, Collins looked up at the two detectives.

    'How'd
it go?'

    'Brilliant.
Got the lot, Andy,' said Clarke, indicating his papers. 'We've got the rest of
the team in the frame and an address for them.'

    'And
a cough from him?'

    'Oh,
yeah. He can be charged whenever you like. We'll get him to court this
afternoon and get him banged up. With a bit of luck we can get them all by the
end of the day.'

    'Result.
Where are the others?'

    'All
crashing at Alan Baker's flat at the Grant Flowers. They should all be there,
according to Morgan. We need to get a team together to put the door in. Who's
patrol skipper today?'

    'Mick
Jones,' replied Collins.

    'Who,
Mick Jones? Who's he?' queried Benson.

    'Yeah,
fresh meat just got here from Alpha Sierra,' said Collins. 'He should be
floating around somewhere. Have a word with him and see who he can lay his
hands on.'

    'Thanks,
Andy. We'll sort out a warrant and get a team together. Can we leave Morgan to
you?'

    'Yeah,
sure. But what about the other Mafia?'

    'We'll
be back for them later. They'll all be no comment interviews so they can
fucking stew. By the way, Morgan's going to need a new suit,' said Clarke.

    'OK,
I'll deal with him in a minute. Let me know if you're going to be bringing
bodies in and I'll clear some cells out.'

    'We'll
keep in touch,' said Benson as he and Clarke left the room.

    They
walked quickly back up the stairs, pausing only to comment on the strong smell
of piss in the corridor, and back into the CID office. Two other officers were
at their desks.

    'I'll
sort out the warrant, Bob,' said Benson, opening a drawer in his desk,
replacing the rubber bands and taking out a black hardback book. He looked at
his watch. Nine thirty: the colonel should be awake by now. He opened the book,
found what he was looking for and dialled a number. The phone was answered
quickly.

    'Good
morning. This is DC John Benson from Handstead police station. Could I speak to
Colonel Mortimer please?' He paused and shortly spoke again. 'Morning, Colonel,
John Benson from Handstead.'

    'Good
morning, John. How are you?'

    'Ticking
over, Colonel. You know how it is.'

    The colonel
laughed. 'What can I do for you, John?'

    'The
Mafia went on the rampage last night and GBH'd a pub landlord. We've got some
of them banged up here, but the others are all in a flat at the Grant Flowers
flats. I'm after a warrant to go and pay them an unexpected visit.'

    'How
soon do you need it?'

    'Ideally,
now, Colonel. I can pop straight over if it's convenient.'

    'Can
you be here in ten minutes, John? I need to go out this morning.'

    'I'm
leaving now,' said Benson. 'I'll be with you in five.'

    'Fine.
The kettle's on,' said the colonel, putting down the phone. Benson turned to
Clarke.

    'Just
nipping out to get the warrant sorted, Bob. Be about half an hour,' he said.

    'Thanks,
John. I'll get a team together. As soon as you're back we'll make a start.'

    Benson
grabbed a set of car keys from a row of hooks by the office door and hurried
down the stairs to the back yard. Clarke picked up his phone and dialled the
sergeant's office downstairs. It rang for several minutes before an
out-of-breath voice answered it.

    'Sergeant
Jones.'

    'Hello,
sarge. Bob Clarke from the CID. Andy Collins tells me you're patrol today.'

    'That's
right,' said Jones, slumping into a chair as he recovered from yet another dash
to the toilet. 'What's up?'

    'We
need to go out shortly to lift the other Mafia involved in the GBH on the
landlord. We're going to need some of your finest. How many can you let me
have?'

    Jones
hadn't a clue how many officers he had working that morning, or about the job
that Clarke was referring to. His muster had been a nightmare he was trying to
forget and he could only vaguely remember reading their names out, never mind
their numbers.

    He
paused. 'We're a bit tucked up this morning. I think the area car's busy. Have
you tried getting hold of the Patrol Group?'

    'I
need to do this on the hurry up,' said Clarke, quickly becoming exasperated. 'I
can't wait for the patrol Group to get here. You must have a few bodies spare.
You can come along, can't you? There's one?'

    Jones
was horrified. Go out on a job? At his last nick the skippers shined their
arses for eight hours before they went home. It hadn't even had a cell block
where they could be gainfully employed. Go out on a job in Horse's Arse? This
guy must be fucking joking.

    'Oh,
I don't know about that,' he stammered. 'I think you'd better speak to
Inspector Greaves. He's the Early Turn guvner, and he might not want to take
officers off the street. He's in his office, I think,' he added, trying to sound
helpful.

    'Wonderful.
You've been a great help,' said Clarke curtly, slamming down the phone. At the
other end, Jones stared briefly at his receiver before replacing it and
hurrying off to the toilets again.

    'Problems?'
asked one of the other DCs in the office as Clarke banged the flats of his
hands on his desk.

    'The
fucking woodentops are being awkward again,' he snapped. 'I need a hand to lift
some of the Mafia and I get some arsehole skipper telling me they're too busy.'

    'If you
need a hand, Bob, I'm about most of the morning,' said the DC.

    'Appreciate
it,' said Clarke, picking up a station directory to find the number for the
duty inspector's office.

    Jeff
Greaves lay back in his chair in the inspector's office and closed his eyes.
His soaked slippers and socks were drying on the radiator behind him and he had
a huge grin on his face. He'd locked the door to avoid being visited
unexpectedly and to give him time to prepare if necessary.

    Greaves
had been a career detective who'd fallen foul of a previous Assistant Chief
Constable who viewed the CID as a whole with grave suspicion. Not without
reason, it had to be admitted, but when Greaves had appeared before a
discipline board chaired by him, facing charges of falsehood and prevarication
following the collapse of a robbery trial, there could be only one outcome. His
return to uniform, but without loss of rank, was generally viewed as not a bad
result; but the consequence that only the detectives in the Force took into
account was the huge financial loss it meant to Greaves. As a DI he had earned
vast sums in overtime alongside the occasional bung he took, as was the norm.
Back in uniform, overtime for a divisional inspector was as rare as
rocking-horse shit, and decent earners virtually non-existent. It was the loss
of money that really hurt Greaves and he had resolved to make the Force pay.
Very few people were aware of what he was up to.

    His
plans to be pensioned out of the Job on the grounds of ill health had been
carefully discussed with his wife and a few chosen confidants. After eighteen
months at Horse's Arse playing the part of a broken dribbler, his mental
breakdown was well documented. It had been his wife's idea that he come to work
in his slippers, and he had to admit it had been inspired. He'd noticed the odd
glances and shakes of the head his appearance had prompted. He knew the story
would be round the nick before lunch. 'Heard about that mad sod Greaves? Turned
up for Early Turn in his slippers, absolutely pissed through.' He laughed
quietly to himself. It was only a matter of time before Gillard sent him to see
the Force doctor and he was confident he could do a number on him. Everything
he now said and did was part of the master plan. His piece de resistance was
scheduled for next month when he was due to receive his Long Service and Good
Conduct medal (despite his discipline record) from the Chief after twenty-two
years' service. He would wear his light grey suit and wet himself as he and the
Chief posed for photographs before bursting into tears. The assembled senior
officers and members of the Police Committee would be horrified, and he'd be
out of the door like a greyhound a few days later. He would be sorry to
sacrifice his grey suit, but it would be worth it.

    He
settled deeper into his chair with his hands folded in his lap and his bare
feet up on the desk. With luck, he'd be working with his brother Ian in a few
months, doing a job not dissimilar to his old one. Ian, who was two years
younger, was an ex-DS who had left the Force some years earlier as the fallout
from a corruption inquiry touched on the Regional Crime Squad he had been an
active member of. His involvement with a bent DI from Liverpool, who had been
virtually running a team of blaggers, had surfaced during the inquiry. Whilst
he had avoided criminal prosecution (the DI went to prison) he was left in no
doubt as to where his future lay, or rather did not lie. He had resigned and
now ran a private investigations business which had proved enormously
profitable. He employed numerous serving police officers on an unofficial,
casual, part-time basis, and had almost unlimited access to information and
facilities through them. He got results and paid handsomely for them. His unofficial
employees were looked after and they knew he would never let them down. For
many of them, working for him had become their primary source of income.
Greaves had done a couple of very profitable jobs for him, and when Ian had
proposed that he join him as a partner, there really hadn't been much to think
about. He had agreed to plough most of his retirement lump sum into his
brothers business and the good times beckoned. First, though, he had to get out
of this fucking job and into his index- linked pension.

    He
began to drift off as he listened to the rain driving against the office window
and the elderly radiator gurgling and banging behind him. He was shaken from
his slumber by the sound of the phone. He let it ring for a while as he
composed himself and got into character.

    'Hello?'
he said timidly.

    'Inspector
Greaves?' said a firm voice at the other end.

    'The
shoes aren't mine and the spoons arrive tomorrow.'

    'Fuck
off, Jeff. It's Bob Clarke and I need your approval for something.'

    Greaves
relaxed and laughed. He and Clarke had been on the RCS together and Clarke was
one of the few in the know.