Horse's Arse (14 page)

    'Hello,
Bob. Sorry about that, but I can't be too careful. What do you want from me
then — me, just a fucking woodentop?'

    Clarke
laughed. 'Woodentops is about right. Fuck me, I've just been speaking to your
Sergeant Jones about taking some of your boys out to nick the rest of the
Mafia, and all I get is him giving me a load of bollocks about being too busy.
Said I should speak to you.'

    Greaves
decided to prolong Clarke's annoyance. 'Oh, he's quite right, Bob,' he said.
'We've got motorists to fuck about and lost dogs to round up and you're whining
about nicking villains. Dearie me, what are you thinking of? Where are your
priorities?'

    Clarke
was momentarily stunned before both men began to laugh. 'OK, you loony bastard,
sulk over. Can you help me out?'

    'Sure,
Bob. How many are you looking to nick?'

    'Could
be as many as seven.'

    'Fuck
me. Seven addresses to do?'

    'No,
no, they should all be in a flat at the Grant Flowers.'

    'That
makes things easier, but you're still going to need a few, aren't you? I can
take it they'll play up?'

    'Not
much doubt about that.' Clarke began to read from the interview he had in front
of him. 'Alan Baker - it's his flat - Danny and Cliff Reilly, Bobby Driscoll,
Peter Thomas, Des Anderson and that mad slag Myra Baldwin. Quite a collection.'

    Greaves
whistled softly. 'Fuck me. A full house, and pretty much their hard core. Be a right
result to take the whole team out, wouldn't it? How many you got locked up at
the moment?'

    'Eight.
We've interviewed one and got these names from him. The others won't give us
the time of day, but this soft little shit gave us everything. If we get all
fifteen we'll have pretty much sorted the Mafia.'

    'Yeah,
you're right, Bob. You can have whatever you need. Tell that wanker Jones I've
given you a blank cheque. If he fucks you about get hold of me on the hurry up.
Let me know how it goes, won't you?'

    'Thanks
Jeff,' said Clarke. 'Why don't you come along? Could be fun.'

    'Bob,
I'm mad,' he replied, 'but not that mad.'

    John
Benson drove the unmarked CID car up the sweeping gravel drive to the front
door of Colonel Mortimer's imposing detached house, which stood in its own
grounds on the outskirts of Handstead. Quickly, he filled in the blank warrant
he had brought with him, resting it on the vehicle's logbook. Tucking it into
his jacket, he crunched up to the steps, which were flanked by two large,
mildewed dragons.

    He
rang the bell and waited for a few moments until the colonel himself opened it.
He smiled when he saw Benson, extended a handshake and ushered him in. As he
was led towards the study, Bension considered the magistrate he had come to
see. A man the CID at Handstead had come to rely on, Mortimer was in his late
fifties, a former Ordnance Corps bomb disposal officer, with ice water running
through his veins. During his three years on the bench, he had become the scourge
of the local villains. He dominated his colleagues, and in reality every
verdict that was handed down was his verdict. Defence solicitors would move
heaven and earth to get their cases shifted from his court, and God help the
lawyer defending a client charged with assaulting a police officer. Peering
over his half-moon spectacles, Mortimer would regularly interrupt defence
submissions with gems like Are you seriously asking this court to believe such
an unlikely event?' or 'Please, please, you are beginning to enter the realms
of fantasy now.'

    One
memorable morning, a defence brief had been pleading on behalf of a client to
pay a fine in 50p instalments. 'I imposed a fine on your client,' Mortimer had
snapped, 'I did not invite him to join a book club,' before substituting the
fine with a gaol sentence. He was a regular guest and speaker at police
functions, and would take his lunch in the station canteen if he had a morning
court. Over a convivial brandy at the bar after lunch, he regularly took the
opportunity to discuss with CID officers cases that were likely to arrive
before him in the future. He was a godsend, but the CID were careful not to
take him for granted and occasionally bit the bullet and went to other
magistrates.

    Mortimer
motioned Benson to a deep, green leather chesterfield, and sat down opposite
him. A large mahogany grandfather clock in the corner of the study chimed the
quarter to the hour.

    "What
have you got for me then, John?' Mortimer asked. He liked Benson because he
detected in him some of the hooligan that he had been as a young soldier.

    'The
landlord of the Hoop and Grapes had the living shit kicked out of him last
night by fifteen Mafia. We captured eight at the scene; the other seven are in a
flat at the Grant Flowers.'

    'Where
did you get that information from?'

    'We
interviewed one of the eight this morning. He made a full confession and
volunteered the names of the others,' said Benson, smiling.

    'Interviewed,
was he?' said the colonel, his eyes sparkling. He remembered the interviews
he'd conducted when he served in Aden and the admissions he'd obtained. 'Are
you sure he's telling the truth?'

    'As
sure as I can be, Colonel. We've got him bang to rights with forensic and an
admission to his involvement. I'd say he was telling the truth.'

    'Good,
good, John. Got something for me to sign?'

    Benson
reached into his jacket pocket and handed over the prepared search warrant. The
colonel quickly read it and signed the bottom, then got to his feet and handed
the warrant back. Shaking Benson's hand again, he led him back to the front
door.

    'I
know I promised you a cup of tea, John, but I'm going to have to kick you out
without one. I've got to be elsewhere at ten.'

    'Don't
worry about it, Colonel. I appreciate you seeing me so quickly. Perhaps another
time, and maybe something stronger?'

    'Definitely,'
replied the colonel. 'By the way, I assume your miscreants will be at court
some time today?'

    'Not
till after lunch, probably,' said Benson.

    The
colonel nodded. 'Excellent. I'm sitting this afternoon. I take it you'll be
making applications to refuse bail in all cases?'

    Benson
laughed loudly. 'See you this afternoon then, colonel. Look after yourself.'

    He
got back into the car and drove away. Mortimer watched the car turn on to the
main road and looked at his watch. He still had plenty of time to get to his
stress-relieving massage appointment. Put him in a better mood to deal with
that scum this afternoon. Especially if he got that damn fine little wog girl
again. That reminded him of Aden as well.

    Pat
Gillard was teasing his bouffant back into place in front of the mirror in his
office when there was a single knock at his door and Hilary Bott flounced in.
He had showered and changed and was once again fragrant; his mood had improved
considerably, but he raised his eyes to the ceiling as Bott heaved into view
and his spirits plunged. He hated it when she just walked in without waiting to
be summoned. The woman was starting to drive him mad. She looked at the sodden,
stinking pile of uniform by the door.

    'Morning,
sir. Problems?' she asked brightly.

    He
glared at her before walking to his desk and sitting down. 'Nothing I can't
handle, thank you, Hilary. What can I do for you?' He couldn't hide the
contempt and boredom in his voice.

    'I
thought you might like to know that the area car's taken out a motorcyclist in
Grosvenor Park. The rider's on his way to hospital with two broken legs and a
broken collarbone.'

    'Grosvenor
Park? What the fuck were they doing in Grosvenor Park?'

    'Chasing
the bike. It's a lost or stolen, apparently.'

    'Thank
fuck for that. Who was driving?'

    'One
of the Brothers,' said Bott darkly. Neither spoke for a moment as they held eye
contact.

    'It's
all kosher, I take it?' said Gillard finally.

    'Apparently,'
replied Bott, 'but knowing those two I can't believe there isn't more to it. I
believe the rider was a disqualified driver they'd been after for a while.'

    'Are
we dealing with it as a POLAC?' asked Gillard.

    'They
called it in as a vicinity only and asked for a supervisor to attend.'

    'Who's
gone down?'

    'No
one yet. They can't find the patrol sergeant so I suppose we'll have to send
Jeff Greaves. He's Early Turn inspector.'

    'Greaves?
Are you mad, woman?' said Gillard, raising his voice. 'He's likely to turn up
stark bollock naked, if he gets there at all. He's as mad as a March hare; I
don't want him going anywhere near this.' Inspiration began to come to him. He
could get rid of her for the day. 'No, I want you to take this on,' he
continued. 'Get down to the scene and speak to the Brothers, and then on to the
hospital to see the rider. Make sure you get a Traffic Accident investigator to
the scene as well. You've obviously got a feel for this, Hilary, so I think you
should deal. Anything else?'

    Bott
stood and stared open-mouthed at him. 'You want me to deal?' she spluttered
finally.

    'Yes
I do,' said Gillard firmly. 'You do know what to do, don't you?'

    'Of
course I do,' she blustered. 'It's just that I am your deputy here, and—'

    He
interrupted her. 'Precisely. My deputy, and I want you to deal with the
Brothers' POLAC. I'd like an interim report on my desk by close of play today.
Don't forget the telex to

    Headquarters.
Let me know if you need any help. Thank you, Hilary,' he said dismissively,
looking down at a suddenly important piece of paper. She continued to stare at
him for a moment before turning on her heels and hurrying out of the office. As
the door slammed shut behind her, Gillard punched the air in triumph.

    'Fuck
you, you stupid bitch,' he said quietly to her imaginary back. He chuckled at
the thought of the merry dance the Brothers would lead her. She hadn't a
chance. They were a punchy pair of bastards, but what he wouldn't give for a
nick full of Brothers, especially in a toilet like Horse's Arse. He had a very
good idea of what had happened and was confident that they'd be completely
exonerated after the investigation. After all, Bott s report would have to come
through him for final action. If need be, he'd simply lose it.

    He
picked up his phone and dialled the front office. It took the Blister a while
to answer.

    'You
took your time,' he barked.

    She
recognised his voice straight away. 'Sorry, guv, I was dealing with someone at
the counter,' she lied.

    'Are
you sure they haven't had a shit whilst they were there?' he said, and
continued before she could reply, 'What do you know about Yankee One's POLAC?'

    'Not
much, other than it all finished at the boating lake in Grosvenor Park. They
picked the bike up in Bolton Road and the rider's gone to Handstead General.
Broken legs, I think.'

    'Let
the Brothers know that Mrs Bott is on her way to deal,' he said curtly, before
putting down the phone. He knew they'd cope with her, but forewarned was
forearmed. He shuffled the papers around on his desk and found what he was
looking for. The cruise to the Norwegian fjords looked good, but Mrs Gillard
fancied a bit of sun on her back. He supposed it would have to be the
Caribbean. He sighed and searched for that brochure. Decisions, decisions.

    Back
at the boating lake, the Brothers had watched as Frankie was loaded into an
ambulance, cursing and swearing.

    'I
suppose one of you will be coming with us?' said an ambulance man as he shut
the back doors. 'Seeing as he's under arrest.'

    'Nah,
we'll hang on here, mate,' said H. 'Besides, he's hardly likely to have it away
on those toes, is he?' He and Jim began to roar with laughter, whilst the
ambulance man merely smiled and got back into his vehicle. He knew the Brothers
of old. Pair of mad bastards, but very handy when things got out of hand in the
casualty department at the weekends. At least there, the recipients of their
violence didn't have far to travel for treatment.