Horse's Arse (15 page)

    As
the ambulance pulled away, Jim's personal radio hissed into life.

    'Yankee
One, Yankee One from Hotel Alpha.'

    'Go
ahead, Hotel Alpha,' he replied.

    'Yankee
One, be advised Inspector Bott is en route to deal with your POLAC,' said the
Blister.

    'Thank
you, Hotel Alpha,' said Jim, and the Brothers looked at each other.

    'Bott?'
said H incredulously. 'She's got a root growing out of her arse into her chair.
What's she coming for?'

    'Two
guesses, H, and we can discount the one about her coming to do us any favours.
Have another look at the motor - I'll check the bike.'

    As H
returned to Yankee One, Jim went to the wrecked bike and knelt down to examine
it closely. He spun the buckled rear wheel until he found the telltale signs of
contact, but otherwise there was nothing on the bike to indicate their direct
involvement in the crash.

    H was
kneeling at the bumper of Yankee One, again looking closely for damage, when he
heard a loud whoosh' from behind him. He turned to see Frankie's bike enveloped
in flames and a large plume of black smoke heading heavenwards. Jim was walking
back towards him with a big grin on his face.

    'Fuck
knows how that happened,' he said innocently. 'Lucky I wasn't standing too
close. I might have got hurt.'

    'Electrics
must have shorted and ignited all that petrol,' offered H helpfully.

    'Must
have, yeah,' said Jim, turning to watch the blaze as he pocketed his lighter.

    'Better
call the Brigade in a minute,' said H.

    'Yeah,
in a minute,' said Jim. 'Motor all right?'

    'Not
a mark that I can see. Have a look, will you?'

    Jim
knelt down, and after careful examination agreed. 'Fine. All we need to do now
is keep the story straight and simple. Frankie got the line wrong, went too
fast and fucked himself.'

    'Agreed.
We kept well back and he made a terrible mistake. Happens all the time. Christ,
I'm soaking. Let's get back in the dry until Bott gets here.'

    The
Brothers got back into Yankee One and awaited the arrival of Gillard's Chosen One,
completely unaware of the forces working on their behalf. It was significant
that they always referred to 'us' and 'we' in their discussions. There was
never a suggestion that as the driver, only H might be in the firing line. They
accepted joint responsibility for everything without question.

    As
the blaze took hold, Jim reported a sudden fire and requested the attendance of
the fire brigade. On arrival they surveyed the smouldering wreck and departed
without even using a hand-held extinguisher. A surly, disinterested Traffic
Accident Investigation Unit sergeant arrived shortly afterwards, announced
there was nothing for him to look at, took some cursory measurements and
departed after confirming that his very short report should go to Bott. She arrived
some time after he had gone, having had a devil of a job finding the boating
lake.

    'Well,
what happened, then?' she demanded of the Brothers, who had left their vehicle
and were standing, arms folded, eyeing her warily.

    'He
got his line wrong, was going too fast and piled it into the fence, ma'am,'
said H.

    'How
did it catch fire?' she asked suspiciously.

    'Not
sure. Probably the electrics shorted and ignited the tank. Brigade have been
and gone; nothing for them.'

    'Any
damage to your vehicle?' she continued, peering at the front of Yankee One.

    'No,
nothing. There shouldn't be, either. We didn't touch him,' said H indignantly.

    'I'll
be the judge of that, and the Accident Investigation Unit,' she said pompously.

    'He's
been and gone, said there was fuck all for him.'

    Bott
began to get flustered. 'Who was it? I'll want to speak to them personally.'

    'Don't
know his name. Traffic skipper, but he knows you're dealing.'

    'Right.
I'll need statements from both of you. Who was driving?'

    'Me,'
said H.

    'I'm
suspending you from all driving duties until I've completed my inquiries. Your
colleague can take over behind the wheel.'

    'What?'
exploded H. 'I never touched him. You're having a laugh, aren't you?'

    'I've
never been more serious. Get yourselves back to the station and make a start on
your statements. I'll see you when I get back from the hospital.'

    She
stalked back to her vehicle as Jim laid a restraining hand on H's shoulder.

    'Leave
it, H,' he said quietly. 'She's going nowhere and you'll have your permit back
in a couple of days.'

    H was
breathing deeply as he struggled to keep his composure. 'I can't fucking believe
she's done that, Jim. She's suspended me,' he said desperately.

    'Relax
- it'll only be for a few days. Come on, let's get back and do our statements
before the stupid cow finishes at the hospital.' He guided H to the passenger
door of Yankee One, took the keys from him and settled himself in the driver's
seat. H was seething. Jim looked at him sympathetically.

    'H,
forget it,' he said firmly. 'We've had a fucking good result. Whatever Frankie
says, it's his word against ours. He's a disqualified driver riding a nicked
motorcycle. Where's it going to go?' He started Yankee One up and drove slowly
across the grass, over the path and back towards the play area they had first
crossed.

    Bott's
visit to the hospital was a waste of time. Frankie had been taken straight into
the crash room where a doctor adamantly refused to allow her to see him. He'd
then gone to X-ray which confirmed his collarbone and both legs were broken,
and a rib had punctured his left lung. Before she left, he'd been transferred
to the Intensive Care Unit. The hospital eventually provided her with his
personal details and she decided to inform his next of kin of what had
happened.

    Fifteen
minutes later she arrived at his shabby house and looked distastefully at the
overgrown garden as she knocked at the front door. The Bitch answered it and
glared at Bott.

    'Yes?'
she said aggressively, folding her arms and leaning against the doorframe.

    'Are
you Mrs Turner?'

    'No.'

    'Oh,
well, do you know Frankie Turner?' continued Bott, immediately unsure of how to
deal with this appalling, unkempt woman.

    'Yes.'

    'I'm
afraid I've got some bad news for you. Can I come in?'

    'Is
he dead?' hissed the Bitch.

    'No,
but—'

    'Fuck
it, then I don't want to hear about it. Fuck off, you toffee-nosed bitch.' She
turned her back and slammed the door in Bott's face. Bott stood on the
doorstep, speechless. These people were savages. How on earth do you reason
with them? She bent down to the letterbox and pushed it open.

    'He's
in Handstead General after a road accident,' she called. 'Why don't you let me
in and I can fill you in with the details over a cup of tea?' She remembered
reading somewhere that the relatives of accident victims often reacted
strangely to the news and a cup of tea never failed to remedy the situation.
The reply was a blast from an air-freshener aerosol that caught her full in the
face, causing her to stagger backwards, coughing and spluttering. As she stood,
bent double on the path trying to recover her breath and her senses, the front
door opened and the Bitch appeared holding a very soiled baby's nappy.

    'If
you're not out of that gate in five seconds, you'll be eating this,' she
shouted. 'Now fuck off.'

    Bott
beat a hasty retreat to her car and sped off coughing like a sixty-a-day navvy,
her eyes watering. The Bitch threw the nappy into the long grass and slammed
the door.

    Bott
drove quickly back to Horse's Arse and tried to get into her office unseen.
Gillard however spotted her creeping up the stairs and shouted from behind his
desk: 'Here a minute, Hilary. I need a word.'

    Scowling,
and with her eyes still watering, she stood in front of him like an errant
convent girl up before the Mother Superior.

    'How'd
it go?' he asked, looking up from his brochure.

    'Fine.
Everything's in hand. Rider's in intensive care but not likely to die. The
Brothers should be in doing their statements and I've suspended Walsh from
driving.'

    'What
the fuck for?' yelled Gillard, forgetting the door was open and attracting the
attention of two passing clerical workers. He got up, slammed the door shut,
and repeated the question.

    'Well,
because it's a serious accident,' replied Bott.

    'I
know that, but is there any suggestion that they caused it?' he asked testily.

    'No,
not really, not at the moment, but I haven't finished my inquiries,' she
replied nervously.

    'Did
you examine both vehicles?'

    'The
motorcycle was burnt out.'

    'What
about Yankee One?'

    'Undamaged,'
she said flatly.

    'Any
skid marks to look at?' Gillard pressed.

    'No.
The fire brigade and ambulance had churned everything to mud. Accident
Investigation apparently found nothing either.'

    'Did
you breathalyse Walsh?'

    'Um,
no, no I didn't. Why?' she stammered, licking her lips. Gillard saw the chink
in her armour.

    'Force
Orders are quite clear on this matter, Hilary. Officers involved in road
accidents are to be breathalysed. But you didn't. I thought you said you knew
how to deal with this,' he said crushingly.

    She
didn't reply, but hung her head and began to bite her lower lip.

    'Still,'
continued Gillard, 'I suppose I should be grateful that you followed Road
Traffic Act procedure at the hospital. You did do that, didn't you, Hilary,
with the rider? Asked the doctor to take a blood sample and all that?'

    'No.'

    'Jesus
fucking Christ, Hilary,' he said, shaking his head and clasping his hands in front
of him, you've completely fucked this up. I hope you realise it'll be going
nowhere now. Let me have your interim report in an hour and I'll do my best to
keep your head above the shit line. Thank you, Hilary,' he finished
dismissively, pursing his lips and sighing loudly. As she turned to leave and
opened the door, he said loudly enough for passers-by to hear, 'That perfume
you've got on is dreadful. Smells like you've spent the morning on the toilet.'

    Bottom
lip quivering, Bott slunk back to her adjacent office, shut the door and burst
into tears. Worse would follow shortly when she went into her radioactive
toilet to dry her eyes and wash her face.

    In
his office, Gillard heard her muffled sobs and smiled grimly to himself.
'That'll stop your farting in church, madam,' he said quietly, and went back to
his brochures.

    Marjorie
Wallis was the 58-year-old wife of an ICI director who perfectly reflected what
she was. Portly, rather than overweight, she was made up to the nines, had
dressed herself that morning in her latest Gucci trouser suit, overcoat and
crocodile shoes, and liberally doused herself in her hideously expensive Chanel
No. 5 parfum.

    Travelling
through Handstead in her Mercedes sports convertible with personalised plates,
she stood out like a sore thumb, but she rather enjoyed showing the cave
dwellers how the other half lived. She was accustomed to getting her way and
expected instant, due deference and respect from those she considered to be her
social and evolutionary inferiors. That included just about anyone not related
to an ICI director.

    She
excelled at bawling out waiters, and delighted in making her gardener's and
maid's lives a daily misery. She was a pompous, arrogant old harridan.