Horse's Arse (17 page)

    Piggy
had stopped eating and spoke with his cheeks bulging. 'Will you fucking stop it,'
he snapped, spraying half-chewed food in all directions. 'I'm trying to forget
all about it.' That said, he resumed the relentless transfer of food to his
constantly opening and closing mouth.

    'It's
disgusting isn't it?' said Ally dispassionately as the three of them watched
him, and Pizza wiped a piece of bacon rind off his face. 'It's something of a
miracle that they ever get the cutlery back.'

    Bovril
and Pizza didn't have to wait long for their breakfasts and were soon eating
their considerably smaller meals. As they started, the Brothers walked into the
canteen.

    'Nice
one, boys,' called Bovril. 'How's the rider?' The four men at the table
laughed.

    'He'll
live,' said H sourly. 'That bitch Bott's suspended me from driving.'

    'Routine,
H, that's all,' said Ally reassuringly.

    'That's
what I told him,' called Jim from the counter, 'but he's sulked all the way
back. Anyone want a cup of tea?'

    'Me,
me,' said Piggy, quickly draining the full mug in front of him. H, Bovril and
Pizza also accepted the offer, and soon all six of them were around the table.

    'Psycho's
gone to get his porn pictures,' said Bovril mysteriously.

    'What
porn pictures?' said Ally.

    'Full
meat shots,' offered Pizza knowingly.

    'What
porn pictures?' repeated Ally.

    'Mad
bastard says he's got pictures of all the women he's shagged. Polaroids. He's
bringing them up now.'

    'You're
fucking joking, aren't you?' said H through a mouthful of tea. Before Bovril
could reply, Psycho walked up holding a blue plastic photograph album. They
stared at him, then at the album, but no one spoke. Psycho pulled a chair over
from an adjacent table and sat at the end of theirs, placing the album in front
of him. He patted it proudly.

    'There
it is, boys, as promised: my life of debauchery in glorious Technicolor.'

    'You've
got pictures of the women you've shagged in there?' said H slowly. 'They just
let you take a picture with your Polaroid?'

    'Full
meat shots?' asked Pizza.

    'Yup,'
said Psycho matter-of-factly.

    Without
a word, H pulled the album towards him and opened it. The others left their
chairs and gathered round his shoulders.

    'Jesus
Christ,' said H quietly. Psycho had been telling the truth. The first two pages
each contained four Polaroid photographs, apparently of the same girl, taken in
what the group recognised as Psycho's bedroom. Fairly routine nude poses, in
what she and Psycho clearly felt was the more upmarket men's magazine mould,
progressed to one of her using a truncheon on herself, another of her sucking
his cock, taken looking down over his huge, hairy belly, and finally one of her
on her back, legs wide open.

    'Full
meat shots,' gasped Pizza, finally understanding.

    The
next two pages also contained eight photographs of different girls in virtually
identical poses. No one said a word. However, the last page caused ructions. It
contained four photographs of the same fat woman; in two she had her head face
strategically turned away from the camera. The third was taken from behind with
her on her hands and knees, but the fourth showed her on her back, legs wide
apart, holding her lips open for the camera, and her head raised with a big
smile for David Bailey. She looked shitfaced.

    'Oh
my God, it's the Blood Blister,' whispered Ally. Psycho pushed his way to the
front of the mêlée and looked over H's shoulder.

    'Oh,
bollocks. I forgot those were in there. For fuck's sake, keep it quiet, will
you, lads?'

    'Looks
like a black cat with its throat cut,' said Jim finally. 'I didn't know you'd
shagged the Blister.'

    'Yeah,
after my last party,' said Psycho unapologetically. 'It was on offer and I
never turn down a freebie.'

    'I
feel ill,' said Piggy, moving away from the gathering and heading towards the
toilets. He'd seen enough pubic hair that morning to stuff a mattress. Psycho
grabbed his album.

    'That'll
do, boys. I'm counting on you not to say anything to anyone, especially the
Blister. She'll go fucking mental if she finds out I've shown you them.'

    'You
can count on us, Psycho,' said Ally, with not a hint of sarcasm.

    Psycho
hurried away to hide his album, bitterly regretting showing it to the others.
The bastards are bound to say something, he thought. The only consolation was
that it was most unlikely that the Blister would make a formal complaint.

    Piggy
rejoined the others at the table. 'That made me feel very queasy,' he
announced. 'I'm not touching another kebab as long as I live.'

    Following
his conversation with Greaves, Clarke had again telephoned Sergeant Jones and
relayed his message. Well, most of it.

    'Take
who you want,' said Jones mournfully. 'Some of them will be in for grub now —
you can have them. Let me know who you've got, will you?'

    'Will
do, sarge,' said Clarke brightly, 'and thanks again for all your help.'

    'You're
welcome,' replied Jones, completely missing the sarcasm in Clarke's voice and
sounding more and more like Eeyore from
Winnie-the-Pooh.

    Clarke
replaced his phone and hurried up to the canteen in search of uniforms eating.
He saw a group of seven huddled over something at one of the tables, but
decided not to interrupt them just yet. He recognised all but the young, spotty
one. He went to the counter and ordered himself a cup of tea. As he waited for
it, he used the phone on the wall to dial the CID office, and spoke to the DC
who had previously offered his help.

    'It's
Bob. I'm in the canteen. I think I could do with your help later. I'll have
seven uniforms, and with you, me and John we should have enough. Is John back
yet?'

    'No,
not yet — when you planning to go out?'

    Clarke
looked at his watch: 10.30 a.m. 'As soon as possible,' he replied. 'When John
gets back, why don't you pop upstairs and we'll do the briefing here?'

    'Yeah,
fine, Bob. Steve Lloyd's in and offering, OK if he comes along as well?'

    'More
the merrier, Dave. We're not proud.' Clarke laughed, replaced the phone, picked
up his mug of tea and walked over to the uniforms' table. Psycho had gone and
he heard the fat one called Piggy telling the others that he felt unwell.

    'Not
too ill, I hope,' he interrupted. 'I've got a little job for you and the
others.'

    It
was an unintentional and unfortunate statement that immediately had the
uniforms' hackles up.

    'Is
that fucking right?' said Ally, getting to his feet. 'Not for me you fucking
haven't. Piggy and I have got bodies locked up. Come on, Piggy. Best we go and
deal with them before the CID find something useful for the woodos to do.'

    Piggy
had also taken umbrage at Clarke's perceived arrogance and quickly cleared his
plate. 'Sorry, things to do,' he said, wiping his hand across his mouth and
following Ally out of the canteen. 'Fucking CID.'

    'Hold
on, lads,' called Clarke plaintively. 'I've spoken to Mr Greaves and he's OK'd
it. For fuck's sake, what's up with them?' He turned to the others, who'd
remained seated.

    'You're
going to have to work on your communication skills, aren't you, Bob?' said H
quietly. 'You've got the unfortunate habit of letting us woodentops know you're
about to fuck us.'

    'Christ,
I didn't mean anything like that,' said Clarke, sitting down. 'Fact is I really
need some help from all of you to lift a load of Mafia. I cleared it with Jeff
Greaves before I came upstairs.'

    'That's
what I mean, Bob,' said H. 'You've got a decent job for us but you fuck it up
straight away by coming on like a fucking headmistress. You should know by now
how easily Ally gets the hump when the suits start lording it.'

    Clarke
shook his head. 'I'll square it with him and Piggy. Can you four give me a
hand?'

    The
Brothers, Bovril and Pizza all indicated in the affirmative.

    'Is
this connected with the GBH at the Hoop and Grapes?' asked Pizza.

    'Yeah.
The seven Mafia we're after are all in a flat at the Grant Flowers. We're just
getting the warrant sorted and we'll be off. Can you all be in the muster room
in fifteen minutes? I'll go and placate Ally and Piggy and bring them along.
Any idea where Psycho went?'

    'Locker
room,' said Jim. 'Putting some gear away.'

    'If
you see him before me, can you tell him I'm looking for him? Nicely, please,'
he added, laughing.

    He
got up and went back to the phone on the wall. He spoke again to his office,
confirmed that Benson was not yet back and cancelled the briefing in the
canteen. 'Make it the muster room in fifteen,' he said. 'I'm having a few
problems getting everyone together.'

    Clarke
then hurried down to the cell block where he found Ally and Piggy waiting to
speak to Collins. 'Can I have a word, boys?' he said. 'There's been a bit of a
misunderstanding here.'

    Ally
and Piggy looked suspiciously at each other, and then walked to one side with
Clarke so as to be out of earshot of the prisoners.

    'Listen,
lads, I'm sorry if you've got the hump with me, but I really didn't mean
anything. I need your help to nick some Mafia and I was going to put some
action your way, that's all. Honestly,

    I
wasn't trying to take the piss. Can you give me a hand? I need all the help I
can get. I've got seven to nick.'

    Ally
spoke first offering a handshake. 'Forget it, Bob. Yeah, we'll be there, won't
we, Piggy?'

    'Suppose
so,' said Piggy glumly, not relishing the thought of more activity.

    'We'll
let Andy Collins know we'll be back to deal with Dawes and his missus later,'
continued Ally. 'A bit longer in the pokey won't do either of them any harm.
Where's the briefing?'

    'Muster
room, ten minutes,' called Clarke as he hurried out of the custody area in
search of Psycho. Jim had mentioned the locker room, so he walked down the main
corridor and opened the locker room door at the far end. 'Psycho,' he called
loudly.

    There
was no reply and he paused briefly before he stepped back into the corridor.
Before the door shut, he heard a voice from the locker room say, 'Who's that?'
and put his head back round the door.

    'Psycho?'
he called again.

    'Who's
that?' repeated the voice from the other end of the locker room.

    'Bob
Clarke. Psycho, is that you?'

    Psycho
appeared from behind the lockers at the far end and grinned. 'Hello, Bob.
What's up?' He looked relieved.

    'What
the fuck are you up to, Psycho?' said Clarke, walking up to him. Psycho didn't
reply, but moved to one side to allow Clarke to squeeze past him. On the bench
seat by Psycho's locker was a shoebox that Clarke could see contained half a
dozen thunder flashes. They had been carefully taped together, and their fuses
wound into one. Clarke turned and stared at Psycho. His face asked the question.

    'Relax,'
said Psycho. 'They're for that bitch Bott. Either under her car or under her
toilet door, I haven't decided which yet.'

    Clarke
shook his head. 'You're a fucking loony Psycho, and getting worse. Listen, I
don't want to know about that, but I could use you on a little job of mine. Can
you give us a hand to take out some of the Mafia? Briefing's in ten minutes in
the muster room. Should be fun, Psycho. You could really let your hair down.'

    Psycho
considered the offer. Clarke was right: he could really indulge himself with
the Mafia, but the down side was that none of them would complain about him.
He'd have to perform to an audience.

    'Yeah,
sounds like one not to miss, Bob. I'll be there,' he replied finally.

    'Thanks,
Psycho,' said Clarke, quickly leaving the locker room, and, as he would one day
be known, the Handstead Khazi Bomber.