Horse's Arse (20 page)

    'Gassed?'
asked the Blister incredulously. 'How'd that happen?'

    'Never
mind that,' roared Collins, 'get on the fucking phone on the hurry up.' Blister
hurried back to the front office as Collins began to slap Jeffries about the
face and was relieved to see his eyelids flutter as he began to regain
consciousness. 'Thank fuck for that,' he muttered as the gaoler dragged two
more prisoners into the room, pulling them along the floor by their shirt
collars. 'How many more down there?'

    'Seven,'
coughed the gaoler. 'They're down the far end.'

    'Get
the windows and doors in here open,' commanded Collins. 'Look after these three
and I'll get the others.'

    Holding
a handkerchief to his nose and mouth, he disappeared back into the poisonous
fog and a few minutes later had all his prisoners laid out in the reception
area. All were gradually recovering, but lay where they were, coughing and
moaning.

    'What
the fuck happened?' asked the gaoler, who was leaning out of the window gulping
the fresh air.

    Collins
shook his head. 'Christ knows,' he said quietly. 'Jesus, that was close. Too bloody
close. Get me the custody records, will you? We'd better make sure all the
visits are up to date, and make sure the Blister's called for some ambulances,
will you?'

    He
slumped into his chair and gave silent thanks to the patron saint of custody sergeants.
Leafing through the custody records, he was relieved to see that his gaoler had
been on the ball and all the prisoners were shown as Visited and all correct'
shortly before they'd been found unconscious. As long as none of them died, it
was unlikely that anyone would look too closely at the timings of the visits.
Collins pushed the papers to one side and waited for the inevitable shitstorm.
It wasn't long in arriving.

    Gillard
could scarcely believe his ears as he listened to what the Blister had to tell
him. She had to repeat herself twice.

    All
the prisoners have been gassed?' he said very slowly to ensure he'd got it
right. Are they dead?'

    'No
idea, guv. Sergeant Collins didn't say,' she replied calmly. Gillard slammed
his phone back on to its cradle and put his forehead on his desk.

    'Jesus
fucking Christ, what is it with this place?' he asked his blotting pad. 'One
thing after another. It doesn't happen anywhere else, only here. Every fucking
time the shit rolls downhill it ends up here.'

    He
picked up his phone again and dialled the custody office. Collins let it ring
twice before answering. Before he could speak, Gillard was off and running.

    'What
the fuck happened, Andy? How bad are they, any of them likely to die, whose
fault is it?'

    Collins
pondered the questions put to him and smiled as he considered who might have
been at fault.

    'Difficult
to say what happened, guv, but it looks like a vehicle in the yard filled the
cells with exhaust fumes. It wouldn't be the first time; you'll probably
remember the memo I sent you last year concerning the problem we had then. I
recommended that the ventilation bricks were blocked up and extractor fans
fitted.'

    There
was silence from the other end as Gillard frantically racked his memory.
Christ, yes, he did vaguely remember the memo, but what the hell had he done
with it?

    'I
can't say I do, Andy,' he lied finally. 'More to the point, how are the
prisoners?'

    'Recovering
nicely, I think, but they're all going to need medical attention. We're going
to have to arrange escorts and guards in hospital.'

    'I'll
be down in a minute,' said Gillard, putting down his phone. He began to rummage
through his desk drawers before he finally sat back holding a sheet of paper in
his hand. 'Fuck,' he said quietly. It was Collins's memo, and other than a date
stamp showing it had reached him the previous November, nothing had been
written on it. He pondered his predicament for a few minutes before he smiled
broadly and began to write. Under the existing date stamp, he wrote, 'Inspector
Bott to deal and report ASAP. This is a serious issue that needs resolving.' He
then altered the date on his desk stamp and stamped his instructions for two
days after he had received the memo. Quickly, he went to Bott's empty office
and began to go through the files she kept in one of the desk drawers. He found
one labelled 'Memos - Outstanding', and another, 'Memos - To Deal'. He opened
the 'To Deal' file and found a draft proposal for a crime prevention initiative
in the summer. He slipped the offending memo in amongst the draft and replaced
the file. He was back in his office seconds later. He'd covered his arse very
nicely, and ensured that Bott would take any blame if it came to it. Things were
working out quite nicely on the whole. She was in hospital gibbering like an
idiot, and if she ever got back to work the memo would be ticking like a time
bomb in her desk. Yes, all in all, things could be worse, he assured himself as
he went downstairs to the cell block.

    He
breezed into the custody reception area and almost tripped over one of the
prostrate prisoners who was coughing and spluttering on the floor. Stepping
gingerly over him and the others, he went to Collins's desk.

    'I do
remember your memo, Andy. I passed it to Mrs Bott to deal. I take it you heard
no more about it, then?'

    'Not
a thing, guv.'

    Gillard
shook his head and tutted. 'Oh well, I'm sure she's looking into it. Not the
sort of thing you'd want to sit on, is it?'

    'Not
now the shit's hit the fan, guv,' said Collins slowly, looking suspiciously at
the Chief Inspector. He knew him of old. Gillard was a slimy, devious old
bastard, and a little voice was telling Collins that Big Chief speaks with forked
tongue. However, he kept his suspicions to himself.

    'This
is going to fuck up the CID's inquiries,' said Gillard, looking at the wheezing
prisoners. 'They won't be able to speak to this shower for days.'

    'No great
loss,' replied Collins. 'None of them would have said a thing. Those two' - he
indicated Dawes and his wife - 'are in for handling. They've not been
interviewed yet either.' He deliberately made no mention of Morgan's interview.

    'Who's
dealing with them?'

    'Stewart
and Malone. They've gone out with the CID to nick the other Mafia,' he said,
keeping his voice down for the benefit of the prisoners on the floor. 'Thinking
about it, I'd better let them and Control know that we're closed for a while.
I'll send all prisoners to Alpha Tango if that's OK.'

    'Yeah,
fine, Andy,' agreed Gillard. 'I'll let Division know what's happened. Is
everything tidy on the paperwork front before I do that?'

    'No
problems, thanks, guv.'

    Gillard
picked his way out of Custody and retreated to the sanctuary of his office. He
rarely gave a moment's thought to what the officers under his command did on a
daily basis, or how they coped, but seeing Collins downstairs, barely keeping
his head above water, made him grateful that promotion had lifted him out of
the swamp. He knew what Collins would, in all likelihood, now face. The lizards
from Complaints and Discipline would be all over him like a rash, looking for
any minor indiscretion to confront him with. Collins was good at his job; he
knew his stuff and Gillard genuinely hoped that he was as watertight as he
seemed to think he was. But any mistakes and those bastards would find them.

    He
phoned Division to speak to the Chief Superintendent and spoil his day. That
phone call sparked a forest fire chain reaction. Within a few hours, Horse's
Arse would be visited by more senior officers than it had seen over the last
decade. Even the Chief Constable himself announced that he would venture from
his ivory tower and mingle with the infidels. Gillard got the phone call from
the Chief's staff officer and felt his blood chill. The place was in danger of
imminent meltdown, his deputy was drooling in hospital and now the Chief was
coming to visit. He knew he wouldn't be coming to shake hands and slap backs.
He'd have all sorts of fucking stupid questions about use of resources and
deployment strategies. Gillard briefly considered leaving the building, but
knew the staff officer would drop him in it. The other alternative was a huge
heart attack, and he felt that probably wasn't far away. He decided to make
sure that the i's had been dotted and the t's crossed on the fiasco in the cell
block, and got on the phone to Collins again.

    At
Headquarters, Chief Constable Robert Daniells, QPM, sat in his large, sumptuous
office on the sixth floor, reading for the third time a telex message received
from Chief Superintendent 'B' Division. Perhaps sumptuous was too grand a
description of the office. Although larger than most senior officers' offices,
it was still furnished with the same spartan 1960s Home Office furniture.
Glass-fronted bookcases filled with legal tomes unopened since their distant
publication, high-backed, foam- filled chairs for his visitors, and a low coffee
table littered with copies of the Force's annual report. He had a large desk
with drawers on either side and the whole ensemble was in the same polished,
beech finish. The only concession to his rank was his reclining padded leather
chair and the carpet and wallpaper that at his insistence had not come from the
Force housing department's catalogue. Their drab samples would not have looked
out of place in a Moscow housing development and he had put his foot down. A
youthful Queen Elizabeth surveyed the bureaucratic lack of taste with barely
concealed disdain from her frame on the wall behind his desk.

    He
leant his portly, six-foot frame back into his chair and let out a large sigh
as he glanced around at the numerous group photographs on the walls. He pushed
the telex message back across the desk to his staff officer. Inspector Kevin
Curtis picked it up and looked quizzically at him.

    'What
the hell is going on at Hotel Alpha, Kevin?' the Chief asked. He knew bloody
well what was going on down there, but he enjoyed watching his ridiculous staff
officer jump through fiery hoops. Daniells had spent his entire thirty-four
years' service with the same Force, almost unique amongst chief officers. He'd
got his hands dirty as he rose through the ranks on merit alone, and had served
at Horse's Arse as a DI. That had been some years ago, before the town came to
resemble a war zone, but he had always recognised the potential for serious
trouble there. His predecessors in the top job had handed him a poisoned chalice
by never getting to grips with the place, and since his appointment two years
ago he had been wrestling with the problem. He suspected, quite rightly, that
the crux of the problem lay in a complete lack of leadership. It had been his
idea to send Hilary Bott there to sort things out. The telex informed him,
amongst other things, that she was now in hospital following complications
whilst passing a stool. He shook his head.

    His
obsequious, 25-year-old staff officer drew on his nonexistent experience and
launched into a lengthy explanation of simmering social discontent and
inappropriate policing methods that required immediate addressing through open
meetings with the discontented locals. Curtis was a classic 'Bramshill Flyer',
fast-tracking through promotion on the back of a degree in archaeology from
Cambridge. His operational experience was limited to two years as a
probationary constable when he was wrapped in cotton wool at a quiet rural
nick, followed by promotion into the training department. He hadn't set foot
out of Headquarters for five years. He knew his Greek and Roman ruins, but he
knew the square root of nothing when it came to real policing.

    'Complete
bollocks, Kevin. The place has gone to rat shit, pure and simple,' said
Daniells, leaning forward in his chair and glaring at him. 'What are we going
to do about it?'

    'Encourage
dialogue?' said Curtis timidly.

    'Dialogue?
Are you fucking mad?' barked Daniells. 'Dialogue be fucked. We're going to send
the Patrol Group in there for a couple of weeks and kick shit out of the place.
What d'you think about that?'

    Curtis
stared open-mouthed at his Chief. He was never sure if he was joking. His
Bramshill instructors were nothing like him.

    He
hated his current job, but viewed it as a necessary evil to achieve his next
goal, promotion to Chief Inspector. There wasn't a back he wouldn't stab to
achieve it, but he knew the Chief had little time for either him or the system
that had promoted him so quickly. 'Bringing through a bunch of limp-wristed
cocksuckers,' he'd shouted at him one day when he'd reminded him of a seminar
he was due to attend at Bramshill.