Horse's Arse (23 page)

    Curtis
blushed profusely and scurried after the Chief. He just could not get used to
his profanities, which usually came thick and fast when they were alone
together. In the company of other senior officers Daniells generally managed to
act in an appropriate manner, but the rough edges were still there and endeared
him to the junior ranks who knew he'd been there, done it and got the T-shirt.

    Clarke,
Benson, Lloyd and Thompson were sitting in their unmarked Ford Escort behind
the Grant Flowers tower block in complete silence. The Brothers, Bovril, Pizza,
Ally and Piggy were parked up behind them, still waiting for Psycho to arrive
in the van. All had heard the message directed to the CID officers. Oscar One
had contacted them on the main radio set with nothing but bad news. Their
prisoners were en route to hospital under guard and out of reach for at least
twenty-four hours, and the Chief Constable himself had directed that they were
not to take any further action until a unit of the Patrol Group arrived at
their location. The only half-decent news was that it was Unit Three on the way
and their ETA was only fifteen minutes. Clarke had acknowledged the message
with a simple 'Understood, standing by and was silent for a few moments.

    'Something's
gone seriously pear-shaped,' he said finally. 'I mean, how often does the Chief
get involved in poxy little jobs like this?'

    'Best
we get it spot on then,' remarked Benson. 'We're struggling without some
forensic with these bastards.'

    They
all expected Morgan to retract his statement once he got anywhere near a
solicitor. Whilst they were confident they'd got enough on him anyway, they
really wanted the rest of the hardcore Mafia. They couldn't rely on identification
parades as their witnesses were bound to be got at.

    'I'm
worried about those mad fuckers we've got with us,' Benson continued,
indicating the marked vehicles parked behind them. 'I can see what's going to
happen, Bob. They're going to batter the bastards senseless and we'll end up
with claret everywhere.'

    'I
hope not,' said Clarke with a sigh. 'They know what we need, but you can't
really blame them for wanting to do a number on them. They deal with this shit
all day, every day. When we get to them they've usually had some of the shite
kicked out of them.'

    Benson
nodded in agreement. He sympathised with the uniforms at Horse's Arse but
sometimes wished they'd be a little more discriminating with the violence they
administered. There were other ways to get what you needed, as he knew only too
well.

    None
of them was aware of what had happened back at Horse's Arse, or of Daniell's
decision to hammer the Mafia as of today. He wanted the Patrol Group in for the
first cull and was already drafting a press release with Curtis which referred
to an operation involving 'local officers assisted by the Force's elite Patrol
Group against a gang of dangerous local criminals who posed a serious threat to
the decent, law-abiding citizens of Handstead'. Such citizens were something of
a minority in Handstead, but the real message would be sent to the Mafia and
other like-minded hoodlums.

    'At
least it's Unit Three,' remarked Jim to H, 'but there aren't going to be enough
prisoners to go round at this rate. We'll have to tell Bob that we go in first
and the Patrol Group can have what's left.'

    H
nodded his agreement and Jim got out of Yankee One and went over to the CID
car. He knelt at Clarke's window, had a brief conversation and returned with a
smile and a thumbs-up for H.

    'It's
Horse's Arse's job. They're only here as back-up,' he said as he got back in
and slammed the door.

    Unit
Three had completed their paperwork at Alpha Tango and had been racing to the
briefing at HQ when Oscar One had diverted them directly to Horse's Arse to
liaise with CID officers at the Grant Flowers flats.

    'It's
starting early, lads,' Frost shouted excitedly from the front passenger seat as
he struggled to make himself heard above the screaming engine and occasional
blast of the sirens. 'Don't forget, we're taking out some nasty fuckers, so no
fannying about. Lay them out first and worry about the rest later. Anything
goes, the Chief said.' His boys smiled grimly and patted the weapons they'd
selected for the job. This was going to be a real humdinger.

    Bovril
watched the rain running down the windscreen of his car. He'd left the engine
running to keep warm, but turned the windscreen wipers off. Pizza could see virtually
nothing and kept wishing Bovril would at least put the wipers on intermittent,
but he said nothing, not wishing in any way to offend his new-found ally.

    'What
d'you thinks up?' he asked finally.

    'Christ
knows,' replied Bovril, not taking his eyes off the rain-streaked windscreen,
focused a thousand yards away on infinity. He slid down into his seat and
pulled his overcoat closer around him. Despite the car's heater, he felt
chilled to the bone and uneasy. He was desperate to get to a phone and make the
most important phone call of his life. He had to tell Lisa, and was raging that
he'd missed his opportunity earlier. He just wanted to get this bloody
operation out of the way, keep on the periphery of the inevitable violence
(there'd be plenty of willing volunteers), and tell her. He wondered where she
was, what she was doing. Was she thinking about him, was she wondering how he
felt about her? God, why hadn't he told her?

    'What'll
it be like when we get in there?' continued Pizza nervously. Bovril hardly
heard the question and only answered when he realised that Pizza was looking
hard at him.

    'Sorry,
Pizza. What'll it be like? A fucking bloodbath in all likelihood, but don't
worry, you'll be fine if you stay close to me and don't get separated.' He
looked at him and saw the apprehension in his face. The poor kid had never
experienced real violence; it was unlikely he'd ever hit anyone before, seen a
man's face split and bleed because he'd caused it to. Bovril laughed gently and
patted his arm to comfort him. 'Stick with me, Pizza; do as I do and do as I
say. We'll be fine, I promise you.'

    Feeling
better, but not wholly convinced, Pizza peered through the windscreen at Ally
and Piggy's vehicle ahead of them.

    'This
is a fucking joke,' moaned Piggy, banging his hands on the steering wheel. 'We
might as well fuck off if Batman and Robin are on the way. We've still got
Dawes and his slag wife to sort out. I was hoping to get home sometime today,
and I'm hungry,' he finished plaintively.

    Ally
had the passenger seat pushed back as far as it would go, and fully reclined.
His cap was over his face as he tried to snooze.

    'Shut
the fuck up, Piggy. You're always hungry. You look like you've had a footpump
stuck up your arse as it is. Dawes and his missus are going nowhere for a few
days; CID'll want to speak to them anyway. This is the best chance we're going
to get to really screw the Mafia.'

    'Yeah,
I know all that, but we're going to be tucked up for fucking ages.'

    'And
getting paid, you lazy fat bastard. Just shut the fuck up, will you,' snapped
Ally, leaving little doubt that their conversation was at an end. He was
thoroughly looking forward to getting to grips with the Mafia. Thomas
particularly, whom he'd encountered for the first time not so long ago. He'd
been amongst a small group of Mafia that Ally had thrown out of a chip shop
where they'd been abusing the Chinese owner. Not enough to nick them, but once
Thomas had put sufficient distance between himself and Ally, he'd given him a
mouthful of abuse concerning his shape, ancestry and lack of a father. The shop
owner had identified Thomas to him and Ally had promised himself that one day
he'd ram those insults down the little arsehole's throat. He was a great
believer in JFK's enlightened observation: 'Don't get mad, get even.' Please
God, let him be in the flat, he thought to himself. Piggy on the other hand, as
he'd demonstrated earlier, needed a different motivation to inspire him to
violence.

    'You
OK, Bovril? You seem miles away,' said Pizza, keen to break the silence.

    'Yeah,
I'm fine,' he replied without taking his eyes off the windscreen. 'I've fucked
up, that's all.'

    'Fucked
up how?'

    Bovril
smiled. 'I should have told someone something important but I bottled out. I'll
do it later, but I wish I'd done it before.'

    'Anyone
I know? Nothing really important, I hope?'

    'No,
no one you know, but it's important to me and I should have told her.'

    'Her?'

    'Leave
it, Pizza, just leave it', said Bovril, and Pizza understood that the topic was
now closed. He kept quiet and wished Bovril would put the wipers on so he could
see what was going on.

    Psycho
arrived at the rendezvous at the same time as the Patrol Group. He remained in
the van and watched as John Frost got out of the unit's vehicle and hurried
over to the CID car, turning his collar up against the drizzle. He knocked at
the passenger window, which was wound down by Bob Clarke.

    'Hi.
John Frost, Patrol Group, Unit 3. Understand you need a hand here.'

    'Not
really, sarge. Something's gone tits up and the Chief's decided to get you lot
involved. We've got plenty of local lads here, but I suppose a couple of yours
would always come in handy. Have you got a couple of horrors on board? Then you
can give us a hand to get the bodies back to AT.'

    'No
problems. Got a couple of ex-Horse's Arse headbangers on board positively
foaming at the mouth. What's the job?'

    'The
Mafia kicked the living shit out of a pub landlord last night and we're going
to take the hard core out here now. We're expecting seven more in the flat, all
nasty bastards, so tell your boys to get their revenge in first. More
importantly, sarge, we're light on forensic, so we're looking for bloodstained
clothes, shoes, the usual really.'

    'Understood,'
said Frost. 'I'll speak to my lads now. When do you anticipate going in?'

    'Soon
as they're ready.'

    Frost
ran back to his van and quickly briefed the two lucky candidates in the back.
Whilst the others complained loudly, like children denied an ice cream, the
chosen two selected their pickaxe handles and stepped out into the rain as the
CID officers got out of their vehicle. Taking their cue, the Brothers, Bovril,
Pizza, Piggy and Ally joined the huddle by the CID car. They all recognised the
Patrol Group officers, nodded in acknowledgement, but said nothing.

    'All
ready then?' said Clarke. 'The Patrol Group lads are along for the ride. It's
our job and the prisoners are ours, understood?' he said pointedly to the
Patrol Group officers. They nodded in agreement. No problem at all. They'd get
to beat the crap out of some of the Mafia and have none of the paperwork to
worry about.

    'Come
on then,' continued Clarke, leading the way to the front door of the flats.
'We'll take the stairs. No way I want us all stuck in the lift in this fucking
shit hole.'

    Pizza
observed happily that, without exception, they all kept looking up until they
were through the doors.

    The
walk up the graffiti-scarred, urine-stinking stairs to the sixth floor took
five minutes, and once on the landing the group paused to draw breath. The
corpulent Piggy was breathing through his arse and slumped against the wall for
support. Clarke spoke again, this time in a whisper.

    'That's
the one, 612,' he said, indicating a peeling red door on the far side of the
silent, rubbish-strewn landing. They could hear nothing from any of the flats
and edged quietly to the door. Clarke put his ear to the paintwork and listened
intently. He then knelt down, gingerly opened the letterbox and peered into the
darkened flat. He could see down a corridor to the main living room where he
could just about make out a number of motionless, prostrate bodies on the floor
and a battered old sofa. Two doors on either side of the corridor were closed,
but the door to a small kitchen on the right was open. The unmistakable, sickly
sweet smell of cannabis and alcohol began to seep through the letterbox.
Shutting it carefully he stood up.

    'They're
in there and well out of it, lads; stoned out of their tiny minds by the smell
of it,' he whispered. 'I think you're going to be a bit disappointed with the
reception you're likely to receive.'