Horse's Arse (25 page)

    'Hello,
Peter,' said Ally sweetly, 'remember me?'

    'No,'
he replied sourly. 'Who the fuck are you?'

    His
vision was clearing and he could now identify the copper's uniform the man was
wearing. It wasn't that stumpy Jock, was it? 'You're not that fucking Jock, are
you?' he said.

    'Fucking
right I am,' screamed Ally. 'Have some of this, you little cunt,' and venting
all his pent-up hatred of niggers, wops, spies, ab dabs, Catholics, Australian
barmaids and anyone taller than himself, he brought his truncheon down across
the top of Thomas's head with a sickening crack. The man's scalp split and he
slumped back in the chair with a torrent of blood obscuring his face. Ally
stood back and briefly admired his handiwork before he became aware of Piggy
watching him closely.

    'What?'
he barked aggressively.

    'You
OK? Feel better for that, Ally?' Piggy asked.

    'Much,'
he snapped.

    'What
the fuck was all that about?'

    'Personal
business. One all,' Ally replied simply. Piggy shrugged. There was no point
pursuing it with Ally in this sort of mood.

    Pizza
had never seen anything like it. He had seen the Brothers take out Baker and
Driscoll, and watched with an ever-widening mouth as his colleagues had
appeared to go mad. There was blood everywhere and the six bodies on the floor
looked as though they'd been attacked with a chainsaw. He really didn't know
how to react and from time to time glanced at Bovril who appeared quite
unconcerned, glancing at his watch, impatient to be elsewhere. The four
detectives had watched the attack with an air of resignation, but as they stepped
gingerly further into the room to look at their prisoners, a horrible
realisation dawned on them. They looked at each other simultaneously.

    'Where
the fuck are their clothes?' asked Benson for all of them. For the first time
the uniforms took stock of the bodies on the floor and noticed that none was
wearing trousers, shirts or shoes. They looked at one another and then at the
detectives. Clarke had his eyes closed, head down, rubbing his temples as he
spoke.

    'They've
dumped their clothing, everything. We've got no fucking forensic. We're
bolloxed.' He turned away in disgust and walked to the kitchen. As he walked in
he found Psycho at the fridge, busy completing another of his rituals with his
cock in a milk bottle. Every time he was involved in a house search he would
find time to get to the fridge and have a piss in a half-full bottle of milk.
He would later laugh himself to tears imagining the house occupants discussing
whether the milk was off as they looked at a suspect cup of tea or bowl of
cornflakes. It was the tomcat in him, making sure that people knew this was his
territory. Clarke shook his head as he saw him carefully shake the last drops
into the bottle and shut the fridge door.

    'Jesus
Christ, Psycho, we've got real problems without that. They've dumped all their
clothes somewhere. Tear this shit pit apart, see what you can find, will you?'

    Psycho
couldn't give a toss about the lack of evidence in the flat. He'd had his fun
with Anderson, but now he could do a bit of damage whilst he searched. As
Clarke walked out of the kitchen, Psycho pulled the doors off a cupboard with a
loud splintering noise.

    As
Clarke returned to the living room where Lloyd, Benson and Thomas were ensuring
that the prisoners were being cuffed and given an arresting officer with
requisite evidence of arrest, Pizza came bounding up to him like an eager
puppy. He almost put his hand up to speak.

    'Their
clothes, their clothes . . .' he spluttered.

    "What
about them?' said Clarke impatiently. He was quickly getting pissed off with
this spotty woodentop.

    'I
think I've found them,' Pizza said loudly. The piano player stopped as the
saloon doors swung open and all eyes in the room turned to Pizza.

    'Found
them? Where?' said Clarke slowly, taking hold of Pizza by the shoulders and
looking him in the face.

    'I
was in the garages earlier, and I found a bag full of bloodstained clothing. .
.' he started before Clarke interrupted him.

    'What
garages, when? Start from the beginning - don't miss anything out.'

    Pizza
took a deep breath, keenly aware that for the first time he had the full
attention, and, he hoped, the respect, of his colleagues.

    'I
went to the underground garages here about six thirty this morning to see if
any motors had been dumped. There weren't any, but as I was leaving I found a
bin liner in one of the garages. Someone had tried to set fire to it but it's
so wet down there it hadn't caught.'

    'Yes,
yes, go on,' said Clarke excitedly.

    'I
got it outside and had a look. It was full of bloodstained clothes.'

    'What
sort of clothes?'

    'Trousers,
shirts, couple of pairs of boots. The blood looked quite fresh.'

    'Where's
the bag now?' said Clarke nervously.

    'Back
at the nick. I logged it all in.'

    'You
fucking beauty,' whooped Clarke, grabbing Pizza by the cheeks and pulling the
flesh until it hurt. 'They've fucked up big time. That clothing's theirs and
we'll match it to them no problem. What a result! Fucking good job . . . what's
your name?'

    'Alan
Petty.'

    'But
we call him Pizza,' said Bovril, walking alongside and placing a friendly hand
on his shoulder. Pizza looked at him, saw Bovril smile at him and give a barely
noticeable nod. He knew what it meant. He looked at the others and thought that
they too were looking at him differently. The Brothers were staring at him.
They said nothing but their glares were definitely softer. He had arrived; they
had accepted him as one of them. He swelled with pride, felt the hurt and
rejection slide off his shoulders like a heavy blanket and was worried he was
near to tears.

    'Good
job, Pizza,' continued Bovril, patting him on the back. 'Your little find
sounds like it's going to make all the difference. You must be feeling quite
pleased with yourself.'

    Pizza
couldn't speak because of the lump in his throat, but nodded.

    'Should
do too,' agreed Clarke, 'but we're still one light. Where's Baldwin?' No one
spoke. 'Anyone done the bedroom yet?' Clarke continued. Again, silence.

    'We'll
do it,' said Bovril. 'Come on, Pizza,' and guided him out of the living room.

    The
bedroom door was shut and Bovril opened it gingerly, located the light switch and
stepped into the room ahead of Pizza. They stood together and looked at Myra,
still lying under the duvet in the foetal position. She lay looking at them
with her eyes sparkling and her lips drawn back over her teeth in a dry smile.
Bovril knew her of old, Pizza only by reputation.

    'Up
you get, Myra,' said Bovril gently. 'You're all nicked for GBH. You know the
score.'

    She
didn't move or change her expression, but her breathing had quickened. Bovril
frowned as his sixth sense told him that something was wrong.

    'Come
on, Myra,' he repeated, slightly less confidently as he felt the hairs on the
back of his neck stand up and his stomach begin to churn. Pizza had felt his
new friend's confidence and bonhomie vanish and was looking from him to Myra
and back with a puzzled expression on his face.

    'What's
up, Bovril?' he whispered anxiously.

    'Something's
wrong,' Bovril replied quietly without taking his eyes off Myra. 'Go and get some
help in here. Don't startle her, just go quietly.' He was struggling to keep
his composure. His instincts told him to turn and run away as fast as he could.
Get away from this strange, evil, grinning bitch. Run away now — something is
wrong. You're in danger. But how could he run away in front of Pizza, a
brand-new probationer who was looking to him to do the right thing, show him
how to do the job properly? But the right thing to do was to run away, live to
fight another day. What would Pizza think of him, running away like a scared
child from a woman lying under a duvet? But something's not right, her eyes are
telling you things are very seriously not right. Get the fuck out of here -
now.

    'Get
some help in here, Pizza,' he said again as his brain raced madly. As Pizza
began to edge past him to the door, Myra sat upright on the bed, the duvet
falling from her shoulders, still covering the hand holding the gun. She was
still smiling and staring at Bovril, unaware of Pizza's presence. She knew why he
was in the room; it was what every man was after but she was determined that it
would never happen again. If he took a step towards her, she would kill him.
Bovril moved nearer to the bed with his arms outstretched.

    'Listen,
Myra, I'm not here to give you any grief. Just get yourself dressed and we'll
be on our way.'

    He
froze and the colour drained from his face as she quickly pulled her arm from
under the duvet and levelled the gun at his chest.

    'Jesus,'
he whispered, as his heart leapt into his throat and his breathing became
frantic, 'Jesus, no.'

    Pizza
heard him and half turned to see what she had done now, and watched what
followed transfixed. He couldn't speak, or shout out or move. His body and all
his senses except his sight stopped working. He saw Bovril's lips move again as
he spoke to her, saw his face etched with fear, his eyes fixed on her, saw him
stretch both his arms out in front of him, hands up, take a step back and mouth
the single word 'No'.

    Myra
pulled the trigger without altering her expression or taking her eyes off
Bovril. Pizza saw the flash and recoil, saw Bovril tilt forward slightly, grab
at his stomach and then collapse like a deck of cards on to the floor. It
looked as though all the bones in his legs had suddenly been removed and the
muscle and flesh had collapsed under his weight.

    The
158-grain jacketed soft-point round, travelling at 1300 feet a second, had
passed through his tunic like a hot knife through butter. It struck the bottom
rib on his left side, shattering the bone, and fragmented into four pieces, the
largest of which began to tumble up into his body, pulverising his liver and
tearing through the aorta before lodging in his spine. He was haemorrhaging
massively before he hit the floor, still conscious and feeling as though he'd
been heavily punched in the solar plexus. He felt no other pain but knew what
had happened and began to pant as he panicked and struggled for air. He could
feel liquid escaping inside him.

    Myra
looked at him, still with the strange smile on her face, and then put the
barrel of the gun into her mouth and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. She
frowned, looked down at the gun and pulled the trigger again. With his sound
still off, Pizza watched as the back of her head exploded. Pieces of skull like
coconut shell, blood and brain tissue sprayed against the wall behind her and
she slumped forward, her face distorted, eyes bulging as the bullet's gases
escaped from every orifice in her head. She lay in a kneeling position with the
hole in the back of her head pumping blood over her shoulders onto the bed. The
pair of pants was still stuffed between the cheeks of her backside, and,
bizarrely, it crossed Pizza's mind that she looked like a rooster from hell.
Only five seconds had passed since Myra had first pulled the trigger, and now
she lay dead on the bed that was changing colour as she drained into it, and
Bovril was dying on the floor.

    The
two shots in quick succession momentarily stunned the other officers out in the
living room. Benson reacted first, looking at Clarke, asking, 'What the fuck
...' and running into the corridor. Psycho came out of the kitchen holding a
cupboard door, looking stunned. He looked at Benson.

    'What
the flick?'

    Without
answering him, Benson burst into the bedroom. It was a gruesome scene. Pizza
had recovered from his paralysis and was kneeling on the floor alongside
Bovril, who lay on his back with his hands pressed to his chest. He looked
deathly pale and his eyes were wide and staring at the ceiling. Pizza was
talking desperately to him, telling him to hold on, tears running down his
face.

    'What
the fuck happened?' said Benson, looking towards Myra on the bed and the gore
on the wall behind her.