Horse's Arse (27 page)

    'Suppose
so,' said Pizza. 'It's been nice talking to you. See you again, I hope.' He
pushed his way from under the tree and walked back to the grave. As he walked
away, head bent against the rain, Lisa smiled and stroked the life growing
inside her. Bovril had certainly had an effect on her, but had never known how
much.

    After
the service, long after everyone else had departed, 'D' Relief had hung around
the gates to the churchyard, oblivious of the drizzle, not sure what to do with
themselves, not wanting to go home, not yet. They had all been due to join
Bovril's family at their house for afternoon tea, but Psycho's stalking of one
of the spinster aunts had changed that. During the service, the unfortunate
woman had made the fatal mistake of catching Psycho's eye. He'd seen her and
interpreted her look of horror as one of unadulterated lust. As they'd stood
around the grave later, Psycho had sidled up behind her, eased his trousered
diamond cutter of an erection against her bottom and breathed beerily into her
ear, 'It's your lucky day. Guess who, sweet thing?' Only Andy Collins's
intervention had prevented her from screaming the place down and he'd ushered
the sullen, scowling Psycho away, explaining to onlookers that this was how he
dealt with his grief.

    'What
the fuck is the matter with you?' he said furiously once he'd got him out of
view.

    'She
was begging for it, absolutely gagging,' protested Psycho. 'What else could I
do?'

    'Jesus
fucking Christ,' exploded Collins, 'by the fucking grave? Are you completely
fucking mad?' Then he realised that he was and stormed away to placate the
family. The invitation to afternoon tea was icily withdrawn.

    Psycho
broke the silence when he spoke to no one in particular.

    'That's
that, then. See you Monday night then?'

    'Fucking
hell, nights again Monday,' said Jim. 'Comes round quick, don't it? That'll do
me as well. You in Monday, H?'

    'I'll
be there, Jim,' replied his partner as they walked slowly to their cars parked
nearby and returned to their other lives for a while. The others took their cue
from the Brothers and also began to drift away. Only Psycho remained, soaked to
the skin, nowhere to go, no one to go to. Even the Blister walked away.

    'Anyone
fancy a drink?' he called plaintively. 'No? Well bollocks to the lot of you.'

    Acting
Chief Inspector Kevin Curtis drew himself to his full, less than impressive height
and surveyed the assembled Night Turn officers in what he imagined was the
fashion expected of a man on the way to the top.

    'Fuck
me, the circus is in town,' said a loud voice from the back of the group.
Sitting at the desk alongside him, Andy Collins realised what was coming and
lowered his head in case someone threw something. 'D' Relief glared at Curtis
with an intensity that could fry a rump steak. He decided not to make an issue
of the insult, smiled benevolently and walked into the heaviest shitstorm he
would ever experience.

    'Before
Sergeant Collins starts, ladies and gentlemen, I'd just like to say a few
words,' he began confidently, completely misinterpreting the venomous looks he
was getting. Never one to miss an opening, Chief Daniells had instantly
recognised that Gillard's demise was the opportunity he needed to get rid of
his ludicrous staff officer. Within hours of Bovril's death, Curtis had found
himself in charge, albeit temporarily, at Horse's Arse. Across the county,
other relieved Chief Inspectors went on the piss to celebrate their lucky
escapes. Curtis's wife's reaction to the news had been extremely odd. Rather
than jubilation at his promotion in the field, she'd caustically remarked that
his chances of success were on a par with those of a chocolate fireguard,
before slamming down the phone. He'd subsequently made a point of attending
Early Turn and Late Turn musters, but had really fucked up by arriving for 'D'
Relief's first night duty since Bovril's funeral. Nobody had seen fit to warn
him about 'D' Relief. Strange, that.

    The
other groups of officers had received him in sullen, disinterested silence,
which he had interpreted as respectful deference to his new rank. Whilst he was
vaguely aware of what Horse's Arse was all about, he really had absolutely no
idea just how bad things were.

    'Some
of you might be wondering who I am,' he continued in the same light-hearted
manner.

    'No,'
shouted Psycho belligerently from the front, his arms folded across his chest,
'no, we weren't at all. . . sir,' he finished with a sneer, managing to make
'sir' sound like 'cunt'. The others sniggered and forgave him for his faux pas
at the cemetery. Collins dropped his head into his hands and despaired at the
insanity of it all.

    'You
weren't?' said Curtis hesitantly, wringing his hands together and glancing down
at Collins, who was now shaking his head. He'd have to speak to Collins later,
he decided; clear lack of support for a senior officer. That wouldn't do at
all. He still didn't recognise the danger signs that were obvious to everyone
else in the room. All that was missing was an air raid warning siren.

    'Who
are you anyway, and why are you here?' continued Psycho, who was delighted with
the response he was getting from the others. He knew he'd gone too far at
Bovril's funeral and now he had the chance to rectify things at this twat's
expense.

    'I'm
Chief Inspector Curtis ...' he started in a fluster before

    Psycho
interrupted him.

    'No
you're not. You're only an inspector. You've only got two pips up.'

    
'Acting
Chief Inspector . . .' Curtis corrected himself, wondering what the hell was
going on. This shouldn't be happening. He was in charge.

    'Sarge,
sarge,' shouted Psycho, 'are we sure this bloke is really in the Job? He
doesn't seem to know what rank he is or anything.'

    Collins
decided that enough was enough as a chorus of dissent rose from the chairs in
front of him and Curtis stared at the rabble like a rabbit frozen in a car's
headlights.

    'Shut
the fuck up, Psycho, and listen up everyone,' he said, getting to his feet and
towering over Curtis. The noise ceased. 'This is Acting Chief Inspector Curtis.
He's taken over from Mr Gillard for the time being as Mrs Bott is still
incapacitated.' At this, he noticed the Brothers lean forward and pat the
beaming Psycho on the shoulders. It confirmed his suspicions about what had
happened to Bott, but he had no intention of acting on them. The stupid cow was
well overdue and Psycho had probably done them all a favour. 'Mr Curtis will be
with us until further notice,' he continued, 'so be gentle with him,' he
finished with a laugh.

    'What's
that supposed to mean, Sergeant?' interrupted Curtis haughtily; furious that
Collins had intervened, completely missing the fact that he had stepped in to
save him from a real kebabing.

    Collins
fixed him with a withering stare, leant down closer to his face and growled,
'Just wind your fucking neck in, guv, and you might get through this.'

    Curtis
was speechless as Collins turned back to the Relief and began to assign them to
their beats and vehicles for the night.

    How
dare the grey-haired old dinosaur speak to him like that?

    I'm
not having this, he said to himself, resolving to step in at the next
opportunity with some news that would really sort this shower out. Oh yes, just
watch. He laughed quietly.

    The
group were listening attentively to Collins, taking a few notes about items of
interest, getting their pocket notebooks up to date for what would, without
doubt, be a busy night. Bovril's murder was still an open sore with them, and
none of them had mentioned him as they had changed before starting duty. The
only thought they could console themselves with was that Driscoll and his
hardcore Mafia were banged up on remand. Bovril's death wouldn't be a complete
waste if that pond life went away for a very long time. It was the only
positive thing any of them could draw from his death.

    'That's
all I've got for you,' concluded Collins; 'unless Mr Curtis has anything to
add,' he said out of professional courtesy, flaring his eyes at him to say,
Don't say a fucking word, arsehole.

    'Thank
you, Sergeant,' said Curtis imperiously, getting to his feet and motioning for
Collins to sit.

    'Oh
shit,' said Collins quietly, settling back into his chair and hanging his head
in his hands again, 'oh shit.'

    Curtis
surveyed the once again simmering mob, paying particular attention to the
large, unshaven, ugly brute at the front who'd been so rude to him.

    'I
don't mean to add to your problems,' he lied, 'but I'm afraid I have some news
that is going to upset you.' The Relief fell silent and waited. Curtis cleared
his throat before continuing, beginning to sweat until his podgy, pink, boyish
face resembled a freshly glazed bun.

    'I
had a communication from Division this afternoon concerning Mr Driscoll,' he
said, eyeing them cautiously to try to gauge how they would react. They now sat
in rapt attention and he pressed on, beginning to feel that he had them eating
out of his hand. 'It seems that he's found a judge somewhere who was prepared
to grant him bail. He arrived back in Handstead this afternoon with a condition
of residence and reporting twice a day to us starting today.' He paused to let
this news sink in and surveyed the group, who appeared thunderstruck. No one
spoke. Curtis continued in an almost distracted tone, as he desperately
wondered why they were behaving like this.

    'Yes,
well, that's it really. He's back, got to live with his parents, be home
between nine p.m. and nine a.m. and sigh on here every day, morning and
evening.' He waited for someone to say something but the silence was almost
overpowering. His heavy, sodden shirt clung to his back like an amorous ape,
and he was beginning to wish he hadn't tucked it so far into his underpants.
The group stared at him as though he'd just announced he was a closet arse
puncher — a mixture of disgust and fascination. He looked down at Collins for
some moral support and saw that he had raised his head and was looking at the
group like a man approaching the biggest firework ever made that had fizzled
out.

    'Oh
shit,' said Collins quietly again.

    'You're
fucking joking,' bellowed Ally, getting to his feet in the middle row and
advancing through the front chairs to stand about six feet from Curtis. The
inspector stepped back behind Collins for protection and stood clutching the
back of the chair with both hands, looking wide-eyed at the shitstorm he had
whipped up. The rest of the group had also got to their feet and were shouting
and swearing loudly, pointing aggressively at Curtis, blaming him for allowing
Driscoll to get bail.

    'You
useless bastard,' screamed Ally. 'He helped murder one of us and now he's got
bail; you must be fucking joking.' There was murderous intent in his eyes, his
face was dangerously flushed and he stepped closer to Curtis, fists clenched.
His voice had risen an octave and a red mist had descended on him. Collins got
quickly to his feet, completely obscuring the trembling Curtis.

    'That'll
do. Sit down all of you,' he thundered, glaring at them, daring them to take
him on. Ally halted his advance and stood breathing heavily, looking through
slitted eyes at Collins, weighing up his chances, which he quickly assessed as
less than none. He sighed, shrugged his shoulders and returned slowly to his
seat as the others, equally reluctantly, retook their places and silence
returned. Collins allowed a minute to pass before he spoke again.

    'You
might as well go, sir,' he said over his shoulder. 'I'll finish things up
here.' There was no reply.

    'I
said you might as well go, sir,' he repeated loudly. When he again received no
reply, he turned to see what the hell Curtis was doing. He was still holding
the back of the chair, looking desperately at his hands and making little
choking noises. He looked up at Collins and then back to his hands. 'What the
fuck's wrong?'

    'I
can't move my hands,' whispered Curtis.

    'What
d'you mean?'

    'I
can't move my hands, they won't work,' Curtis hissed. In his fright as the
group had verbally attacked him, he had gripped the back of the chair so hard
that the muscles in his hands had gone into spasm and locked. No matter how
hard he tried, he couldn't free himself.

    Collins
reached down with his huge, spade-like hands, and with one tug pulled Curtis
free. Curtis yelped and stood looking at his fingers, which were still in
spasm, locked in shape. He looked desperately at Collins, who snorted loudly,
and then at the others, who had begun to laugh. Pushing past Collins, he ran
for the door, which he opened with difficulty, and fled along the corridor
holding his crippled, claw-like hands in front of him, the sound of their
mocking laughter following.