Horse's Arse (29 page)

    His
brief had not yet told him of events back at Handstead and decided that now was
not the time to enlighten him. 'Threats like that are commonplace in prison;
happens all the time. But you shouldn't lose sight of the situation you're in
and the way out that may present itself.'

    'Give
evidence against Bobby and the others, you mean?'

    'That's
right. We may even be able to make a good case for getting you out on bail if we
agree to help them. I can't see you getting out otherwise and the trial is at
least three months away.'

    Morgan
gave a deep sigh, sat back in his chair and gazed over his solicitor's head into
the far distance. 'I don't want to stay in solitary here,' he said flatly.

    'Well,
you can rule out ever joining the rest of the prison population, so your choice
is quite clear, Mr Morgan. Cooperate with the police, which might get you bail
and a lesser charge, or stay in solitary here until your trial when in all
likelihood you'll get a substantial gaol sentence and have to serve that
sentence in solitary confinement. My job is to best serve your interests in the
prevailing circumstances. My advice would be to cooperate, and get the best
deal you can while it's still on offer.'

    'What
do you mean, still on offer?'

    'It's
not imperative to their case that you give evidence but it'd certainly help.
They've got other witnesses and forensic evidence, but turning Queen's evidence
would be the icing on the cake. They won't be feeling in such a generous mood
for ever.'

    Morgan
sighed deeply again. 'Fucking hell. I mean, giving evidence against Bobby. Do
you know what that means? Fuck me, I'm dead. I couldn't stay in Handstead; I'd
have to fuck off miles away.'

    'I
could speak to them about getting you relocated permanently after the trial,
looking after you before and during the trial, if you like.'

    'And
I put Bobby and the others away?'

    'That's
about it, Mr Morgan, otherwise you take your chances, and I have to tell you,
they don't look particularly good. What do you want me to tell them? It's your
choice.'

    Morgan
was silent for a moment as he weighed up his options. Dense as he was, even he
could see that his prospects were bleak. He was going to prison, he knew that,
but the thought of a long stretch, all of it in solitary, did nothing to
improve his black mood. His brief rummaged in his pockets for a packet of
cigarettes and lit one for each of them. 'You need to come to a decision sooner
rather than later,' he said, blowing the smoke towards the high ceiling as he
spoke. 'Time is of the essence.' Morgan hardly heard him as he drifted off in
his private hell. The brief realised he'd been talking to himself and shook his
head. 'You need to make a decision soon,' he said loudly, startling Morgan back
to the here and now.

    'Yeah,
yeah, I know,' he replied wearily. 'When will you see them next?'

    'I
can contact them as soon as you come to a decision. Today, if necessary.'

    'Christ,
this really chokes me up, know what I mean? Grassing the others to make myself
a deal, fucking hell.'

    'Do
you have a choice?'

    'No,
I suppose not, fuck it.'

    'Well?'

    'Well
what?' snapped Morgan.

    'Your
decision,' replied the exasperated brief. There was a long pause before Morgan
spoke again.

    'Tell
them I'll give evidence but I want some bail and a deal on the charge otherwise
they can poke it.'

    'I'll
pass that on, but don't forget you're in no position to make demands. I'll get
what I can for you, but don't hold your breath. They aren't relying on you.'

    'Whatever,
but I'm not giving evidence for fuck all. They've got to give me something.'

    'I'll
do what I can,' said the brief, getting to his feet and walking to the door. He
knocked twice and walked back to the table. 'As soon as I've spoken to them
I'll contact you. In the meantime say nothing to anyone and keep your head
down.'

    The
door was opened by a warder who stepped into the interview room and looked at
the brief. 'We're all finished here, thank you. Mr Morgan can return to his
cell,' said the brief. Morgan got slowly to his feet and shook the brief's
hand.

    'Take
care of things, OK?' he said earnestly. 'I'm relying on you.' The brief smiled
grimly but said nothing as he watched his client leave the room ahead of the
warder, who shut the door behind them. He listened to the rattling of keys, a
gate opening and closing and echoing footsteps disappearing into the bowels of
the prison before he threw his cigarette to the floor and ground it out with
his shoe. He placed a few pieces of paper into his briefcase, which he snapped
shut, and glanced at his watch. They should still be waiting for him if he
hurried.

    He
left the room and a few minutes later was walking down Southall Street. He
turned into Great Ducie Street and stopped, carefully surveying the parked
vehicles. He saw the red Mark Two Ford Granada with two men sitting in it about
fifty yards ahead of him, the exhaust pipe billowing a large cloud of smoke in
the cold afternoon air. He walked briskly up to the passenger window. The
window was down and the heavy, middle-aged man in the passenger seat looked up
at the brief and smiled thinly.

    'Well,
how'd it go, Simon?' asked Detective Chief Inspector Harrison. The brief leant
forward so his head was inside the car and rested his left arm on the roof.

    'Yeah,
OK, he'll give evidence against the others but he wants a deal.'

    'What
sort of deal?' said the DCI, his smile disappearing.

    'Bail,
Section 20 GBH and help with relocation after the trial.'

    The
DCI chuckled, looked at his driver, who was smiling and shaking his head, and
said softly, 'You're having a fucking laugh, aren't you, Simon? I hope you've
not made him any promises you can't keep, because he can bang that list up his
arse. Help with relocation after the trial? Who the fuck does he think he is,
Judas Iscariot?'

    'I
know, I know,' said the brief hurriedly, glad he'd been careful to play down
the prospects. 'I told him exactly where he stood, but he's already been
threatened on the basis of that dodgy interview you got him to sign. He's
terrified about going back to Handstead —' The DCI interrupted him.

    'Dodgy
interview? What the fuck are you going on about? Is there anything in there
that's untrue? Tell me that.'

    'No,
but as you very well know, that's not what I mean. He was assaulted to get him
to sign it.'

    'Any
evidence to support that, Simon? Independent witnesses, medical evidence,
anything like that?'

    'Of
course not, you were very thorough as usual, but you know as well as I do that
force was used to get him to sign it. If he gets up in the box and gives
evidence to that effect it could cast an adverse light on any other evidence.'

    Harrison
paused as he considered what the brief had said.

    'Bollocks,'
he snorted after a moment. 'He can say what the fuck he likes in the box and
I'll still chop his fucking legs off with identification and forensic evidence.
Fuck it, I don't need him, Simon. Would've been nice, but I don't need him,
catch my drift?'

    Simon
did catch his drift; all too clearly, things were not going as he had hoped.

    'Perfectly,
thank you. I'm only passing on what he said to me. I've told him not to set his
sights too high and to take what he's offered, but you know what these people
are like. Hugely inflated opinions of themselves. He'll give evidence against
the others, don't worry about that, but a bit of bail would really help make
his mind up.'

    Harrison
looked up at the flabby, perspiring brief and smiled. 'You tell him what's good
for him, Simon. Make an application for bail and we won't oppose it. But you
make fucking sure he understands that if he doesn't do the business I'm going
to shit down his neck. He'll be begging Driscoll and the others to hide him.
That clear?'

    'Quite.
Leave it with me. I'll get an application in the day after tomorrow.'

    'There's
something to be going on with, Simon,' said Harrison. He took an envelope from
his jacket pocket and passed it to the brief, who quickly opened it and frowned
as he saw the banknotes. He slipped it into his own jacket pocket.

    'It's
not all there,' he protested.

    'You'll
get the full monkey when he's given evidence,' said Harrison flatly, looking
straight ahead.

    'That's
not what we agreed. How much is in there?'

    'You've
got a ton in there. You'll get the rest when your scumbag client gives evidence
against the others, understood?'

    'How
very Christian of you, Mr Harrison,' said the brief sarcastically as he stood
up and stepped back from the car. 'I should have known better than to trust
you, shouldn't I?'

    'Don't
get all fucking righteous with me, Simon,' snapped Harrison. 'You're earning
nicely for doing not very much, so don't fucking start. You'll get the rest of
your dough when Morgan stands up in the box and flaps his gums. In the
meantime, you've got a ton to be going on with.' He turned to face his driver
and motioned with his head that it was time to go. The big car roared away
leaving Simon Edwardes looking bitterly after it, shaking his head. Picking up
his briefcase, he wandered down Great Ducie Street towards Trinity Way,
pondering his next move.

    He
and Harrison had done business on numerous occasions in the past and it had not
been a surprise when he'd been contacted shortly after he'd taken on Morgan's
case. A complete moron could see that Morgan was fucked, but there was clearly
scope for a little earner if he could be persuaded to support his statement and
turn Queen's evidence. Edwardes expected Harrison to make the approach and he
hadn't been disappointed. He was, however, seriously pissed off about being
£400 light as he stood hailing a cab in Trinity Way. There'd been no mention of
withholding most of the money until Morgan had given evidence, but grudgingly
he accepted that Harrison had to cater for every eventuality and this would
certainly ensure that he put body and soul into making sure that Morgan did the
right thing. It wasn't as if they were looking to fit up anyone decent, after
all. Morgan was scum and so were the people he would help convict. They
deserved each other. Fuck them.

    Amidst
the heavy late afternoon traffic, he spotted a cab with its yellow light
piercing the fading winter gloom, and whistled loudly. As he settled into the
back seat and they crawled in heavy traffic towards Manchester Picadilly
station, he decided to play along with Harrison. There was no risk involved and
£500 was a decent drink in anyone's money. The only issue of any concern to him
was whether acting for Morgan would have an adverse effect on his business with
the scum of Handstead in the future. Whilst not quite on a retainer with them,
he had something of a reputation as a 'defender of the slag', after several
spirited defences of some of Handstead s more unsavoury residents. That had
ceased once he'd met DCI Harrison, who had encouraged him to keep taking them
as clients, and keep Harrison up to date on their defences. All at a price, of
course, and he'd needed very little persuading.

    As he
stood on the packed train back to Handstead, he mused on the strange ménage a
trois he was now part of. A villain defending one villain against another, whilst
at the same time taking a bung to ensure that the villain from the CID
convicted his villain and his villainous accomplices. He preferred not to dwell
too long on it; it was the sort of arrangement that could really do your head
in. He shut his eyes and decided to strap hang all the way, swaying like a
drunk and occasionally brushing against the pretty young girl behind him. She
looked at the obnoxious, sweaty, middle-aged man with thinning black hair
plastered to his head with obvious disgust. His thick pinstripe three-piece
suit was shabby and shiny around the elbows and seat, and the cheap plastic
East European shoes he was wearing had badly worn heels and large holes in the
soles. She was sure he was the sort of man who'd had very waxy ears at school.
His gaunt face and parchment skin reminded her of Chalky from the Giles
cartoons, and after a few minutes of his unwelcome interference, she got off at
the next stop and got into the next carriage. There was an aura about Simon
Edwardes that caused most people, not just women, to react like that. Something
that made the skin crawl when he was near. That probably explained why he still
lived at home with his elderly, senile parents who believed their indulged only
son was a respected High Court judge. Even DCI Harrison could barely bring
himself to spend more than a few minutes in his unctuous company, and found
their occasional meetings in anonymous pubs onerous. There was something of the
sewer about him.