Horse's Arse (34 page)

    'Jesus,
Psycho, what are you hunting, elephants?' Pizza asked. 'What sort of range have
you got with that thing?'

    'Fuck
knows,' replied Psycho, 'but what I do know is that I can't miss with it. Look
at this.' He flicked a small switch on the side of the huge sight and a low
humming noise started. Pizza saw a green light start to glow from within the
sight.

    'What's
that then?' he asked, genuinely impressed.

    'Night
vision sight,' Psycho replied proudly. 'Look at that, bright as day and clear
as a bell.' He held the sight to Pizza's eyes to prove the point. The gypsy
camp appeared in the sight as clearly as Psycho had claimed and Pizza whistled
his approval.

    'Lovely
looking bit of kit, Psycho, but can you use it?' he challenged.

    'Can
I fucking use it, can I fucking use it?' repeated Psycho. 'Watch and learn,
boy.'

    He
broke the barrel, pushed a pellet into the breech, locked the barrel shut with
a satisfying clunk, and wrapped the strap around his left arm. He then walked
to the other side of the vehicle before he rested his left arm across the roof
and tucked the butt into his right shoulder. Settling himself, he closed his
left eye and moved his right eye into the cushioned sight, quietly cursing the
incessant drizzle.

    'Right
then, you pikey bastards,' he murmured to himself, 'who wants some?'

    He
swept the sight across the unofficial gypsy site, but the occupants were either
all having an early night or, more likely, out thieving. Not a thing moved nor
a light shone in any of the caravan windows.

    'Fucking
hell, where are they all?' he complained as Pizza leant, bored senseless,
against the bonnet, an ear cocked for the radio which had burst into life some
minutes earlier.

    'Piggy
and Ally are still chasing that Capri,' he said hopefully.

    'Going
the other way. No chance for us,' said Psycho, who had no intention of going
anywhere until he'd shot someone. Pizza sighed and pulled his head deeper into
his coat, debating whether he should get back into the car but knowing that
Psycho would get the hump.

    'Hurry
up and shoot something, will you?' he complained. 'I'm bloody soaked. The whole
idea of getting a ride with you was to keep dry.'

    'Can't
hurry these things,' answered Psycho, who was himself beginning to doubt he'd
ever get the opportunity.

    'They've
decamped at the golf course,' interjected Pizza, going back to the radio. 'A
couple of toe-rags across the golf course,' he reiterated, looking over at
Psycho, hoping he might get the reaction he was looking for.

    'Won't
come this way,' said Psycho, still not lifting his eye from the sight.

    Pizza
puffed out his cheeks in defeat. The golf course was only a little over a mile
away, but in this mood he knew Psycho wasn't going to be moved. He resigned himself
to getting very cold and wet until Psycho had purged his blood lust.

    Fifteen
minutes later he suddenly heard Psycho hiss 'Yes' triumphantly and saw him
stiffen into his firing stance, slowly moving the barrel of the rifle left and
right as he fixed on a target.

    'You
little beauties, let me see you,' he whispered, as if the prey might somehow
hear him and run away. In his sight he now had two bedraggled, unkempt youths,
carefully picking their way through fairly dense undergrowth over to the east
of the gypsy camp.

    'Been
out poaching or robbing,' he whispered to Pizza, who had moved behind him,
hoping to witness the cull. 'Stand by, stand by, stand by,' he muttered slowly
to himself. Pizza looked oddly at him; he really was the maddest person he'd
ever encountered.

    Jimmy
Martin and Dave Chance were lost, but not overly worried because they were now
quite sure the Old Bill weren't behind them. They'd stuck together across the
fairway of the golf course but had become disorientated in the dark and were
now headed away from their intended destination, the Park Royal estate. Still,
they'd lost the Old Bill and now intended to stay off the main roads as much as
possible until they hit home ground. They were pushing their way through
thigh-high shrubs and undergrowth and stumbling over rubble on some waste
ground when Martin, who was slightly in front, stopped as he saw something up
ahead.

    'Fucking
gypos,' he whispered back to Chance. 'We must be on the Bolton Road estate.
This lot moved on a couple of days ago.'

    'Bolton
Road?' hissed back Chance. 'We're going the wrong fucking way then.'

    'Yeah,
I know. Still, at least we know where we are now. Give these bastards a bit of
room, though,' he cautioned. 'They catch us, I heard they'll do you up the arse
and keep you as a sex slave in one of their caravans.'

    Chance
looked saucer-eyed at his friend and hurriedly followed as he moved over to the
left, giving the camp a wide berth, and casting anxious looks towards it.

    Then
something ripped off the tip of Martin's nose, causing him to throw both hands
to his face and drop to his knees. Such was his shock that he didn't scream or
yell. He took his hands away from his face and even in the dark could see they
were covered in what was obviously his blood. Chance saw him drop and called
out quietly, 'What's up?' He received no reply, so moved towards him. His
friend was staring at his own outstretched hands and reaching up to touch his
nose.

    'What's
wrong?' hissed Chance anxiously. 'Stop fucking about.'

    Martin
turned to look at him, and Chance saw the ruined nose and fearful, heavily
bloodstained face. Martin's eyes were wide with fear and he was struggling to
breathe properly.

    'I've
been shot,' he stammered.

    'Shot?'
queried Chance, a split second before a second pellet embedded itself into the
hard bone above his temple. As he fell poleaxed to the ground, blood flowing
from the wound, Martin began to scream like a hunted hare. Chance had not lost
consciousness when he was hit, and as he rolled around in the undergrowth,
clutching at his head, he too began to scream.

    Psycho
stepped back from his rifle sight and grinned over at Pizza, who was looking
admiringly at him and glancing over in the direction of the hysterical
screaming.

    'Got
both of them,' he boasted happily as he packed his rifle away in the boot of
the panda car. He glanced over towards the gypsy caravans as he noticed lights
coming on in one or two. 'Time we made ourselves scarce, Pizza.'

    He
slammed the boot shut and hurried round to the driver's side. Pizza followed
suit; Psycho started the engine up and drove quickly out of the lay-by, not
putting the headlights on until they had put some distance between them and the
camp. He was beaming contentedly and hit the steering wheel several times in
celebration.

    'Fucking
brilliant, fucking brilliant,' he repeated before quietening down, turning to
Pizza and saying, 'So tell me, Pizza, what's your little stunt all about then?'

    Back
on the waste ground, Chance and Martin were not screaming quite as loudly, and
ceased altogether as they heard voices approaching them. Getting to their feet
they saw lights on in the caravans and figures moving towards them in the dark,
some of them clearly rather large dogs.

    'Gypsies,'
screamed Martin, 'and fucking dogs.'

    'NOOOOOOO,'
shrieked Chance, who viewed the prospect of ending up as a gypsy's 'special
friend' with an arsehole like the top end of an old Wellington boot with absolute
terror.

    'NOOOOOOO,'
shrieked Martin as well, as both youths momentarily forgot their injuries and
grew wings as they fled from the approaching gypsies.

    The
dogs pursued the pair for some distance, eventually catching them in the lay-by
recently vacated by Psycho and Pizza where they administered a dreadful
savaging. Eventually losing interest in their blubbering prey, the dogs
returned to the camp, leaving Martin and Chance to reflect painfully on a night
they would never, ever discuss with anyone else.

    Psycho
brought the car to a skidding halt and looked over at the beaming Pizza.

    'Pizza,
that's fucking brilliant,' he shouted delightedly, 'absolutely fucking
brilliant. How are you going to get down to him, though?'

    'That's
where you come in,' Pizza replied. 'I need you to get Jones out of Custody for
about five minutes, that's all. That'll give me plenty of time to get Middleton
done.'

    'OK.
Any ideas how I get him away?'

    'I
hadn't really given it a lot of thought. I was hoping you'd come up with
something, Psycho.'

    Psycho
recognised the challenge immediately. Pizza was really pushing his luck, though
he had to admit that the boy knew which buttons to press. A bit like himself,
really. Psycho began to feel a little glow of professional respect for him.

    'Not
a problem,' he announced brightly, inspiration coming quickly. 'You tell me
when you want Jones out of the way and it'll be done.'

    'Lovely,'
replied Pizza, reaching forward to turn up the hopeless heater to try to dry
out a bit. As the car moved off again, he settled back into his seat and
allowed himself a broad grin at the thought of what was about to happen.

    In
his desolate office on the third floor at Handstead police station, Acting
Chief Inspector Curtis stared at the phone he had just put down, before he put
his head in his hands and slumped forward. Taking advantage of Curtis's
temporary promotion, the appalling Chief Superintendent 'Mengele' Middleton had
just phoned to berate him about his son's continued detention in the drunk
cell. Sergeant Jones had relented and phoned Mengele just after 1 a.m. Mengele
had been on to Curtis immediately afterwards.

    'I
take it there won't be any question of his being charged, Acting Chief
Inspector,' he hissed at him. Curtis had not even been aware that Middleton Jnr
was in his cells. He tried to stall.

    'Oh,
well, I don't know what's planned for him,' he tried as an opening bid. 'I'll
need to speak to the arresting officer.'

    'Don't
know what's going on?' shouted Mengele. 'You're supposed to be in charge there,
Acting Chief Inspector. This is a very inauspicious start to your career in a
position of some value and importance. All I need from you is your agreement
that my son won't be charged and I'll be over to pick him up later when it's
quiet and get him out of your hair. No need for anyone else to get involved.
Any problem with that at all?'

    Curtis's
complete lack of operational experience or backbone betrayed him and he answered
limply 'No, sir' before Mengele abruptly slammed the phone down to avoid
further discussion. Curtis kept his head in his hands for some time as he
considered alternative careers. He finally picked up the phone and spoke to
Sergeant Jones in the custody block, telling him that Middleton Jnr was to be
released into the custody of his father without charge. He expected a row, but
was surprised when Jones merely responded, 'You're the boss. I'll mark up the
custody record with your instructions,' and hung up.

    Curtis
contemplated the implications of what Jones had said for a while and weighed it
against what Mengele had implied. He eventually decided that he could probably
cope marginally better with the unbridled contempt of the officers at Handstead
than the malicious politicking of Mengele and the effects that could have on
his fledgling career as a high flyer. He was, after all, part of the palsied
future for the Job.

    Half
an hour later, Sergeant Jones looked up from his newspaper as he heard the door
to the custody block open and saw Psycho smiling at him. He was relieved to see
that the unshaven brute had not got a prisoner with him.

    'Yes?'
he asked.

    'Spare
me a minute, sarge?' said Psycho politely. 'I'd really appreciate a couple of
moments for a chat about something personal.'

    Fucking
hell, just what I don't need. I've got enough of my own problems, thought
Sergeant Jones, but he replied, 'Sure, come on in. It's pretty quiet at the
moment.'