Horse's Arse (28 page)

    I
can't do this, he thought to himself as he climbed the stairs to his temporary
office. The place is a madhouse.

    Back
in the muster room, Collins had whipped the lions back on to their display
boxes where they roared and pawed the air. He was desperate to find something
to placate them and get them out on the ground in a better frame of mind.
Turning the pages of the large, leather-bound General Occurrence Book, he
quickly scoured the entries for something of interest. As its name suggested,
the GOB was used to record pretty much any item of interest that took place
during a 24-hour period, and included arrests, sudden deaths, domestic
disputes, unsatisfactory business transactions and the like. All the daily
detritus of life in Handstead went into the GOB. Collins glanced briefly at the
few entries recorded for the day so far, but initially saw nothing of great
interest. 'The pikeys are back on the Bolton Road industrial estate,' he
announced conversationally. 'Late Turn were up there giving them a hard time,
so make sure you do likewise.' He glanced up at them with raised eyebrows to
ensure that his message had been received and understood. Psycho's broad smile
answered in the affirmative and most of the others had also cottoned on.
Gypsies got short shrift when they moved on to the Division and it was
remarkable that they kept coming back; but, as H had been heard to comment,
like a bad dose of the pox, they did.

    'Late
Turn took an interesting call to a flat in Upminster Close,' said Collins,
quickly reading ahead. 'Couple of homos shoving their pet hamster up each
other's ring-pieces through a toilet roll holder when the hamster disappeared
from view inside one of them.' The room exploded with laughter.

    'It
gets better,' continued Collins, delighted with the change in their mood. 'The
one with the hamster up his arse lies down so Dorothy's friend can have a look.
Of course it's a bit dark so the friend lights a match, holds it closer and suddenly
his arse explodes.' Pandemonium ensued and it was some time before Collins
could go on.

    'Apparently
there was a pocket of gas in his arse which ignited,' he said, wiping a tear
from his eye, 'which shot the hamster out like a bullet into the face of the
bloke with the match. He's in hospital with a broken nose and the other one's
got severe internal burns.' He had to sit down as hysteria ensued.

    'How's
the hamster?' asked the Blister in all seriousness, which prompted another bout
of heads-back laughter.

    As
they calmed down and swapped insults and quips amongst themselves, Collins
continued to quickly read through the GOB. The last prisoner nicked by Late
Turn had been a drunk found unconscious at the railway station. He was about to
pass the entry by until he glanced at the surname - Middleton. That name alone
prompted him to look at the entry more closely and a broad grin spread across
his face.

    'You're
going to fucking love this one,' he announced, before he began to read aloud.

    Chief
Superintendent Geoffrey Middleton commanded neighbouring 'C' Division. With his
circular, wire-rimmed NHS spectacles, mad, staring blue eyes, nervous facial
tic and clipped, almost East European accent, he could be, and was regularly,
mistaken for the infamous Nazi, Dr Joseph Mengele. The nickname 'Mengele' had
followed him throughout his service and perfectly suited his cold, aloof,
sinister personality. He appeared to float and hover when he walked, which
added to his menacing, spectral qualities. His preferred greeting, you're doing
a great job', would usually be followed by the unmistakable feel of a knife
being furtively inserted into the back. 'You're doing a great job' was
tantamount to the vote of confidence a chairman of a struggling football club
would give his beleaguered, doomed manager.

    Loathed
by most of the officers he had come into contact with over the years, only his
senior position within the Freemasons had ensured regular promotion within the
police, where the funny handshake club looked after its own whatever their
shortcomings as human beings. His strange accent was the result of his
ridiculous attempts to lose his native Birmingham patois, which he thought
common and likely to hold him back in his remorseless climb to the top, both in
the Lodge and in the Job. The outcome was his hilarious, clipped delivery, and
there were those in the Force prepared to swear that they had heard him
interview a prisoner in the past with the words, 'Ve haf vays ov makink you
talk, English pik.' To say he was not well liked was to describe Attila the Hun
as 'a bit rough'.

    It
was not altogether surprising that his eldest son, Jason, had inherited one or
two of his more unpleasant personality traits. Coupled with the legacy of his
mother's alcoholism, they had ensured that Jason had developed into an
eighteen-carat shit with a serious drink problem. To his father's immense
embarrassment, he had been arrested twice, once in Manchester, once in
Handstead, for being drunk and incapable. Drunk and unconscious would have been
a more accurate description of his condition on the occasion of his previous
arrest at Handstead. As he'd sobered up, he'd become more obnoxious and
aggressive, and only frantic string-pulling by Middleton Snr had avoided a
court appearance the following morning. Middleton had collected Jason from
Handstead in the small hours and dragged him out to his car under the withering
glares of the officers who'd nicked him and wanted to take things further. The
account of his arrest and his father's machinations had quickly passed around
the nick and Jason Middleton had gone on to the unwritten list - 'If you ever
see the bastard, nick him for something'.

    Now
the stupid little shit had done it again and lay deeply unconscious in the
drunk cell, snoring loudly, covered in his own vomit and urine. He was back in
play. The Late Turn custody sergeant hadn't bothered to let Mengele know that
his devil's spawn was locked up, and Sergeant Mick Jones was in no hurry to do
so when he took over at 10 p.m. He decided to ring him about 3 a.m. when he was
most likely to be in a deep sleep.

    Fuck
him, thought Jones, who feared he was in for an absolute bastard of a night.

    Bovril's
murder and the arrests of the fifteen Mafia members including Driscoll and Baker
had stunned the Park Royal estate. As the headline news spread around the
estate, groups of would- be future members had gathered in all the usual places
that bored, idle, arrogant youth gathers, and discussed their downfall in
shocked whispers. The murder of the copper barely rated a mention. There was
general agreement that a snout had to be behind the arrests, and in the
following days, as the news filtered through that Morgan was being held in
voluntary isolation in Strangeways, his name began to appear amongst the
graffiti on the walls around the estate. The latest scrawls also included
taunting references to Bovril's death for the Old Bill's benefit.

    Morgans
family began to pay for his forced confession. First the words 'snout' and
'grass' had been daubed on the front door and walls of the family home, and a
day later his 12-year-old sister had been attacked on her way home from school.
Her attackers were all female and tore clumps of hair from her head as she was
kicked and punched to the ground and left bleeding and crying. Despite the fact
that the Morgan family were very much part of the cheap fabric of the Park
Royal, they were quickly ostracised. Despite their own impressive collection of
convictions, Mr and Mrs Morgan soon became social outcasts and the message
being sent to them in the form of their terrified daughter was clear: 'We can't
get to him but you can. Tell him to keep his mouth shut or this gets worse.
Much worse.' The Morgans got the message immediately; they understood these
things, and began to try to arrange a visit to Danny. But that had been
anticipated by the police, and when the ever-helpful prison service informed
the officer in charge of the case that a visit had been arranged, he simply
arranged for Morgan to be brought to Handstead 'for further questioning' on the
day in question. Morgan's parents endured a fruitless visit to Strangeways and
finished up standing outside in the cold cursing the system they themselves
regularly tried to buck.

    But
their excuses for their lack of success with Danny cut no ice with what
remained of the Mafia. After a petrol bomb was thrown at the house, the Morgans
decided that enough was enough and crept away in the dead of night to a
sister-in-law in Leicester, abandoning Danny to his fate. Thus he found himself
in the strange position of almost welcoming the offers of help he began to get
from the police. His brief was proving as much use as men's tits, continually
encouraging him to cooperate and accept the offers. After all, he had signed a
confession, naming names.

    'They
fucking forced me to sign it. How many fucking times have I got to say it? They
forced me,' he screamed during one of his solicitor's visits.

    'But
that is your signature? They haven't forged it?'

    'No,
I told you, they forced me.'

    'And
what's in the interview record is substantially correct?'

    'Yes,
but so fucking what? I didn't want to sign it; they were whipping me with those
fucking rubber bands. It was fucking agony - I'd have signed anything. Jesus
Christ, how many fucking times?'

    'Are
we able to prove they assaulted you? Are you injured in any way?'

    'I've
still got loads of bruising around me arse,' he replied, standing up and
pulling down his trousers to show the brief. The brief shook his head
sorrowfully and motioned for Morgan to pull them up.

    'Not
enough there for us to do much with. You should have seen a doctor immediately.
Didn't you ask to see one at the police station?'

    'Fucking
right I did,' said Morgan, tucking his shirt back into his trousers. 'I asked
for loads of things and got fuck all. Two right big fuckers decked me in the
cells and I suppose fuck all's going to happen about that?'

    'Did
you make a complaint?'

    'I
tried to but they told me to fuck off. You don't get fuck all when you're
banged up at Handstead.'

    'I
can't see that we can do much more than throw ourselves on their mercy. You
were arrested trying to escape from the scene of the crime, covered in what
turned out to be the landlord's blood and glass fragments from the bottle used
to stab him. I'd be very interested to hear what possible defence you think I
could run on your behalf.'

    'Fucking
hell, you're the brief, you must be able to come up with something.'

    'And
you admitted it all during a contemporaneous interview which you signed.'

    'They
forced me,' he replied sullenly, but without the same conviction as before.

    'And
you implicated and named everyone else involved in the attack in your
interview, which you signed of your own free will as a true and accurate
record,' continued the brief, rubbing salt into the wound.

    'They
fucking forced me,' shouted Morgan, before burying his head in his arms on the
tabletop.

    'But
your confession is, for the most part, true?'

    'Yeah,
suppose so,' said Morgan sulkily.

    'So
we have to make the best of a very bad job, don't we?'

    'What
d'you mean?'

    'The
police have indicated to me that in return for your evidence against the
others, they might be prepared to reduce the gravity of the charge against you,
down to a straightforward grievous bodily harm, as opposed to a "with
intent". That could substantially reduce any sentence you subsequently
receive. But you'll have to give evidence against the others.'

    Morgan
was silent for a moment, as the gravity of his situation became clear. As he'd
languished in the cells at Handstead he had admitted to himself that he was
well fucked. What he hadn't appreciated was how well.

    'The
others know I'm here and what I've done, don't they?' he said quietly after a
long pause for thought. His thin, pale face was showing the strain of solitary
confinement and what little colour it had had been quickly bleached under the
all-enveloping fluorescent lights of the prison.

    'Do
they?'

    'Yeah.
The cons who bring me my food have been threatening me, passing on messages,
you know.'

    'What
sort of messages?'

    'Guess,
why don't you? Fuck me, they're threatening to top me, what the fuck do you
think? They're saying my mum and dad and sister are on offer; we're all going
to get some unless I keep quiet.'