by Charlie Owen
'Do you think so? God, I hope he did,' sighed Pizza. 'He was my best friend. How did you know him, by the way?'
She laughed, and smiling said, 'I only knew him a short time, but he had quite an effect on me. We were good friends.' She paused before continuing, 'It looks as though they're finishing up down there. You'd better join them, hadn't you?'
'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 The invitation to afternoon tea was icily withdrawn.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.'
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
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.
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 giv
e 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'.