Horse's Arse

by Charlie Owen

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.

  * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  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.'

  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.'

  Mor
gan 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 M
organ 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.