by Charlie Owen
Pizza found Psycho lurking in the locker room with a hunted look on his face.
'Christ, thank fuck it's only you,' he'd sighed gratefully as Pizza had entered suddenly. 'I thought it was the Blister.'
'Teach you to keep it in your trousers, won't it?' said Pizza.
'I've only done her a couple of times,' complained Psycho, 'and now look at the shit I'm in.'
'Putting her meat shots on public display was probably not one of your best moves, Psycho, but listen up. I need your help with something. I've had a blinding idea.'
Psycho remained seated with his head in his hands. He didn't look up, or say anything.
'Psycho, will you give me a hand?' repeated Pizza, slightly louder.
Psycho raised his head and stared intently at him. 'What sort of idea?' he asked slowly.
'Not here. I'm town centre foot patrol. Pick me up in ten minutes outside the cemetery, OK?'
Psycho was still dubious and unwilling to commit himself far. 'Hold on, hold on. What sort of idea?' he insisted.
Pizza sighed loudly and looked conspiratorially around him. 'Jason Middleton,' he said quietly, beaming like the Cheshire Cat.
'What about him?'
'For fuck's sake, Psycho, not here. Pick me up in ten minutes if you're interested. If you're not there I'll assume you've lost your bottle and I'll do it on my own,' and with that he turned and hurried out of the locker room, the bait laid.
'You spotty little cunt, I've pulled more fucking stunts than you've had shags,' Psycho called after him. Fucking nerve of the little sprog, calling him out like that. Him, King of the Stunts, the man responsible for Hilary Bott's demise. He resolved to pick Pizza up and show him what a proper stunt was all about. Saucy little twat. He turned back to his locker, rummaged through the junk inside and finally found what he was looking for. Sitting down, he unzipped the black plastic rifle case and carefully pulled out his .22 air rifle with telescopic sight. Reaching inside the case, he located a tin of pellets and grinned. He patted the stock affectionately, checked the sight, and then carefully replaced the weapon in the case. If he had a few minutes to kill, he planned to shoot up the gypsy site on the industrial estate, keep the fuckers on their toes and encourage them to move out of town. With virtually no legislation to deal with them, the officers at Horse's Arse had developed their own way of dealing with gypsies and Psycho had taken things a step further as usual. Other officers contented themselves with round-the-clock harassment; he preferred the more direct approach, and the last time gypsies had arrived in town he'd shot out the windows of six caravans. His campaign against them culminated when he set fire to one of their Transit vans parked across the entrance to their unofficial site. Realising they were dealing with someone more dangerous than themselves, that particular group had moved on the next day.
He grabbed some items from his locker and made his way cautiously out into the corridor, listening intently for Blister's shrill voice or the sound of her little pig's trotters on the polished lino floor. There was no sign of her and he hurried out into the back yard and located his vehicle for the night, Bravo Two Delta One. Delta One took the Park Royal estate and Psycho decided he'd take Pizza up there later to show him the ropes.
Three cars up, Ally sat seething in the passenger seat of Delta Two. He'd been crewed with Piggy again and had made no attempt to disguise his anger and disappointment when the crews for the night had been read out.
'Fucking hell, not again,' he'd shouted. 'How come I always get the fat bastard? Why's it always me? What have I done?' Collins had ignored his protests, again.
Despite his outburst, Piggy had merely smiled cheerfully and wiped the remains of the huge curry he'd eaten before he left home from around his mouth. He looked as if he'd let a child apply orange lipstick to his face, and now, even worse for Ally, his guts were starting to bubble up nicely.
'I'm a bit windy tonight, I'm afraid, Ally,' he belched, before lifting a leg and letting rip with a fart that bleached the curtains in the muster room.
'You do that in the car, you fat cunt, and you're dead,' Ally hissed venomously as he joined the desperate dash to find fresh air.
Now, as he sat waiting, he saw his obese partner rolling towards the car through the sleet. As he watched, Piggy paused, lifted his leg again and farted loudly enough to be heard through the closed windows. Ally closed his eyes and wondered how long it would be before he punched Malone very hard.
'Better out than in,' announced Piggy brightly as he opened the driver's door and began to ease his bulky frame inside. The remnants of his gastrointestinal disturbance followed him into the vehicle and Ally furiously wound down his window and hung his head out in the freezing night air.
'I'm going to fucking kill you, fat boy,' he gasped. 'As soon as I can breathe properly, I'm going to fucking kill you.'
As Psycho manoeuvred his vehicle towards the back gates, his headlights picked out Ally hanging out of Delta Two. He wound down his window as he got close and called out, 'You up for a bit of sport with the pikeys later? I'll give you a shout.'
'I think I touched cloth with that last one,' said Piggy cheerfully as he settled himself into the driver's seat and began to wriggle around. 'Yeah, I think I followed through.'
Ally closed his eyes and allowed his forehead to drop on to the door sill. Tomorrow morning seemed a long way away.
Driscoll had hurled the telephone back on to its cradle after H had rung off and stood cursing in the hallway, occasionally rubbing his still-throbbing, extremely painful kneecaps. Nervously, his mother opened the kitchen door and asked, 'Who was that then?'
'Fuck knows,' bellowed Driscoll, 'probably the Old Bill, bastards.' He limped towards the kitchen still swearing revenge at he knew not whom and demanded his mother get the kettle on and make a brew whilst he calmed himself and contemplated his unexpected period of freedom. As the kettle boiled he ran over in his mind what needed to be done to ensure his freedom became permanent. First thing tomorrow he'd show himself around the Park Royal to let people know he was still in charge. It was very likely attempts would be made to fill his place in his absence and it was important that he showed he was still the main man. And then there was the trial to sort out. He was cursing the fact that he'd trusted the moron Baker to get rid of the gang's bloodstained clothing, which he'd spectacularly failed to do, and now the Old Bill had some strong forensic evidence against all of them. The eyewitnesses could be dealt with easily enough - only Morgan was a real problem, though Driscoll was confident he could be persuaded to change sides again. He'd got Danny completely wrong. Thought he'd be OK when the wheels came off, but the Old Bill had really done a number on him and got him to roll over. They'd also given him and Baker a tidy fitting up with the gun Myra had used to kill the copper. Driscoll had not known of its existence but the Old Bill had got his prints on to it and the ammo. That was down to Baker as well — the idiot had not told Driscoll about it and now they were both in deep shit. Driscoll sat at the breakfast bar fuming. He and Baker were also in the frame for the attack on Myra in the bedroom. He regretted that now, but her death had had little impact on him. If anything, it had been quite convenient, because she had the potential to be a nuisance. She was so unstable there was no way anyone could be sure what she'd say or do from one moment to the next. Morgan really bothered him, though. The little bastard had given the Old Bill chapter and verse about the attack on the pub manager. He'd even embellished the story a little to further implicate Driscoll and Baker, albeit at the interviewing officer's behest. It would be very useful if Morgan suddenly found himself dead as well. Driscoll decided to get word to Baker and the others on remand in Strangeways to take care of it. His evidence could be very damaging and Driscoll couldn't allow that. He'd get his instructions into Strangeways via a visit Baker was due from his mother in two days. As he sipped at a mug of milky, heavily sugared tea, he nodded to himself, satisfied that he was getting his train back on the tracks.
The phone in the hallw
ay rang again and he put his mug of tea down in surprise. Who'd be calling so late unless it was another threatening call? His mother made no move to leave the kitchen and answer it, so he eased himself off the chair and limped out into the hallway.
'Fuck off, you cunt,' he screamed into the mouthpiece, assuming it would be the same sort of call as before. It wasn't. This time the caller adopted a very different tack.
'Bobby, is that you?' the voice whispered urgently.
'Who the fuck are you?'
'Bobby?'
'Yes. Who the fuck are you?' shouted Driscoll again.
'Alan Morgan, Danny's dad,' came the reply.
There was a stunned and lengthy silence. Driscoll knew virtually nothing about Morgan's family, other than that they had been driven out of Handstead in the aftermath of the Mafia's downfall.
'What the fuck do you want?' Driscoll finally asked sullenly.
'Listen, we need to talk,' continued the whispering voice. 'I know what Danny's done and I can't live with it. We're paying for what he's done and it's not right.'
'So fucking do something about it then,' interrupted Driscoll loudly.
'That's why I'm ringing, Bobby. I can do something about it but we need to meet. I don't want to talk on the phone. I'm back in our old house in Deacons Drive. Can you come over so we can talk?'
'Bollocks,' shouted Driscoll. 'I'm not going fucking anywhere. You deal with the little shit before I do.'
'Bobby, we need to talk,' continued the voice in the same urgent whisper. 'I'll be at the house until just after midnight, then we're gone for good. If you don't come I'll assume you're not interested. That'll be a shame, because I can sort things out. Take care, Bobby,' and the phone was put down quickly.
'Fuck off,' screamed Driscoll, before pulling the phone line out of the wall socket and hurling the whole phone at the wall.
Back at Handstead police station, H and Jim hurried out into the back yard, where it was still sleeting heavily, and got into Yankee One. Jim had the keys for the evening, and he settled himself and waited whilst H got comfortable. H had been restored to full driving duties following Bott's demise, but tonight was Jim's turn to drive, H to do the paperwork.
'Ready?' he asked.
'Let's go, Jim,' responded H, picking up the main handset to book on. 'Delta Hotel from Bravo Two Yankee One, show us on watch please,' he said quietly.
'Thank you, Yankee One,' responded the operator. 'Good hunting, boys,' she added.
The Brothers looked at each other and grinned as Jim took the car out into Horse's Arse to find Driscoll. Hunting was definitely the appropriate term.
The temptation to confront Morgan's father had been too good to resist and Driscoll had quickly dressed to go out.
'Where are you going so late?' asked his mother as he buttoned up his coat by the front door.
'Out,' he snapped without looking at her.
'Where? Who was that on the phone?'
He tapped the side of his nose by way of reply and opened the front door, slamming it shut behind him. The sleet and chill wind took him by surprise and he gasped involuntarily as the cold hit him, and hunched his shoulders to keep warm. He hurried down the path, crossed the deserted street and made towards the industrial estate on a short cut to Deacons Drive. The bitter chill made his damaged knees ache more than usual, but he soon found that the exercise eased them and he lengthened his stride. He was looking forward to the confrontation with Morgan senior and began to formulate what he intended to do and say. Depending on how big Morgan senior was, he might even give him a slap. It depended very much on his size, though, because at heart Driscoll was an abject coward and generally depended on Baker to do his muscle work. He walked quickly along a rubbish-strewn alleyway and out on to the industrial estate, glanced left and right and began to cross Wheatcroft Drive to walk to the alleyway opposite which would cut out having to walk right through the estate. As he crossed the road he was startled by two figures that suddenly emerged from the darkness of a building to his right. He stopped in his tracks as they closed on him.
'Hello, Bobby,' one of them said. The pair walked under the weak street lamp and into the pale yellow light.
Driscoll recognised the Brothers immediately. His blood ran cold as it dawned on him that they had phoned him on both occasions and he was now completely at the mercy of these two mad, dangerous bastards. H had been absolutely right. The one thing Driscoll really needed to know was whether Morgan would give evidence against him and he had walked straight into the trap. Driscoll's mouth was dry and he swallowed hard as they stopped under the light and grinned at him.
'You should be at home, shouldn't you, Bobby?' said H. 'I was sure your bail conditions said you had to be at home in the evening. That's right, isn't it, Jim?'
"S right, H,' answered his colleague, 'and there's a power of arrest for breaching the condition. It's back to Strangeways for you, Driscoll, for a very long time. Where are you off to at this time of night anyway? It's a bit late to be going visiting, isn't it, H?' The Brothers laughed and stared at Driscoll, relishing the moment for a while longer.
Driscoll knew he'd been had and that his ill-gotten liberty was about to be whisked away from him before he'd had a chance to enjoy it or sort things out. Dodgy knees or not, he decided to have a go. He took off like a greyhound for the opposite alleyway, catching the Brothers completely off guard.
'Fuck it,' shouted H, starting after him. 'Get round the other side quickly, Jim, cut him off.'
As H raced after Driscoll down the unlit alleyway, Jim ran back to Yankee One parked at the rear of the building and raced away to try to intercept the foot chase on the other side of the industrial estate. Deliberately, he did not use the radio to summon assistance; there was no way he and H were going to give up their prize to anyone else.
Back in the alleyway, H was closing on Driscoll, but still about thirty yards behind him. Driscoll's knees were not up to anything as energetic as a foot chase, but he could see the lit road up ahead at the end of the alleyway and kept going. He could hear the copper panting behind him and knew he couldn't afford to get captured. Too much depended on his remaining at large.
* * *
Chapter Eighteen
Jimmy Martin and Dave Chance had escaped from the car park at the Hoop and Grapes and, because they had not gone back to Baker's flat, had avoided the police round-up. Now they sat in a clapped-out Ford Capri listening as Martin revved the engine until it screamed.
'It's absolutely fucked,' he shouted above the din to his partner in crime, who nodded his agreement. 'Be all right for a bit of a burn-up, though,' he added.
They had stolen the unregistered and untaxed rust bucket from outside the owner's house about an hour ago and brought it down to the industrial estate to do some handbrake turns and then set fire to it. It was what they always did with every car they nicked. They were nothing if not predictable and consequently had previous convictions as juveniles as long as the proverbial arm. Both wannabe Mafia, they came from the Park Royal estate and had been involved in car theft and other petty crime most of their young lives. Aged only fourteen now, they were very well known to the local police and had only one aspiration: to move into the ranks of the Park Royal Mafia as full-time members; to become Bobby's boys. With their backgrounds, they were condemned to that fate anyway, regardless of any other aspirations they might subsequently harbour.
Martin put the Capri into first gear, revved the engine again until it sounded as though it must explode, and then let the clutch in fast, causing all four wrecked tyres to smoke before the vehicle careered forward. The boys were whooping and cheering as the car roared along the empty road, both anticipating the handbrake turn in the cul-de-sac at the other end.
Neither H nor Driscoll heard the screaming engine from within their alleyway above their own laboured breathing and thumping hearts. Driscoll had his head back, eyes fixed on the enlarging square of light ahead of him that meant possible escape. He emerged out
of the darkness into the light without slowing, was across the pavement in a single stride and into the road and the path of the speeding Capri. Still in the pitch-black alleyway, H saw the collision perfectly framed for a split second in the square of light as the stolen Capri hit Driscoll side on at 60 m.p.h with a sickening thud, who then disappeared from view as though flicked by a giant finger. H came quickly to a halt, still in the darkness, panting deeply and unable to fully appreciate what he had just seen. He heard the car engine slow slightly and then the screech of tyres as the vehicle turned in the cul-de-sac and then flashed back through the square of light. From where he was, H was unable to even establish the colour of the vehicle, let alone its make, or the identity of its occupants.
As the sound of the engine died away, H walked to the edge of the darkness and peered out into the road. All the buildings in his view were in total darkness and the road was deserted. There was a vast amount of broken glass spread around, but of Driscoll there was no sign at all. For one moment H wondered if he had been picked up by the occupants of the car but he quickly dismissed the thought. He was expecting to see body parts all over the place, but there was nothing to see other than the broken glass. He had begun to walk towards the cul-de-sac when he heard the sound of a speeding engine coming towards him and he turned to see a pair of headlights approaching him. Momentarily fearful it might be the bad guys returning, he was relieved to see it was Jim in Yankee One.
'What's happened? Where the fuck's Driscoll?' Jim asked urgently, looking at the glass on the road. H knelt down by the car window, and paused to catch his breath and compose himself.
'Fuck knows. He got taken out by a motor and he's vanished. He's got to be dead, the speed the car was going, but Christ only knows where his body is.'
Jim got out of the car and continued to survey the glass- littered road surface. 'Jesus, it's everywhere,' he said, squatting down and examining one of the thousands of square pieces of windscreen glass. Holding it up to the street light, he peered at it closely before announcing, 'It's covered in blood. Got to be a chance he's inside the motor that hit him.'