by Charlie Owen
'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.'
'Not here, sarge. I don't want us to be interrupted. Can't we use the sergeant's office? I've checked and it's empty.'
'OK,' sighed Jones, getting wearily to his feet and reluctantly going out into the corridor through the door Psycho was holding open for him. As the far corridor door shut behind them, Pizza hurried unseen from the back yard into the custody block carrying a plastic carrier bag. He quickly checked the two custody records hanging on clips on the wall behind the desk to confirm that Middleton Jnr was alone in the drunk cell. He noticed that even though Jones was working without a gaoler, he had kept up to date with his visits to the prisoners, visiting them only half an hour ago. Apart from his phone call from Curtis, he'd had nothing to do since he took over at 10 p.m. Despite his initial fears of a hectic evening, the night duty officers had yet to bring a body in; both prisoners were left over from Late Turn. Quietly opening the desk drawer, Pizza was relieved to see that Jones had not taken the cell keys with him. Holding the large bunch tightly to stop them rattling, he made his way stealthily down the corridor to the cells. The passage was lit only by the eerie red night lights in the ceiling, and as Pizza paused by the gate to the cells themselves he could hear only loud, rhythmic snoring. He inserted and turned a key in the gate, which opened without a sound. He crept quietly to the drunk cell and peered in. The cell was devoid of any furniture and its cold shiny stone floor was only blemished by the shallow open drainage channels that led to a shallow hole in the middle of the floor covered with a cast-iron grille, which was bolted into the recessed gap. The design of the cell was intentional and entirely in keeping with its function - in the morning a quantity of industrial-strength disinfectant would be thrown over the walls and floor and a fire hose used to wash all the vomit and shit away. It was a task all the Early Turn gaolers loathed with a passion, though it could be fun if an overnight drunk was still in residence.
Lying helpfully on his side in the middle of the floor, with his head almost in the drainage channel, was Jason Middleton, snoring like a pig and covered in his own vomit, which he had rolled around in as he had made himself comfortable. Pizza gagged at the stench as he opened the gate and walked over to him. He waited briefly to ensure he hadn't disturbed him before he reached into his carrier bag, knelt down beside him and got to work.
In the sergeant's office, Jones motioned disinterestedly to Psycho to sit down in the chair on the opposite side of the only desk.
'What's on your mind?' he asked, suspecting that as usual there would be very little. Psycho wriggled uncomfortably, looking down at the floor and then at Jones before he replied.
'I don't know if you're aware,' he started, 'but I'm gay and I need to run something past you.'
'Gay?' shouted Jones, alarmed and sitting back firmly in his chair. 'Gay?' he repeated.
'Yes, gay,' continued Psycho, pulling his chair closer to the desk as Jones tried to push his through the wall, 'and I really like the way you move and hold yourself. I wondered if you'd like to come over to my place for dinner one night, perhaps mak
e a night of it with a few other friends?'
'No,' bellowed Jones, looking towards the door, planning to make a dash for it if Psycho got any closer. 'I'm no fucking shirt- lifter.' He noticed Psycho frown menacingly at this remark and held up both hands apologetically. 'What I meant was I'm not a homosexualist,' he blustered. 'Sorry, I didn't mean anything by that last remark.'
Psycho ignored the apology. 'Not a homosexual,' he corrected. 'You're not gay. I thought you were single now?'
'Well, yes, my wife's left me, that's true,' admitted Jones..
'We heard she caught you getting banged up the arse at your last nick,' Psycho lied.
'Christ, no,' squealed Jones desperately. 'I had an affair with the wife of one of my PCs; nothing wrong with me. No, I didn't mean that there's anything wrong with you . . .' He trailed off in despair.
Psycho stood up and Jones tried to melt into the varnish on the back of the chair. 'You're definitely not gay?' he asked. Jones shook his head in reply. 'You sure you're not gay?'
'No, no. I'm definitely not gay — I shag women, for Christ's sake,' yelled Jones. How was he ever going to get away from this horror?
'OK,' said Psycho with a shrug of his shoulders, going over to the door. 'It'll be our little secret, but if you ever change your mind, promise me you'll give me a ring?'
Jones nodded.
'Promise me,' said Psycho, raising his voice.
'I promise,' whispered Jones, and Psycho strode out of the room. Jones momentarily relaxed before Psycho put his head back round the door and looked at him.
'Love you,' he lisped quietly at his horrified sergeant.
Jones remained in the office shaking for quite a while, not returning to the custody block for some time. By the time he did, the drunk cell had been locked, the keys returned and Pizza was recounting his stunt to Psycho out in the car, both laughing until tears ran down their faces. Absolutely jubilant, Psycho decided to take a run down to the railway sidings to see if any of the local toms was having a quiet night and fancied doing him a favour. 'Tanks need emptying,' he announced, to the horror of Pizza, who had heard graphic accounts of Psycho's blow jobs and was appalled at the prospect of having to witness the monster having his plums sucked dry.
Jones tried to settle back into his newspaper but couldn't concentrate at all, constantly jumping as he heard distant doors slamming, expecting at any moment to see Psycho leering at him. The mere thought of it made him shudder.
Mengele appeared in the custody block shortly after 3 a.m., or rather he appeared to float through the wall and hover in front of the desk. Jones was having a horrific dream where a rampant Psycho dressed as Little Bo Peep and carrying a lamb under a hairy arm was chasing him round a bedroom, and quite welcomed the sudden visitor. He didn't recognise him and looked the stranger up and down with barely concealed disdain. He was wearing a beige sports jacket with leather patches sewn on to the elbows, green moleskin trousers and shiny brown leather brogues. Under an open-necked cream shirt was a real eyesore of a red and green check cravat. Two sinister blue eyes glared at Jones through round, wire-rimmed glasses. Whilst faintly ridiculous, there was also an unmistakable air of menace about the man. Jones, however, completely failed to spot it.
'Yes?' he demanded rather rudely.
'Yes?' bellowed Mengele. 'On your feet, you little cockroach. D'you know who I am?'
'No,' replied Jones defiantly, but getting up anyway. He recognised something in the man's tone that said 'senior officer'.
'Chief Superintendent Middleton,' said Mengele testily. 'I've come to collect my son. Go and get him and we'll be on our way.' Jones didn't move quickly enough so Mengele snapped, 'Go on, you cretin, go and get him now.'
Jones coloured up at the insult and wished he had the balls to give the old twat a mouthful back. But he hadn't, so he grabbed the cell keys from the desk drawer and slunk away down the darkened cell passage. As soon as Mengele heard the keys rattling in the call gate, he quickly viewed the three custody records on the clips. Finding his son's, he pulled the papers free, folded them in half and slipped them into his jacket pocket. He waited a couple of minutes before Jones reappeared, walking ahead of a shambling, shuffling figure.
'He's a bit of a mess, I'm afraid, sir,' murmured Jones, belatedly trying to show deference and respect. 'If you'll just sign for him you can be on your way,' he continued, looking up at the empty clip where the custody record had been, and then at his desk in case he'd left it there by accident. Where's his custody record? he asked himself quietly, and then looked at Mengele who was staring aghast at the shuffling figure that had come to a halt and was leaning against the door frame. 'I can't seem to find his custody record,' he said, beginning to open and close the drawers in the desk.
'Jesus fucking Christ,' exploded Mengele, his voice rising a couple of octaves, 'look at the fucking state of him.'
'Yeah, he's a mess all right,' replied Jones, peering into the depths of one of the larger drawers.
'Look at his fucking hair, you moron. What the fuck have you done?'
'Done? What you on about?' said Jones, getting to his feet and walking closer to the stinking figure.
'Look at his fucking hair,' shouted Mengele again, striding towards his son, gesticulating wildly. He grabbed Jason's shoulders and pulled him upright and suddenly Jones saw what he was talking about. The boy's lank, dirty, vomit-covered hair hung limply down to the left side of his head and face, but the right side was as bald as an egg.
'His fucking head's been shaved, you cunt,' screamed Mengele. 'You've shaved his fucking head.' His eyes were bulging madly and the veins in his forehead straining.
'Fuck all to do with me,' sniffed Jones huffily. 'Must have been like that when he was nicked. If I could find his custody record I could tell you. Haven't seen it, have you?' he asked, looking Mengele straight in the eye for the first time.
* * *
Chapter Nineteen
The officers of 'D' Relief were long home in bed and asleep by the time Marjorie Wallace and Rachel Weinberg arrived at the ladies' twelfth tee at the Valley Forge Golf and Country Club. As the Ladies' Captain, Marjorie had to maintain a certain standard, and she was, as expected, dressed to kill. Her motorised trolley contained a set of handmade Max Faulkner clubs in a hand- stitched leather bag, and the cost of her golfing attire - Jack Nicklaus checked slacks, Pringle roll-neck jumper and cardigan, black leather shoes and brand new white leather glove - ran well into three figures. Wearing a Dunlop sun visor she looked the part of the lady captain, but any resemblance to a golfer ended there as her lack of any natural sporting prowess or hand-eye coordination rather negated the effect. Her elevation to Ladies' Captain owed everything to her status as the wife of an ICI director who didn't mind putting his hand in his pocket when required. As a member of a private golf club where status and money were everything, it had only been a matter of time before Marjorie rose to the top of the tree, with her own designated parking space at the front of the sumptuous clubhouse.
She had been the Ladies' Captain for the last four years, returned unopposed at every annual general meeting. The rest of the lady members took the very sensible view that while they had a cash cow in post it would be most unwise to offend it. That was, however, until Rachel Weinberg gained membership. Married to a hugely wealthy jeweller with premises in Deansgate, Altrincham and Chester, she had let it be known that she was in a similarly happy position to dole out her husband's cash to the golf club. The ladies' section had split into two camps and the next AGM promised to be a bloody affair after Rachel announced that she had 'graciously acceded to requests from lady members to stand for election to the post of Ladies' Captain'. Marjorie had maintained an icy, furious silence when the two candidates' names had appeared on the advance notices for the AGM around the clubhouse, and the atmosphere around the club became more and more electric as the AGM got closer. It went into meltdown when Marjorie and Rachel were drawn against each other in the first round of the Ladies' Challenge Cu
p, due to be played a week before the AGM. The incumbent against the heir apparent. Everyone agreed that the result of the match would probably sway the ballot for Ladies' Captain.
The prospect of a real battle ensuing drew a crowd of around fifty as the two silent, glowering combatants drove off into the late-morning mist. Marjorie played off a handicap of 20, Rachel, a slightly better player but-prone to spectacular 'blow-ups', off 15. On paper she should beat Marjorie, but Marjorie was nothing if not a tenacious competitor when it came to her social standing. She played out of her skin, matching Rachel shot for shot, hole for hole - going one up, back to all square, one behind, all square again, with never more than a hole between them. It was a riveting match that enthralled the following crowd, evenly split into two very partisan camps.
As they stood on the twelfth tee, Rachel had the honour to drive first, having gone one up at the eleventh, and briefly surveyed the challenge ahead. A 375-yard par four, dog leg right, the only obvious hazard being a fairway bunker about two hundred yards ahead. However, it was a tight, narrow fairway with gruesome rough and out of bounds on both sides to worry about. She was playing sensible, percentage golf and decided to lay up short of the bunker and leave herself a decent iron shot to the flag. She pulled her favourite driving iron out of her bag after a brief discussion with her caddie, teed up her ball and again surveyed the shot ahead. Her choice of club caught Marjories attention and she realised that Rachel intended to lay up short of the fairway bunker. It was an opportunity for her, albeit a risky one, but if she could pass the bunker she'd have an easier shot on to the green. She whispered to her caddie and watched intently, plump arms firmly crossed, as Rachel smoothly despatched her ball straight as an arrow down the centre of the fairway. She'd caught it perfectly and watched, frozen in position, as it flew high and true before beginning its fall to earth. For a brief moment she feared she'd caught it too well and it was headed for the bunker, but to her relief she saw it bounce twice and roll to a halt on the damp turf alongside the bunker's edge. Smiling contentedly and graciously acknowledging the polite ripple of applause, she slotted her club back into her bag with a flourish and fixed Marjorie with a withering stare. Marjorie waited for effect before striding out on to the tee carrying her number one wood. Her choice of club drew comment from within the crowd. It was a bold but risky choice. If she caught it right and carried the bunker, she'd have little more than a short iron shot to the flag. Get it wrong and she'd need a machete and beaters to find her ball. Still, she who dares wins, and all that. Marjorie teed up her ball, got her stance comfortable, wriggled her fat bottom twice, and swung for all she was worth. A gasp went up from the gallery as they realised that the shot had not been perfect and that she had hooked the ball badly. It was beginning to curve left from way out right over the out of bounds, and with the extra power imparted by the wooden club plummeted full tilt into the fairway bunker and plugged, the top of the ball barely visible above the sand.