by Charlie Owen
Marjorie watched open-mouthed in horror as her ball flew into the bunker, whilst Rachel turned away, barely able to conceal her glee. Disgracefully, one or two of her supporters had given audible laughs, which drew dark looks and loud 'tuts' of disapproval from the other camp. Things were getting serious. Thin-lipped, Marjorie thrust the wood firmly back into her bag and marched off the tee towards the fairway bunker, muttering inaudibly to herself. She was livid; couldn't believe she had been so stupid and taken such a silly risk. Worse, she hated bunker shots at the best of times and she knew this one would be difficult. Probably plugged in the wet sand and still 175 yards to go to the flag. She would be lucky to get out of the bunker, let alone make any distance. It was very likely she was going to go two holes down with only six left to play. Why had she been so stupid, she fumed. She glanced over at Rachel who was talking animatedly with her caddie and looking very pleased with life. Bitch.
Arriving at the fairway bunker, Marjorie was surprised to see how deep it was, and when she peered over the edge her heart sank as she saw the top of the ball just peeking out of the sand. Worse, whoever had played out of the bunker last had not raked it, leaving huge great footprints all over the place. What was the club coming to, she thought bitterly.
'That's going to be difficult, Marjorie,' remarked her caddie sympathetically.
'Thank you, Grace,' snapped Marjorie unpleasantly, deciding to blame her for letting her play that stupid shot. 'Any caddie worth their salt would have advised against taking a wood off the tee,' she continued bitterly as she snatched her sand wedge out of her astonished caddie's hand and climbed, grim-faced, down into the bunker. She again glanced at Rachel, who was standing about twenty yards away with a grin so wide it had to hurt. She'd seen how badly the ball had plugged. Gritting her teeth, wobbling her bottom and clenching her buttocks as hard as she could, Marjorie resolved to get the ball out of the bunker if it was the last thing she did. Careful not to ground her club, she took a full swing, dug into the sand behind the ball, felt some resistance as the club head went in, but, as her numerous coaches had instructed her, played through the resistance, under the ball and up. A huge spray of wet sand erupted in front of her, in amongst which she was vaguely aware of a large grey object wrapped around the club head. As she continued with the shot and the club head rose above head height, the grey thing detached itself from the club and landed on her head. It caused her to shriek and let go of the wedge, which thudded against the side of the bunker whilst her ball, barely disturbed by her exertions, rolled slowly to the back of the bunker into a small puddle. Horrified, but as yet not sure why, Marjorie reached up to her head and pulled the dripping object off and stared at it. The gallery and Rachel were now crowded at the edge of the bunker and watched as Marjorie stared quizzically at Piggy's shitty pants before she began to scream hysterically. Realisation had dawned.
It took four male members from the crowd to remove her thrashing, porky little body from the depths of the bunker and get her back to the clubhouse, where she lay in state in the darkened ladies' locker room until her husband was summoned from a meeting to take her home. In the bar, amidst much hilarity, Rachel called for a ruling on what had occurred to determine the outcome of the game. The decision was made that Marjorie had forfeited the game by her refusal to play on, and Rachel progressed into the next round of the competition and the post of Ladies' Captain.
Still deeply traumatised by her meeting with Psycho, and now her public humiliation at the hands of Piggy's pants, Marjorie decided enough was enough. At her insistence, she and her husband moved out of the area and nearer her aged parents in the West Country. She was a changed, almost pleasant woman, as anyone who knew her would testify. Psycho and Piggy were blissfully unaware of the service they had done to the rest of society.
The summons to meet DCI Harrison in the small, secluded country pub they sometimes patronised had not come as any great surprise to Simon Edwardes. They had met there in the past to exchange information or money, and he assumed this meeting was for either or both purposes.
Harrison arrived earlier than the agreed time, as he usually did, and secured a table in the far corner where he could sit with his back against the wall and watch the bar and particularly the only door to the pub. Additionally welcome was the proximity to the large open fire.
He was growing tired of his clandestine relationship and meetings with Edwardes and had it in mind that now was as good a time as any to pull the plug on the odious bastard. It was a big decision. The information on the local villains that Edwardes regularly passed on was absolute gold dust. The results Harrison gained professionally had made him look very good with the CID hierarchy. Promotion to Detective Superintendent in the near future was a real possibility and like it or not, Edwardes had played a big part in putting him in the limelight. The news he had to pass on to him this evening, though, could potentially sour things between them anyway. Ordering himself a pint, he sat down at his table, lit a small cigar and waited and pondered. Keep him or dump him, keep him or dump him. He was far too useful, Harrison finally, reluctantly, admitted to himself, and the thought of someone else running him and getting all the results swayed the decision. Repulsive as he was, Edwardes wasn't expensive to run, even though Harrison paid him exclusively from his own pocket. The Job knew nothing about Edwardes, only that Harrison had a quality snout feeding him eighteen-carat information about the villains in Handstead. They asked no questions whilst Harrison kept producing results, He quickly patted his overcoat inside pocket, confirming the envelope of cash was still there, and glanced out of the adjacent window, checking that his own car was OK. He never used a Force motor for these meetings, knowing that villains took a keen interest in the unmarked vehicles used by the CID. If he clocked anyone he knew out here, he'd simply leave his car in the car park and get a taxi home. He crossed his legs, sighed deeply, looked at his watch and waited, watching the handful of customers for signs of recognition.
A car pulling into the almost empty car park distracted his attention and he turned to see Edwardes arriving in an almost new Triumph Stag. Harrison frowned. Must be paying the fat bastard too much, he mused. He couldn't afford a motor like that, but at least it wasn't the convertible model. He was relieved to see Edwardes park some distance from his own shabby Datsun before carefully locking what was obviously his pride and joy and walking towards the pub.
Edwardes opened the creaky, black-beamed door, ducked under the low lintel and walked into the warm, smoky, welcoming bar. He paused and glanced round at the other customers before he spotted Harrison at the far table. Harrison merely nodded in recognition, no smile, whilst Edwardes asked with a hand gesture if Harrison wanted another drink. A small shake of his head and a raised hand indicated he was OK with his pint and a few minutes later Edwardes joined him at the table.
'Cheers, Mr Harrison,' he said amiably, slurping the foam off his pint of gassy lager.
'I see crime pays then, Simon,' answered Harrison, ignoring the greeting and gesturing towards the car park with a nod of his head.
'What d'you mean?'
'Nice motor you got there.'
'Oh, I see. Nothing to hide there, Mr Harrison. Bought and paid for by my parents to celebrate my elevation to the Bar.' He laughed.
Harrison knew of the fictitious life Edwardes had created for the benefit of his elderly parents and laughed grimly. 'You're a dodgy bastard, Simon.'
'You've never complained,' answered Edwardes archly. 'Anyway, what did you want to talk about? The trial, no doubt?'
'In a manner of speaking, yes, but you'd better read this,' Harrison replied, pulling an envelope from his coat pocket and handing it to Edwardes. 'Things have changed, Simon; all deals are off.'
'What do you mean?' Edwardes, looking worried, put down his pint and opened the envelope.
'Read it, Simon,' Harrison urged.
Edwardes quickly read through the two-page advice letter from the Director of Public Prosecutions before he laid
it on the table in front of him.
'Attempted murder?' he said finally.
"S right, Simon,' said Harrison, reaching across the table to retrieve the letter and envelope and returning them to his coat pocket. 'He reckons there's enough evidence to charge Morgan with attempted murder as well as the Section 18 GBH as an alternative. The manager nearly died, remember, and we've got stacks of forensic and some decent witnesses.'
'What about his evidence against the others?'
'Don't need it,' replied Harrison dismissively, stubbing his cigar out in the ashtray. 'Driscoll's dead anyway — he was always our number one target - and Baker and the others will go away on forensics. We don't need Morgan any more, especially now he's looking at attempted murder. No, I think his usefulness to us is at an end.' He lit another, celebratory cigar, and blew a large cloud of smoke to the grimy yellow ceiling.
'Fucking hell,' said Edwardes, fumbling in his coat pocket for a packet of cigarettes, eventually putting one to his lips with trembling fingers. 'Where does that leave us, then?'
Harrison leant forward with his lighter and lit Edwardes's cigarette, then settled back in his chair and eyed him carefully. 'Your fee, you mean?'
'Don't fuck me about, Mr Harrison,' said Edwardes crossly. 'We had a deal and I was going to keep my side of it. Now this happens.'
'Don't worry, Simon.' Harrison laughed and reached into his inside coat pocket, pulled out the envelope of cash and tossed it on to the table in front of him. 'I know there's nothing you could have done about it; it's not your fault. I trust you,' he lied, 'and I want to keep you sweet, so there's what I promised you originally, OK?'
'What, all of it?'
'Yeah. Our business arrangement still exists, OK? Any of the other Mafia come to you, or any information comes your way, it comes to me - agreed?'
'Agreed,' replied Edwardes, tucking the envelope into his coat. 'Of course, you know this decision is tantamount to a death sentence for young Morgan.'
'Shame,' replied Harrison, pulling deeply on his cigar and exhaling. 'When you going to let him have the good news?'
'I'm instructing Counsel the day after tomorrow and have a visit arranged after that, so probably then. I take it you'll be informing me formally of the new charge in due course?'
'Letter went off this afternoon, Simon,' Harrison replied, 'but I thought we ought to get things straight between us first.'
'Quite right, Mr Harrison. I appreciate the thought.' Edwardes got to his feet and extended a handshake. 'I'll be in touch.'
As Harrison expected, the handshake was cold and flabby, but he took it anyway and bade Edwardes farewell. He waited at his table until he had seen the Triumph leave the car park in a flurry of pebbles as Edwardes wheelspun away, before he satisfied himself there was no one in the pub he recognised and left unobserved.
As he drove home, he considered the remark about the consequences of the DPP's decision on Morgan. Edwardes was right. Everyone knew Morgan had grassed his mates and now he was destined to spend a long time in prison. Unless he spent that time in solitary confinement, one day someone would get to him and exact revenge. It was the way of things, he reflected ruefully; always had been, always would be. There you go. Nothing he could do about it now even if he wanted to.
* * *
Chapter Twenty
The trial opened at Manchester Crown Court three months later on a bright spring morning. Pizza and the numerous other officers with evidence to give, had travelled into Manchester in a Job Transit which they'd parked outside Bootle Street police station. There, they'd had breakfast and discussed the approaching trial. All had agreed it would be a dirty fight, but one they were determined to win. Pizza contributed little to the conversation and banter, and was lagging behind the others as they walked up Bootle Street towards the court. They turned right into Deansgate and into Hardman Street whilst he became stranded on a traffic island in the centre of the road, waiting for a gap in the heavy traffic. He glanced up towards Crown Square, and on the opposite pavement amongst the dense pack of pedestrians he saw a girl he thought he recognised. He stared hard at her as he racked his brain, and then he remembered - it was the girl he had met at the graveyard, Bovril's friend, the one who had made him feel so much better. Smiling, he leapt into the traffic, causing a taxi to brake suddenly and the driver to hit his horn in annoyance. The blast on the horn made Lisa look up to see Pizza walking towards her, smiling, with his hand outstretched in greeting.
'Hello, he said hesitantly. 'We met at Bovril's funeral, I don't know if you remember . . .'
'Oh yes, I remember you,' she said, taking his hand and shaking it with feeling, yes, I remember you very well.'
Pizza was very flattered, but became tongue-tied and coloured up. Lisa rescued him by continuing, 'I suppose you'll be giving evidence. I wanted to see what happens to them all.'
'Yes, I found their clothing which they'd chucked away. It's quite important,' he said proudly. Lisa slipped her arm through his and they began to walk slowly along Crown Square towards the main door to the court.
'You don't mind if I listen to the trial, do you?' she asked.
'Oh, no,' replied Pizza urgently, 'I'm really pleased you're here. You know that the girl who shot him and one of them that gave her the gun are dead, don't you? There's only one called Baker facing any charges in relation to Bovril's murder.'
'Yes I know,' she said quietly, 'but I wanted to see it finished. I need to draw a line under it and get on with life.'
He understood perfectly and glanced down at her now obviously swelling stomach but said nothing. She saw the glance and answered the unasked question.
'Yes, I'm pregnant.' She smiled happily.
'Is your husband happy about it?' asked Pizza, probing uncertainly for the answers he wanted to hear.
'I don't have a husband - or a boyfriend,' she added quickly. 'I'm on my own now. The father's gone.'
'I'm sorry,' lied Pizza. 'His loss, if you ask me.' They smiled at each other and continued in silence to the main doors, where the other police officers were waiting for Pizza.
'I've got to go now,' he said quietly to Lisa. 'Will you be around at the end of the day?'
'If you'd like me to be, I will,' she said.
'I'd like that very much,' said Pizza, smiling broadly. He released his arm from hers and joined the others, who by the quizzical looks on their faces had lots to ask him. It was going to be a beautiful day.
* * *
Author's note
During the winter of 1975, on a whim, I walked into my home town police station and spoke to the desk sergeant about joining the police. He gave me a couple of forms to fill in and sent me to the local branch of Woolworths where there was a weighing machine which printed out a record of your weight. Shortly afterwards I returned the completed forms to the sergeant with the record of my weight and after passing an embarrassingly simple written test (because I didn't have a mathematics qualification) I joined the Police Service on Monday 2 February 1976. I was eighteen years old. It was that easy. Today the process takes years, with candidates required to fill in numerous forms and still falling foul of quotas and psychological profiling.
My starting pay was £2400 per annum and I would be working shifts, weekends, Bank Holidays, and Christmas. With several other wet-behind-the-ears eighteen year olds, I was despatched to a Police Training Centre in the north of England where we spent the next ten weeks alongside recruits from Greater Manchester, Merseyside, North Wales, Cumbria, Kent and Surrey. I had led a relatively sheltered life up to that point, and those ten weeks proved to be a real eye-opener. I tagged along with a mate from Greater Manchester to an assembly hall where the Merseyside and Manchester forces allocated postings to their recruits. The officers going to Toxteth, Moss Side and other difficult areas were either enormous, eye-wateringly ugly, or violent, or sometimes all three.
Ten weeks learning definitions and powers of arrest, engaging in 'real life' scenarios and weekly written exams coo
led my early flush of enthusiasm, but I persevered and returned to the Force eager to try out everything I had learnt on an unsuspecting public.
Minutes after walking into my first nick I knew the job I wanted to do. It took me twenty-seven years to get it, but I ultimately spent the last three years of my service as a shift inspector with my own group working a busy division in central London. My last three years were as memorable as the first three and I retired on the ultimate high - doing something I had always wanted to do.
Those first three years, before Margaret Thatcher came to power and recognised that she needed the Police Service on board to deal with the unions, left an indelible mark on my memory. Within weeks I found myself with another young officer from a different station, guarding overnight the remains of Janie Shepherd on the desolate Nomansland Common outside St Albans. She was a young Australian who had been abducted in London and murdered. Standing just feet from her I recall being amazed I had a role in a tragedy that was receiving huge media attention. Very soon after Janie was found, the remains of Mickey Cornwall, a London gangster, were recovered from a shallow grave in woods nearby.