by R J Holligan
“Living the dream,” said Bozza. “We’ve got bag up some of this weed and sort it out as evidence. Cos nobody from the Drugs Squad can be arsed,” he added.
“Maybe we could trade?” said the second cop.
“How do you mean?” asked Bozza.
“Well, we’re going to be here till CID turn up, we can bag this stuff and hawk if off to them. None of us are going to be OIC on something this big. In grateful thanks, you can do our shotgun holder’s licence checks – we’re looking for some fucker with an elephant gun. The Super has given us a list. It’s just a matter of having cups of tea with some farmer types and checking that all’s in order – Pure Gucci.” he said smiling.
“You’re on,” said Bozza, taking a clipboard off the other officer. “I’ll get the Milky Bar Kid here to email you a list of all the ones we get done,” he said.
Quayle groaned inwardly; they were already four hours over the official end of their shift. “Let’s roll Probie,” said Bozza and they hit the road.
There were four addresses on the list, and the first three were working farms where the farmers were polite but brusque, unlocking their gun cabinets and showing the pair their shotguns; usually a double barrel 12 bore, side by side for shooting vermin or an under and over trap gun for clay pigeon shooting. By the fourth visit Bozza and Quayle were getting serious hunger pangs.
“This place is a cut above those bloody cow farms,” said Bozza as he rolled the car up the smooth tarmacked drive, bounded with well-trimmed hedges. The fastidious and usually impeccably turned out Bozza was peed off having gotten cow muck all over his boots and trousers. Unlike Quayle, Bozza hated the smaller towns and villages that made up the rural hinterland of their force’s area.
They pulled up on a gravelled turning circle, complete with a tree in a brick-built flower bed. A large red brick farmhouse lay in front of them with a large front door that wouldn’t have gone amiss on a church. Bozza rapped on the door. It was answered by a grey-haired woman wearing an apron. While Bozza made his introductions, Quayle peered around the corner of the house. The drive split off onto another limb and behind a gate festooned with barbed wire lay a series of brick-built barns all with serious looking steel doors. Looking up, Quayle (del hyphen) counted no less than half a dozen well concealed CCTV cameras with infra-red lenses.
“Oi! come on, there’s bacon sandwiches on the house,” shouted Bozza. The irresistible smell of bacon wafted from the open door. A dapper man wearing a dickie bow was standing by a large kitchen table. On it were three guns.
“I thought the Constabulary would be paying a visit after the events over at Beckton. All my ducks here are in a row,” he smiled. The three shotguns had their barrels broken to show they weren’t loaded. Bozza to a cursory lo and sat down at the other end of the table, eyes fixed on the lady who was now despatching the bacon onto thick crusty bread. Quayle picked up the guns one by one and sniffed them to see if they had been fired. They hadn’t. He sat down and doused his bacon liberally with brown sauce. The lady poured them bug mugs of black coffee from a percolator jug.
“So, I take it you’re not a farmer?” said Quayle.
The man gave a nervous laugh. “No, no, I’m into antiques. I inherited this place from a cousin. We rent all the land to those who know one end of a cow from another. And I rent out all the buildings to some chaps from the city. Wholesale and what not,” he said nervously.
“Can I take a look at your gun cabinet?” asked Quayle.
“Yes of course, it’s in the back parlour,” he said pointing towards the door to the rest of the house. The man led him into a room that looked like a Victorian parlour. Wingback chairs, an Ottoman, various clocks and discreetly located in the body of a grandfather clock, a steel cabinet.
“Very inventive, but what really interests me is that,” said Quayle. “Is that a punt gun?” The man’s jaw dropped he sputtered searching for an answer.
“What’s that bloody thing,” said Bozza who had sauntered in “We’re going to need to take it down,” said Quayle.
Both of them lifted the weapon, which was some six-foot-long, off the wall and carefully placed it on the floor,” They didn’t need to sniff, it stunk of cordite.
“Well that los like two counts of attempted murder for starters, I’ll let you do the honours,” said Bozza.
It was an easy arrest, the old dapper man collapsed into a chair holding his head in his hands.
Three hours later, after CID had arrived and taken their prisoner away and the Scenes of Crimes Officers were crawling over the massive cannabis grows located in the barns, Bozza and Quayle were finally driving back to the nick. The old man had been in debt after his wife had racked up thousands of pounds on online bingo. He’d borrowed money from a loan shark and in a few short steps ended up turning his barns over to an Organised Crime Group.
“So, what confirmed your suspicions?” asked Bozza.
“Well when I was standing by the door and I was scraping cow shit off my boots on their boot scraper, there were three or four lead balls stuck in my boot treads, like the old fishing weights. But they weren’t, fishing weights, they were musket balls.”
Bozza exhaled. “Geez, so Mr Antiques Road Show was more like Charlie Bronson,” said Bozza.
“Seems that way,” said Quayle. And finally, after typing up brief statements, they got to go home.
Chapter 21
Being on a late shift the next day, Quayle had a lie-in and then got on his bike. Stopping off at the Co-op he purchased some supplies for Palfreyman. They had decided he was relatively safe there. He was armed and would be more able to look after himself. It was better that Colleen and Karlie were at the boat. Taking a circuitous route, he came up on the allotments along the canal. Locking his bike to a tree he walked across the deserted plots. Half of his plot had now been raked and seeds planted with seed packets neatly staked on bits of wood to identify what had been planted there. Palfreyman sat on a deck chair smoking a rollup.
“I see you’re getting into this gardening lark,” said Quayle.
“Keeps the blues away,” he replied.
“Well this should perk you up, sausages, bacon and eggs. Get the primus on,” said Quayle.
Over the fry up Quayle told him of the previous shift’s events.
“Sounds like a Punt Gun,” said Palfreyman “The IRA used them to ambush the Brits to devastating effect. Of course, originally, they were attached to small boats called punts to blast ducks and other wildfowl,” he added.
Quayle wiped tomato juice from his plate with some fried bread. “Sounds like the thing we took out of the house; it was probably an antique.” said Quayle.
Putting his plate down, Palfreyman got up and rolled another cigarette. “So, you sent your girlfriend to the boat? It will be some good company for her,” he said lighting up.
“Yes, I thought she’d be safer there. They could easily arrange something nasty for her in Custody,” said Quayle.
“Yeah, too true… I got a text from them yesterday; I’ve got to go to Scotland next week. Not much choice. I’ll see what the score is and then get back to you. Don’t worry, old Bert on the next plot said he’ll keep the weeds down.”
“Great, well I’m sure they’ll pull something out of the hat for me too,” said Quayle.
“Bon Chance! said Palfreyman, offering his hand to Quayle who to it and shook it. “This ain’t Rio,” said Palfreyman “It sure isn’t,” said Quayle turning and leaving. Retrieving his bike, he set off down the canal towpath. A few miles along he saw the outline of ‘The Little Revenge’ his forty-foot narrowboat. Moored on the towpath next to two other boats, he saw smole rising from the chimney - a reassuring sign. It had been the perfect bolthole for the female fugitives.
During the financial meltdown of 2008, Quayle’s father had bought the boat via a lawyer through a shell company in case their house was foreclosed on. The registration and licence were through the same company and there was no paper trail back
to Quayle or his family.
Cycling past, Quayle saw that Eric the plastic gnome was on the roof of the boat. That was the signal that all was okay. He to another pass just to make sure. Shoving his bike in the hedge to a slow walk back. Colleen wearing a green boiler suit and a baseball cap with her hair tied up stood on the towpath.
“Ahoy there stranger,” she said stepping onto the boat. She slipped something in her pocket as she stood in the cratch, a tent like construction made of canvas that covered the front six foot of the craft.
Quayle stepped aboard and they kissed. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“Well we’ve settled into a routine like we were on a sailing ship. We do eight-hour watches. I borrowed a few things from the Miscellaneous locker,” she said, nodding to the extendable baton and pulling a can of PAVA spray from her pocket.
“Well they’re all good for shipboard scrapping,” he replied.
They moved into the cabin where Karlie sat on the sofa rolling a joint. “Aw shit,” she said. Quayle smiled “Don’t worry I’ve broken more laws recently than I care to mention,” he said.
She put it to one side anyway. “Just make sure no-one gets a whiff as they go past. You’re supposed to be keeping a low profile, remember,” he said.
“Yeah I get you, Secret Squirrel and all that,” she laughed.
Quayle placed two envelopes on the table. “These are to be kept on you at all times. If this place gets flagged and you need to get out, split up and go to the addresses inside. Got it?” he asked looking at them sternly.
“Crystal,” said Karlie. Colleen nodded. “And have you both ditched your phones?
There was silence as Karlie pouted.
“They’re on a National Express to London, I had to pry Madam’s here out of her hands,” said Colleen. “Yeah, and I got this piece of crap instead,” said Karlie pushing a basic phone across the table.
“Look” shouted Quayle. “This isn’t a game. It’s literally a matter of life and death. If you don’t play by the rules Karlie you’re going to end up in a freezer in the mortuary. I’m only helping you because I think your dad’s trying to put things right. If you don’t want our help, then you can fucking walk right now. Give it a day or two and Marber’s crew will find you … You know the rest,” he snarled.
Karlie burst into tears. Colleen sat down next to the teenager and hugged her. “Karlie, I don’t want to be here anymore than you. It’s a messed-up situation, so let’s get on the best we can do for now, eh?” Karlie seemed to perk up. Quayle gave Colleen a nod as if to say. ‘Yes that’s the way I should have done it.’ Then he was gone.
The Parade Room was relatively full for once, and the shift was parading double figures. The double crew rule was still in and so the Sarge sent out five cars. There was already an immediate and two priorities on the box.
“Bozza and Quayle, take Briefings and Taskings, the Boss wants you to keep an eye on that scrote Danny Boulstridge. Check all his known haunts and then check them again. Bozza hated Briefings and Taskings as it involved driving to the outer regions of the force area. In essence, the Force issued Briefings source from intelligence, courts and probation officers. This detailed offenders who had just been released on licence, who were supposed to keep away from certain areas or people, domestic violence offenders banned from being at their wife’s or partner’s address, or just be on the lookout to prevent certain types of crime like car theft or domestic burglaries. Essentially, what the force should have been doing if they actually had any resources.
Taskings were more prescriptive. This was to look for certain offenders who had missed court dates or had a warrant outstanding for them. Also to check that certain offenders who were on ‘curfew’ usually 7pm to 7am were actually in their homes and not wandering the streets. Quayle loved the role as it mostly consisted of driving around the countryside and quiet towns and villages. On their travels they saw wildlife only night workers got to see, Bats, badgers, foxes and the mystical and ethereal barn owls.
“Danny fucking Boulstridge,” moaned Bozza screwing the cap on his “Shit Magnet” Mug. “What’s he all about then?” asked Quayle.
“Print all that bollocks off, they hit up on the database – I’ll see you in the car in ten,” said Bozza striding off to the Locker Room.
Fifteen minutes later they were leaving the station.
“Boulstridge is what we call a ‘scrote’. He doesn’t fall into your typical profile. Not a junkie, shoplifting or burgling for his fix, not a cut above who actually tries not to get r caught, but not one of those sink estate BumTown kids who think they’re Snoop Dogg cos they’re selling eighths to their friends. He’s just nasty and he hates coppers. Last time we had s to Taser him and then bag him cos he was spitting,” said Bozza.
“42 Rose Hip Gardens. What a lovely name for a shithole,” said Quayle looking at the house numbers stuck to the block of low-rise maisonettes.
“Off you go,” said Bozza. He stuck the alley lights on the top of the car to illuminate the house fronts. Quayle knocked on the door loudly.
“Tyler Barsby, are you in?” shouted Quayle. There were some sounds from above and a light went on. A sallow looking youth with spots and no tee shirt on looked out. Quayle shone his Maglite on him.
“Thanks Tyler,” shouted Quayle and walked back to the car. This was how curfew check were done.
“Here Copper,” the young man whispered and lobbed a missile out of the window. There was no power behind it and it dropped onto the waste ground strewn with old car parts. It was a stone wrapped in paper. Quayle waved to the young man who disappeared back into the darkness. Sat back in the car, Quayle unwrapped the paper and flattened it out. In thick felt tip pen was written Danny B banged my missus. He’s shacked up with Tanya Burdock at 27 Craddock Court. Get him Cheers.
“Well, well your first snout,” said Bozza
“You mean Covert Intelligence Source “replied Quayle
“Yes Space Cadet, that. Now point to point Findley and Animal John, they’ll want a piece of this,” said Bozza as he turned the car around. Craddock Court was only half a mile away. Quayle got on the radio.
“Sure, we’ll be over in five,” said Findley. Bozza parked the car a street away and they walked the last few hundred yards. A marked police car turning up outside Craddock Court would send the jungle drums banging. Most of the residents kept irregular hours being members of the underclass. Bozza held something in his hands.
“A spit hood for the little fucker,” said Bozza, “Findley has got a Taser, so we’ll zap the little fucker if he kicks off,” he added.
The pair were crossing the grass to the rear of the block of flats when a marked car came down the street, blue lights blazing. “Aw Jesus they’re going to fuck it up.”
The stillness of the night was shattered by the crack of gunfire. A dark clad figure stood in front of the car which slewed crazily and hit a number of parked cars. There were a series of clicks as the gunman changed magazine and opened fire again, a gout of flame issuing from the barrels as the bullets chewed up the stricken police car.
Quayle pressed his orange panic button “Shots fired at Craddock Court; send everything you’ve got. Repeat Shots fired,” he stuttered.
“I’ll get the car, you draw that cunt off,” shouted Bozza running for the car.
The gunman had turned to see the pair and loosed off a burst at them. The lights had come on in the flats and people were gathering on the balconies. “Hey, you fucker, come and get me,’” shouted Quayle and ran across the grass, diving behind some dumpsters as more shots rang out.
Sirens were wailing and the radio net was in meltdown. Quayle switched his Maglite torch on and lobbed it as hard as he could over the bins. The gunman fired in its direction. The roar of an engine and a banshee howl replaced the sound of shots. Quayle came out from behind the bins. Bozza was slumped over the wheel of the marked car as the airbag deflated. Steam was coming from the smashed-in bonnet of the car. Someone wa
s groaning. Unclipping his stab vest torch, he played the light over the car and illuminated a prone figure lying under the front of the car. He knelt down. It was Patrick Marber, dressed in black and wearing army webbing. The sub machine gun was lying mangled a few metres by. “What the fuck, groaned,” Marber “Y, you were supposed to be in the car,” And then he died.
There were whoops and yells from the flats as some darkened figures put a lighter to a petrol bomb and dropped it off the balcony. It fell and exploded a few yards away, its heat making Quayle step back. Running to the car he looked in. Findley’s head had disappeared, and holes were still smoking in his stab vest. Animal John was still alive despite being hit in the body and legs.
Unclipping the prone man’s seatbelt Quayle grabbed him by the stab vest and pulled him towards the crashed car. Pushing Bozza into the passenger seat, he opened the doors and slid John into the back seat. He was just in time. A mob carrying bats and kitchen knives came spilling out of the doorway. Reversing the car off the dead Marber he sped off as a volley of stones and hit the car. As he hit the road, he saw the first marked car was in flames. As he hit the next junction, he was stopped by a marked BMW X5 full of armed cops. Then he passed out.