by M W Foolster
A Right Old Fiasco in Borrington
M W Foolster
Copyright © 2015 M W Foolster
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1502347342
ISBN-13: 978-1502347343
All characters in the publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons is coincidental.
Book Cover: SelfPubBookCovers.com/goodCoverDesign
DEDICATION
To my family, most notably my daughter Jenni, and my friends, Marie especially, who've provided me with both the inspiration and the support I needed to complete the book .
1 The Jolly Roger
A small shirt button pings noisily against the windscreen and has Detective Sergeant John Fuller flinging himself towards the car door in an attempt to avoid it. But he's too slow. He yelps out in pain as the button clips his ear before flying into the back seat, drawing a brief, if quizzical, look from his colleague Detective Inspector Jordan. The DS rubs at his throbbing ear as he nervously glances down at DI Jordan's belly, at the buttons on his striped blue and white shirt which are stretched to breaking point; and also now threatening to pop. Not that DI Jordan seems overly concerned, he's far too preoccupied with picking at the cake crumbs sprinkled across his stomach, and stuffing them into his mouth. Belching loudly, the DI leans forward and starts wiping at the inside of the steamed up car window with his elbow. He mumbles under his breath as he peers across the deserted street at a dreary pub facade, bathed in a yellow glow from the nearby street lamp. Thinking it looks anything but welcoming. "Whit a bloody dump. Yah sure we got the right pub, John?”
The DI tuts loudly as his fingers make contact with a lump of strawberry jam, now relieved that he’d worn a cheap polyester jacket. Unlike the DS who, much to his annoyance, is dressed in an expensive grey wool suit. With the DS yet to respond, DI Jordan snaps at him, “WELL?”
"Yer sorry. Like I said, that’s what Billy heard. Took a bloody big risk in getting word to me. Swears blind that before he got banged up, Ron arranged for his sons to keep something hidden away for Butner. Now that something, whatever the hell it is, will be collected tonight from a pub called the Jolly Roger. Trust me, Gov, this is the only Jolly Roger in Borrington. I mean it has got to be valuable, right? And Billy isn't stupid enough to bullshit us is he? No way. Besides which, I promised him a decent cut if it leads to anything and not like his Mrs doesn’t need the money."
"Let’s hope yah are right. And did yah have tae get the bloody Victoria sponge? Sodding jam has gone everywhere."
Licks the jam from his fingers before spitting on them and scrubbing at the dark stain.
"All they had left. Anyway, you said to get something sweet and didn't care what."
DS Fuller pulls down the sun visor and admires himself in the mirror attached to it. Pulls a folding comb from his jacket pocket, mumbling to himself, “Looking good, Johnny,” as he runs the comb through his brown, curly hair.
“Whit wis that?”
"Nothing, Gov. So how do you want to play this?"
"Be easy enough tae recognise them. Ron's sons’, sae are bound tae be ugly wee sods if they're anything like their auld man. Ever tell yah they call him Pot Hole Ron in the nick? And wi’ good reason. He... He..."
The DI bursts into a deep chesty laugh before he can complete his sentence. However, with his mouth still full of cake he suddenly finds himself choking, leaving the DS with little alternative other than to start thumping him wildly on the back. But perhaps a little too enthusiastically. A shocked DI is sent flying forward, smacking his head heavily on the dashboard. That does at least dislodge the cake from his throat, even if it results him having a violent coughing spasm. DS Fuller can but sit and cringe as the windscreen is suddenly splattered with large lumps of soggy sponge. Muttering obscenities under his breath, most directed at the hapless DS, DI Jordan leans forwards and scrubs furiously at the glass with a tatty handkerchief. Can see that he's fighting a loosing battle, starts tutting to himself as he throws the filthy hanky out of the car window; having left trails of thick smears covering the glass.
"You ok, Gov?"
"Nae bloody thanks tae yah. Now, where wis I?"
"Something about Ron and a pot hole."
"Aye. Sleazy wee sod. Anyway, the wardens got suspicious and dragged him in for a cavity search. Would yah believe they found two mobiles and six ounces o' dope up his backside?"
"No shit?"
"Naw, dinae suppose he could wi' all that shoved up there."
Both burst into hysterics, that's until DI Jordan starts hacking again.
"You nicked him, right?"
"Aye, a few years back. The silly bugger went on a burgling spree in Knarlswood, five hooses in a fortnight. Truth is, we wis getting nowhere and tae make matters even worse, Ron went and burgled Councillor Fuker’s hoose. As if things wisnae bad enough, I then had the chief inspector breathing down my neck. Got lucky in that Ron is as thick as two short planks and would yah credit it, the silly bugger started flogging the gear online. Gets flagged and I am thinking thank yah very much as I go thumping on his door. Ron, being a numpty, tried tae make a run for it but had PC Poulson on the back door. A right good result, managed tae recover near on everything. Had it all stashed in his garden shed, am telling yah it looked like a regular Aladdin’s cave. Which begs the bloody question, whit the hell has he got stashed away that is sae sodding valuable.”
DS Fuller shrugs.
“Only one way to find out. So how do we get them talking?”
“We scare the crap oot of them, that’s how. Let me think…”
DI Jordan twiddling with the ends of his huge moustache, his other hand resting on the dashboard, fingers tapping away, and deep in thought.
“Right, there in’t nae way that shithole be making enough money tae stay afloat. A back street pub in a rundown area. I mean, look at it."
DS Fuller nods in agreement as he stares across at the decrepit exterior of the Jolly Roger, at the large broken window now covered with faded wooden boarding. Not that the fly posters objected, having covered it with posters advertising what is most likely an illegal rave in the old brewery in Borrington. He shakes his head in disgust at the filthy window frames with their flaking white paint, at the discoloured external walls and weathered blue door.
“Nothing but a bloody eyesore, is it, Gov? Council should have revoked the licence and demolished the shithole years ago.”
Not that the surrounding area has fared any better, streets full with row after row of tiny red bricked houses. Many with metal security grills attached to their windows and front doors, few if any of their small front gardens maintained, let alone cared for.
"Could say the same for the whole feicking area, John."
DS Fuller watches as a fox appears from a garden further down the street, something hanging from its mouth, he thinks it might be a rodent but hard to tell in the dark.
"Truth is, Gov, I reckon the locals deliberately leave their gardens littered with rubbish and, well all sorts of crap so as not to stand out from their neighbours. Don't want to draw attention to their property. Guess that they think a potential burglar will happily ignore their home and go look elsewhere for richer pickings."
"Bullshit." The DI points at the house adjacent to the pub, at it's missing front gate, crumbling wall, and at the weed infested garden. "Look at that shithole, more like a feicking jungle than a garden. Am telling yah that most o' them are lazy sods who jist canae be bothered. I mean, it wis never like that in years gone by, and if anything, the streets are far safer now than they used tae be."
After a quick glance across at DI Jordan, DS Fuller realises that there's no reasoning with him. But is still c
onvinced that he's right. What other explanation could there be? And it's not as though he is a stranger to the area either, having grown up in one of the small terraced house several streets away. But definitely not something he wants to admit to.
"Granted, it may not appear to be as bad now, Gov, but it still has the highest crime rate in the Borrington. And most of the locals still won't go out after dark. Can you imagine living like that? Hell on earth if you ask me."
Pulling a cigarette pack from his jacket, DI Jordan offers one to the DS, who declines.
“Look, John, when I first got assigned tae Borrington, it used tae be a virtual nae-go area, did yah know that? Wis bloody awful. Sae as for the area being as bad now as it wis back then, we’ll agree tae disagree on that, right? And as for that poxy estate back there,”
Pointing to the four huge tower blocks looming over them, their dark silhouettes dominating the night sky.
“Should o’ sodding well levelled the whole bloody lot after the riots if yah ask me. Nothing but a breeding ground for violent, wee shits. Still, helps keep us in a job, eh? And deprived area or not, och, it disnae mean that there in't money floating around, daes it?”
"You ain’t wrong there, and not by honest means either.”
DI Jordan leans to one side and raises his buttock, a gagging DS Fuller stumbling as he escapes through the car door, clutching at his suit collar as the cold air bites.
"For fuck sake, Gov."
"Knew having that curry for lunch wis a mistake."
Spluttering with laughter, he heaves his huge bulk from the car.
Ignoring the bemused look from the DI, DS Fuller reaches back into the car for his pin stripped trilby. Jacket collar raised, wearing sunglasses and the hat, he flashes the DI a daft grin.
"Is that really necessary, Detective Sergeant Fuller?"
"Was you who said we're going incognito."
"But it’s pitch black yah pillock. Look, lose the bloody glasses or..."
"Oh... Yer ok… Sorry."
"Right, yah ready for this? We threaten them with a drugs raid, see how they react. Got it?"
"A drugs raid, where did that come from?"
"A gut feeling, and in’t I usually right?. Sae, dae yah want tae stand there shivering all night, Rudolph? Or shall we go pay the wee buggers a visit?"
“Rudolph?”
“The reindeer… Red nose… Surely yah have heard o'… Why dae I bother.”
Having pounded across the red plaid carpet, DI Jordan grimaces as he feels the bar stool threatening to buckle under his weight. Picks up a flyer from the bar, reads it aloud,
"Use it, or lose it."
Looks down at his stomach, has enough bloody trouble finding it nowadays.
"What was that, Gov?"
Passes the flyer to the DS.
"Use it or lose it. Borrington Central library needs your support. Don't make no sense, the library is bloody miles away from here."
Shrugging his shoulders dismissively, the DI squints as he looks around the dimly lit pub with its dark panelling and worn fittings, shakes his head in exasperation,
"Feick me, John, it’s worse inside than oot. We stepped back in time or something? That poxy wallpaper must be aulder than yah are. And look at the state of that sodding bar, got more stains than yur bloody boxer shorts."
"Yer, yer, very funny."
"Am jist pissing aboot. But dae yah think they are cutting back on electricity?"
"What do you mean?"
"Barely see a sodding thing in here."
The DS sniggers as he eases himself up on to the stool next to the DI. Is now feeling far more relaxed at not having seen any familiar faces amongst the dozen or so pub customers. He knows that he's not exactly the most popular person in this locality, anything but. It didn't help that on joining the police, there'd been a dozen or so local raids that had led to several former friends, neighbours and his old man being prosecuted for receiving. But he was only doing his job. Still, not his problem that his Dad hasn't spoken to him since.
The sniggers become chuckles of laughter on watching the guy at a nearby table leap to his feet, sending his drink flying as DI Jordan pounds on the bar, yelling,
"Service anybody."
Bloodshot eyes glaring across at them, the guy wavering on his feet, seemingly confused as to where his chair has gone.
"Whash happenin?"
The Di turns slowly towards him,
"Been invaded by zombies laddie, sae yah had best get aff home."
"Shombies?"
"Aye, the sodding place is full o' them and yur their bloody dinner."
DS Fuller sits laughing as the guy stumbles over the upturned chair, smacks into the pool table, and snatches at a denim jacket before staggering from the pub.
"That was cruel, Gov."
"See the state o’ him. Done him a favour if yah ask me. Besides, look aroon', like the night o' the living dead in here."
Now thumping even harder on the bar, catches sight of somebody lurking by a door.
"I can see yah laddie. Yah have got men dying o' thirst oot here, sae in yur own time."
The DI sneers at the slow shuffling, spiky haired male now making his way towards them, his eyes drawn towards the glowing skull on a black t-shirt.
"Want something?"
"Not the friendliest o' greetings, is it laddo? But since yah ask, gies two pints o' ale tae start wi’. And isnae Halloween tomorrow night?"
"Eh?" the spiky haired youth fiddles nervously with the studs on an enormous black belt, looks totally perplexed, glances across the pub towards a male emptying the coins from a fruit machine.
"Bit premature tae be wearing a Halloween costume laddie, could yah nae o' waited another day?"
"Dunno what you mean."
DI Jordan rolls his eyes skywards,
"Never yah mind. But we will take those two pints o' ale, if yah please."
Still studying the pasty faced youth, his vacant brown eyes accentuated by a thick, black eye-liner, the DI leans towards DS Fuller, whispering,
"Not exactly the brains of Britain, is he? Yah notice the dark shadows under his eyes? Am telling yah, he is on something."
"Maybe, Gov. Would say he was a Goth judging by his appearance but they're usually very intelligent. Weird, but definitely not stupid."
"Rules that oot then. Lights are on but naebody is home. Then again, he looks the part. Into devil worship and all that shite, right?"
DS Fuller sniggers. "Only in the movies. You noticed he keeps looking across at that other twat?"
Running his hand down his face, the DI finds a cake crumb in his moustache, flicks it across the pub and sneaks a look.
"Sod me, if it in’t a bloody Mohican."
Gulping loudly on the ale, DI Jordan flashes his warrant card, amused by the reaction it receives. "Sae yah got a name, laddie?"
"Toby"
"As in Toby Rollins?"
A nervous nod of his head leads to a huge grins breaking out on DI Jordan's face.
"I'm DI Jordan and this is my colleague, DS Fuller. And would that be yur brother loitering over there by the fruit machines?"
Another apprehensive nod.
"Good. Now we are getting somewhere. Be a good lad, and go tell the Mohican tae come introduce himself. I really need tae talk tae the pair o' youse."
A shout of frustration from further along the bar, Toby looking relieved as he wanders off to serve a customer. A sharp elbow in his ribs leads to the DI nearly choking on his ale,
"For feick sake, John."
"Would you look at the state of that."
They sit gaping at the tall, bearded man wobbling towards them. Both grimace on seeing him bang heavily into a table, before nearly falling over his own feet in an attempt to pick up his glass. He then lurches towards a couple of middle-aged women and a suited black guy sat further along the bar, a pint glass trembling in his hand, and leaving a trail of drips behind him.
"Can you believe that, Gov? Bloo
dy disgusting." Ds Fuller pointing at the saturated crotch of the man's jeans. Toby is joined behind the bar by his brother, and along with everybody else in the pub, they're left completely mesmerised by the soaked crotch of the tall male. The two women, the black guy, and eventually the man himself, all stare down at his groin. DI Jordan shakes his head in revulsion, looks across at the brothers.
"That's bloody disgraceful. Dinae yah think youse should throw the dirty bugger oot o' the pub?"
Toby shrugging his shoulders, "Can't. He runs the quiz team."
DS Fuller retaliates, a stinging tone to his voice, "So what? You should ban the filthy bastard even if he has shares in this dump."
The two woman snatch up their bags and make a hasty exit, and with the bearded male seemingly now arguing with the black guy, the detectives turn their attention back to the two brothers. DI Jordan now tapping his fingers loudly on the bar.
A shout from the direction of the bearded drunk. "Give us a clap of your flippers, Mr Walrus, and I'll chuck you a big juicy fish." Both the bearded drunk and the black guy burst into hysterics.
DI Jordan's face going crimson, looking as though he is about to explode,
"What did the bastard jist say tae me, John?"
Placing a calming hand on the DI's shoulder, who's now glaring along the bar at them,
"They're wasted, not worth the effort. Besides, we've got bigger fish to fry."
DS Fuller cringes, immediately regretting his choice of words, relieved to find that the DI doesn't appear to have noticed. DI Jordan turns his attention back to Toby and Ryan, the anger still clearly detectable in his voice as he snaps. "Yah displaying a government health warning in here?"
Toby scratches his head as looks at his brother.
"Got to be the worst excuse for a pub I've ever been into, and it’s nae the sodding warm beer that’s a health issue. Tell me lads, has anybody ever died in here? Then again, would youse even feicking well notice?"
DS Fuller chuckling, "Yer, this shit hole could win an award for the worst pub in London. Tell you what, I will drop an entry form in the post."