Bad Blood by Mark Sennen Page B

that was what this was all about too.
    Why him? It was a question Budgeon had asked himself before. Did he look like the type of guy who enjoyed taking it up the arse? Did he look like a pushover? Of course not. Just the opposite. The only explanation could be that those who’d wronged him were stupid or mean, or both.
    Tossers.
    The discomfort had turned into a soreness now, a prickly feeling he knew presaged another attack. A few more gulps of Scotch eased the tension and then he pushed himselfup from the sofa. He went over to the fireplace, picked a log from the basket and placed it on the fire. A shower of orange sparks flared for a moment before being sucked up the chimney. He glanced up from the fire to the screen just a few inches from his head. This close the pixels on the display were distinct, like thousands of coloured crystals on some sort of collage, each one a part of a bigger picture. If he pressed ‘play’ on the remote, the scene would spring into action again, people would move, speak, smile. Life would go on.
    But that wasn’t going to happen. Not for those who’d crossed him.
    Budgeon reached across for a phone on a nearby table. Punched out a number, and when someone answered, he spoke.
    â€˜The cop. We set him up next.’
    He hung up and put the phone down. Then he took up his glass and gulped the rest of the Scotch, unable to suppress a smile at the serendipity of the situation. He supposed he ought to thank the
Herald
for printing the picture. A minibus full of kids from North Prospect, Chelsea scarves waving, the pig standing there smiling, along with a couple of PCSOs. Who would have thought he would turn up right on the doorstep like a meek lamb walking to the slaughterhouse?
    He returned to the sofa, pointed the remote at the screen and pressed ‘standby’. The reporter’s frozen smile beamed down for a moment before the screen went black.

Chapter Eight
    The Hoe, Plymouth. Wednesday 16th January. 10.14 a.m.
    Outside the toilet block, the pathway had been cordoned off for fifty metres in both directions and Hoe Road had been closed. A team of half a dozen white-suited officers were working their way along the path and the grassy bank adjoining the road. John Layton was standing by some steps which led down to the road, talking into his phone again. Whoever was on the other end this time was getting a right earful. Layton ended the call and came across to Savage and Denton.
    â€˜Bloody jokers. The head honcho at the council in charge of toilets says he wants his crew to dismantle the cubicle. If we take the thing apart he says he’ll bill us for any damage. Tosser.’
    â€˜So?’ Savage said. ‘Let them do the job.’
    â€˜He won’t call the crew out here until late afternoon because he’ll miss his overtime targets if they abandon the job they started this morning. What are we supposed to do, twiddle our thumbs while fatso decomposes in there? Jobsworth.’
    â€˜You and the mortuary recovery lads do it. If they send us a bill then we will bung one back for removing the body.’
    â€˜Good idea,’ Layton nodded his assent and then began to fill Savage in on his team’s progress. ‘You’ve seen the victim, he’s bloody massive. To get him into the toilets must have been a horrendous task. I reckon you would need two or more people, unless someone could have driven a vehicle along this access path.’
    â€˜And could they?’
    â€˜Look, the route leads back to the Hoe.’ Layton pointed along the thread of black tarmac. The path curled to the right and joined the wide expanse of pavement which covered the top of the Hoe. ‘There are any number of access points, but they all have either locked barriers or bollards.’
    â€˜I’ll get the local inquiry team to check if they are all secure.’
    â€˜The other alternative is bringing the body up these steps. Two people might manage