snarled Jim, grabbing his radio and transmitting
without identifying himself. 'Get it back to the nick and book it in,' he
shouted in his unmistakable accent.
Pizza
heard the advice, replaced everything in the bag, slung it over his shoulder,
and headed back towards the nick. If nothing else, he could kill an hour or so
out of the rain booking it in. He might even be able to spin it out until
breakfast.
It
took him ten minutes to get back. When he walked into the front office the
Blister was still engrossed in her magazine. She buzzed him in and only glanced
up when he dropped the bag on the floor next to her.
'What's
in there?'
'A
load of bloodstained clothes and boots; what's that smell?'
'Rosie
pissed herself earlier. I hope you don't think I'm booking it in. You brought
it in, you book it in.'
'OK,
I didn't expect you to,' said Pizza, trying to sound aggrieved. 'Which register
should I put it in?'
'Miscellaneous
Property,' said the Blister, imperiously waving a finger at a rack of registers
and files above the front desk. Pizza located the register he needed, picked up
the bag and began to walk down the corridor towards the report-writing room.
Sergeant
Jones was in the corridor sniffing the air as Rosie's aroma filled the nick.
'What the fuck is that smell, and what are you doing in?' he demanded of Pizza,
determined to improve his day by making someone else's a misery.
'Rosie
the scat pissed herself earlier, apparently, and I've brought in a bag of
bloodstained clothing.'
'What
for?'
'She
can't control her bladder, or her arse, apparently.'
'The
fucking clothes, not Rosie. Why have you brought them in?'
Pizza
was about to reply, 'Because someone shouted over the radio to do it,' but
thought better of it. He considered the question again.
'Well?'
said Jones testily.
'It's
covered in blood and had been hidden away,' replied Pizza, finding inspiration,
'and I think that merits a little investigation.' Jones bridled at the
perceived insolence and tried to think of a suitable response.
'For
fuck's sake,' was all he could manage before he hurried towards the toilets for
the third time that morning.
Pizza
hung his soaking coat over a radiator and sat himself down at a desk to start
logging the contents of the bin liner. 'Please let this be a decent job,' he
said quietly to himself.
'Hope
Pizza's got something decent,' said Jim quietly to H, who still had his eyes
closed. 'First time for everything, I suppose.'
----
Chapter Seven
Frankie
Turner rolled out of bed shortly before 9 a.m., lit a cigarette and sat on the
edge of the mattress smoking. He could hear the bitch downstairs with the kids
and decided to wait until she took them out before he did anything. He lay back
on the bed, flicking his ash on to the floor, listening to the clamour
downstairs. He was bored shitless with her, had no time for his children who
were unplanned and unloved, and promised himself for the hundredth time that
he'd bugger off soon. Only one thing had stopped him going before, the fact
that he was an idle bastard incapable of looking after himself. He'd considered
going back to live with his mother, but he hated her only marginally less than
the bitch. He was stuck and he'd have to make the best of it. Still, today
wouldn't be too bad. Pick up his dole; meet the boys at the pub, good drink,
game of cards, pool. Who knows?
He
looked at his watch as he heard the front door open and slam shut. Nine
o'clock. Best get ready; want to be there when they open up. Stubbing his
cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray by the bed, he hurried into the
bathroom, splashed some cold water on to his face and pulled on the smoky
clothes he'd worn the night before and had thrown on to the floor when he
undressed. He smelt dreadful, but that wasn't something that had
without identifying himself. 'Get it back to the nick and book it in,' he
shouted in his unmistakable accent.
Pizza
heard the advice, replaced everything in the bag, slung it over his shoulder,
and headed back towards the nick. If nothing else, he could kill an hour or so
out of the rain booking it in. He might even be able to spin it out until
breakfast.
It
took him ten minutes to get back. When he walked into the front office the
Blister was still engrossed in her magazine. She buzzed him in and only glanced
up when he dropped the bag on the floor next to her.
'What's
in there?'
'A
load of bloodstained clothes and boots; what's that smell?'
'Rosie
pissed herself earlier. I hope you don't think I'm booking it in. You brought
it in, you book it in.'
'OK,
I didn't expect you to,' said Pizza, trying to sound aggrieved. 'Which register
should I put it in?'
'Miscellaneous
Property,' said the Blister, imperiously waving a finger at a rack of registers
and files above the front desk. Pizza located the register he needed, picked up
the bag and began to walk down the corridor towards the report-writing room.
Sergeant
Jones was in the corridor sniffing the air as Rosie's aroma filled the nick.
'What the fuck is that smell, and what are you doing in?' he demanded of Pizza,
determined to improve his day by making someone else's a misery.
'Rosie
the scat pissed herself earlier, apparently, and I've brought in a bag of
bloodstained clothing.'
'What
for?'
'She
can't control her bladder, or her arse, apparently.'
'The
fucking clothes, not Rosie. Why have you brought them in?'
Pizza
was about to reply, 'Because someone shouted over the radio to do it,' but
thought better of it. He considered the question again.
'Well?'
said Jones testily.
'It's
covered in blood and had been hidden away,' replied Pizza, finding inspiration,
'and I think that merits a little investigation.' Jones bridled at the
perceived insolence and tried to think of a suitable response.
'For
fuck's sake,' was all he could manage before he hurried towards the toilets for
the third time that morning.
Pizza
hung his soaking coat over a radiator and sat himself down at a desk to start
logging the contents of the bin liner. 'Please let this be a decent job,' he
said quietly to himself.
'Hope
Pizza's got something decent,' said Jim quietly to H, who still had his eyes
closed. 'First time for everything, I suppose.'
----
Chapter Seven
Frankie
Turner rolled out of bed shortly before 9 a.m., lit a cigarette and sat on the
edge of the mattress smoking. He could hear the bitch downstairs with the kids
and decided to wait until she took them out before he did anything. He lay back
on the bed, flicking his ash on to the floor, listening to the clamour
downstairs. He was bored shitless with her, had no time for his children who
were unplanned and unloved, and promised himself for the hundredth time that
he'd bugger off soon. Only one thing had stopped him going before, the fact
that he was an idle bastard incapable of looking after himself. He'd considered
going back to live with his mother, but he hated her only marginally less than
the bitch. He was stuck and he'd have to make the best of it. Still, today
wouldn't be too bad. Pick up his dole; meet the boys at the pub, good drink,
game of cards, pool. Who knows?
He
looked at his watch as he heard the front door open and slam shut. Nine
o'clock. Best get ready; want to be there when they open up. Stubbing his
cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray by the bed, he hurried into the
bathroom, splashed some cold water on to his face and pulled on the smoky
clothes he'd worn the night before and had thrown on to the floor when he
undressed. He smelt dreadful, but that wasn't something that had
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