Chapter Three.
The Dirty Squad.
Mooney sat slouched in a chair, at the back of the pub, his arms folded and resting upon his alcohol saturated belly, like two hairy slabs of pale, flabby meat with ten sausages stuck on the end of them. The cuffs of his shirt were folded back, his sleeves pulled up to reveal the faded tattoos of women with breasts larger than their head and the name of a long distant ex-wife, who in reality had looked nothing like the the girls her name was etched alongside. None of whom meant anything to Mooney anymore; they were all the same anyway, as far as he was concerned. Women and particularly the ‘sort’ of women his job brought him into contact with, were nothing more than a commodity to be consumed and detested in equal measure.
Inspector George Mooney, head of Westminster Vice squad, ex-sailor, ex-husband, ex-father, ex-human-being and hopefully, soon to be a retired ex-copper. Until then he was busy lining his own bottomless pockets while leading the charge against the shredding of the capitals moral fibre as he saw out the final few years of his career. As a young man, he’d taken the King’s Shilling and gone to sea, during which time he’d seen most of the world and was disgusted by almost all of it. He’d fucked more whores and caught more strains of VD than anyone else he knew and as his career had progressed, he’d become hated by almost as many people as he himself despised.
As he guzzled down almost an entire pint of bitter in one mouthful, like a whale shark sucking up plankton, his tiny eyes scanned the inside of the pub, he was waiting for that fat prick ‘Blind Geoff, the porn-dealing pensioner from Great Windmill Street. Geoff owed him money and in Mooney’s book, that was the only ‘sin’ that really mattered. He roused himself to stand up, farted loudly, laughed and then waving his empty pint glass, shouted to Victoria.
“Oi! Vic…another one of these and a large scotch, one for yourself too luv, no point just one of us being pissed eh?”
Simon Mason 